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I need to get something off my chest. I don’t share food. I mean, not that if I came across someone who needed food I wouldn’t give them, I would. But if we’re having a meal together, no you cannot taste my food. No you cannot have a bite or a piece or a sip. If it’s teargas though, be my guest. Or if it’s njahi, you can have the whole bowl. That’s where I draw the line.

Ladies have that thing for sharing food. Apparently it’s tastier if eaten communally. Now, I grew up in a family of boys, so communal eating usually meant someone would get disenfranchised. If it was a meal of chicken, you could end up with a wing and a neck. So, you had your food on your plate and that was it. No sharing. If you had a packet of crisps, or chips, it was yours. A chocolate, yours. A stick of gum, all yours.

And so the same happened to me when I took a female friend out for lunch. We ordered food and caught up on what was going on in our lives. She’s on one of those internet diets and so ordered the healthy stuff, caesar salad. And water. No carbs. Why? Because she needs to fit into ‘booty shorts by September’. I , on the other hand, was stressed that day, so my body was screaming for greasy fries and pork chops.

My dear, keeping eating those fries, you’ll grow an ass and get love handles.

I pointed at her with the toothpick I was playing with and remarked, Too late. You know what I say, if they can’t love my handles, they can’t handle my love

She laughed and said I was silly. I laughed and said, I know.

As we get to talking she tells me how she’s been through a crazy relationship lately and was considering getting a guy who could pay her bills, take her out of town or the country once in a while and shower her with gifts. In return, she could, you know, make him ‘happy’.

Ahaa. You mean like a sponsor?

Well, if that’s the term you want to use.

Well, I don’t want to use it. But it seems appropriate.

Whatever, she said as she rolled her eyes. I shrugged.

She has a pal who has a ‘sponsor’ and is living the life.

Ebu see the fun she was having in The Atlantis, Dubai last weekend? She shows me a series of narcissistic pictures of her friend. 

Wow, nice bikini.

Kwenda. Ebu focus. She gives me those friendly slap on the arms.

So, would you be my sponsor? she asks

I’m taken aback by the question. Plus our food has arrived.

Well, would you wear that bikini?

Maybe. So would you?

I’m trying to get the right combination of salt and chillie sauce on my fries as she drizzles her salad with a thousand island dressing.

Well, I don’t know. Dubai sounds expensive. And gifts. Eish. Oh, plus the little fact that I’m married.

Yeah. I know. The better. You won’t be all over me with emotions. I can have you to myself when I need to.

The nerve of this woman. I can barely negotiate getting a ‘visa’ from the missus on rugby weekends to meet the boys, how am I supposed to get time to off to undertake sponsor duties.

Can I taste your pork? It looks nice. And some fries?

I thought you were on a diet?

Yeah, but I just want to taste.

Ehh. I don’t share my food.

Haha. You’re so silly. Then she reaches over and with her fork, skewers a few fries and a piece of pork.

I whisper the serenity prayer.

You want to taste my salad?

No. I’m allergic greens. Besides, right now I’m like Brutus and don’t like your salad.

She didn’t get the joke. She just gnawed away at those leaves like a rabbit.

So, how would this sponsor thing work? What would I have to do?

Well, you’d just need to pay my rent. And my phone bill. Oh, and give me like twenty k for shopping and my hair.

Eh? Twenty K per month?

Yeah, of course, per month. Like duh.

Jeez. That’s crazy. Na I haven’t even organized that Dubai trip yet?

Yeah. But it’s not a lot even. Si you’re a banker?

Yeah. I’m not the bank itself. I just work there.

My palms were sweaty now. So was my brow. Mainly because of the amount of chillie sauce I had put on my food. But also at this prospective opportunity.

How do people do it? Taking care of a wife is work in itself. But adding a ‘side dish’ now. With a thousand island dressing to boot? This was going to be an expensive venture, the emotional turmoil notwithstanding. Then the sneaking around. Now I need to get one of those obnoxious dual sim phones. And install that app called Vault to hide those ‘booby pics’ stashed in my Whatsapp. Or maybe use Telegram private chat.

And the showers before I go home. With plain water. No soap, ladies can smell foreign soap. The separate hidden bank accounts. Then I’ll have to either have to get a raise or become very adept at Sportpesa. I’ll have to learn to hide condoms, and if found say they’re for my boy and that he left them in the car. And that he should really get married and stop picking up chicks using my car.

I’ll have to get off Facebook and Instagram and even that Snapchat thing, lest I’m tagged inadvertently on a beach in Cape Town when I was supposed to be on a work trip in Naivasha. Or, worse, get caught up in Machakos Sevens.

And before I could answer, she answered for me.

Anyway, you’re way too stingy. I don’t think you’d make a good sponsor. But si you hook me up with that hot colleague of yours? He looks like he has money to spend.

You crazy woman. Ebu finish you’re plants. I need to get back to the office.