You: You ask a lot of questions, Njabulo

Me: I’m sorry, but you’re very interesting

You: Don’t apologise. I love it. I didn’t expect the celeb to be interviewing the groupie. But tell you what, I’ll answer every question you ask if you promise to make me a character in one of your stories one day.

Me: You have yourself a deal, Ziyanda

That first night of talking to you went by so fast. You told me you were 22, and when I told you I was 9 years older, you claimed to have dated several men who were more than 15 years older than you before.

I asked you to prove that you had read my short stories before I was a good writer, and you reminded me of Stanza’s Drug, a short story I posted on my Facebook page 7 years ago.

I asked for your pictures, and you said you didn’t have any.

You said I was being too hard on myself when I told you that part of my depression came from being 30 and still living in my mother’s house, driving around in her old bakkie.

I asked if you had killed a person before, and you told me you had gotten several people killed.

“Until recently, I only dated criminals,” you said. “I believe I was the reason some of them killed each other, and I’m sure they are the ones who killed the people I convinced them to kill.”

I asked if you drank alcohol, and you said you didn’t. I told you I used to drink to maintain the friends I had and to be able to approach girls because otherwise, I was a lonely book nerd.

We agreed to save the main reasons why we thought we were bad people for the day we met.

It was around 5 am when I realised I was making too many spelling errors, and my battery was almost out.

Me: Can we sleep and continue with our Q&A when we wake up?

You: I thought you’d never ask, Mr Goba

Me: Goodnight, awesome bad person, lol

You: Goodnight, Njabulo. Thank you for saving me from my thoughts tonight

You had effortlessly done the same for me and continued to do it on the days and nights that followed.

I couldn’t hold it in two weeks after we began talking. I had to tell you how I felt.

Me: I’ve fallen in love with you, Ziyanda

You: I can tell. But doesn’t it bother you that you don’t know how I look?

Me: No. But I am hoping that you’re at least the 6 you look like on your profile picture lol

You: OMG. I’m so offended. Me? A 6? Wow!

You always smoothly changed the topic when I expressed my feelings for you, and you always postponed our meeting until a month and a half later.

I parked my mother’s van by the playground in Unit 3 and stepped out so I could give you a big hug we had promised each other. You walked up from a nearby road wearing a brown, skin-tight dress and fluffy white slippers. All the details I had drooled over three years ago, looking at Thandi, were worse on you, like an amplified deja vu. The shapely thick thighs, the caramel skin, the magnificent cleavage, the pretty face…

“See why I didn’t send you pictures of me?” you said as you opened your arms for me to hug you.

Instead of braids, you had cute, short hair. A silver piercing glistened on the side of your nose. I smelled chocolate, strawberries and heaven when I held you tight, lifted you off your feet and spun you around. And when we let each other go, I noticed your tattoo, which began on top of your left shoulder and disappeared down your back. I didn’t even think of pulling the face-slide move I had pulled on Thandi. Kissing you in that moment would’ve blown the engine of my already over-speeding heart.

“So,” you said when we settled inside the car. “Who’s going to go first? I wanna know why a nice guy like you thinks he’s a bad person.”

Tell us: How does Ziyanda prove that she’s really a fan of Njabulo’s writing?