A brush with love scammer

I don’t know if you are lucky enough to be getting those love messages on your phone from lonely Caucasian NGO workers working here and looking for love. I get them quite a bit.

What can I say, I’m a lucky guy. I have always ignored them because I’m not looking for love. I don’t think people should be going out of their way to look for love.

Love is like rain; it comes when it’s ready to come. And it will find you. Also, I’ve never been into white women romantically, much less in NGOs. It’s not my bag.

So, I have always read these texts and deleted them. Last Friday I was in shags, wearing shorts and one of those white vests that old people wear.

It was a very hot afternoon, the type where the air feels like a wall of heat, and I was chilling in my dad’s veranda listening to his small radio when an sms came in.

It was from a lonely woman working in Northern Kenya and looking for someone God-fearing to be with.

I’m God-fearing all right, so she found a great match. So, I texted back and a conversation, which I’m going to condense here, ensued.

I said, “Hello Clara. I believe in miracles. You couldn’t have smsed me at a better time because I’ve been searching for love for so long, and my pastor said this was my year of finding love. I didn’t think it would be over Easter!”

They didn’t reply for five minutes or so but lucky for them I wasn’t doing anything exciting than stare at a puppy nap under a tree.

Just when I was thinking they were never going to reply, they wrote back. “Hello.” I waited thinking that they were sending their messages in bits.

Nothing. Three minutes later it dawned on me that Clara was a lady of very few words. Fine. I said, “Hello Clara. What gives?”

She said, “Hello. What do you mean?” I said, “I mean, how are you?” She said, “I’m fine.”

I thought to myself, this lady doesn’t want love, she wants a monologue. I’m not into monologues. So I put my phone away and started reading a book about an ex-Marine who suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder and robs banks. A lady.

After 10 minutes Clara texted: Where are you? I said, “Karachuonyo East.” (Not that it would make a great difference if I was in West.) Silence.

Maybe she was googling it. Ten minutes. Fifteen. She wasn’t looking for that kind of love, obviously. Maybe I should have said “Karachuonyo West. I said, “I’m in the hospital.” She texted back. “Are you sick?”

I said, “No, I run a hospital.” She texted immediately; “Are you a doctor?” I said, “No. I own the hospital.”

Then I put away my phone and went to take a leak. If you know village life, the toilets are always at the corner of the boma, but since it was blazing hot outside I didn’t want to go stand in the heat of the toilet.

So, I walked out of the main gate and peed under a stunted guava tree. (Yeah of what use is a stunted guava tree if it will never bear fruits?)

When I got back I found four messages from Clara. The first one: “Interesting, I volunteer in the local clinic here in Maralal.”

Second message: “I would love to come see your hospital.” Third message: “Would you like me to come and visit you?” Four message: “Are you there?” Oh and here I thought people hate hospitals.

“I’d like you to come. When can you come?” I asked. Then suddenly something strange happened.

Her messages changed from green to blue, which meant either she had changed her sim card into an iPhone or she had activated iPhone’s imessage.

Because now I could see her type. She said, “When I find some money. I only volunteer here.” I wrote back and said, “That’s fine. The Lord shall open a way.”

Promptly a message pinged in. “Or you could send me fare.” Aha! Now we were in business. I said, “How much is it?” She said, “It’s 2,000.”

I said, “If you send me your picture I will send you the money next week.” She was quiet for a minute.

Then she sent a picture. She was white, obviously. A big mane of hair that was all over the place.

She looked like she took the picture next to a landing helicopter or next to a whirlwind. Or underwater. Who knows. She looked to be in her 20s.

I said, “I’m sorry, but I was looking for someone younger.” She wrote back. “What? I’m only 26. I’m from Denmark.” (As if Denmark is an age.)

I said, “Sorry, 26 is too old for me.” She sounded frustrated. “Are you looking for what age?” Not only had her English deteriorated dangerously, but now we were haggling over age.

I said, “Not anyone above 25.” She was quiet for a few minutes. Then she sent another picture, this time without her face but in a bikini.

This was to persuade me that age was nothing if she could wear a bikini. That she would look fantastic walking around my hospital.

Patients would heal by just her very sight. Clara, the wonder drug from Maralal. “I’m a God-fearing man, please, no naked pictures.” I wrote back.

She didn’t reply for an hour and when she finally did, she said, “So what do we do?” I said, “we keep searching for love.” She never replied again, but I’m sure she will. Or he will. Clara if you are reading this, I hope you find your love.