Dearest wicked one,
It has come to my attention that the way we parted needs an official notice since you have failed to see the signs or take note of the peculiarly cold shoulder I have been treating you to. You see, that is one of the reasons I decided not to add an extra day to the wasted eight months I have already stupidly shared with you-your obvious inability to read between the lines. It defeats even my own understanding how we lasted so long. Eight months, really! Count it on my great tolerance but if you could manage to get on nerves as cool as mine, then you left me no choice. I could only go as far.
I will never forget the way your eyes popped when my learned friend Lekdyang asked for your opinion on the under performing stock exchange. Similarly, I vividly recall the look you gave me when my old friend Okuku wondered what you thought was causing the plummeting price of the Shilling against the Dollar. It was a look that requested me to rescue you from matters of discussion that were alien to you. Only then did I realize how cleverly you had always dodged my attempts to engage you in such serious matters.
It won’t be hard to forget you. Only, I’ll tell stories of the horrid experiences you put me through to all of my friends and even grandchildren. How you gulped half a bottle of wine on our first date, or how everything we did was an open book to your friends-even how often we ‘did it’, and many more. I’ll tell them all, but to cut you some slack, I will spare your name.
I hate to admit it but the heady smell of your perfume hangs in my bed sheets like a ghost. It is the only thing you can deservedly take credit for, how particular and rare your choice of perfume is. The annoying (annoying because it reminds me of you) jasmine-rose scent must have been extracted from the wildest of flowers the makers could find. It keeps sifting through my nostrils each time I enter my bed. I’ve soaked and washed them thrice already in the strongest detergent on the market but that trademark scent of yours is clinging onto my sheets. Dumping them too will be my last resort. If that fails, I will conclude that it’s either in my head or you applied some evil charms on me. Now don’t you dare be fooled into thinking that I’m addicted to it, I’m not.
I wonder what took me so long to realize that the six inch heels that I previously thought accentuated your long legs instead seem to make you walk like the lame goats my friend Kaleeba talks about so much. I no longer have to tickle my head to imagine what a lame goat looks like.
Meanwhile, it is so refreshing to consider how many choices I have at the moment. It feels like I’ve been released from self-inflicted bondage. Rest assured that as for now, I’ll steer clear of all of your kind lest am wrapped around another grotesque finger. You can go on to your next adventure. But after all, you don’t need a blessing, do you? The adventures seem to find you. I am going to patiently wait for the fairest of them all. Ayi Kwei has been right all along “The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born”
With bad blood,
I who was once yours.
Dearest wicked one,