Thursday February 13 2014

I played good boy prior to my Valentine’s sickness

By Eugene Mugisha

Due to an unfortunate set of events, including bad investments, bad luck, and to be honest, poor planning, I happen to find myself in a financial dilemma that will not see me treat my girl the way I would want to, and worse still, in a way I have gotten accustomed to. Of course, she doesn’t know about my situation, you know how girls shouldn’t know such things, at least not this close to such an ‘important’ day.

So to make up for the heartache she will be nursing when I fall ‘sick’ on this day, I am making it up to her in advance by doing the small things that mean the world to women. Yesterday, I made her breakfast in bed. She didn’t see that coming, because she knows how I hate the kitchen. Besides, she knew I had an office presentation to prepare for, thus my reason for getting out of bed early. When I showed up with a glass of fresh juice, French toast, and a Spanish omelette, she was genuinely surprised. Well, credit should go to the cook book I bought the other day.

After my presentation, I got down to business. I had written this poem the previous week, something to do with her angelic kisses, dreams and sunsets. For the next four hours, at every top of the hour, I called her and read her a verse.
For the afternoon, I rushed out of office, dropped by an ice cream parlour, got her a medium-sized tin of her favourite stuff, picked up a giant bunch of flowers at half price (I have a friend at the flower shop) and for added effect, threw in a medium-sized box of chocolates, then went off to her work place to deliver them personally.

I found her and her workmates having a briefing session of sorts in the lobby. My girl loves attention, and nothing would have topped this for her. Everything stopped as I walked slowly into the building, walked over to the receptionist, and was directed to a group that was staring at me in my black suit and bow tie.

I borrowed the bow tie last minute from a workmate. My plan had been to get her called to the reception, and simply hand her the things. But there she was, and not alone. Feeling romantic and suddenly dramatic, I walked over to the group, recited a verse from my poem, handed over the flowers and sweets, kissed my girl on the lips and walked out of the building.

As the doors closed behind me, I could hear the group screaming - it had turned out better than I had expected. I bet no other girl had anything this “valentiny” at her work place. I had given them something to talk about for the afternoon. But more importantly, my girl would need such fond memories to carry her through tomorrow as I lie in my bed, sweating and groaning, barely conscious, all her careful plans and dinner reservations gone to waste.

I worked out the logistics last week; I have the pills to induce the necessary symptoms, and my personal doc has agreed to confirm my malaise in case it comes to that.
The evening got even better with candle-lit dinner at home, cooked by yours truly, as a precursor to the best Valentine’s Day. A part of me wonders if she is not suspicious about my pre-valentine behaviour. Tomorrow, whatever happens, I did my best to make up for the misery she will go through. I hope it counts.