Your Perceptions Could be Wrong

Yesterday evening on my usual shuttle ride home, I had the pleasure of enjoying the unusual company of intriguing conversationalists. A young couple found themselves right next to me in the backseat. Had I not been within the appropriate proximity, one would have without need for hardcore evidence, accused me in any court of law of staring.

The gentleman was dressed in one of those shirts all the men in this country seemed to be camouflaged in lately, cufflinks, with frayed faded jeans that appeared a tad feminine. Come to think of it they could have been hipsters. Then there were the girlie black pointed boots and immediately it hit me. This was the same guy who I had met some months ago and my friends had been trying to convince themselves as well as I, the fact that no ‘manly’ man would get out of his humble homestead and walk around town in high heels unless of course, he had unusually high levels of estrogen, He was immediately blacklisted. This one was gay.

Moving along, this time around his head was clean shaven, a contrast to the last time where it was evident that some specialist had donned upon his head some intricate hair do. His well manicured hands noticeable only as he gestured I discourse, made me cringe in embarrassment as I hid my ‘ugliness’ under the sleeves of my jacket. It was a cold day.

I do not know how in the span of a minute I managed to grasp all this detail. Call it a woman’s intuition. I choose to call it being a ‘girl.’ That’s what normal girls do. With one pretentious ‘I am minding my own business, thank you,’ look from the corner of my eyeball, is all I need to confidently size you up.

Anyway back to my story. They sat their bottoms beside me whilst my ears involuntarily cocked wide open. Even I was surprised at their quick reflex action. You see, here was a guy, who according to presumed perceptions or otherwise unreliable sources swung the wrong way, but yet at that moment our hypothesis seemed to be having some cracks in it, for hanging onto his shirt sleeve for dear life was a ‘real’ girlie.

Obviously she was from one of those planets where some words are carefully exhaled and the ‘r’s’ must be gently rolled off the tongue in some sophisticated drawl. From my side view mirror, I could see that she was absolutely a pretty child giving pride to the one near her. Her temporary hair cover that most likely was ingeniously concealing horrid corn rows badly I need of some miracle soap and water, was glamorous. She smelled or scented, depending on which politically correct side you want to be, of expensive body odor, of which promptly reminded me of my urgent need for one.

Their conversation was amiable. He too was at pains to pronounce each word with clarity, taking forever and a day to complete each sentence. Nevertheless it was impressive. I was in awe. The lovely bird adjacent to him was in awe. That deep, “I am Jeff Koinange,” like voice was enough to keep any English teacher glued.
As we shuttled ahead through the blackness of the night, I struggled with all I had to focus my vision and thoughts on the past events of my day, watching the darkness rush by. Then the droning in my head had to be interrupted by a novel melodious sound.

Who would believe how hard I tried not to steal a quick peek at the latest in mobile inventions. Can I really stand trial for voluntarily eavesdropping?

He reached out for his miniature model answering, “Hello Benji, why is it that you call me?” I could not stop myself. I literally swung my somewhat big head sideways for abetter view of this strange creature who was completely oblivious to the now shifting glances being thrown at him by his newly increasing fan club.

With his voice reverberating against the interior of the bus not forgetting our poor eardrums, nothing was going to stop him. He continued on. “Benji, are you looking for a number? Is that a yes Benji?” I must be right to predict that whoever was on the line at the other end was at task to respond to the unique question or possibly be dying from laughter. I for one was on the verge of breaking point. Stifling my hilarity, the palm of my hand was my only barrier.

After finishing up with ‘Benji’, still blind to the gawking Africans around him, as if on cue he began to delve into a kind of deeper intellectual and spiritual tangent with his nonplussed female primate. It was here that my doubts about his orientation began to settle in and I was forced to become genuinely interested in this couple.

I had heard it all before. For some reason though, inexplicable to me, it felt like fresh morning dew. It was as if something began to tug at my heart. He spoke of giving. Of a millionaire friend of his who claims only to appreciate those who are givers. Of the reality that we live in. a reality whereby those who have are fewer than those who don’t have. Those, whose palms are always outstretched and open, waiting to receive, rarely do have the ability to give. They mostly if not always remain beggars, always in want. He went further on to analogize with the biblical story of the sower and in conclusion declared Gods favor on the hand that gives as opposed to that which is constantly eating.

There, like the blind man at the pool of Siloam, the scales fell off and I experienced within a new reality. My focus had been on things that would never change the price of my shoe. Indeed this couple was different and extraordinarily still unaware of my intrusion and blatant misguided notions. He swung the other way. She was a blonde. The question; ‘so what?’ engulfed me.

As I raised my hand to signal the conductor to hail at my drop; I realized that she too was on the same wavelength. Was this a possible telepathy? For no reason at all we burst into giggles and it dawned upon me that I was no different. We all descended from the womb. We all had gaiety in our hearts. We all had varying perceptions. Only truth was, my perceptions could be wrong.