A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED - EPISODE 4

The Hunt



Dating, derived from the act of two people setting dates to meet. A time when people can put their best foot forward – best dress, best behaviour – and leave the bad stuff, the real stuff in a box to be opened when the deal is sealed. It’s a human endeavour; therefore I do not trust it.

But this mission is not about my trust issues. Actually it is in spite of my trust issues. I’ve only ever been on dates with people I’ve known for months at least so I’m nervous as hell. Why should I be, though? It’s not like I have to stay with them if I don’t want to. That’s what dating is all about isn’t it, getting to know someone well enough to decide if they are the one you choose to mate with for life.

My first date is a friend of Ayitey’s. He described him as “someone you’ll like”. Apparently, he likes most of the same things I do and he’s “single and looking”.
He comes to my house to pick me up. The only good place he knows is about an hour away from where I live and quite close to his house. I choose to take him to a lounge close to my house instead. It’s safer…for me.

Walking is a great way to get to know someone, I think. Some of my best conversations have been had while taking a stroll with someone so I ask him if he minds that I want to walk to the Z Lounge. He says no. I have no way of knowing if doesn't mind because it’s our first date or if he’s agreeing because he really likes to take walks.

We talk in a start-and-stop manner for about 10 minutes then we fall silent. It’s uncomfortable. We’re getting to a dimly lit corner in my neighbourhood where something funny happened with my mother a while back so I decide to fill in the silence and tell him the story.

“My mother was coming back from her friend’s house down that road at about 9pm. When she got to that corner, she saw an older man throwing stones at the base of a wall. She asked him what he was doing and the old guy said, breathlessly, it’s a snake, it’s a snake! My mother, having a mortal fear of snakes, hurried past. The next morning she went down that same path and searched for remains of the snake, it turns out that it’s a shoe lace that the guy was stoning to death,” I laugh at that. He doesn’t.

When we get to the corner, I point it out and say, “And that’s where the old guy killed the shoelace.” I think it’s a pretty witty line which deserves at least a chuckle. But I get nothing.

Strike one, no sense of humour; this is going to be a long night.

At the lounge I find myself leading the conversation; asking all the questions.

So I ask, “Ayitey tells me you like movies, which kind?”

“Oh, anything with lots of action in it.”

“So the story doesn’t matter to you?”

“Not really. Give me special effects over a winding story any day. I mean movies are for entertainment you shouldn’t have to think about it, we do enough of that in our daily lives, the film is the escape.”

Strike two we can’t sit down and watch “A beautiful Mind” together and mutually enjoy it.

I’ve heard enough.

The second date I went on was with a guy who wouldn’t stop talking about himself and the many UN meetings he has been invited to speak at because he’s seen as some African tech whizz kid. (Yeah, look at this young man from poor, dirty old Africa actually able to decipher the complex language of technology and look at us giving him a chance to see a world he would otherwise never get the opportunity to see). I see it is a condescending, oppressive move of the west, like almost everything they do; he sees it as the greatest honour to be bestowed on someone his age from Ghana. He even so much as said it’ll be in my best interest to date him because he “could show me the world.”

NEXT!

I go on 6 dates in 2 weeks; all major disasters!

“I give up,” I tell Ayitey after the last catastrophe of a date. “Its slim pickings all round. The good ones must all be taken.”

“Don’t be dramatic, you’ve only dated six. Alright, let’s take a break from hunting. There’s an all-female band playing at The Republic tonight and I hear they’ll be a flamenco dancer too. I want to take some pictures. Let’s go, it’ll be fun."

I acquiesce. The show has already started by the time we get there, thanks to Ayitey’s tardiness – I was ready on time.

We find a spot to sit and order some drinks. A few minutes later, Ayitey excuses himself to start his photo session. I’m sitting alone swaying to the music when a tall, good looking man who looks to be in his mid-thirties walks up to my table, blocking my view of the stage. The seats are all filled now and he was drawn by Ayitey’s empty chair.

He motions and mouths if someone is sitting there. I nod and look towards Ayitey. He’s not going to come and sit down any time soon. When he gets in the zone he likes to be thorough. It doesn’t make sense to make the poor guy stand when there’s an empty chair and besides, his tall, broad frame is blocking my view of the stage so I motion for him to sit down and shout to him, “When he comes, you’ll have to get up.”

He nods and sits.

The wiry flamenco dancer is in full tapping and swirling mode. Her fingers tickle the air in choreographed grace while her feet stomp an energetic and rhythmic beat on the hard wood stage floor. In her moves I see a blend of several Ghanaian traditional dances melded with foreign influences. She speeds up as the Spanish guitar ascends onto a plane of exhilarating chords, holding the crowd spellbound until she abruptly halts in a beautiful pose, one arm high up in the air, bent at the elbow, the other hand on her hip and her legs firmly planted on the floor holding up her body slightly bent backwards; the amber street light illuminating her silhouette like a beautiful sculpture. The crowd roars with cat calls, whistles, applause and animal like sounds. Everyone is on their feet.

When the crowd settles and we sit down the usurper of Ayitey’s seat leans in to me and says.

“I could have sworn I saw adowa and keteke in there somewhere.”

I turn to him with the “I was thinking the same thing!” look and catch his smile and his expectant look and something I can only describe as a taught rope snaps somewhere in the vicinity of my chest. That rope must have been holding my heart steady because immediately it snaps my heart begins to race.

I don’t think I have ever been in love. Not the way Mansa describes it. I have had boyfriends and enjoyed their company and missed them when they weren’t around but according to Mansa, if I really was in love with them, it’d have taken me more than a few weeks to get over them. Remaining close friends with them apparently is also an indication of my lack of deep emotional attachment. Mansa considers herself a bit of an expert on my life. According to her, if I was in love with any of them, I’d still want them even now so being friends with them would be “dysfunctional”.

I have often considered this and I have come to the conclusion that I do not have a problem. It is those who allow themselves to get so attached to another human being who do. I think I understand that people come and go in one’s life so when it’s time for them to leave, I don’t fight it.

Mansa poo poos this and retorts, “You just haven’t been in love or you wouldn’t say that.”

But what causes one to fall in love? Is it ordained? Is it something that the person does and something about them one likes that causes a person to say, “I have fallen in love”?

Why haven’t I fallen in love? Ayitey says it’s because I know too much and I’m too cynical. Mansa says I know too little and I’m too cynical. I think it’s because love is a myth; a figment of lonely and bored imaginations. When Mansa breaks up with some guy she swore heaven and earth she was in love with and mourns for her customary 3 months (comparing him with everyone in sight and talking about him non-stop) she finds someone who she claims is multiple times better than her ex and falls in love all over again. Anything that fleeting can only be a chemical reaction like indigestion, nothing as dire as they describe.

“Ehee, I only wish to be there when you fall in love. You wait and see, yours will be so moving, so devastating that it’ll make a believer out of you. That’s what happens to people like you,” Mansa cursed me one evening.

Sitting there with the amber street light flooding one half of this stranger's face lighting his smooth caramel skin; contouring his strange hawk like nose and lining his thick, smooth lips; causing me to forget my words, I suddenly think about Mansa. I need her; surely she must know what to do in this unfamiliar situation.

A CYNIC’S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED - EPISODE 3

The Safari

We’re on Safari, Ayitey and I, observing women in their natural habitats. First I scope them out while they groom, which is a necessary bonding ritual for mammals.

Earlier in the day I spent some time at the hair salon. I haven’t been in a long while, not since I started my dreadlocks. It was around the same time I started my baking business and to save money I decided to fix my hair myself. Even when I used to frequent the salon to braid my hair, it was an in and out operation, no chatting with the hairdressers, no waiting around to gossip with strangers; just fix my hair, pay and get out.

At this visit, the salon owner smiles and tells me how long it’s been since she last saw me. I force a smile back and give some vague excuse and tell her I’m here to wash, interlock and curl my dreadlocks.

While they wash and interlock my hair, I notice a woman walk in, her natural hair newly washed from home holding hair extension in a pack that was emblazoned with “100% Human Hair”. The minute she walks in, the busy salon staff take time out to hail her. She’s wearing a pair of tights busily designed with Aztec symbols in bright colours and a loose, white tank top, flip flops, huge sunglasses which she takes off when she gets in. I notice her nails, obviously acrylic, painted a garish neon orange. Most of the women in the saloon are wearing similar colours. She catwalks to the waiting couch.

While she sits there waiting her turn, she doesn’t shut up once; talking about this person who got divorced and that person who had a baby, the ever increasing price of exotic hair extensions, what she’ll wear to so-and-so’s wedding what her fiancée did for her birthday, blah, blah, blah.

Some of the clients who know something about some of the things she’s talking about chime in and very soon it’s a veritable forum of story swapping. As usual I feel like an island; but it’s ok, I’m on a mission. An hour and half later my stylist finishes with me.

I pay for it and everyone in the salon tells me how pretty I look. I’ve always found that unnerving; I feel like they are just being polite. A quick inspection of my reflection in the huge mirror as I pass it to leave, shows me that whether they mean it or not, I actually do look very pretty in my new curly locks all pinned to one side of my head and cascading down to my shoulder blade.

Safari discovery number one: be open and willing to chat to total strangers about matters of vanity. This means I have to be more concerned about matters of vanity.

Discovery number two: tune in to the fashion fad of the day. I look down at my jeans and t-shirt. Why change? This is timeless fashion.

Ayitey is coming to get me; we’re going to a lounge for the next phase of my Safari – the watering hole.

It’s one of the places where the normal unattached female goes on the prowl to seek out unattached males or attached males (depending on the female).

He’s late, as usual. I’m all dressed and ready to go. I needed to polish up so I borrowed my mother’s make up and she even offered to help me with it. She did a very good job. I hardly recognise myself in the mirror. She is very feminine, my mother; she’s my antithesis.

Sitting down waiting for Ayitey to show up, I ponder over that. How my mother being who she is, was able to raise me to be who I am the fact that I practically raised myself, notwithstanding (she was there for school fees and food on the table and so forth but no actual hands on parenting). I’ve spent all of my life in proximity to her; I should have picked something of normal female behaviour up, shouldn’t I? Even now at age 60 with the lines of years of worry showing on her brow, she still has many male admirers (why she hasn't just chosen one to settle with is beyond me). She is lively and has friends she spends time with. I notice, however, when she comes home after these meetings that she seems sadder than when she left the house.

I have a feeling that if I could talk to her about it she would tell me that being with them only reminds her that they are only hers for fleeting moments and that no matter how long she spends with them, she still comes home to an empty bed.
She walks into the living room. “Ayitey is not here yet?” She asks.

I shake my head no. She stands there and smiles at me. I kept the hairstyle from the salon earlier that day and I’m wearing a flirty baby blue number Mansa had bought for my birthday a few years ago and Mama Dearest let me borrow her fake crystal stud strapped heels.

“Now you look like an eligible young lady. All those jeans and t-shirts need to go.”

I roll my eyes. So I like to wear clothes I’m comfortable in, what’s wrong with that?

She sits next to me. “Are you and Ayitey serious now?” she asks.

Naturally she doesn’t know the real reason why I’m going out all dressed up like this. She has also always assumed that Ayitey is courting me and I am playing hard to get.

“I’ve told you, Ayitey and I are just friends.”

“But why won’t you accept his proposal?”

“He’s not proposing, Ma,” I’m raising my voice now – we’ve been down this road so many times it’s getting frustrating.

Ayitey knocks and walks in then. I leap up and go to him grab his hand and pull him out the door. He throws a quick greeting at my mother and stumbles out behind me as I yank on his arm.

We get to the lounge and suddenly I’m not in my element anymore. I thought I was all dressed up but seeing the extent of costuming going on at the popular hangout, I had to literally shrink unto Ayitey’s arm.

First of all, I would never go to a place like this; it’s too loud and full of posers. Secondly, when I am wearing my comfortable clothes I don’t give two shakes about the way my fellow women look, no matter where I am, but as it is now, I am uncomfortable in my dress which I now see is at least two seasons past.

It’s crowded, people have to stand about – most standing in groups not saying much to each other but cradling glasses of alcohol and looking around seeing and being seen. As we walk in, I notice people turn to stare at me. The females look me over and raise an eyebrow, the males look me over and raise eyebrows too albeit for different reasons.

Even though I don’t like to flaunt it, I know I have quite the attractive figure; a small waist, wide hips and beautiful legs. It is because I know this that I like to hide it. I think that if a man approaches you because of the way you look then whatever follows can’t be deep. I would rather a man is attracted to me because he spent time with me and found me interesting enough to stay with. I always assumed that made a deeper connection but my failed relationships have proved me wrong. I’m quickly beginning to learn that they need the whole package. I have work to do on one side of the package; I have the role of fascinating conversationalist down to an art.

Ayitey had called to reserve a table and it was waiting for us. It was in one corner of the lounge where we could see most of the dimly lit space. We can’t possibly have a conversation over the din so we order some drinks and sit quietly to observe mating rituals at the watering hole.

I notice two young ladies at the bar, dressed to kill in mini cut out dresses and 6 inch platform stilettos. They have system going where they take turns in scoping out the pickings and when one notices a particularly desirable one she alerts the other who flips her fake hair over her shoulder and tries to discreetly check him out. It must be part of ritual because the men they are looking at know they are watching and they seem to be watching them too. It’s not long before the guys make their way to them. Thereafter, there supervenes a comical dance where they try to have a conversation above the loud music. They give up after a little while and settle on buying drinks for the young women who are smiling sweetly, pretending like they can’t see the men lustfully eyeing their exposed cleavage and bare skin peeking through the cut outs.

There is no way on earth I would ever wear something like that but I drink in their mannerisms; the slight jutting out of the chest which in turn causes the behind to protrude. The high heels help a great deal in that regard but I would never put myself though that much work, I don’t care that the male snagging benefits outweigh the level of discomfort.

I look around, this is happening all over the place. There seems to be an unspoken code to this flirting. It comes so naturally to them, goods on display, buyers surveying the produce at the end of the night sales are made, numbers are exchanged and the braver ones leave together with total strangers. One of my few female friends met her husband at a bar just like this.

I’m startled when Ayitey places a cold hand on my shoulder. I am so wrapped up in my observations and thoughts that I forget he is with me. He shows me his phone; he’s typed a message for me on it. It reads “You should probably smile, there’s a guy standing there eyeing you. He’ll come over if you smile.”

I look over at the guy he’s talking about. He’s average height, attractive face but he has a pot belly. He sees the disapproval on my face and types another message, “Too picky.”

The quartet I was observing before leave the bar together. It’s only 10pm so I assume they are going somewhere to get to know each other better.

Ayitey points down to ask if I want another drink. I nod. Why not, I’m already here and I really do want one. I’m disheartened to say the least. If this is the way to get a man then I might as well quit now because I don’t see how I’m going to pull off this charade. This behaviour is something one is raised and groomed with, it’s not something I can pick up in a week or two.

After a little Dutch Courage I tell myself that I’m not one to back down from a project until it’s finished. We move on to our next phase of safari; the hardest phase – hunting - dating.

A CYNIC'S GUIDE TO GETTING HITCHED - EPISODE 2

Introspection


It’s another Saturday, I should be getting ready for a wedding but I’m decorating cupcakes which are due for pick up in an hour. They are cakes for a graduation party that one of my clients is throwing for her niece. Graduation parties; another unnecessary social gathering! I find it hard to understand the constant effort to make a money spending spree out of every little incident.

Unless that graduate is from a well to do family that has a job in the family business open for them, I see no reason why they should celebrate coming out of the relative protection of a university campus to the vast, uncertain world of job seeking graduates. You only have to read the newspapers to see that those hiring are looking for people with at least 2 years’ experience; how’s a fresh grad going to invoke that?

Let’s hope this enthusiastic graduate has a strong entrepreneurial spirit and know-how to skirt the job market in favour of starting their own business. Judging from the school curriculum, that’s highly unlikely. I’d advice the aunt to save the money for the cakes to help finance the difficult days ahead but then I need the money for my own uncertain world.

I’m almost done when Ayitey knocks on the front door and saunters in without waiting for a response. He’s tall, dark and has slightly bowed legs that lend him a care-free sort of gait. His hair is closely cropped and he has facial stubble which he likes to play with from time to time.

I’m rarely late for anything but on the occasions that I am, unlike most of my male friends, Ayitey would never be alarmed that I’m not ready. It’s mostly because he’s always late for everything himself and probably also because he was raised with 5 sisters and almost all his close friends are female.

“You’re early!” I’m surprised.

“Yes, I had to drop my mother and sister off at a funeral close by here so…” He puts his car keys on the kitchen counter and picks up the icing bowl which he proceeds to empty of its little left contents.

“I’m almost done,” I tell him.

“Where’s your mother?”

“Off to a funeral,” I answer and then chuckle as a realisation hits me. “I spend my weekends attending weddings and she spends hers attending funerals.”

“Yeah, when we’re sixty, we will be the ones attending funerals and our children will be the one’s attending weddings,” Ayitey predicts.

“That’s assuming we ever have kids. At the rate we’re going, I am becoming highly sceptical.”

“You’re sceptical about everything, it’s your thing,” he retorts with his mouth full of caramel icing.

I’m done decorating the cup cakes and I take off my apron after packing them into their delivery box. I already took a shower so I’m just going to change from my jeans and t-shirt into something more appropriate for a wedding. I don’t see why I can’t just wear the jeans. Just then, the owner of the cakes arrives, picks up and pays for her package.
“Ayitey, be a dear and wash the dishes for me while I go and change. Although I think that one is already clean,” I nod at the now almost spit shined icing bowl in his hands.

The wedding is a rather simple affair, no church and only about 40 people. It was on the lawns of a hotel and the magistrate who also happens to be the father of the bride oversaw their self-written vows after a short prayer. This took all of 15 minutes. The reception was set up very close to the floral arch where the vows were taken. It was a linear setting with all rectangular tables arranged short end to short end.

I don’t know the couple personally but Ayitey went to primary school together with the groom and they were roommates in University. Ayitey insisted I go because he wanted to show me that not all weddings were pointlessly big. He also wants to take some pictures and frame them as a gift to the couple.

We stand around with virgin cocktails in our hands trying to mingle with the other guests. We are waiting for the bride and groom to be done with their photo shoot (Ayitey snuck in a few shots before the hired photography started) somewhere on the premises before sitting down to eat. Ayitey nudges me in the ribs, and nods towards a woman who looks only a few years older than me. She’s being led by an older woman; I can only assume is her mother, towards a forty something year old man with a greying beard. She introduces them eagerly and leaves them to get acquainted.

“She’s the bride’s older sister and she’s unmarried,” Ayitey discloses. “Her mother probably does that to her at every social gathering. It’s almost like she’s saying, ‘daughter for sale at a discounted price’.”

Something about the scene disturbs me. It’s clear that poor Ms Discount is uncomfortable with the situation but there’s also a small glimmer of hope in her demeanour, like she hopes she can get married already so people will leave her alone.

My mother has never pushed me on to a man like that. I suspect it’s because she’s secretly happy that I’m unmarried yet because it means I get to keep her company, but who’s to say the weight of society on her shoulder won’t get her to start very soon. This thought disturbs me till we leave the party.

Ayitey drops me off at home and I invite him inside to have some Moringa tea. There was so much food at the wedding party, we both over ate. As I learned from a Chinese client of mine; there’s nothing like hot tea after a huge meal to hasten digestion.

The ceremony was short, sweet and minimal but a social gathering nonetheless and I wish I hadn’t gone. It also left me with an uneasy feeling. On the ride back I kept seeing Ms Discount in my mind’s eye and a little voice in my head kept saying, ‘that’s you in a few years’. I am bizarrely disturbed.

We’re sitting on the bar stools at the kitchen counter. There’s a spare cupcake on the potholder which Ayitey has been eyeing since we got back. I slowly push the cupcake towards him.

“Well, don’t mind if I do,” he sings happily and proceeds to eat it. How he manages to keep his figure with the appetite he has I’ll never know.

He takes one bite and looks at me while he chews. “Ok, so I know what’s eating the cake; yours truly,” He puts his hand on his chest, “but I don’t know what’s eating you? You’ve been out of it since we left the wedding.”

“Do you suppose that woman is unmarried because of something she does?” I don’t need much prompting to spill my guts to close friends.

“You mean like an undesirable character trait?” Ayitey clarifies.

I nod.

“I don’t think so. I know her, she’s very nice but I think maybe she was too focused on her career to worry about marriage. It could also be that she doesn’t really want to get married. There are people like that, they prefer the solitude,” Ayitey replies and attacks the cupcake again.

“But it is a possibility that a woman can remain unmarried because of her attitude,” I persist.

“Wait, you’re not talking about yourself, are you?” Ayitey throws the last bit of cake into his mouth, washes it down with the tea before he addresses me.

“You are the most fantastic woman I know…” he begins.

“But you wouldn’t date me,” I cut in.

“I would, in a heartbeat but we both agreed...”

“Yes, I know we agreed we didn’t feel romantic towards each other but if you really wanted to date me you’d have pushed for it…”

“Whoa, slow down, what’s going on with you? You have never been unsure of yourself.”

“Maybe that’s the problem maybe I should second guess myself sometimes. You know once I told Mansa when one of my exes broke up with me and you know what she said to me? She said “guys see you as their buddy not as their woman”. I mean everybody thinks the default attitude of women is dependent, helpless, needy and even though men complain about these traits all the time they must secretly like it otherwise why deal with it?”

“Because we usually get nothing else, you know the saying, ‘can’t live with them, and can’t live without them?’ That’s what it refers to. Ayitey consoles me.

“She could be right, the reason why I’m single is because I think I don’t need a man the way other women need them and I give off that vibe. Men are not completely clueless, they do feel certain things and maybe they feel this.”
We’re both quiet for a while. Ayitey looks at me, looks away, looks like he’s about to say something but sighs instead.


Finally he says softly, “I don’t know how to handle this breaking down version of you.”
I chuckle, “I’m not breaking down, I’m thinking aloud.”

That seemed to put him in a better frame of mind. “Ok, thinking. If there’s a problem, what do you do, you fix it, right? Are there things that you think you need to fix about yourself?”

“I don’t, but according to my friends I do and obviously, they know something I don’t because they’re the ones in long term relationships.”

“Yes, but you know longevity doesn’t necessarily mean success.”

“I know, but the idea is to get a long term relationship and madness is doing something over and over again and expecting the same results so I’m going to change strategies and see if that works.”

Ayitey laughs heartily, “To hear you say it sounds like you’re talking about a business move.”

I laugh too. He’s right.

“Ok, if we’re approaching this all business like then I suggest we do it all business like, get me a pen and paper,” Ayitey takes charge.

I have an ingredients list notepad and pen I keep on the counter so I give that to him.

“For lack of a better word we’ll use ‘fault’ so Fault Number one…”

“Not feminine enough,” I offer.

Ayitey’s hand hovers over the sheet for minute before he says, “That’s… ok,” and writes it down. “What else?”

“Er, Mansa also said once that she thought I was too picky,” I recall.

“Ok, too picky. What else?”

“And you once said that I was jaded,” I accused Ayitey.

“Yes, I did. It’s hard to take you by surprise. It’s like you always know what’s going to happen,” he admits and writes it down.

“Oh, and not enough drama.”

“Really?” Ayitey asks.

“Ok, before one of my exes broke up with me he mentioned how totally uneventful being with me was. He said, and I quote, ‘you’re unlike any girl I’ve ever dated. Everything is so relaxed and straightforward with you. I don’t have to guess what you’re thinking at any time. There’s no drama.’ I thought it was a compliment until two weeks after that he tells me he thinks he’s in love with someone else. He’s presently married to that someone else and as far as I know she gives him plenty of drama.”

“So you’ve concluded that men like the drama.”

“Think about it, they complain about how they don’t understand women and how everything with women is all touch and go but they keep dating these women. They must like the drama or at least the ability to complain.”

“But I explained before that it’s because they can’t get anything else,”

“But that can’t be true because my ex had me, Ms No Drama, but he left me for a drama queen. Maybe they’ve had it that way for so long; they are unused to anything else. The drama is a familiar, comfortable space.”

Ayitey chewed on that for a while, “I don’t know. So what, you want to become a drama queen?”

“Well, not take it all the way just a little booster for my inner diva,” I joke.

Ayitey guffaws. “I can’t even imagine you tripping over something inconsequential.

“But, I’ll have to. And I intend to learn from the best. As soon as Mansa comes back from her honeymoon, I’m going to start my lessons. But in the interim, there are three other things on that list.” I prompt Ayitey to read it out.
“Not feminine enough, too picky and jaded.”

“How do we make me more feminine?” After a few seconds of thought, Ayitey actually gives me an answer.

“Embellish!”

“Embellish?”

“Yeah, you’re simple, straightforward, no frills, what I remember most about living with my sisters is that they had frills; lots of frills. Metaphorical frills, fabric frills, everything frilly. You need lower necklines, shorter hems, skirts with slits, accessories, more conversations about subjects that no one really cares about like the cost of hair extensions, the colour of your nail polish, yeah nail polish; you need to wear that too.”
Ayitey is enjoying this way too much.

“Ok,” I say to reel him in. “So starting from now, we have begun the process of transformation.”

There’s a look of keenness in Ayitey’s eyes and I am just plain scared. This could very well be the end of life as I know it.