Read the first part here
See, she did not break my heart. I am serious, she didn’t. Yes, I didn’t eat for some days, but that had nothing to do with her. I just didn’t have the appetite. For the whole week that she refused to speak to me or see me, I had no hunger for food. I was just worried.
That I did not date another female after her for more than a year didn’t mean that my heart was broken. I am a man, we don’t get heartbroken. Do not argue with me, it is my heart not yours. If a body’s heart gets broken, the body dies. My heart was just fine, still is, thank you.
Nothing really happened too. There was no offense on my part. The last time we were together it was all blissful panting and enjoyable sighs. This was routine. So when she didn’t take my calls the next morning, it was no issue for me. I began to worry when she didn’t call me or pick my calls the next day too. Then she sent a text telling me that she wanted to be alone for some time because she wanted to think through some things.
I have never put much stock in what a woman would be thinking, so I felt I just needed to up my game, even though I was sure I was up there with cupid and the other masters of romance. So I took the Art of Seduction and marked some pages and underlined some great ideas. Then I persevered and wrote some other great insights at the book edges and between the lines. But when a girl is evil there is no strategy that will bring her back. That great book failed me.
Ok, it earned me one last audience with her for some minutes, but I don’t know if that should count because that interview that occurred at her door step was terrible.
When her door opened, joy flooded my heart; I observed that her eyes were a bit swollen and red. I also observed that she didn’t let me in.
“Sweetie, what happened? What is going on? Did I do something wrong?”
She raised her eyes at me, and for the umpteenth time I wondered what God was playing at when he made those eyes.
“I am pregnant.”
I swallowed, digested the swallow and swallowed some more. My heart stammered and then my lips exulted.
“What? Sweet heart! Are you serious? That is so wonderful! It is going to be a boy. I cant belie…”
The slap that slim fine lady gave me was worse than a gun shot. In my ecstasy I didn’t see it coming. My brain thought the world had ended. I could not see. I could not hear.
All those idiots who think women are weaker or harmless have never been slapped by a woman. Her door slamming shut inspired my brain to get hold of itself and give me balance. I found I was still standing and alive in front of the closed door.
I journeyed back to my car, flipped down my mirror and checked why the left side of my face felt like rusted heavy metal.
When a man survives blunt trauma, he naturally begins to evaluate how it happened. Now, in a saner world, pregnancy is a good thing. In the womb of the wise and pure women without bad intentions, a child is a testimony. A man swells with pride at the feat of impregnating a female body. But my own things are always different. My achievement was a blunt trauma worse than a stroke. Judge this mater and tell me how I did wrong? How I deserved that slap, and how pregnancy is a cause for break up?
I have always told you why women are not good things: They can never be predicted. Add this also to that list.
It is known that women are generally worse during pregnancy, and that their hormones and emotions swing like pendulum at many intervals. So, I had supposed, after that slap, that she will call me to apologize and tell me some nice things. I supposed erroneously for two days.
I trampled on my ego and pride, and called her. She didn’t pick the calls. I supposed it was due to the bad cell network in the area. I wanted to go see her but the left side of my face would have none of it; it didn’t want another trauma. So I sent her a text message. I put all my reason into that message which after five phone pages climaxed with the fact that I would marry her and will be a good man and father to our child.
My phone tringed with her message and I smiled in satisfaction.
“Go to hell!”
I removed my SIM card, blew at it, swiped it, blew inside the phone too for good measure and then reinserted the SIM.
“Go to hell!”
It was no SIM error. She wanted me to go to hell. And she didn’t say how long she wanted me to stay there.
Slowly, it took some hours, as I examined and cogitated on the three words of her reply text , it began to dawn on me, very gently, that she didn’t want anything further to do with me.
You find it strange too, right? She didn’t even want to marry me. Imagine that! This is me we are chatting about here. Didn’t I tell you she was evil? Other single women play the pregnancy card to ensnare and enslave an unfortunate male, there I was, willing to be the unfortunate, yet she refused me. What do you make of that?
While I was coming to terms with her message requesting me to go spend some time in hell, and if I agreed, how best I should undertake the enterprise, three sharp raps on my door interrupted me.
I opened the door and encountered three policemen. They looked at me, and my eyes replied.
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