For most people, Friday is the best day of the week. It’s the day when work emails are ignored with religious conviction, when salaries mysteriously vanish into “weekend plans,” and when everyone suddenly becomes a motivational speaker on WhatsApp statuses: “No bad vibes, it’s Fri-yay!”
But for Tsinza Mwenye, Friday is a national tragedy disguised as a weekday.
He used to worship Fridays. He was even born on one — 2:13 PM to be exact, according to his mother, who claims he came out smiling, as if he already knew the weekend was coming. Friday was his identity.
He signed his poems “Born on Friday, Blessed Forever.” He even had a T-shirt that read “Friday’s Child – Full of Love.”
Then came Frida.
Frida with the dimples that looked like commas — the kind that make you pause mid-sentence and forget what you were saying. Frida with the voice that could make you believe Safaricom network bars were emotional support. Frida who told Tsinza, “You’re different.”
And indeed, he was. Different in the sense that she left him just before his birthday. On a Friday.
The day Friday lost Its meaning
It was supposed to be a romantic evening. He’d planned everything: a table for two at the Yellow Horizon Café, a bouquet of roses from Mama Kenga’s stall (discounted because some petals were falling off), and a speech he’d practiced in the mirror for three days.
He even wrote a poem —
“Frida, you are my Friday, the end of my week, the start of my peace.”
But Frida didn’t show up.
Instead, she sent a text:
“Hey, Tsinza. Don’t hate me, but I think we need space.”
Space, as if he were the moon and she was NASA.
He spent that night at Yellow Horizon, eating cold fries and rereading the message. By midnight, he had memorized it. By Saturday morning, he had composed a 13-stanza heartbreak poem that rhymed “Frida” with “Fever.” By Sunday, he had sworn off all girls whose names started with “Fri.”
Fridays after Frida
From that day on, every Friday felt like a conspiracy. The radio played “Friday Feeling” by Sangi Soki just to mock him. Colleagues at the office would say, “Happy Friday!” and he’d reply, “What’s so happy about it?” The HR manager once called him in for “emotional negativity.”
He even tried renaming the day. “Let’s call it Pre-Saturday,” he suggested during lunch. Nobody supported him.
He started noticing the small things. How “Frida” and “Friday” differed only by a y. One letter. One tiny, treacherous y. That’s how close he was to happiness, one letter away. The English language, he decided, was an accomplice to heartbreak.
When he saw memes saying “Thank God it’s Friday,” he corrected them in his head:
“Thank God it’s emotional trauma.”
Attempts at healing
Tsinza tried therapy. The counselor said, “You need closure.”
So he texted Frida.
“Hey, just wanted to say I forgive you.”
She replied, “Who’s this?”
That’s when he decided forgiveness was overrated.
He tried joining a support group — Heartbreak Anonymous. They met every Friday. He left before introductions were over.
He tried dating again, but the universe was cruel. One girl introduced herself as Frieda (with an e). Another’s birthday was on — yes — a Friday. The last one worked at a restaurant called “Fridays.” He deleted her number immediately.
Despite his hatred for Fridays, they kept finding him. His landlord always chose Fridays to demand rent. His boss scheduled meetings on Fridays. Even his dog gave birth to seven puppies — on a Friday.
Once, his neighbor asked, “Tsinza, if you hate Fridays so much, why were you born on one?”
He sighed deeply and said, “Because God has a sense of humor.”
A Letter to the Calendar
Now, every Thursday night, Tsinza writes a note to the calendar.
“Dear Calendar, kindly skip Friday. Jump straight to Saturday. We’ve had enough emotional damage.”
But the next morning, there it is again — Friday — staring at him with that familiar smirk, whispering,
“Remember Frida?”
He smiles bitterly and mutters,
“Yes, and that’s exactly why I hate you.”
Then he pours himself a cup of tea, scrolls through Twitter, and sees a trending hashtag: #FridayMood
And he sighs,
“The world will never understand the difference between Frida and Friday — the difference is why.”