All The Things
At a family event a few weeks ago, I stopped paying attention when an aunt said something that immediately stuck with me. Mwanamke hachoki. A woman never tires. This event was to welcome the relatives of my uncle’s girl to the family. It was an event for the women, as said by the current patriarch and first born son of the family. The aunt is the wife of said first born son. This women’s event was staged under a tent, in my uncle’s compound. The men were seated a way off, on the veranda. The only masculine energy that graced the tent was of a probably six year-old kid who came with the relatives, and only because he could not leave his mother’s hem in the way of kids that age.
Hearing “a woman never tires”, when your feet are literally killing you and your brain is foggy from trying to keep everything sane and flowing in the effect of the event is a little stunning. Was I truly tired, I remember asking myself and straightening my back [some say I slouch when my mind wanders]. Two seconds later my posture shifted and resigned that I was, I remained powerless. That I could get tired. It didn’t matter how many things I had done, rounds I went through, backs I straightened. I could get tired, and I am woman.
It is the same with the conversations constantly happening on the Twitter app X. Threads emerge almost on a weekly basis, like of girl math, a harmless way of women expressing little quirks of overspending and overindulging with a limit. Girl math made sense to the girls, till a man pointed out how girls are lacking for not remembering the teacher covered in chalk dust and insisting one plus one was two. It is that Hosseini quote about a finger, to whom it belongs and where it points. It is the rape apologists typing essays about ‘logic’ and sides being taken. Horrible takes where people just say anything and get away with it.
I do get tired. Of hearing the same thing over and over again. The same sentiments that are so repeated that you can say them word for word and they leave their lips. I get tired of saying what I want, even though I know I shouldn’t.
Donald Glover said in an interview that he thinks the meaning of life is to love, and to care for the things that you love.
I don’t think there is an explanation that comes closer to this in the way I have chosen to be this past year. I have taken care of all that I love, that allows me to love, and that definitely loves me back. I have grown in more ways than one and gotten over things that I never thought I could. It puts me in a unique position, that of choosing to be loved in return.
He also said, Glover, that you cannot say ‘the world is shit’ because you are a part of it. Just like you can’t say ‘traffic is horrible’ since you, too, are traffic.
It is a lesson in appreciating all the things. The slim and slim-thick girls posting their photos on X, the nuances, your crush posting on those threads and replies saying they sometimes hate their girlfriend, your loved ones leaving, you getting tired.
You can always pivot. If the world is shit, make sure there is some of your shit existing in the world that you like. Make the tolerable shit.
The discourse over socials is of how men or women can get over the other better, more easily due to the overflowing abundance of the opposite sex. And this may hold truth [I can’t relate because it takes me ages to get over anything], however, I think you will know when you find your person. Not to say there is one person for each, but when you come across the one that jigsaws your soul, you will know. Be it friend or lover, a present spark is unmistakable. And you will fumble [and get fumbled]. Then you will try and replicate it, but a star never burns as bright the second time.
I’m not saying you will be unhappy, but the gnawing feeling of having fumbled a forever sounds crazy to me. A forever after holds you hostage and sucks the breath out of your lungs. Inasmuch as you will be with the next caller and shuffle at will, your person sticks by.
In ‘An Orchestra of Minorities’ Chigozie Obioma writes of a man who falls in love a couple of times, his first love being a bird.
It is a beautiful book, with stunning prose of a man who you actually kinda like because he is funny and is only placed where he is for circumstances. A victim of circumstance.
But he could have saved himself. He has access to a phone. He could have called Ndali, told her what happened. Yet he didn’t. That is the thing that kills her. Not him being angry at her for moving on. Not even the fire at the end. It is because he did not sum up the courage to talk to her. Ndali knew he had a phone. He had access to her but he decided not to. She moved on, and just when she is getting better, here he comes, zero communication skills, blocking her on the street, creepy stalker-y vibes. It’s jail time, for him. But he gets away, which isn’t that surprising.
I went on this tangent to say, we all make our choices. To tire is not one, but to take a much required seat when you are tired, that is entirely up to you.