A date from hell with Mr. Controlling, never again

Like most girls over 25, I have had my fair share of awful entanglements. This one, as most do, started out just fi ne. I met Mr. Fairly-Good-Looking at a mutual friend’s party, and we talked. By the end of the night, we had exchanged contacts.

He asked if I’d like to have dinner with him; I hadn’t been on a date in a while so I was ‘excixious’ (excited but anxious). We agreed to meet at a popular restaurant  in Kampala that Saturday at 7:00pm. I was a little tickled when he did not offer to pick me up. I prefer to fi nd my way to and from outings, but I always appreciate to be asked. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, no?

The outing

Saturday came and I was at the restaurant at 6:50pm; 45 minutes later and Mr. F-G-L was still AWOL. I checked my phone, but nothing! Just as I grabbed my bag to leave, Mr. Late walked through the door. Many apologies later, he invited me to sit back down so he could make it up to me. I agreed, I was hungry after all.

The waiter came and I ordered the honey glazed pork chops with rice and avocado salsa. He squinted and asked “Are you sure?” I nodded with certainty. He prodded me to try the Caesar salad instead. I thanked him for looking out for me, but I was sticking to my order.
He seemed to fold, but not before he proceeded to inform the waiter not to glaze it with honey due to its excessively high caloric content.

“Oh, and a glass of white wine for me and red dry for the young lady,” he added.

Now, I don’t drink wine. I hate wine. I tried to mention this, but before I could, the waiter had turned on his heel. Just then, Mr. Controlling reached for my hand and started to stroke it. I tried to regain control of my hands, but his grip was fi rm.

Our conversation and meal

Ten minutes of small talk later, I was saved by the food. Thankful for the distraction, I dug into my chop.
He went about his salad too, all the time reminding me to order it next time. He then looked at my still-full glass of wine and asked why I wasn’t having any.

I expressed my dislike for wine. “Why didn’t you say something before we ordered?” he asked. “I tried. You didn’t give me a chance to.” I responded.

He seemed slightly irritated. I thought to myself- ‘Good for you. That makes two of us.’

Mr. Rude

The waiter came to check on us and my date retorted “Do you not see that we are having a conversation here?” It hit me then that all through the meal, not once had Mr. Rude said ‘thank you’ for anything. Poor waiter looked at me then;

I smiled ‘sorry’. I envied him, at least he got to leave. I was stuck at the table.

Soon I pulled the fake stretch-and-yawn and said I was pretty tired and wanted to go home. He paid the bill and we headed out.

Our near fight

Just as we reached my car, he grabbed me by the waist and pulled me towards him so my butt was pushing up against his crotch. I had had it. I turned abruptly, and my elbow jammed hard into his side. He yelled out.

The security guard moved towards us and asked if everything was alright. “It is now,” I said.

With a knowing look, the guard smiled at me. I smiled back, got into my car and drove away.

As soon as I got home, I threw my heels off, removed my little black dress, and walked into the comfort of my bathroom where I washed off the remnants of what was a whole evening of my life that I will never ever get back.