She entered the room silently, in low heels, shaking curly hair, no Indonesian weave or synthetic strings, just a unique dome-shaped half-combed afro. Everything about her was un-classic, yet something about her appearance magnetized my eyeballs. No mascara on her face or piercings through her ears. Her soft caramel skin slightly exposed on her arms and shoulders; no strange patterns or tattoos, just tiny dark spots reflecting the merciless thirst of highland mosquitoes. Slowly she sat down, barely wiping the dust lying lazily over the brown thatch Maasai mat. There was something electric about her glance; somewhat jolly somewhat cautious. My papa used to tell me never to approach a girl whose facial gesture were difficult to unravel; his advice rarely found an iota of wax in my ears willing to take heed of his wise words.
Every rebellious cell swimming foolishly within my bloodstream decided to make a move on a girl whose mannerisms were more confusing than a set of identical biracial twins. It really does not take much insight to realize that my species, also known as gentlemen, impeccably exemplify a breed of indifferent idiots rushing toward the ‘battlefield of flirtation’ without optimal training, quality weapons or strategic thought. That said, I consider myself a relatively intelligent and highly intuitive young man. Not once have I subscribed to or exhibited the kind of reckless behavior vividly described above, at least not until my brain partly processed and sparsely internalized the subtle image of this remarkable dark-skinned female species displaying an outlook unbecoming of mainstream ideas of a ‘classy’ woman…..