Dispatch from Mombasa

I had to impress. It was the only way that I could prove I was capable of loving. After all I had been accused of being a dull lover; too conservatively stuck to tradition and incapable of expressing emotional attachment to the one I claimed to love most. I had spent sleepless nights planning for the day. My only intention was to make it a surprise to her. I had already in my wardrobe full red-hot-love attire, a red shirt, a red tie, red suit, handkerchief, socks and shoes. I had even gone to the extent of ordering for fresh carnations which would cap the day. My baby had to love me and for her I would do everything. In any case as my people say kwa mwendwa gutiri karima. So I set off for the office in high spirits. My heart beat and footsteps rhymed. I carried along a smile that refused to die, whistling a love song after another and planning for that evening. What will go wrong definitely will and the first indicator of wrong turns for the day was a missed step at door to t