Carina Needs Pancakes

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Girls are dangerous beings. They can lie through their teeth and smile at you like you are sunshine on a cloudy day. They can think thoughts so vile that they ferment fresh milk. They move mountains as mothers and break hearts while younger. Girls can be mean. They can destroy a soul so badly its restoration will be in vain. Don’t get me wrong. There are good girls out there. Girls who are roses with fewer thorns. Girls whose sole purpose is not the destruction of humankind. But these girls are a handful compared to the grains of sand with malicious cores. I’ll let you decide what kind of girl Ivy is.

She has a total of 2,354 contacts on her phone. She says she is in touch with each and every one of them. I must be living wrong because even with my 74, I can never seem to remember who some of those people are. Hers is an iPhone of course. She claims she doesn’t know how to use an android. This is a lie. Not because I know her or anything. I’m not one to judge. But for a ’96 kid, at some point in her life, she must have owned a Nokia C10 or an Ideos, to say the least.

Ivy is tall. She has the kinds of legs that people say are for days. She tells everyone she does not eat apples. I think it is because there is already one on her phone. Or maybe she just likes doctors. People enjoy being around her. They like her. She says she attracts crowds. You know… like the moth and the flame. She burns and burns bright. She was the one texting me with the story yet she had me blue-ticked a total of about seventeen times. At least now I know what guys complain so much about. Those blue ticks hold such anxiety, especially when they come under a “what happened next”.

She moves on quick. Says there are no second chances with her. Once is all you get and then you are done. But she does not warn you about this when you face your first chance. She doesn’t tell you that you will have no opportunity to redeem yourself. She lets you believe that you have a lifetime with her until you screw up and ask her something she doesn’t take kindly to. Something like what makes her add sleeping pills to a man’s drink in a club. Something like what her thought process is when she fakes pregnancies to get money from men old enough to be her father.

“Age is just a number,” [so is 1959. But the latter is also a year when Kenya had not yet achieved independence, and the year the man she most recently asked for money was born]

“How many times a week do you tell yourself that?”

Blue ticks.

It’s frustrating. Talking to Ivy. Usually I just text the first thing that comes to mind, but I don’t know what to text her. I don’t know when to put in a joke or when to feign seriousness. She seems so full of herself that she believes she is a superior being. A god among gods. She behaves as if she is a painting on the wall that can only be brushed ever so delicately by the feathers of a rare pelican. She is Athena. Precious. Priceless. And I hate her. I hate the way she types without vowels. I see her in nursery school disregarding her vowel lessons to take selfies with her paper phone. She is supercilious and snobbish and imperious. She didn’t sit with other kids in school because even at a younger age she was just as condescending.

“Tell me about your friends” I text, for obvious reasons.

Her friends, she says, worship her. They love her. It’s a requirement to be in her circle, that you love her. You have to do as she pleases. Ivy never asks you to jump over a cliff and you ask if there is water of cold hard ground at the end. You take the step because she asked. You never dispute her because, as she says, you chose to be her friend. She never chose you. So you go with her roll. You cough after she does. You cry if she does. You even pee after she has gone to the bathroom first. You are her friend. She isn’t yours.

I was at a dark place filled with hate when she mentioned her “light”. A little girl, Carina. This name reminds me of a soap opera villain with long blonde hair and green eyes that could turn the scales on a snake’s skin. A photo pops up on my phone of a little girl in blonde braids who looks more of the protagonist than the strange talkative little girl that follows the protagonist around in almost every telenovela ever written. She has these big brown eyes that make you fall in love with her instantly.

“Stepdaughter?” I ask, picturing the little girl up a chimney cleaning cinders till 3.36am.

“thts ma bby gal”

I open the picture again. Really? This is a weird combination. Like salt coming from water. Like pineapple on pizza. They look so strange together, but when you give them a chance, you find yourself with the perfect duo. This is Fanta orange and bread right here. “Where’s the father?”

Blue ticks.

I’m getting tired at all the waiting around because I was already writing this piece in my head. It began with the evil stepmother without a stepdaughter to put to misery and now, there she was, at the end of the opera with the perfect smile and the perfect little girl, standing by a pew singing praises at the top of her lungs. She had me in a twist. She gives these little anecdotes one after the other that are total opposites. One time she tells of an injection that gives false positives on a pregnancy test “in case the dde wnts 2 b thea wen u test” [dde is equal to dude. Who types incase in full then says “dde”?]. Some guys are easier, she explains. They prefer you send them the results on WhatsApp. With these ones, you can send an old picture taken during Carina’s time and all’s well that ends well. Then she will tell you about Carina’s second birthday when she had no money to get a store bought cake so she used pancake mix to fashion one and it actually worked out. She knows how to twist you and turn you until you end up around her little finger, then she keeps you there for when she will need you.

She apologizes for keeping me in blue ticks. It was long overdue anyway. But it is the way she delivers the apology that gets me. She says it like something she has said her whole life. Like it is her and she it. The apology comes as the most natural thing that you may miss it, even though it is there staring you in the face like that one big fly in a latrine. You know the one. “sry 4 kipin u waitn”. Kipin?

“Why Carina? Why not Tracy or Rita or Shirleen?”

She says because Carina was strong. You remember Carina of Storm Over Paradise? Yes, her. She says that Carina had character. She fought for love. “Didn’t the ones on the poster fight for love?” [Please remind me what the names of these protagonists were. I have racked my brain long enough to no avail]. She says they may have, but she didn’t really notice. She saw Carina burn cars and plot murders for the love of her life. “You want your daughter to plot murders?” I ask. She says Carina can do whatever she sets her mind to. That if she will want to raise hellfire then she will not stand in her way. She doesn’t let men do the things they do to her because she likes it. She lets them because it is the one way she can keep a roof over her Carina. Her Carina needs pancakes at breakfast and Kiwi for her school shoes. She will do whatever it takes. Whoever it takes.

She says she has no friends. That the people who follow her around do so for the things she has to offer, be it the men who buy her these things or the exclusive passes into Nairobi’s grand nightclubs. She says that she cannot call any one of them to ask for help when Carina is sick because those girls can talk of her to the grave. “They aren’t reliable” [I want to applaud her for remembering her vowels but I’m not sure if she is one to take kindly to cheesy banter] “They wld abandon mih in a hrtbit. Cnt trst em” Girls are sad. They wear so many masks that you cannot tell which is which. They lie so much that they start to believe the lie. “goin hme nw”

The time by my clock is 3.49am.

[PS. If you have an alcohol-related story that you feel needs telling, I am more than willing to help. Send me an email on mirawuor@gmail.com… And I know, I know. March was terrible. Happy April my lovelies]

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