Read on Twitter
si then you date someone who goes to posta every Friday to send you a handwritten letter about the week spent in their house with two cats that barely acknowledge their existence because....cats.
she carries one cat, Mr Kariuki, to the post office just so he isn’t too lonely in the house. plus he can lick a couple of stamps. she hopes that he won’t run away, but he does, and you know how busy Haile Selassie Avenue can get on Friday’s. 
she’s down to one cat, so she sends you a letter to let you know that it’s time to explore the world outside. she’ll be standing outside Hilton on June 30 in the red polka dot dress you like. be there by 10.30am, she said.
you’re always on Twitter so naturally you forget to check your mailbox. still, she goes to the meeting point, hoping that you’ll arrive in good time to take her to all the places you’ve spoken of in the two letters you sent her in 2019. but you never show up.
she makes a friend outside Hilton. her name is Talia. she too has a cat, a tabby named Charles Kariuki. they bond over their quirky cat naming decisions. Talia offers to show her around town as soon as her friends show up, they’re grabbing coffee and fawning over Catstagrams.
as they while away their Friday afternoons, she crosses the first rule of your Twitter standards, making friends with people you don’t know. but you never find out until one day, six months after your presumed meeting date, you stumble upon her Instagram page. you gasp.
in a short span of time, her page, where she takes pictures of her wonderful excursions and her growing family of tabby cats, has amassed 5,368 followers. and you’re not one of them. in her highlights are photos and videos of her hanging out with even more people you don’t know.
you wonder how all of this could have happened. despondent, you go to the post office to check if you missed out on any letters. you perch yourself outside the open box the minute you see it. you need to know if you could have stopped this from happening, and how.
the letter marks the first stage of your grief, the headstone of an exclusivity you thought you deserved, despite doing very little to nurture it. she just wanted you to be there by 10.30am on June 30. now it’s December, and she’s discovering sushi at brunch with those strangers.
you go on twitter to tell your followers that no matter what you do, you can’t win. even the quiet babes need attention, you say. you get several retweets, men who feel you on a deep level. you feel adored and validated. no homo.
the minute that girl wore shoes, it’s like she never took them off. patapatapatapata on the streets of Nairobi. the misogyny boils within you, but as you tweet, you realize that you’re just upset. And men are allowed to have feelings, right? more retweets for you, pal.
this thing you are doing, this sharing feelings maneno, it is new, no man has ever done it before. you are cultivating a novel safe space to challenge the patriarchy. it is good. you could make a podcast out of this. or a blog. or both.
she’s a YouTuber now. 80k people want to know all about her cats, books and favourite sushi restaurants. you’re at the club one night, and she says hi to almost everyone around you. but she doesn’t remember what you look like. this seems personal, you say.
now worlds apart, you wonder when it was that women realized they could know other people that weren’t just you. they all belong to the streets. you need a homely woman to make a family with but they don’t make them like that anymore. sad story.
thank you all for reading! my procrastination game is mad today lol
