After looking for her for almost my entire lifetime, I finally found her in January this year. So you can only imagine how I felt when I lay my hands on her at last. It felt like coming home, only to a home that I never knew. Her name is Soni. So that means she is a kuyu, though not from the bowels of Karatina. Her accent does not sound like anything influenced by a lifetime of potatoes, carrots and boiled cabbages. No. She was born in the Netherlands, but grew up in Britain where she must have been taught how to speak with prolonged vowels.
As a result of her mixed heritage, I cannot seem understand what she says most of the time, but then you know a kuyu will always be a kuyu. And in as much as there is no love lost between me and kamwana (H.E Uhuru Kenyatta), there is very little that mean as much to me as Soni does. She is a girl of uncommon beauty. Of course I talk of her pulchritude with such deep reverence because I am the beholder- but then whoever thinks otherwise needs to look at her with my eyes and see what I see. Her maker must have used Photoshop on her, for the surface of her skin is as smooth as a baby’s bottom. The kind that will make you sin at the first gaze.
For the past four months, I have been spending a hell lot of quality time with her. I haul her around with me, securely strapped under my arms. She is the last thing I touch before I go to sleep, and the first thing that crosses my mind when the moon gives way to the sun. She is the only girl I have dared to kiss in the morning, because for some reason, her morning breathe smells like rose petals and sunshine.
Soni is my laptop.
A 15.6 inch wide grey machine, that spends most of its time on my laps, warming my thighs as I bang away to objectify my life in words. She checks in at 6 pounds- that means that she is a diva. She does not do fries and spends a considerable amount of time in the gym to keep her weight in check. Oh, and she doesn’t smoke either. She is the kind of diva that will not rub her thin waist on the faces of her other counterparts who are burdened with corpulence. When folded, she in 1.5” tall, but wait till you see her on stilettos; the way she rises and towers above short men and make them cower at her presence.
Naturally, most divas have the memory of a goldfish. The depth of their emptiness is however made up with makeup and painfully acquired magnificence. The world would do with less of these twerking ratchets. Think of a Nairobi infested with a Mirfat pestilence. But Soni is a unique kind of diva. She has an internal memory of 4GB and 500 GB hard disk drive. She thinks and processes at a speed of 2.50GHz. Talk about the rare combination of both the much desired beauty and the seldom available brains- all concocted into a woman.
But that is just with her hardware- her software is a man’s definition of a wet dream. It was love at first sight.
I won Soni, through a writing contest held last year. I was pessimistic about entering that competition, because most of these writing contests are always a ploy- the winner is always predetermined. But due to a friend’s (she insists on remaining anonymous in The Real G Inc) incessant encouragement, I plucked enough courage to bang a few words. I thought, ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’ Even if I was to fail, the trenches never rejected a good soldier, right? December passed by, and in January, I got a call from the Ministry of East Africa to attend my award giving ceremony at Laico Regency.
My brave words had won me a fair lady, Soni.
Yesterday at 2.00 am, Soni and I were enjoying our usual late night quality time. She was purring steadily on my laps, warming my thighs with the heat from her ass, when her face (screen) suddenly went pink. I thought she was blushing.
“Oh baby, it’s true. I think you have the warmest ass any laptop can ever have.”
There was no response. Her cheeks were still pink.
“Baby, learn to take a compliment. Baby? … come on baby, say something.” More pink blushes.
That is when I realized that my baby had just crushed. So I rebooted her, my breathe held on my throat, hoping against all hope that she would wake up. She didn’t.
Remember Murphy’s law; anything that can happen will happen. Time of death; 2.17 am.
But seriously, pink? There are several colors of death like black that represents the pits of the abyss, and supreme sadness, or red the color of blood. Soni chose to die on me with the color pink- women!
That’s when my mind started thinking back. What did I do wrong? I never heard of a girl who died of too much compliments, otherwise, my desk mate would be decomposing six feet under by now.
Aha! It must have been Ndunge. Earlier that night she had penetrated a hard disk into my little Soni’s USB, and she said something about a virus that had killed two of her computers in the office. But then again she said that it was a new flash she was using at that time. Plus she wouldn’t do anything that would take Soni away from my loving arms.
Another thought passed through my mind. James. When Soni died, I was looking at a picture of his that we had taken at Ngong Hills during a hike last Saturday. In that picture, James looked like a boogeyman in the form of a walrus hunting for chudex. Did that picture scare her to death?
Another thought crossed my mind. The thought that crosses everyone’s mind when none of the previous thoughts fail to make sense; God. The same way He giveth, God taketh. And now He was punishing me for persecuting His followers through my writing. But just to set the record straight Dear Lord, I am not the one who wrote that story WAR IN MY HEART. I published it on my blog out of the livid disdain that the writer of that story inspired in me. I published it because I thought people needed to know what other people do in your name. I posted it because a felt the bitterness of a girl who, (as I believed) was unfairly condemned out of you flock, and indecently assaulted to boot. However, as it turns out, it was a story filled with edited truths and half truths, and I am sorry for anyone who suffered any injury due to my irresponsibility. My actions were inspired by emotions. My judgment clouded by the hurt that oozed out of the pour girl’s words. And in the heat of passion, I acted and brought irreparable disgrace, ridicule and personal shame upon innocent believers of your faith; who were caught in the middle of a heated crossfire between a girl seeking for understandable vengeance, and your servant. I am sorry, and if I cannot be man enough to apologize for my indiscretions, then I am not man enough to lead.
However, dear Lord, Soni is not to blame for any of this. I am. Do not take it out on her, rather punish me instead.
I thought of going to the IT guy, but then I remembered that I am a wanted man by the IT department. My crime? I changed the homepage of every computer in the comps lab and library to this blog. Sema screwed? The highly qualified IT gurus couldn’t figure out a simple thing as changing a homepage. I and Soni are still on the run for this, and therefore there was no way I could take her there. They might crucify her!
Right now, Soni is admitted Redington. Her medical insurance cover (warranty) is what saved me from coughing out 16k to fix her. The doctors say it has something to do with her face…ehm, screen. They said they will have to perform corrective surgery (euphemism for plastic surgery) on her. Ati they will have to order for a new face from Netherlands. What even makes matters worse is that Redington has no visiting hours- so no fruits, juices and other isht like that. I only have a job card that I will use to reclaim her once she is discharged in 10 working days time. That is, if she makes it through the
plastic corrective surgery.
I am not sure I will be able to recognize her any more. I miss her kiss, eh, keys. I can only picture her lying on a hospital bed, with tubes running into her nostrils, and other into her vein. I can see a drip by her side, and a monitor above her head- probably going bonkers every time she coughs through the oxygen mask.
I promise not to share her with anyone when she gets out. I promise to love and care for her more that I always have. I hope she makes it through this. I hope we make it through this. I hope God forgives me for allowing mean things to be written about Him in my blog. I hope to feel her kiss, erhm, keys, and enjoy the warmth of her ass on my laps again.