Introducing Horn of Africa's answer to Carrie Bradshaw …. but in this case, she's on a cultural leash!!!

Valentino is at my door looking like he had absorbed juices that leak from within him, mopped up every single droplet of his pubescent greases from years back. He had a pimply shaving rush, grimy nails, protruding nasal hair and brown teeth (too many espresso shots and hurried fags) “You look hideous” I say forgetting that I have just crawled out of bed, with hair like a bird’s nest and 16-hour old makeup smeared on my face. He smiles, takes a step back but smiles. “Now, now, I won’t have you getting out of hand. Hello, fancy seeing you at my doorstep would be a good start. Shall we try that?” he says. “Oh shut up! You look like a small pig, which is utterly, utterly fetching.” I was about to bang the door on his face when my cousin stopped me. “It’s freezing let the poor chap in.” If the daggers in my eyes could kill men, there would have been a vicious murder in minutes. I, following the direction of my teenage cousin (who would have thought), let him in. Since moving into this studio flat I vowed Dear Diary a ‘sab-boy-tical’. It doesn’t mean that I am not dating. It means that for now I am window shopping. The appearance of Valentino has shaken by firm belief that taking a break from him was good for my soul. But, hang on a minute, I just moved into this studio flat barely a month ago. How did he trace me? The only person who really knows of my shenanigans with Valentino is Osman. He must have been in touch. I look at him and mouth a voiceless curse. He shrugs and ushers Valentino to the sofa, still the only furniture in the room.

I am rather lucky to have him. The move was a little easier with him around to help. My move came right after the birth of his baby brother. I had to move, there was no more room in the inn obviously. I remember January clearly because of his birth. I found myself in a maternity ward with Aunty, and most of our other female relations, who screams with every bout of pain. “Mama, call that Woria. Shame on him! Mama how could he do this to me. Wallah I can’t stand this.” And then she burst into bitter sobs. Her voice gradually fading as the pain got worse. After twenty five hours of labour the cry of a new born sounded into the room. “Ma shaa Allah. It’s a boy. He looks like his darling mother.” a relation said laughing as she passed the baby round. We all gazed softly at the tiny little person, that tiny face with eyes shut tightly, we all searched for his soft fingers to get them to close around our finger. Uncle, who was in Sweden at the time, flew in immediately the next day. Secretly, I was happy the baby came earlier than planned. Who in their right mind would want insults hurled at them?

It also coincided with Osman’s spring break from his boarding school. The great advantage of English public school life lies, of course, in the quality of tutelage it provides, Aunty insists. I gather, from Osman stories, that he receives a decent and broad English education in the area of his loins. Not all credit for this could go to his schoolmasters, although a few of them had not been afraid to give practical guidance and a kind of which would gladden the hearts of those who believe that the modern teacher is sloppy. Mostly he had been given the space to learn his own lessons of the flesh. He’s joined the school choir not for the love of singing but for love of someone in the school choir. “I am talking about love. You know what love does to me? It shrinks my stomach, pickles my guts, yeah. What does it do to my mind? Suddenly I am above the ordinary, supremely confident. I am one of the great ones. I’m Van Gogh, painting pure sunlight. Out there it’s not school any longer, it’s the Nile- and down it floats with Cleopatra. “Not bad,” I said, “not bad at all, your own words?” “Bits and pieces from various poets admittedly, but sums up truly what I feel.” He replied. If that is love then I am in love with my skype and ichat which have the advantage that a) they’re free and b) you have the option of seeing who you are talking to admittedly not perfect for pretending you are ill or washing your hair. The smell of coffee reminds me suddenly that Valentino is in the building, in the room. At the same time my phone rings and I excuse myself, embracing its jolly trill, walking out of the room, and take time to have a meaningful conversation with Sally who has over the past four months stopped eating altogether. I have noticed that whenever we order bar snacks she puts the menu to one side and quickly asks for another glass of wine. I confront her with the fact that most of her calories come from alcohol which is 1,500 calories less than the recommended daily amount. She reminds me that she was once a size twelve and her self confidence plummeted. She wasn’t about to lose it again. Therefore, she has taken a drastic decision to reduce her calorie intake but unwilling to give up her nights out. She saves these calories for alcohol instead. I leave it to her to decide what to put in her body and agree to go out with her next weekend.

I walk into the flat and find Valentino fondling my sunglasses, my favourite quick fix essential before a holiday but also irresistible when walking through departmental stores or through any airport. They were piled on a couple of shelves that Osman helped me put up. He picks up a pair of aviators saying, “You need some sort of filing system for your sunglasses.” “Listen Valentino-” I started but interrupted by the buzzer which went off and a high pitched voice blasted: “Oi, Happy Valentines diy! It’s yer blinyd diyte!” I wanted to cry/ laugh/hide under the bed/kill the friend who’d set it up in the first place-largely because I was no where ready, cupid was out of his mind. Without another word, Valentino picked up his coat mumbled a polite goodbye to Osman and walked out shutting the door quietly behind him. I looked at Osman and winked, my ego ballooning to hot air proportions, and returned to bed...