Harper’s first WhatsApp break-up

2013-06-03 14:59

It’s Saturday evening a few weeks ago. I’m off deadline. I’m meant to be in the pub, beer in hand. Eyes glued to the screen for the last precious games of the season. The final days of bounty before the annual football drought begins. The perfect warm-up for another night of mayhem and degeneracy. If all goes according to plan, that is.

Needless to say, I end up nowhere near a plasma ... Or a pint for that matter.

It’s my own fault, as usual. I’m returning from what in footballing terms would be a four-match suspension. I’ve screwed up properly. The current Mrs Harper has gotten rather peeved with my lack of ability to make my up mind and my mouth. And my three-day sessions with the Ghenginator and JahNoDead. And my 3am off-one’s-face Facebook habit.

I’m hauling this huge bed up some very narrow stairs. Sweating. It’s pitch dark. There’s a power outage. Malusi Gigaba must have bought lotsa flowers for his better half. I’m reflecting on getting dumped while paying my penance. And sweating.

I was flattened when she dropped the hammer. Thick skin I guess. Two weeks before, I’m lying on Ghengie’s couch. My neck hurts. So do my shins. The couch is a two seater. I’m 1.8m tall. The couch has these wooden arms. They cut into your flesh. As you sober up in your sleep the pain increases.

I’m half awake. My mouth is like a desert. Ghengie is murdering forests on his futon. It’s not loud enough to drown out the angst ridden white boy music he’s got on loop.

My iPhone beeps. It’s a WhatsApp. Mrs Harper. She’s enraged. She’s had enough. It’s been a bender too far. A mash up too many. I’m a dead man.

The WhatsApp’s not too friendly in tone. In short, it’s my notice of termination. A Don’t Come Monday, as it were. Like Thabo got after Polokwane. A jog on. An “I-love-you-baby-but-you-are-wastrel-bastard-and-I’m-dumping-you-before-I kill-you” kind of WhatsApp.

I’m shattered. The woman is cool. I really dig her. She makes my heart smile.

I’m lying there trying to process what’s gone down. Then I start giggling. It must be shock. This isn’t the first time my ass has been dumped. I’m an old hand at that.

Truth is, women get tired of me and kick me to the kerb with what could be described as alarming regularity. Generally, women give the boot over the phone, or look me in the eye while they put the knife in. This is the first time I’ve been dumped by WhatsApp.

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