I go up to my friend Kwamina’s room. He’s usually working on some interesting programming problem on his computer and it’s good to shoot the shit and see what we come up with. We had been absolutely caning procedurally generated graphics rendering with ray tracing this week, I had had some new insights and fancied a herbal discourse. I walk up the stairs and I hear he is engaged in a conversation with Alex, the meek and ditsy, lace placeholder and homemade brownies, Cheshire artist who had answered the add my housemates had placed when I left that year. I was back working in Manchester now and two months on their sofa was starting to do my back in.
I turn the corner to see Alex stood in the doorway. I take my place next to her to see the towering adonis Kwamina, in all his ebony hench glory, topless and rubbing moisturizer all over his body.
"You white people" he used to say, in his southern English via Ghanan accent, "your nails are weak. Your teeth are weak. Your bones are weak, and you are so angry about it."
He had a few weaknesses, though, my friend, and I was the devil disguised. We destroyed out bodies and minds in spectacular fashion, and rebuilt them in our own image. “Dry skin brother, I am not made for this weather.”, his only physical weakness.
I stood in the doorway, looking at my friend, stood in his room, blissful in nerd-vana, unaware of the timid little creature next to me making a mess on the floor at my feet.
I looked at her.
I never want to see you like this.
Her voice wobbles with false confidence and lust, ” Kwam, how are you naturally SO muscly.”
He stops and looks up. I see the devil behind his eyes, as I have seen it so many times before.
"NATURAL? WHITE PEOPLE MADE ME THIS WAY!"
I don’t think either of us expected her to cry.
I couldn’t stop laughing. It was, after all, a joke.
I miss my old friend.
He got poached by EA to continue his work and nobody has seen him since. Programmers.
I’ll take the red pill every time mate, see you soon.