Dear Diary,

Now I understand why some people decide to stay mean. I’d hosted a colleague called Jenny after her house was destroyed by floods. Once it was repaired, she moved out, only to discover she was impregnated by her pastor.

This evening I hear a knock on my door. I open to find her standing there like a lost sheep, three giant suitcases in tow.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I can’t be alone,” she says all sad-like.

“But you’ve always lived alone.”

“Not now, Tom, not like this.” She indicated her stomach which has no visible bulge. “You were there when the pastor blatantly denied being the father. Now… He’s threatening me and I don’t know what to do.”

She starts crying. There’s something about a woman’s tears that just makes me weak in the knees.

“Okay,” I relent. “You can stay but not for long. I’m expecting a date.”

“Thank you,” she says. But once I’ve lugged her baggage inside, she adds, “Oh, wow. This place looks like it hasn’t felt a woman’s hand since I left.”

That’s a lie. By a guy’s standard, I keep a pretty neat house. “You should be happy then since I’ve stopped being a whore. Remember calling me one?”

“I’m sorry about that. But, didn’t you say you have a date tonight?”

I check my watch. “Yep. She’ll be here in an hour. I hope you’ll be feeling better by then.”

She picks up one of the smaller bags and heads up the stairs. “I swear I won’t be a bother.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’ll just freshen up in the guest room. You go on with your date. Imagine I’m not here and have fun.”

Once she locks herself in the bathroom, it’s game over. So, I go downstairs to prep for my date. Her name is Charlotte and she has a figure to die for. She also happens to be Zambian in Kenya for a pharmacy conference, and tonight is her last night before she flies back home.

Also, I happened to tell her the small lie that I’m the best cook in the country. Before Jenny showed up, I was trying to prepare something called “Spaghetti al Limone”, an Italian dish I picked off the internet. I made it Kenyan – spaghetti and minced meat garnished with weeds from my backyard.

When Charlotte arrives, she looks like a fashion model in a long spaghetti-strap dress and matching stilettoes. I can already imagine peeling the dress off.

The first thing she says is, “Are you moving?”

“No,” I say. “Why?”

That’s when I notice Jenny’s luggage still in the living room. Crap!

“Oh, this? It’s from the last time I travelled. Been too busy to put it away.”

I take the bags and stash them inside the coat wardrobe.

“You travel with pink luggage?” she says.

I make a sad face. This isn’t going well at all, and she hasn’t even tasted my food yet. “Is pink so bad?”

She sashays over, plants a long kiss on my lips. When we come up for air, she says, “I love a man who’s in touch with his feminine side.”

The next hour goes off without a hitch, but Charlotte calls out my cooking.

“Your cooking is terrible,” she says, then she slips one strap off her shoulder. “But I didn’t come for the food.”

As she reaches across the table and kisses me, Jenny comes down the stairs, her belly now so huge it’s like she’s swallowed a whole goat.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “I didn’t know we had company.”