Come valentine’s, come!

Several years back before you and I were born the main CEO in the Pope’s land, also called Rome, was one Claudius the Cruel. Claudius was so tough that when fewer recruits turned up to join his KDF he declared no man should replace his rib. In other words, no coalition in the form of marriage would be tolerated. That is when a local Kanyari by the name of Valentine decided to act.

Valentine was tougher than Kanyari because, while he did not know how to apply chemistry to perform miracles, he was a saint. Now, a saint is someone who gives you his only pair of shoes and thanks you for giving him a chance to walk barefoot. In the process he doesn’t tell you to ‘panda mbegu.’

I am not saying that St. Valentine opened a free Bata in Pope’s land, far from it.

Valentine loved it when people called each other lollipop and popcorn. In other words, he loved it when people fell in love. But he loved marrying them more. That is why he declared that if you found your rib and wanted to enter into a coalition then he was ready to promulgate it, Claudius the Cruel’s cruelty notwithstanding.

By now you must have guessed how the story ends because, under Claudius the Cruel, that was the perfect formula for getting yourself flogged and your head separated from your body.

Ladies and gentlemen, that is how we ended up with a kula hepi day in our calendar called Valentine. Wisdom told sons and daughters of Adam and his rib Eve that to remember the tough man from Pope’s land, a man like Wizard alias God’s Property should buy a rose flower on the said day and hand it to a rib on one knee. While doing so he should be all red to indicate a heart overflowing with love. Before the big day ends, the said Wizard should be seen with the rib in a real Hilton separating meat from chicken ribs.

Trouble is I have never really celebrated the day simply because, for one reason or the other, ribs decided never to call me popcorn. If the current situation means anything, then my Creator forgot to supply me with a spare part for my missing rib.

You can therefore understand why my heart somersaulted the other day when I winked at this rib and she winked back. I had seen her severally looking at me as if to say that she was single and ready to mingle.

My Sunday school teacher told me that Adam called his rib Eve because she was beautiful. I wonder what I would have called the rib before me but certainly not Eve.  Her face was neither ugly nor beautiful; it was just a face. That part used for sitting would need a lot of persuasion to gain any semblance to that of Vera Sidika.  However, wisdom told me that with so much love in the air, a rib is a rib. It went ahead to assure me that the rib was the ideal material for Mama Wizzy’s daughter-in-law.

Before you could say ‘Valentine’ the Romeo blood in me was down to work. It reminded me that I am down one rib and that with so much love in the air that was a bigger scandal than Chickengate.

I looked at the rib’s body geography and something told me that wisdom was very right.  She was neither skinny nor plump. This meant that she could carry me on a wheelbarrow when I am singing ‘I am not sober.’ Still, I would comfortably beat her in a wrestling match. The wrestling part is very important because of the short lifespan of coalitions. Thus when we come to a point where she demands a renegotiation I can tell her to beat it.

After coming to this conclusion I needed very little persuasion to unleash my king-size smile. You already know that I smile even when I mad thanks to a set of incisors that decided to sun-bathe all the time. Now imagine a deliberate smile and you have a thousand watt fluorescent tube.

Cupid and St. Valentine were on my side and that is why the rib did not complain that I have some teeth missing. She did not say that my head reminded her of a pumpkin either. Instead she smiled back as if I am the miracle her pastor promised.

I found myself telling the rib that my name is Wizard and that I am a very tough Kenyan. I told her that when I looked at her my heart went on leave. I did not die though because a second look kick-started it. She smiled as if to say that I was killing her with love and she loved it. She needed very little persuasion to declare that her name was Maricella.

Before you could say ‘Al Shabaab’ we were exchanging nangos. Soon we were talking about the man who was born, raised and killed in the land of the Pope. We both agreed to the wisdom of honouring the said man. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a rounder-about way of saying that I have that very rare commodity called a date.

Come Valentine’s, come!

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