Yesterday, after a rather hectic morning at work and running errands in town, I decided to treat myself to lunch. So I went to Dormans on Mama Ngina Street and found myself a table. I perused the menu hungrily and decided on the mushroom quiche. The sleepy waitress told me that they had run out of mushroom quiches and suggested the Med sandwich. I thought hard and declined. ‘Do you have a veggie burger?’ ‘No,’ she replied, not the least bit regretful. And so I thumbed the (greasy) menu again and settled on the veggie wrap.

It took some time to prepare – I had already finished my tropical mix juice by the time it arrived, or rather they arrived. Or maybe I was just thirsty. Lo and behold, three TINY veg wraps hidden under a mountain of fries that I didn’t order. I was hungry and didn’t complain but let me say that I was disappointed. The guacamole salsa or whatever was promised on the menu was nowhere to be seen and the veggies (onions, courgettes, carrots in julienne strips) had too much oil and were lacklustre. And the wraps were SMALL.

Other cons: the ambiance was mediocre. I hated the music they had on, and I had to swat off several flies. The waitress brought the wrong bill, and there wasn’t enough space – a random stranger came and sat on my table and intruded on my quality me time. An acquaintance of his happened to walk in and asked him whether I was a new girlfriend. I fled.

Suggestions:

Veggie wrap: The best I’ve had was at Savanna, at the Museum.
Quiche: I’ve had good ones at the Java in Adams and Junction, and another good but small one at Java ABC Place. The best are at the Jardin de Paris at the Alliance, albeit pricey.
Veggie burgers: The quest continues!

The last time we went to dinner there, he wore an olive green top, one of these t-shirts masquerading as sweaters. It wasn’t the chilliest of Nairobi nights but he had a grey scarf knotted around his neck. He hadn’t shaved in a while and I ran my fingers over his grey stubble thinking he looked more handsome than usual. I can’t remember what I wore or what we ate except the strawberries and mascarpone for dessert which I fed him with the long spoon while his eyes bored into mine. I remember the industrial amounts of voltage that coursed through my veins when he licked the cream off my lips. Later that night, he kissed me like he’d never kissed me before. He siphoned out my soul and when he broke away, I wondered whether he had felt as I had. I didn’t dare ask because a no, even if said in jest, would have been more than my heart could bear.

Two weeks ago, I told him I was moving on. I lied.

DJ Madz. That is his stage name. He loves poetry slams and rap battles. He has a way with words but he is a poet who needs an 808 snare and a mic, not pen and paper. He tells me he wants to become a professional rapper, a hip-hop artist. I secretly hope that this is a passing ambition but I know that his love of words is not a flight of fancy. It is an incurable itch, and Madz wants immortality. This he will not find in hastily scribbled rhymes on scraps of torn notebook paper and so he is looking for a producer. He promises me that I will be the girl in his video.

Sinnerman. This is my name for him. Aubrey is the implausible name that his parents saddled him with at birth. I hate it and refuse to utter it. Sinnerman he likes, because I have made him listen to my Nina Simone just as he has made me listen to his Dead Prez. Also because when he whispers secret things and enters secret places, I become possessed and therefore he must be the devil.

One day he gives me the shirt off his back. It is black and faded with Tupac’s face emblazoned on the front and ‘All Eyez On Me’ on the back. I have remarked previously on how nice the t-shirt is and today Sinnerman takes it off and tells me I can have it. I protest half-heartedly but he says it would look better on me anyway. He instructs me to wear it every night with nothing underneath and to think of him when I do. I tell him that it would be hard to do with Tupac’s face on my bosom. I ask him what he would like in return. He slides my red thong down my hips. A few days later, I see it hanging in his shower to dry.

He wants to tattoo the map of Africa on his back. He wants every country drawn in and labelled. We fight about this. I accuse him of trying to reassure himself of his Africanness. I have often poked fun at him for embracing many African American sensibilities. He was raised in Atlanta, our shared confusion over identity brought us together. He wears sagging baggy jeans whose hems slouch over dirty Timberland boots. He speaks with a twang and calls me baby girl. I mock his musical collection that is an altar to gangsta rap, and poke fun at his dreams of rap glory and easy riches. I tell him that instead of busting rhymes about booty and bling to the upper strata of the New African society, he ought to use his talent to speak out against the social ills that affect the invisible voiceless. I tell him that in his keenness to copy others, he has forgotten who he is and is now attempting to atone for his sins, that he is seeking forgiveness from Mama Africa by searing her outline across his back.

Who are you to judge, he asks. Who died and made you the arbiter of all things African?

Work was scarce but men were plentiful. Now, the Painted Lady is a creature of considerable charm – who doesn’t like butterflies? – and a fine young man from a very impoverished nation took a liking to her. This fine young specimen was a man of many talents and managed to melt a little of the frost around the Painted Lady’s heart. There was one remark that he made often however, that made Painted Lady’s wings quiver.

“You must have been such a cute baby.” The word cute was drawn out and emitted in an octave higher than the customary smooth baritone, and the Painted Lady’s cheeks were pinched. This made her wings quiver not because she felt a melting sensation in her heart or lady parts, but because she was terrified. Her first thought was that he wanted to reproduce. That was a terrifying thought as she had neither the pelvis nor the patience for such a tribulation. Painted Lady is not an incubator.

The fine young man’s obsession with baby Painted Lady persisted throughout the relationship.

“Do you have baby pictures?” No, I was a caterpillar only a mother could love.

“At what age did you start walking?” I crawled and then I floated.

“Do you have Cerelac in your country?” I chomped my way through entire forests growing up.

When Madonna adopted David Banda, I asked the fine young specimen whether he wished she had discovered Malawi 20 years earlier and swooped him off instead. “Were you a cute baby? You must have been. She’d have picked you.” This brought an end to the baby Painted Lady obsession and most importantly, to the cheek-pinching. Painted Lady is not a bulldog.

Fast forward to 2009. Painted Lady has decided that East or South, East is best and so is now back home earning an honest living on the catwalks of Nairobi. Or not. The truth of the matter is, Painted Lady is gainfully employed, and one particular colleague is afflicted by the Madonna Syndrome, known in other circles as the Messiah Complex.

You see, Painted Lady is an aloof insect. She doesn’t like to mingle unless Hot Men Preferably Older are involved. In her place of gainful employment, one finds oneself swimming in a sea of oestrogen and Painted Lady doesn’t like discussing marriage prospects, diet plans and hair removal techniques especially not over lunch. This is why she declines all lunch invitations. There is also the colour issue. Painted Lady doesn’t like being the only African at the lunch table. Now, the colleague aka AnJolie appears to have come to the conclusion that Painted Lady’s stomach is willing but her pocket is weak. After her Eureka moment, AnJolie modified, “Come to lunch” to “Come to lunch it’s on me” but no, Failure to Launch. She sat down and thought very hard. Eureka moment 2: It must be shyness! The Painted Lady must be coaxed out of her shell, resolved AnJolie, and so I shall invite her to dinner, to the salon, to the cinema, to the nightclub.

Dear reader, in the light of AnJolie’s overtures, it has dawned on Painted Lady that her childhood cuteness is still intact. For this reason, she is putting herself up for adoption. Only those of a generous disposition need apply.