Killer instinct- a tale of unspeakable horror

I remember looking at him walk around on campus. Just staring at him, more like watching him. Like a movie. Wondering how possible it is for gods to walk among mere mortals. He was perfect, tall, and not too dark and oh my, he was just too gorgeous, sexy if I may put it and he had this walk of his that caught every girl’s eye. Okay, he’s not the kind of a guy that I can compare to the likes of John Cena or the handsome Itumeleng Khune, because he had his own unique perfection. Believe me; he looked like he had just walked straight out of a movie scene, a scene where a vigilante rescues the king’s daughter from being devoured by a monster.

‘Maybe I should go over to him and ask him a question’, I thought to myself. It could be any question, a silly one perhaps. Or maybe I should just let him carry on with whatever it is that he is doing on his laptop and leave him alone? But then I thought that him being handsome and popular wouldn’t automatically make rude or nice. Well, I could not be sure because I have never spoken to him before. I have always seen him with ‘hotties’. You know, those popular girls with the latest fashion, gadgets, weaves and very expensive shoes. I mean I was not a popular ‘chick’. I was not the ‘queen bitch’ of a clique. Come to think of it, I was not even in a clique and I was one of those people who are usually regarded as kind of invisible. I was just your normal, ordinary girl, not a loner though, and I had friends who looked like me, no fake hair or expensive materials. That is why I was never seen with guys like him.

I did not have the latest tablets or your fancy smartphones... I had a Blackberry, an old one that my sister passed on to me. But it was not a fancy one. `BBM, BIS, Whatsapp, Facebook, and I could receive and send calls and emails. It was enough for me. I was not a fashionista and my shoes were just your normal pumps from that Somali shop on Eloff Street. And as for a weave, I preferred dreadlocks, very cheap maintenance, and fewer hassles. To me, I was complete. At least that is what I thought before moving to Johannesburg.... the city of lights.

There is something I have learned about city girls. They took the time to look the part. They just didn’t throw on some jeans and sneakers and a golf shirt. They didn’t walk around with backpacks on their backs like they are going to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. They just didn’t tie their hair up into a ponytail like they were getting ready for a boxing match. I even began to think that they never got anxiety attacks when they were approached by a sexy, tall guy like Billy Anderson. Maybe they were magicians. Why else would they be able to do all that and I couldn’t? Why else did the makeup on their faces make them look like Barbie dolls and mine made me look like a clown? How is it that they walked like WWE Divas and I walked like The Terminator?

All that sounded and looked like a lot of work, if I were to try and look the part that will enable me to hang around the popular guys on campus. I’m going to have to need a whole panel of Style by Jury. I’m just saying. I am not ugly, don’t get me wrong. I’m very beautiful. My mother used to say I look like a flower. That’s why she gave me the name Petunia. But there was a little something missing about my image. Maybe not a little. Now, there I was wrestling with my thoughts. Wondering what kind of a question I must ask him. Perhaps I can ask him where the ladies’ room is. Wait a minute; everyone knew where the ladies’ room is, including me. He will think I’m taking him for a fool. On the other hand, maybe he will think that I am new. I was not popular; I doubt he had ever seen me before. So, going over to him wouldn’t harm anyone. Those are all the thoughts that wrestled and wrestled in my head. Why was it so hard for me to just walk over to a guy and say hi? I mean he is not the president and he doesn’t bite. He was just the guy that I had a crush on.

‘Come on girl, pull yourself together. Go over to him, it won't kill you,’ I murmured. I am the kind of girl who never easily gives up. So talking to a guy must be a walk in the park. I know I lied to myself. That guy, Billy. Yes, his name is Billy. He was one of a kind. This must sound like a cliché but I used to believe that Christiano Ronaldo had nothing on him. He looked like a movie star. I don’t know which one but he definitely looked like someone from Sandton or Hollywood. His facial features were out of this world. He had this huge nose that protruded with awe. His chick bones.... oh his chick bones looked like they were carved and shaped with an African wooden spoon.

His lips, I could kiss them all day and night if he’d let me closer. They were slim, not as thick as mine. The bottom lip was amazing. I bet it was written awesomeness all over it. His walk, his walk was that of a god. I know I have never seen one before, but I can just imagine how gods walk. I think the ground felt blessed and honored when his feet touched it. I think I once heard Miss Griffiths - the college domestic helper say: ‘That Billy boy is one lekka ding (one yummy thing)’. Yeah, I heard right. Unless I was perhaps hearing things. He turned heads everywhere he went. Even the heads of some men turned when he passed. He made statements even without opening his mouth. That’s how perfect he was.

Billy wasn’t only food for the eyes; he also came from a wealthy family. He dressed neatly and he also had a car - Mini Cooper. Word has it that he received it on the eve of his 18th birthday. They say he is the only boy and his father’s heir. Yes, his father is one of the wealthiest businessmen in the country. I also heard through the grapevine that his dad has political and media connections. Hmmm.... sounds like a movie for real, I guess some people sucked fortunes straight from their mother’s breasts.