What if my love for affordable strawberry yoghurt will make me lose the love of my life?
That one day everything will be fine, and we’ll be sending that smiley with sunglasses on and laughing at those guys trying to hit on her. The next she’ll wake up and say that because I prefer homemade yoghurt over the Brookside one, she doesn’t feel like we belong together. It won’t matter that the Brookside one is literally ten times more expensive than the homemade one, she’ll feel like my love of all things cheap are an indictment of my aspirations in life. That instead of working hard to afford a Brookside, I’d rather settle for homemade yoghurt, which in her opinion is made in very suspicious hygiene standards. While I’ll argue that paying Kes 350 for 500ml of yoghurt is scandalous even when you’re getting money by the boatload, and that it’s about building up the small-scale entrepreneurs trying to put food on the table for their families.
I won’t get a chance to finish the rest of my argument because she’ll be halfway through the hallway, her black travel bag dragged behind her as she fumbles for her car keys. Her branded water bottle will fall,(she’ll be working for those fancy corporations that have double-barreled names and a Greek-architechture inspired logo because she’s smart and is an asset to any company she applies to), and I’ll rush and pick it for her, she’ll throw it away in anger, and I’ll hold her hand, her small, soft and well manicured hand, and try make her stay, but she’ll give me that “Victor, if you don’t let me go I’ll make you regret it” look.
Later, alone and miserable, with ‘In my place’ by Coldplay playing in the background, that sad, nostalgic song, the homemade strawberry yoghurt will taste like medicine on my lips, and I’ll regret defending it at the expense of my relationship, and if it wasn’t the fact that I like a clean house, I’d dramatically throw it against the wall. She’ll be online on Whatsapp and I’ll be left on read, too busy unpacking to see my apologetic messages.
Later still, at an Uchumi parking lot (Buy Kenya, Build Kenya), I’ll be shocked at the blandness of the yoghurt she loves so much, and although the taste will be more refined in hers, it’ll lack the raw taste of strawberry that comes from mixing by hand not by the perfection of German-made mixers in an industrial complex. I won’t take another spoonful, and the streetboy will look at the almost-full tub suspiciously before his hunger will mean he’ll be wolfing down the contents before his gang comes and tears it from his hands.
Later even, chewing gum (no way you go to a supermarket just to get one thing), in my bed with blue bed sheets and a brown duvet, (because my blue one will be outside drying), the homemade yoghurt will taste right again, and I’ll not enjoy it’s imperfection like I will today, how its too milky in some parts and too strawberry-ish in others, but perfect as a whole. I’ll be teary, not because she left, but because it took yoghurt to show me that the love of my life will not care what brand of yoghurt we drink, as long as we drink it together. 😀