REVENGE IN THE VILLAGE

part 3

My feelings about Mama Rosa's daughters shifted dramatically when I joined a renown city campus to pursue a bachelor's degree program in commerce. Eager to immerse myself in this new chapter and make new friends, I quickly realized that navigating relationships with women was a complex, uncharted territory. I found out that about 90% of what students truly learn in college isn't in the textbooks—it's the lessons passed down from one campus "philosopher" to another.

Campus philosophers are the seasoned veterans, the ones with a reputation for "knowing it all" and commanding respect across the institution. Unfortunately, the measure of their wisdom and social standing wasn't based on academic achievement, but on their success with women—or, more accurately, their ability to flaunt how many women they'd been with, as well as their prowess in drug consumption. Those who didn't have girlfriends, or "female friends with benefits," were considered failures. And if you dared to avoid alcohol or marijuana? Well, then you were practically invisible. These guys seemed to float through the semester, surrounded by attention and social capital, while I could barely get a word in without feeling like an outsider.

During my first year, I lived in the school hostels, where I was dubbed the chairman of the "failures" by my roommate.

"Sasa watu kama wewe mtasema mlikuja campus kufanya nini?" he'd taunt, laughing after finishing yet another call with one of his many girlfriends. James Kamau was his name. A tall, light-skinned guy from Githurai, his hair dyed brown at the front, making him look like Koffi Olomide's long-lost cousin.

With his trademark smirk, he'd jeer at me every weekend, calling me a "loser" and making endless jokes about my manhood—suggesting that it thought its owner had died long ago.

As the weekends passed and the mockery piled up, I often questioned my worth, especially when I went to visit my cousin in South B. There, he would proudly parade his latest girlfriend in front of me, throwing in sarcastic comments about my "celibate lifestyle."

"Be the change you want to see," I would remind myself, quoting a motivational speaker from high school, vowing to overcome my own cowardice, only to falter time and again out of fear.

Then came a hot Tuesday afternoon, after I'd returned from a brief two-day exile. In a moment of weakness, I decided to seek advice from the one person I thought could help me: James.

He staggered into the room, dressed like a modern genge artist—complete with a loose jacket and a cigarette dangling from his lips. As usual, he lit a Dunhill cigar and puffed it around the room, his eyes half-lidded, like he was lost in some deep thought. That day, I opened up about my feelings for Mama Rosa's daughters, and surprisingly, James turned out to be my unlikely savior.

"Usiogope mamake tena, bro," he said, barely looking up from his cigar. "Kwani yeye atamuoa?" (Don't fear her mother, bro. Will she marry her?) His advice felt like a revelation, especially since he had succeeded in the very areas where I struggled. How did this carefree, weed-smoking guy manage to attract women, while I, the "good guy," seemed to face constant rejection? Was he even human?

My first real encounter with Mama Rosa's daughters came on the tail end of my first semester break. I had taken a bus back to the village, the easiest route since there were no cabs in sight. As I walked along the familiar path from the Reserve Shopping Centre to my village, the air was thick with the scent of fresh earth and the noise of livestock grazing along the roadside. The soil smelled like it had just rained—home.

Then, about 200 meters ahead, I saw her: Wambui.

She was wearing a stylish pair of blue denim jeans and a light green crop top with a bold "LOVE" label across her chest. Her natural black hair cascaded down her shoulders, and I felt an unexpected rush of determination. This is my moment, I thought. I had read somewhere that first impressions matter, and I couldn't let this slip away. But of course, as usual, my mind went blank, and I struggled to recall any pick-up lines I had memorized from American high school movies.

I knew I had to step out of my comfort zone, even if it felt like I was aiming way beyond my league. I took a deep breath, reminded myself that my looks were probably better than James's (or so I liked to think), and with a voice that tried to sound tough, I greeted her.

"Mambo msupa!" I called out. (Hello, beautiful.) Then, trying to sound smooth, I added, "You actually remind me of the 22 letters of the alphabet."

She turned toward me with an amused smile, clearly intrigued. "Are they usually 22 or 26?" she shot back.

I blinked, caught off guard. "Oh, you mean there are 26! Don't tell me I forgot U, R, Q, T," I stammered, attempting to recover my cool while my eyes kept darting to the writing on her top. Yes, I nailed it, I thought.

She laughed, and that sound—her laugh—was enough to make the whole world feel lighter. We exchanged a few more jokes, and then, unexpectedly, she mentioned she had heard a lot about me—mainly because I was the only person from our village to join university through the government sponsorship program (KUCCPS). That was my breakthrough moment. I hadn't expected it.

We chatted for a while, exchanging laughs and compliments. Before she left, I mustered all the courage I had left and asked for her phone number. The hardest part for me. Many women played hard to get, and I wasn't about to let that stop me.

"My phone actually has one problem," I said, pulling out my phone. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.

"I'm not usually funny in person," I admitted, "but my phone lacks something very vital—and that's your phone number." I looked her in the eyes, waiting for her reaction.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're funny, Tony?" she teased, her smile lighting up the moment. I felt like I was finally winning her over.

I handed her my phone, a brand-new model I had bought with my HELB loan, watching as she entered her number. Her angelic smile, her warm perfume—it all felt intoxicating. My thoughts raced ahead, imagining what bold moves I might make next.

Before I could say anything more, she lightly slapped my chest and handed back my phone.

"What are you thinking, tough guy?" she teased again.

"Uuumh, nothing. I was just..." I stammered, completely caught off guard by her charm.

She laughed again, and in that moment, I knew I'd already impressed her with my confidence. I owed James a huge thank you. He deserved a statue outside parliament for his advice.

"See you some other time, Tony," she said, swaying toward the market, leaving me floating on cloud nine.