assume=ass+u+me

Sauti Sol is your favorite band. You’ve been a fan since Mwanzo when they were cooing about love that you were neither old nor experienced enough to understand. They gained your unrestricted screen time, despite turning off The Beat when you heard your dad's car humming outside your gate.

It was only natural that you wanted to attend Sol Fest. You purchased a new fit along with your ticket and got to KICC three hours early. You wanted to take it all in before the crowds ruined it for you.

The concert exceeded your expectations. The energy was unmatched. You sang along to track after track and shouted until your voice was a husky shadow of its former self. The boys were even more enchanting in person. You were high on the feeling, and rehab could go to hell.

Since you got there early, you had advantageous access to the stage. Bien extended his hand to those in the front row as the show wound up, beckoning you (and those other guys) to tap it hello. This was the closest thing to “the hem of His garment“ that you’d ever touched. You locked eyes. You were delirious. Your parasocial relationship had been consummated.

Lightning struck twice when you saw Bien at one of the three CJs in Nairobi. He was as glorious as he‘d been at KICC. You didn’t think twice about heading to his table where he was having a meal with those you identified as his family (you know all about him).

You were sure he’d remember you. You met just over a month ago. But he didn’t get the memo. He crafted some shifty response about “being grateful you loved Sol Fest“ despite yours being an observation about how crazy it was that you two kept bumping into each other.

Disappointed doesn’t adequately describe your feelings, but you asked him for a photo anyway. He offered an autograph instead, which was the equivalent of spirit sprinkled across your wounds. With tears in your eyes, you stormed out of the restaurant, your KES 5,000 meal untouched.