Paragraphs have plagued me recently. It starts as usual, a swarm of words invading my brain and begging to be let out. Next follows the connection to my fingers, where they ache, plead, to be released on a keyboard. But when I oblige, there only comes a few sentences, five or seven and everything goes blank. It is finished. Pan the camera away from a beach at the end of a captivating motion picture. The end. Fin. Finito. Until another paragraph comes along to plague me.
I thought of collecting all these snippets into one complete post, but they don’t even fit together. They are pieces of a puzzle, yes, if the puzzles were a hundred and these were the lost pieces of each article, totaling somewhere between twenty and a gazillion. I had to create a folder for them, and in naming the folder, I considered “Insanity” since that is what a normal person would think on reading them in a chronological order, so I let it remain “New Folder” because I have made a mental note to not question my mental state, especially in the month of May.
Any time I tell someone I have started running, I want them to tell me to stop. That it is bad for my health. Nothing grave, something like my fingertips will freeze off from the morning cold and I will have nothing to tap on the keyboard with. At least the paragraphs may stop.
Running is not easy, especially for a homebody who has taken the time to invest in their bedroom. I mean, of course I have been working out, but in the comfort of this room that I am constantly in the process of putting together. Running requires a different kind of strength. The kind that Ragnar Lothbrok or, [for you laymen] Ned Stark would be able to comprehend. It is not for the weak hearted.
The first obstacle doesn’t even start on the day, but on the previous night. You need to set the alarm because you know how much your body loves warmth. How, in the morning cold, it lifts the blanket on the sides to burrito itself with or without your consent. How your hand knows to cover the head but leave enough space around your nose [because only psychopaths and Trump sleep completely covered] and how your mouth curves in delight when you realize it is only 6am and these are COVID times.
These are times when we wake way past when the sun has risen and shamelessly have breakfast at 11am. Times when we lounge in our PJs way into the afternoon, have a snack for lunch and wait for dinner [supper, Dearest Laymen] to plunge our minds in the internet to the wee hours of the night. Running takes away from these COVID times.
Running makes sure you have a bedtime. That you sleep for at least 6 hours which means you need to be in bed by midnight like a toddler in these times. It makes sure you set an alarm for when the small hand has travelled half the way and you need to get up, not to adjust the blanket around your nose but to make your bed [because if you do not, you will go to the bathroom and when you come back, you will hear whispers. They will ask you, nay, beg, plead with you to get back in. The whispers will say “Baby girl, you work so hard…often tired…often busy. You need this. No, you DESERVE this. And then, as in Moana, your blanket will lift (with the power of comfort and warmth) and tap twice like a pot bellied man asking a woman to sit by him. When you hear these whispers, when your body recognizes your unmade bed, you will realize you are only human, and have the rest of this lockdown to put your foot in front of the other, and you will succumb]. Speaking from experience, you WILL make that bed if you are to run on that day.
The next hurdle is getting the body to get the F up. I am not a morning person. I know this, people around me know this and now you, too, are in the loop. Mornings make me sick! If I entered a pyramid and found Aladdin’s lamp, after a crown for my mother’s head and before a backyard for my dogs, I would wish for mornings to be abolished. Incinerated. Done completely with. But since we need to run, I will throw some water on my face, a sports bra on my chest which will also secure my phone [for tracking purposes, I cannot act like my Kisii counterparts without proof that I am not actually mad] and a pair of socks in my shoes because after mornings, the thing that irks me is sweaty feet.
We moved to this place approximately six months ago. It was one of those things that was planned, and maybe the Big guy was in on it because I am not sure if I would survive in towns during these COVID times. We have one immediate neighbor. Well, I lie. He has not moved in yet. No, that is another stretched lie. He has dug his foundation, the site house was complete 2 days ago and for the last 3 days, no fundis have been on site…so, we may be back to having zero close neighbors. It’s bittersweet for someone of my nature. On one hand, the closest people are yonder [which means no unnecessary visits except for one or two passersby and, I hear, hyenas [more on this some other time], on the other hand, I quickly realized I need to see people to be able to write about people [this was in one of the paragraphs].
It makes running easy, however. Even though I pride myself in doing what I want to and not thinking of what people say, I find myself wondering what those in my proximity would think of me. I mean, they can keep their judgement and all that, but, usually, when I pass someone alone or with a friend, I tend to make up conversation in my head. Conversations that I think they may be having, and more often than not, I would put myself in it. An example is this:
Dude 1: When is the Premier League coming back?
Dude 2: Seventeenth Dude
Dude 1: Seventeenth of what, Dude?
Me: (Runs past the two dudes)
Dude 2: Of this freaking mon…hey, if you were to ever work out, would you run, like that chic?
Dude 1: Nah dude, I’m healthy, *flexes nonexistent muscles* Seventeenth of what man
Dude 2: THIS month Dude!
Dude 1: Whoa, Dude…
Dude 2: I know Dude
There is an urban legend, in the name of Runner’s High that I have not yet encountered. It may be true, since all the Keinos and Cherutos in world marathons claim to have touched the hems of it. I haven’t. And I tend to believe that which I see so we shall see. Otherwise, this Runner’s High stands close to Big Foot in my book.
The last hurdle has to be the Johnny Storm effect. You do not realize when it is a spark, which basically validates the saying that there is a spark inside each one of us. It is only felt when it is in full Human Torch glory, with the fire erupting like a volcano in Hawaii that was hurled at insults all its life.
/Oh, that volcano is dormant/
/The last time it had any action was before the time of Eve/
[Question: Did dinosaurs exist before or after Eve was framed? Who walked first, the rex or the hex?] Anyway, back to volcano rebuff
/That volcano has never seen the light of day [gerrit?]/
/If I was to heat anything up, that volcano would be the last place to look for a spark/
Then you feel the burn. You will assume it at first because hey, you are running and a little burn never hurt nobody. One foot after the other, you will say. Onward! The churning will grow to a smoulder that will crease your brows but you will go on. Mark time soldier! By the time it grows to a full bonfire that has you doubled up and panting with your tongue out like the stray dogs you passed a few kilometers back, you will hope you have reached your target for the morning, and you will look up and the finish line will be nowhere in sight.
I contemplated writing this after a run, but all I want afterward is a cold glass and shower and some food, the latter which I suspect defeats the whole purpose. I will see if I can gain any inspiration from tomorrow’s run. It is my bedtime.
I didn’t go today. It happens even to the best of us.
Starting this Alcoholics Anonymous thing, I didn’t even have money to buy a domain. I just closed my eyes and said that whatever happens would happen, and I can attest that LOTS (not the wife) have happened. I am supposed to write a goodbye 2019 piece today. All the writers are doing it, and I should emulate them. But I have sat on my laptop about 6 times already and I don’t know what to say, or rather what not to say, about the year. So I settled on randoes. I often write just for the sake of it, and I chose, for your benefit, the most random things I could fit into one post. Hope you like it.
- Reasons Why Cadbury Eclairs Are My Favorite Candy(17-02-2019)
On most days, I like to consider myself a healthy eater. I eat my vegetables and avoid constant intake of meat. I even try to have the recommended eight glasses of water. But despite my greatest efforts, I have a weakness that I must say, I am not quite ashamed of. To err is human right? Well on some of these days, in between my fourth and fifth glass of water, my sweet tooth lures me into sinning with one thing; Cadbury eclairs. Most days I can help it, but some days, the desire becomes unbearable.
I am not one of those girls that would die for a bar of chocolate, but these Cadbury temptations come in a devilishly delicious chocolatey taste that leaves me craving the mere unwrapping of them. The wrapping is easy to undo, as you just have to twist the ends to get to the creamy goodness. They are a combination of milk, chocolate and toffee that gives off a devastatingly pleasant smell that has my taste buds watering every time.
Cadbury eclairs come in a creamy smooth center of milk chocolate wrapped with a lusciously chewy, unique caramel toffee (Cadbury 2019). Having the chocolate on the inside makes me feel like I am on a treasure hunt as I try to chew through the outer part made of toffee to get the chocolatey treasure. It melts easy, and the toffee is not as hard as in other candies. Some people have a problem with the toffee being chewy but I don’t. I feel the chewing is part of the Cadbury éclair experience and I love all of it.
It does not help that they are easily found in all outlets that sell sweets. It is for this reason that I always need some extra cash on me at all times since it feels like a crime to get to the shop, look at Cadbury eclairs right in their purple wrapper and not buy them. I always find myself getting a few during any time I am sent to the shop. This single piece buying however tends to leave me craving for them even more, meaning I have to buy them in packets of fifty or a hundred. Be warned, however, these eclairs are incredibly scrummy, so once the packet is open they won’t last for long.
I never go anywhere without a few pieces of Cadbury eclairs in my purse because you never know who needs some chocolatey goodness. They make me happy just by being there, but they also make people happy when you reach in your bag and bring out a piece of éclair for them. I like candy that brings happiness in the world. I had to eat two while writing about it because just thinking of them makes me want them. I have never met anyone who does not like them. So, what are you waiting for? Go get yourself a packet of Cadbury eclairs right now!
- The written myth (17-12-2019)
There is a myth, that writing is therapeutic. That morphing thought into letters that make paragraphs is good for the soul. This same myth is used for people who journal. People who have found it calm to put down their feelings of the day, the week, the month, on a notebook with a pretty cover. I don’t believe it. I love writing. I love that I did this MIRAWU thing this year. But I have also realized some kind of deviation to this writing. The truth is: What is therapeutic is the telling part. Having to give your account of things. How someone made you feel, or a situation, or a dog. That, is therapeutic, no doubt. But the part where I have to turn it into something readable when my own brain refuses to comprehend itself? Well…
- Green (5-08-2019)
Everything is green.
Who even likes the color green. Is there someone who goes outside right now and is like “Damn, that’s my favorite color in all its glorious shades out here”.
Really. Who likes the color green? Who when they were 6 years old writing only in pencil at school had a scenario like this…
“Nancy, what is your favorite color?” And Nancy said Pink
“What about you Peter?” Peter said Blue, and when someone else said Black you thought “Hmm, John must be a very dirty boy, he likes black because it doesn’t show dirt. Then you were asked and you said green.
And what do you do in January when all is dry and those who enjoy brown are the happiest? Do your hearts break when a leaf falls because the world becomes a shade less? Are you saddest when the climate is dry?
It is so green right now that even house plants tormented by household secrets are vibrant.
I don’t understand people who keep house plants. Why would a human put a plant in a tin just to place it under the roof when we were inexplicably explained to how plants require the sun and water to flourish? It’s like having foreigners take you from home, fly you to space and tell you to survive without oxygen just because they have more power than you. Having house plants seems like a huge disappointment to mother nature.
- The Heart (24-06-2018)
I fell in love this past week.
With a stranger.
I don’t even know his name.
We also lost Avicii, I wrote a new story at work and I got a new sweatshirt.
I met him at the stage where I get matatus for home. Well, I didn’t really meet him like officially, he just sat next to me while I was going through my poetry book. I tried to look uninterested and mysterious so that I could at least have an edge in his thoughts even though he found me eating a fabulous smo-cha because we don’t even get tea at work.
Maybe I should start with a little background.
I have been on attachment for the last one month. What we basically do is report to the supervisor in the morning then go out to source for news and interesting stories then come back to the office and write about what you found then send the article to your supervisor. It doesn’t matter what time you get done, but after you send it via email, you have to see your supervisor to make any corrections and give background information to the article then she or he posts it and you are free to go.
There are these mamas who work around the office as information officers. I have seen guys there too but it is these mamas that make tea in the cubicle next to the one that we attachés sit at. It is also not regular tea. They make that kind of tea that smells like it comprises of one-part water, two-parts milk. Then we sit there while the air is filled with the tantalizing aroma of amazing tasting tea, I imagine, and listen as they slurp it from white-ish stained coffee cups as our stomachs grumble for chips mwitu.
I don’t like those women.
Back to my superficial love story.
So this particular Tuesday, I was done for the day, and they had just finished their tea, but I only remained with enough coins for fare home and probably a smokie or boiled egg if I wanted to save the 5 shillings for later. I walked to the stage listening to Thomas Rhett and he was still dying a happy man in my ears, as I looked lovingly at the egg (I decided to keep the 5 shillings) when I spotted him. He was everything I have been telling myself I am not going to get involved with.
Fuckboy haircut. Check
Rugged-slimmed jeans. Check (they were black though, and only torn at the knees just a little bit)
Walks in a group of similarly dressed guys. Check (They brought him to the stage)
Ray bans. Check. And really weird looking ones for that matter.
I go into the mat after I finished my egg and I was satisfied I could survive the agonizing walk from where I would alight to my parents’ house because these guys couldn’t build their house next to the highway because of supposed “noise”. Humbugs!
This was when he sat next to me and paradise floated to earth for a while, and being me, I freaked out and put my earphones back on, perused through my book a little bit more then felt more self-conscious since I don’t like showing it to people and he was secretly looking at it. I think.
He asked me what my name was. He actually asked if my name was “Marion” and in my head I went “Who in Hell’s fire is Marion?!” But I quietly asked him to repeat himself even though I had heard him clearly. He cleared his throat and in the most amazing man-child’s voice, he repeated. I told him I was not Marion. Then I contemplated taking his phone and putting in my number because nowadays I hear girls can also make moves, you know… “Shoot my shot”..but then I started imagining what we could have in common.
I saw us together doing relationship shit and I resisted.
He asked me where I live, and I told him, then he said I couldn’t be his Marion.
Who in Hell’s fire is Marion!??
I was in love that night, and kept asking myself if I could find him the next day and if he could get my number and text me them eventually call me and he’d ask me to be his girl and I would say no because I have vowed to not date a guy like him, then he would fight for me and it would be cute and I would get back to my puppy Zumbik and forget all about this new found love.
Long story short, on Wednesday, I was at that stage at exactly 4:07, the exact time as Tuesday, or a few minutes earlier, but who was counting? And I didn’t see him.
But I did see him today as I shopped with mom in town for weekend goodies. Guess I am not in love anymore. “The heart is a treacherous thing”- Liam Neeson as narrator of The Huntsman, Winter’s War
Thank you for sharing your stories with me, and for being here to read what I made of the stories told to me. Thank you for making MIRAWU possible. We resume on 9th January with possibly another series. For now, it’s a wrap with Alcoholics Anonymous.
Some of the stories I write here are stories I was told months ago, and they just re-surface in my head when they think appropriate. Sometimes I start writing a story and leave it in the middle because the subject texted me at 12:07 am and asked me to not post it, and I get pissed off because I had seen how it would end. I had the whole thing planned out in my head for so long that I knew when and how each paragraph would begin and what exact words I would use to bring the story to life. Have it breathe the words of a life told in tears and laughter. Other times I have the story but lack the words. I hate these days. These are the days I lie on the floor and try to think of a word for each letter of the alphabet. A for abandon. B for brawl. T for tactless…because that’s how it feels in this difficult task of coming up with words that will explain this story in a way that you will be able to understand how broad the smiles are and how much the creasing of foreheads depict their sadness.
And so, because I cannot seem to write it properly, I will tell you about a man I sat next to on Saturday.
The bus was full by the time I got in. It made me feel like a VIP, the way I entered and we were off as if I was the one they were waiting for. I felt so special. I must have been smiling because he saw me and smiled himself and I knew it was safe to sit by him. Not because he smiled, [you never know how conniving people are out here. One minute they smile at you in public and the next you have a blade at your hip], but because it was the only available seat.
You know how you arrive late at an event and your best friend has a seat, so without thinking they scoot over and you both sit an arse cheek a-hanging? That’s how I sat… only the guy was not my friend and he had taken half my seat rather that scooching over on a bench. He had a little girl on his lap, I presumed she was (..or is?) his daughter judging by how trusting she slept. He was a big man. Not fat, yet not built. He played at being fat with muscles. I tried googling an exact word for his physique and now Google wants me to join a gym. I don’t think there is a word for what he is…but you can help me by commenting below if you know.
I can’t speak for the rest of him, but his face had no hair. Zilch. Nada. I remember thinking to myself that he either waxes his face weekly or has a personal barber that comes to his house every morning to shave him while his little girl has the pancakes that he made for breakfast. He looked like he cooks. Not that he smelled of onions or cayenne pepper, but with the way he held his little girl. The delicateness of his hands when he smoothed her shirt on her shoulders and carefully placed them on her knees. The softness of his chin that lacked the scruff of manly strands. Even his top lip was smooth. Most guys forget the moustache area. Maybe his daughter once complained “Daddy, when you kiss me goodnight, the hair on your face scratches my soft skin and I bleed” so the man had to make a decision. Face hair or giving his little girl her goodnight kisses. Others may say he chose poorly, but for him, it was the best decision he ever made. He had a hat on so I can’t speak much of the hair on his head.
Michael Blackson is a 46-year-old Ghanaian comedian and American actor. His real name is Jafari Ferguson and he is well known for portraying “Angry African Man” in the film Next Friday [thankyou Wikipedia]. He is best known for his work on Wild n Out…[because that is where I first knew him from]. Anyway, last week. Michael Blackson was on a flight from I don’t know where to I have no clue where, and he was seated next to this “Ben Affleck looking neega” who fell asleep and Blackson “sabotaged his life” doing all manner of things like wearing the dude’s glasses and taking photos of his armpit on the guy’s phone [Irrelevant info btw]. Back to the guy I am next to…who had now fallen asleep. When daughters sleep on their father’s laps, and the fathers fall asleep as well, do they meet in a special Daddy-daughter wonderland where fathers can keep facial hair and still kiss their little girls without scratching their foreheads and delicate cheeks? [PS. I didn’t take photos of my armpit with his phone]
Having this Alcoholics Anonymous thing has had me doing some weird shit btw. Now I cannot hold a conversation with someone without asking if they drink, what kind of drink floats their boat [He-he] and what impact that drink has had on their lives. But whatever conversation I had held with this sleeping man had only happened in my head, so I had to ask myself this as well.
“Do you drink?”
I lean in closer to smell him. The people seated behind me must have thought me mad…but I guess I’d do anything for you guys. He smells like candy which is a good thing, but makes me suspicious. Maybe he drinks or smokes and uses candy to mask the smell. Maybe he buys the candy in the guise of they are his daughter’s when half of that candy is for his stench.
“What kind of drink?”
Can’t be any type of cheap liquor. He has a daughter to think of. He cannot be found in a trench without his senses. No. He walks into a bar, takes a seat by the counter and tells the bartender exactly what he wants. Whiskey, neat. [I watch movies too]. He broods over it, buying time so he can get home when homework is finished and people are ready for bed, so he can deliver his fatherly duty on delicate foreheads and cheeks.
Hmm, tough one. He has a happy life. The wife must be happy. The kids are dressed, her hair is done. He seems content. Normal. I don’t like normal people. They have no story to tell. They are blunt.
The daughter stirs. The father wakes. He stares into her face as if he could see the reason to her moving in her sleep written on her tiny nose. He smiles. It’s small. I may have missed it if I was not looking at him from the corner of my eye. That smile holds so much story. Memories that I cannot begin to unravel unless he speaks of them. That smile holds the first time she said ‘Dada’ and her first tooth. It is her scraped knee and the time she cried because she could not have her way. But it is also much, much more. It is the present, the past, and future. Forehead kisses and all.
Someone alighted at Commercial and I had to move to the empty seat because the arse cheek that was hanging had started getting numb. I didn’t want uneven cheek muscles while walking around CBD. I could have as easily become a meme. The girl I sit next to was not as interesting…but she had on red trousers and an orange top. That was peculiar.
[Alcoholics Anonymous continues next Thursday. Also, methinks we need another Easter holiday just to recover from last weekend]
Hello… we are all new here. This is an introductory post to Mirawu. I don’t know what to say. It’s been a journey, literally and figuratively, to come to this moment, right here, right now, and my heart couldn’t be any fuller. I have envisioned this specific post a million times. I have written it in my head a thousand times. And now, I don’t even know what to write about.
I had thought I would just post a different story today and we would get back to our system as usual, but you don’t move into a new house without a housewarming, right? At least that’s how the proper people do it. And I want to do this properly. To take you with the pace you are most comfortable in. But I did get a story, promise. I even started writing it, but I can’t seem to get past the first two paragraphs, which I keep adding to and deleting every 20 minutes. So I thought…hey, why not just ramble?
I have played with the idea of this blog for about one year, eight months and 11 days, but who’s counting, right? And I did it. I think. Or I am well on my way to actually doing it. I feel like a mother…well, not really, because I don’t know what a mother feels. Maybe I feel more like a kid with a new toy. Yeah, that’s it. The kind of toy? I don’t know. Maybe one of those writing pads that we had as kids. You know the ones? They had a thingy at the bottom to rub what you had so ineloquently written down and a pen attached with a string like the special pens at the bank. [I never really owned that thing, but my next door neighbor did and I practically made it mine. And I don’t even remember her name]
So I’m listening to country music like an old person. And I’m randomly typing hoping you feel as much for this mirawu thing as I do. Everything remains the same. We only changed the house, not the family. This is Mirabelaw and Not Yet Adults and Mirawu. All for one and one for all. The people are the same. You have not changed and I am still me. I just felt we needed a change of scenery and some new drapes… and here we are.
Also, I know I promised consistency this year, and I know what happened in March…but this is what I was working on in March. Pretty cool right? I have an excuse, don’t crucify me. I plan to keep that promise. And I have enough Alcoholics Anonymous stories to keep us afloat while I wait on some of you to deliver on some of your story promises.
Okay, that’s enough, right? I haven’t rambled much, I hope. Welcome to Mirawu, let’s kick ass.
[Hey, look at that, I actually had something to say after all] Tell me what you think about this. I’m trying to test the comments and subscribe buttons…wink wink.
I need to know one thing
Before you lay to rest tonight
I need to know who you are
Who are you when I’m not looking?
Do you close your eyes on a messy bed
Are you turned on by the color red
Are you also a man on the wire
Or do your principles keep you from the shire
Have you felt a divine kind of emotion
Do you fall on a couch with caution
Who are you when I’m not as around?
Is your coffee white or as dark as my heart
Do you own a dog or prefer a cat
Do you look in the mirror or just stare at it blankly
I pray that you may answer me frankly
Who are you when I’m not looking?
I had something in my bed.
Disclaimer: There is no concealed meaning to this. Something means something and “in my bed” literally means just that. Heck, this may end up being a ramble and you may not like it as much…
Before we begin, no, it was not a boy (ha-ha, who would want this mess?). But I really did have this thing in my bed a few weeks ago. And yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I write about it on the morning it happened? Because I don’t tell you guys everything about me Nosey Shirley. And I wanted to heal from the trauma it caused me first, so I could see if there was any humor in it. Also, no, I don’t dream about these things, they do happen. In reality or conjured up in my head, they are as real as the thing in my bed (sounds like the beginning of a horror movie).
At first, I thought it was a mosquito because I woke up with a lump on my forehead. That should have been the first clue that it wasn’t a mosquito right? Mosquito bites aren’t as big as this lump was. But leave it to my brain to come up with solutions. I was not reasoning, I mean, come on, I had a lump on my forehead! All my power to reason was sucked away and the little that remained was constrained in the lump. Are lumps a collection of un-sucked blood? And if so, why don’t vampire bites cause lumping?Anyway, I googled the lump till I was sure I had a combination of kwashiorkor, HIV, a severe case of the measle (get it? because it’s just the one) and was patient zero to an epidemic they would have to make movies for, then I waited for my mom, aka my personal all-round disaster manager, to come home.
So she walks in and I let her get settled in before revealing that she should enjoy the last few days we had left until her house was quarantined and the CDC came to take me away for “tests”. At least that’s what they were going to say till I find myself in a lab at a desert in the middle of nowhere.
“Is this a mosquito?” I ask her, pointing to my still lumpy forehead. I am batshit scared at this point. I just want her to tell me that she hit me in my sleep and that that is what caused it and all I had to do was wait a few days for the lump leave for the Land of Lumps and leave us alone. She comes closer. Lifts my face to the light.
She presses the lump.
“Is there pain?”
I hadn’t thought about the pain part all day. There was no pain. At least not the searing kind. Just some tiny baby pain. On a scale, it would have ranked at around the magnitudes of 0.5 out of 10. Which, depending on how you see it, is either really good, or completely underperforming.
Mom is full on Doctor Mode now. Her fingers are on my chin, facing my face this way and that, forehead creased into her signature 3-line frown, proof that she is really worried. This is it. I think. I’m a goner. Tell my brother I love him and I did not mean to raise my voice at him when he took the remote. Tell Dad I…
“Doesn’t look serious.” She lets go of my chin. “What did you do today?” she asks.
Woman! Don’t you see me dying? Call people! Organize a harambee for my hospital bill. We are not going to manage!
The frown is gone. This is the part in the movie when doctors tell you everything is okay only so they can go to the break room and draw straws on who will deliver the bad news. That’s what was happening. I was sure of it. I had the epidemic of The Measle she wanted wait until I was calm to give me the news. I sit down.
Calm down. Dying is one day, better get over with it. at least you’ll be famous for it. You’ll be the Van Gogh of The Measle. Dying is one day. You will get it over it. You’ve seen worse.
But you haven’t seen enough! You haven’t gone to Paris and stood touching the Eiffel Tower like those people who touch KICC. You haven’t lived off the ledge. You are still afraid of bugs and..
“Maybe it’s a spider bite,” she says.
“Spider?” Where? Kill it! Slap it with a slipper. Spill its guts everywhere! Massacre! Death to all arachnids!
In my head, I have torches and machetes on this spider.
“Ruffle out your beddings tomorrow then we’ll see.”
I rush to the mirror for The Measle inspection. Nothing on the face. Phew, dodged a bullet there. Run the tap to wash my face. Freeze.
We stand there, me staring at him and him at me. Another Western stalemate. I can’t look away. My heart races and skips simultaneously. I feel faint. I blink first because I am weak. The disease is getting to me. There, right at the foot of my thumb, is another one. Forehead measle brought a friend, or his kids. Two smaller lumps, side by side. I want to call out to mom, but she already left for work. The new thumb guys look like a pair of eyes staring at me, so I cut three sheets of tissue paper and wrap my hand.
I find my phone and dial.
“Yes baby?” because she almost always answers like that. I fear the original lump knew this so it brought its babies. A show of him not being the only guy in town.
“There’s another one.”
“Another lump, Mom. There’s another one on my thumb. I sent a picture on WhatsApp. What should I do?” Will I die? In my laptop, my browser hist…
“Remove your beddings.”
She’s chasing me away? Without even saying it to my face. She wants me out. Wants me as far away from her people as I can be.
“Toa beddings and ruffle them.”
Oh. The Measle syndrome must come with short-term memory loss. Long story short, I take my blankets outside, nothing. Ruffle them like my life depends on it. Nothing. I hang them on the line and get back. I stare at the sheets. the look lonely there, rumpled with no blankets to keep them warm. If this thing is causing as much trouble as it is, why isn’t it as big as I assumed?
Maybe, it crawls up walls and waits for me to get in bed… or it is the boogieman taking small bites of me and hiding under my bed. There’s nothing under the bed.
Open the wardrobe and check. I do and nothing.
I’m spent, scared and almost traumatized. I sit on the bed, then stand suddenly. Wouldn’t want my ass bitten off.
I should change the sheets. Lonely sheets are cold and may be lumpy. I lift a side and pull. There, with its 8 legs and ashy exoskeleton, sits a Wolf Spider. Of course I knew this after giving Google a detailed description and taking a photo of said thing in my bed. I don’t know if this was a prank or just fate to make me realize that moms are always right, but I’m never doubting my mom ever again.
I have never been on a boat. Never floated on an ocean. I never even learnt how to swim. Until I was in high school, the only swimmable water I ever got in to, and I use “swimmable” loosely, is the River Awach in the hills of Seme. This might be the cause of the shortness of my breath and my sweaty palms when I first stared into the deep end of a swimming pool.
I don’t understand floating. Maybe because I can’t do it for more than 4 seconds before imagining clawed hands reaching up for me. Water was made for drinking and washing. For cleansing. With this reasoning, floating could be the result of one’s own cleansed sins keeping them afloat, hence the reason to why I can’t really float. Maybe my sins are not as grave and lack the strength to lift me in the water. Maybe I commit weaker sin. Sin that has no reason to float to the brim and have others see it because it is ashamed of the ways in which it is lacking. Maybe I cannot swim because I don’t have suitable sin.
Or, and I am just grasping at straws here, maybe the gravity of my sin is too dense to cleanse. My sins could have its own in-built anchor, and it could be that they are heavier and sink deep and stay down, without the resolve to come up for air. I tried having a swimming instructor teach me the secret to having my body suspended in the water. A teacher of the ways that floating men follow. I should have found a John the Baptist instead.
This teacher came in checked swimming trunks that were so worn I could swear he found them in a Salvation Army bucket. “Make yourself float!” he would shout. When I asked him why he was shouting, he said that he needed me to hear him better. As if I had taken out my hearing aid like some white 60-year old woman because African grandmas don’t even want to perceive the idea of hearing aids.
“Dani, I know you have been having problems with your ears…”
“I SAID I KNOW YOU HAVE A HEARING PROBLEM.”
“Oh no child,” because she doesn’t understand the grand part of relativity. “You have problems with your talking”
You both laugh.
“No, Dani.” Sigh. “Look…” you take out pictures of the hearing aid. “This is a device that will be able to help you.”
“Speak up child”
“THIS WILL HELP!”
“These misungu things cannot help me. I was the one who would hear your grandfather’s call from that hill,” she points, “when he came from war. He would call my name immediately he got up that hill so that I could slaughter a hen for his arrival. You young people are influenced by misungus. That snake around my ears will not help me.”
“When I was young, I would walk to Kisumo with my own two feet. Nonstop. I am strong my child. My ears are strong. The ears of a woman who has raised men that work in Narobi.”
“those are not things that relate to you not hearing.”
“What did you say?”
He would walk around the pool like an entitled spoilt child watching the servants clean his mansion. He walks in strides. Slow paces that give him a false sense of authority over those who can and cannot swim. He barked commands at any and all men, without looking at who he was talking to. He had me in a mesh of confusion, splashing and following commands that may or may not have been for me specifically.
“Use your arms!”
His were behind his back, hands clasped. Manicured hands that have known no other kind of work other than shouting at half-naked men and women who were there to relax in the piss of strangers. Hands that get calloused by carrying a bucket of water. His were clean nails, left to grow a little longer than was acceptable for a man. Nails that some girls would scratch each other’s eyes out to get.
He came around to my side of the pool. There seemed to be a glint in his eye. The last time he was in a true relationship might have been in high school. And that was only because he didn’t see her as much. He only copied great works onto perfumed paper and sealed the deal with his saliva. That was how she fell for him. Through Shakespeare and Maya Angelou. He called her his muse, without understanding what being his muse really meant. He won her with words. Empty like the ones only men like him can make up. He told her he gave her all of him and was gone immediately he gave her the part of him he was interested to give.
“Just float. It’s so easy, a grandmamma could do it!”
He should meet my Dani before making such comments.
He probably never calls his mom. She calls him weekly, like all mothers do. The last time he called her was when he heard from his brother that their father had died. He called and said sorry, heard her crying and hung up. He hates the sound of a woman crying. Calls them weak. Says they feel too much. But if they didn’t feel as much, where would the world dump all its problems? A baby cries in the distance. His grin flattens for a moment then curls right back. He probably cries when he is drunk. People are usually more honest with a little liquor in them.
Climate change is a farce and he believes Hitler was a victim of circumstance. He cannot remember the last time he went to church. He lives on the dark side of the moon. He drinks all week and shows up to work any time he wants because his uncle owns the chain of hotels. He doesn’t know his mother called the uncle one cold July night begging for a job for her son. That she had asked for anything. Something he could do so as not to waste away in the puddle of broken dreams and drunken nights.
The crying baby and its mother pass by him. He looks at the little bundle with disdain. He tells himself that he never wants kids. They will destroy his life. Ruin his fun. He tells this to all his friends and they agree with him. They always do until they find the right woman and start a family and forget all about the drunk swimming instructor who never cries.
“Collo is just a disgrace to the superior gender, that he is.” hiccup “Says he fell in love. What kind of bullshit is that? Love. He is bewitched, that’s what he is. That Kamba girl did something. I just can’t say what.”
He talks like this. Saying something then justifying to his audience that he did not say it. He hides behind innuendo and fallacy. He winks or grins or plainly says it, but he makes sure you know what he said without him saying it.
“See that girl. I don’t like girls like that. She needs to get a bigger swimming costume, or rather, come out with a really long T-shirt. Nobody wants to see those things!”
For a guy that doesn’t like crying, he sure knows who to make cry and has mastered the art of doing it. He thinks himself clever. Sees himself as superior to all beings. Nobody can hold nothing to him. He has an amazing job where he is practically self-employed. He chips in a comment about his uncle owning the chain of hotels in every conversation.
Another stroll around the pool.
His head is balding. The area around his stomach is bulging, probably from the beer in his breath. He looks like he was in a gym at a point in his life. His shoulders are broad, arms muscle-y. The depreciating version of a man who once had his life together. A man who held a steady job that he woke up every morning for. A man whose being is now clouded by a false sense of self-appreciation. A man who once had love to give, even had hope for the kids he says ruin lives. A man who cries himself to sleep.
His eyes are mischievous every time he spots a girl. Particularly girls old enough to be his daughters. He looks them over like dead cows hung on a butchery hook. He calls after them, taunting. He has no shame. The women stare in disgust, the men hide their faces on his behalf. Once in a while,when a colleague walks up to him and asks him to put down the glass of frothy brown liquid in his glass, he threatens to have them fired.
“Do you know who my uncle is?” he shouts.
He doesn’t talk, he bellows. All the time. You would think his vocal chords would tire or he would take a break and pop some Strepsils in. You’d be wrong. He has a gift, this man. In another life, he would be a pastor, one of those in matatus or on the streets who holler at passersby. I picture him with a worn out bible in a City Hoppa and he fits right in. He was made for something that has him speaking all the time, without any sense of success. You have to see him to understand him. To picture his balding head sweating along Tom Mboya preaching a gospel that seems to have eluded him.
“Do you know who my Father is?”
“Use your Bible!”
The waiters apologize every time they serve. You ask for fries and it comes with an apology. They are sorry for the trouble he is causing. He did not mean what he said to you. He is just drunk. He is not usually like this. He doesn’t even come every day.
They apologize with a feigned look of remorse in their eyes. They also laugh behind his back. He is the boss’s nephew who they can do nothing about but laugh at for being who he is. They laugh when he calls people names then rush behind him when the customers make to leave because an offended customer is a non-paying customer. The boss will not understand an unpaid bill, even if it is his nephew’s fault.
In the evening, after downing a couple more bottles at his uncle’s expense, my swimming teacher will leave saying he is going home. Nobody knows where he lays his head. They do not invite themselves the way people interested in your life would. They do not ask to be invited for supper or a nightcap. They only pray he does not show himself tomorrow, because tomorrow is a Saturday and there will be more customers. They do not want to apologize to more people that they had to today. He goes out shouting his goodbyes to “his good people” and yelling that he is now going to finish in the mansion. Nobody asks if he is going to finish a bottle or himself. No one cares. Not even him.
Writing is not easy.
You have to be creative and funny and coherent and weird and unique, all at the same time. There is a whole unwritten list of things to do and have and be before you even sit behind a computer to write. Then you have to think of where to begin the story from. Starting a story from its conception to its termination is also not allowed. I mean, you can do it…but people get tired of reading the same goddamn thing all the time. You also get tired of always starting from when someone was born and ending at their death bed. It gets boring. You cannot use the same style of writing for every story you tell. People won’t click on your link if you do. They’ll see you send them anything and think, “Basic story from a basic blog”. I don’t want that. Nobody wants that.
Sometimes I tell myself that I write for you. For people who wake up Thursday mornings expecting a link in their email or WhatsApp or wherever you come here from in this crazy world. I tell myself, in those little pep talks before I start keying down a story that has been playing at my brain for hours, sometimes even days, that I do it for you. But a girl lies.
Mostly, it is for me. It is for the times I have a meltdown and can only get healing by scrolling down this place. For the moments I have stare down melees with the titles, reminiscing of the processes that led me to such a heading and not having the stomach to read the post. I can never read these things once I post them. Too much anxiety. It’s like submitting an exam then looking over the teacher’s shoulder while he marks. Seeing every wrong answer marked wrong and every joke making you laugh. Noticing the mistakes that I let pass and switching this word for that because it seemed correct at the time but now… it might not work as well as the first time. Its torture.
Most times, I think I have writer’s block. I think this all the time. I never give myself a break. I start getting anxious immediately a new week starts. I go to school on Monday and rack my brain for a Thursday deluxe to put together. I sit before my laptop on Tuesday and just stare, willing for anything to cross my mind. Anything! By Wednesday, I think of writing a Tom and Jerry episode. Oh, did I mention I have an amazing pair of Harry Potter socks? This is not relevant information or anything… but I feel like this post is not as relevant to anything at this point so… what the heck right? I do have them. They are like the puppy I never had.
I haven’t really had stories to tell you guys the last two weeks, but I promised myself consistency, so as I listen to greatest hits of Abba, I write. I apologize if you do not know what Abba is. You must be one of these 90’s kids who listen to rainbow headed musicians and mumbling that one can’t really make out. Me? I listen to music. Words sang to a tune that comes from the heart, or just about another person who was sitting with a pen in the back of a pickup truck in the 80’s with nothing better to do.
I am in campus; you must know this by know of course. The first thing someone asks you when you tell them you are in campus is whether or not you live in the school hostels or in the nearest town. I saw a meme that told people to say where they actually come from and to stop rounding it off to the nearest town. Damn! Isn’t this post a mess? I’m getting to the point. I promise.
Okay, so, the first thing you are asked… or not, since they have to ask about the course you do and what year you are in first… so maybe the fourth thing, yeah? School. Course. Year. Where you sleep. Yeah, got it. The fourth thing is usually the hostels.
“Unalala ndani ama nje?” (please read this without the subtext… I beg of you) Translation: /Do you sleep in or outside school?/
Depending on who it is, they will either do the nitakuja supper thing or be smart enough to simply ask where and leave the mystery as is.
Side note: Boys, have some self-respect and stop asking to come eat at our places. We hate it. We will willingly invite you when you have slayed 7 lions, ridden 2 dragons and crossed the sea of fire. Not before. Otherwise, eat at your hostel rooms please.
Abba’s Super Trooper just started.
Now, I left the hostels in my second year of university, and since I tasted freedom I cannot imagine myself ever going back. I am from a family of very few people. The ones we were taught are known as nuclear families. I only see the extended part during Christmas holidays when we have nyama choma grilled outside under this tree with yellow flowers that always fall on the meat.
I’m not used to sharing space with four different personalities at once. I tried and failed. Please don’t think I am a snob. I’m really nice but don’t think I’m just banging an empty drum here. You should hold a conversation with me and find out yourself. Bring food.
My only issue with living outside school is you have to deal with these mama mbogas who are too good for us campus students. I don’t know about how they treat other mamas out there, but I have only had discussions about mama mbogas with my total of 2 friends, which gives me the right to generalize. Westlands people, my apologies. Mama mboga is a lady with a wooden kibanda (well-aerated shop) selling veggies and tomatoes and pilipili and avocados on occasion –groceries shop of the hood.
On the ka-njia to get to my place are two notorious mama mbogas. I don’t know if it is for the fact that my skin is not as dark as my Luo relations but this one mama talks to her mama mboga friend about me when I go to get veggies from her. I stopped immediately, even told her I didn’t want her sukuma-wiki anymore. God knows how that week went. This other one waits till you give her your money and serves her friends who come after you, while you put La Casa on pause and Professor had just arrived with the detective at the mansion they trained at. What makes matters a little fascinating is that this Luo mama mboga has her stand extend from The Shop in the neighborhood. You know that shop that has Jik and gum and kiwi and a needle and thread? The Shop that satisfies all your household needs and if what you seek is not available, there is always an alternative. That’s the shop that the Luo mama mboga extends her kiosk from. I marvel at the strength of The Shop every day I pass by it, even as it supports her and her humongous sense of self. Kenyans would say that it is indeed a shop and a half.
And you know a girl has to go to The Shop, because there are things that you can’t walk the 5 minutes to a Supermarket for, especially at night, being someone with fear of the dark among many.
I do go to The Shop, weekly, like mass. Sometimes I pass other shops who try to emulate the sparkle of The Shop, not because they have sub-standard goods, but because I love seeing her give me a look she gives me when I pass her with my Sukuma-wiki that I got from another mama mboga and buy Ting Ting at The Shop. We have this special thing we do, my Luo mama mboga and me. She glowers and I smirk. At first, I never noticed the frown she ruins her face further with until one time when I passed her with a friend and the friend asked if I had given the woman an undeserved kiss.
Then I started noticing how she would be all happy and smiling with someone at her stall until I pass by her from school or to my sweet friendly mama mboga. I saw how she would cringe when she noticed me crack a joke with the person behind The Shop’s counter. Counter people at The Shop change shifts. Do you know how successful aa shop needs to be to have keepers who change shifts? Neither do I, but I will ask one day. I assume it is very successful. I need that kind of success in my chaotic life. As soon as I noticed her displeasure, I began the walk past her extension of a kibanda with this grin that lights my soul on fire.
A few months ago, she went out of stock, or had mismanaged her funds or something happened. Look, all I know is she did not open for a few weeks. I would say I was happy about it, but no. I can’t lie to you. I missed the lines across her forehead and her pursed lips. But most of all, I missed those eyes. Eyes that would follow me from my favorite mama mboga’s till I went past the corner. Sometimes, I hope she cranes her neck to look at my back after I go past the corner. We have these special moments with her, me and my Luo mama mboga. She and I.
(PS. You have a story that you think I can spruce up and tell here, please find me. I’m getting desperate here.)