Public Man

My intentions are purely sexual. I don’t know how to make that clear enough. It’s not just with Ayen. It’s with every girl I have ever been with. I never like them as people. All I want is to smash and pass. Plain and simple.

But lately, the women I date expect too much. I give them money whenever they ask, but they still complain. They say I don’t text “good morning” or “goodnight”, that I disrespect them, or that I think sending gifts will make up for my lack of attention. What can I say? I’m a busy guy.  My books are flying off the shelves, my inbox is full of talk-show invitations, I won the prestigious John Garang International Award for Fiction—$700,000, and published groundbreaking research with Mayardit Academy for Space Sciences. All my five books are Juba Monitor bestsellers. I am making millions. I don’t have time for relationship drama.

There is something different with Ayen and not because I like her. She’s a challenge. She has high standards. She’s the chief broadcaster at South Sudan Broadcasting Cooperation (SSBC), runs the prestigious Juba Times, and owns Junubin Angels Beauty —Juba’s most sought-after beauty brand. She’s a high achiever and her success makes her all the more attractive. That’s probably why she has high hopes for what we are. I don’t even know what to call it precisely because it isn’t a thing yet. She does seem to understand that my interest in her, like in every high-status woman I have dated, is purely about sleeping with her.

Last week, I asked her out. She agreed promptly. When I picked her up in the evening, she was stunning in a long dress with double slits that revealed her smooth, caramel-toned thighs when she walked. But when she stood still, the dress looked demure. After dinner, I suggested that we end the night at my place. She declined and asked me to take her home. I felt insulted. Sure, the date was great. Easily the best conversation I’ve had with any woman but it wasn’t what I was looking for. If it were any other girl, I wouldn’t bother with another date but this is Ayen. Ayen is big cheese. I have to play the long game. We have another date later this afternoon, after a lunch with my friend Laat, a big shot at Nile Petroleum Corporation. When I told him we’d meet earlier than usual, he seemed surprised but didn’t press because he was also excited to chat. Over lunch, he tells me stories about his time in Malaysia, the deals he struck and how his relationship with Akur, his girlfriend of three years, is stronger than ever. Of course, it’s strong. He’s trapped her with a ring and he’s rich. No girl would risk losing him.

“I’m settling down this year,” he says.

I stop chewing and stare at him, holding a rib in both hands.

“Okay, maybe next year. Or the next two years,” he admits, and we laugh.

“How about you?” he asks.

“My writing and research are great. I have a paper coming up on the Paradox of Mental Health and Freedom. My friends at Harvard say it is going to change our understanding of human perception of freedom as we know it. Things are smooth. Can’t complain,” I said.

“Not your writing. I find that on the News. Your love life, dude.”

We laughed. Laat knows I don’t have a “love life.” Neither does he, if we’re being honest.

“There’s this girl… Ayen,” I start.

“Don’t tell me it’s the Ayen I’m thinking of.”

We stare at each other and burst out in laughter. We are on the same wavelength.

“Yep!” I say proudly.

“Ayen of Juba Times, Ayen of Junubin Angels Beauty, Ayen of SSBC? You’ve got to be kidding me!” he exclaims. “How far in are you?”

“That’s the thing. She’s making it harder than it needs to be.”

“What do you expect? She’s not just any girl. She’s Ayen,” he says her name like it is royalty, and with that excitement he always has in his voice.

“I’m seeing her again later today.”

“I knew it! That’s why we’re lunch early. You’ve got to get her. Don’t let her slip away.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Dude! You need a plan.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got one. She likes me, I know that much. She’s just cautious because of my dating history. But I know what she needs.”

The plan is, I want to give her what she wants, which is the assurance that she’s the only girl in my life and that I have serious intentions for her. Our date today will be at Nile Resort—a place where anyone who matters in Juba spends their weekends. Perfect place to make her believe that I’m serious.

My lunch with Laat ends at 1 PM. I go home to rest for a bit and prepare for this “special” date. I take a long and refreshing nap. When I wake up, I find that Ayen has texted me: Leaving work now. Let me know one hour ahead of time when you coming to pick me up. Good day.

“Good day!” I jeer. “I’ll come in two hours. Now you know.” She’s probably rolling her eyes at this text, thinking, What a clown. Two crazy, successful, and ridiculously proud people who clearly like each other but are too stubborn to admit it, I think to myself and smile.

At precisely 4 PM, I arrive at her place. She steps out wearing a flowing white dress that hugs her figure without revealing too much. A diamond pendant sparkles against her caramel-toned skin. She slides into the passenger seat and her perfume fills the car with a subtle, intoxicating sweetness.

“You look stunning,” I say while stealing glances at her.

“Thank you,” she reply simply.

It’s already clear from the route that I have taken that we are heading to Nile Resort. I see her watching the scenery change. Her eyes skimmed the busy markets, the stretch of Kiir Avenue leading to the resort through the popular Riek Machar Street. A small smile stole its way onto her face. She can’t hide the excitement.

“You know where we’re going,” I say.

“I might,” she turns to look at me. “You don’t strike me as a man who picks venues randomly.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

The past three dates were in local cafés that made it look like I was hiding our relationship, and she doesn’t want that. The thing is, I was actually hiding our relationship. But now, I’m forced to do something I have never done. None of my relationships have ever been public until after the breakup when the girls take to social media, crying and blaming me. Since most of the women I date already have a huge following and support, their breakup stories fill the city very fast. Newspapers, radios, podcasts, and YouTubers spread the news. So far, that has only made my books sell more. It hasn’t affected me in any tangible way yet.

I open the door for her. She steps out. Her heels make a little noise against the pavement like you hear in American movies when a high achieving woman is walks down the halls of White House. We step into the resort. Everyone seems to be looking at us. I can feel it. I’m sure Ayen can too. But I’m not surprised. My presence with a girl in such a public place demand attention. The VIP table I reserved is waiting, draped in crisp white linen and adorned with fresh roses. A waiter appears instantly and guides us to our seats and pours glasses of wine.

Ayen raises her glass. “Cheers to… surprises?”

“Cheers,” I say. There is a sound of two glasses clinking gently.

The evening is off to a great start. This date is about deciding if Ayen is worth the effort or if it’s time to move on.

“So,” she begins, swirling her long nails around the glass of wine, “tell me about your writing.”

“This should have been the first question on our first date.”

“I’m asking it now, duh!” she smiles.

“Well, it’s better answered when you read the books.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t read them.”

“Have you?”

“To the last sentence. All five. Who hasn’t in this country anyway?”

“Which one did you like most?”

“None. You’re a terrible writer.”

We laugh.

“I know you don’t mean that.”

“I liked Sawa the most.”

“Didn’t know you were into romantic thrillers.”

“The combination is perfect. Rich Yvonne charms Mading into falling head over heels with her, showers him with gifts, first-class plane tickets, and makes sure he’s never bored in the bedroom. Once she’s got him wrapped around her manicured finger, the game begins. You know the drill. You wrote it.”

 “Nope. Enlighten me. It’s way more entertaining when you tell it.”

“Fine. Yvonne sacrifices Mading to her secret feminine cult. Then, boom, she’s arrested after a series of equally mysterious and terrifyingly creative deaths. Blah, blah, blah.” She laughs

“I’m curious,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“How do you run two big companies while keeping a nine-to-five?”

“I don’t know. You just need passion, I guess. And ambition, of course. I’m very ambitious and competitive.”

“I get that. But why do you still work a nine-to-five when you’ve got so much going on?”

“You know what? I don’t even know myself,” she says with a laugh. “Hmm!”

“I heard that media personnel are exploited by government officials, especially those working in the office of the president,” I say. “I don’t want to be nosy, but I wouldn’t be enthusiastic about working with South Sudanese media companies.”

 “It’s a tough space, no doubt. Most media houses here are underfunded and over-monitored. The ones brave enough to expose the truth… well, they don’t always have a happy ending,” she says. She looks even prettier when she’s serious.

“That’s tragic. It makes you wonder if there’s even hope for honest journalism in this country.”

“Would you ever write for a local paper?” she asks.

“Not sure they’d let me, honestly. My tone can be… a little controversial.” I chuckled.

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? People like you are what the industry needs. Those who’ll go against the system, not just go along with it.”

 “Flattering….” We both chuckled. There’s silence.

“If you weren’t running companies, what would you be doing?”

“That’s easy. I’d be a travel blogger.”

“A travel blogger?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Yes,” she says confidently. “I’d spend my days touring hidden places, trying new foods, and writing about it all. No boardrooms, no deadlines, just the world and me.”

“I can’t picture you without deadlines. You seem like someone who thrives on structure.”

“Maybe. But I feel like letting go, you know? Take a backpack, leave my phone behind, and see where life takes me.”

“Sounds tempting,” I say. “If you could start tomorrow, where would you go?”

“Maasai Mara. Those grassy plains and rolling hills? Perfect.”

“Good choice,” I say. “I’d pick Cairo.”

“Cairo? Why Cairo?”

“Because it’s part ancient, part modern, rich in spirituality and technology. Who doesn’t want to see the Pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx?” I said with a smile.

She’s hooked. We talked for a long time about one thing or the other. I enjoyed every single moment of it. Normally, I don’t enjoy the company of women. The ones I date? Meh. The ones I interact with? Also meh. I’ve always thought they were shallow, inexperienced, and a bit irrational.

The date ends, and we step outside. The air is cool. I open the car door for her. She pauses.

“Is this where the night ends?” she asks.

“That depends….On what you want.”

She says nothing, smiles and slips into the car.

At my place, I pour her a glass of the wine, and we settle on the couch. The conversation turns light again. Before long, the space between us disappear. One moment, we are laughing about something trivial; the next, her lips are on mine.

Ayen stays until the early hours of the morning. We’d both fallen asleep in each other’s arms. It was a busy night. Only God knows how we ended up in bed,

For the next few weeks, we continue to see each other. She grows more invested. She begins to talk about “a future together” or about “building something meaningful” and so on and son on. I tolerate her for a while but eventually, as always, I grow bored until one day, I stopped replying to her messages, I ignored her calls, and then ghosted her completely.

Mutual friends tell me she’s taken time off work. I know exactly why. She’s heartbroken.

Laat had returned to Malaysia. I kept him updated. He celebrated my first night with Ayen and now won’t stop yelling at me for letting her go. He says she would’ve made a great wife or, at the very least, added a spark to my career and public life. I tell him I don’t care. Whatever. I’ll find a wife one day, if I even want one. Life moves on. I’m living the dream.

One morning, I wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing on the bedside table. Five missed calls from Laat. Odd. Laat never calls this early.

I stretch, grab the phone, and dial back.

“Finally!” Laat’s voice barks through the speaker. “What the hell, man?”

“What’s up?” I asked, still groggy.

“You’re all over the place,” he says. “Have you seen Juba Times today?”

“No. Why?” I sit up, my heart starts to race.

“Just check it,” he snaps.

I open Juba Times website fumbling.

A HEARTBREAKING TRUTH REVEALED ABOUT A BESTSELLING NOVELIST.

I scroll down. Ayen hasn’t mentioned me by name, but the details were unmistakable—my books, my awards, even the Nile Resort date. She’d painted a damning portrait of a man who charmed and discarded women without a second thought. The article is everywhere. Social media explodes. Influencers, podcasters, and radio hosts are dissecting every line. I have  become the talk of the city.

Hours pass. The sun dips below the horizon, and the shadows in my living room grow long. I pace and sit down and pace again, thinking long and hard about what this means to me and my career. Damn it! I have to do something. By midnight, I’ve drafted an apology. It’s short, carefully worded, and insincere. I post it on my social media accounts. Within minutes, the comments pour in, half support, half scorn. It doesn’t matter. Damage control is all I can think about. The apology doesn’t seem to help. I have not slept the whole night. My thoughts swing between my reputation, my books, the girls I’ve hurt, and Ayen. I hate that I love her already. I have never felt this way before. If this is love, I hate it. It makes me feel weak and out of control.

I wake up and pick up a pen to write a letter. A real apology specifically for Ayen. She deserves that much. The letter is long and raw. I admit my faults, my insecurities, my failures. I don’t expect forgiveness. I hope for understanding. I send it off, unsure if she’ll ever read it.

I’ve taken a break from writing, from public life, from everything. A week pass with no response. Loud silence, then one evening, my phone buzzes. It’s a message from Ayen. Two words: “Thank you.” Later that day, I receive a call from Laat, telling me to check Juba Times. My hands tremble as I search the site. Ayen has written a long article about me. She tells a story about me that I wouldn’t even know about myself. She acknowledges my narcissism but reveals that beneath it, she sees a real human, someone who cares. She highlights our conversation at Nile Resort and explains how it showed her the best parts of me. I feel as though a death sentence has been lifted. Relief floods through me. The thought of calling her strikes me immediately but I’m afraid. I pace my living room, tapping my phone against my palm. My thoughts are a mess. Should I call her? What if she doesn’t pick up?

I muster the courage and call her. To my surprise, she picks up immediately. I’m caught off guard and don’t know what to say.

“I know. I know,” she says. “Let’s meet up. We’ll talk over a cup of coffee.”

I’m excited. Man! I have never been this excited about a woman. We meet and talk. She tells me she’s willing to give me a second chance. I promise her I won’t blow it. I tell Laat, and he warns me not to mess things up again.

We’re back together. I’m in love. Truly in love.