The Dark Side of the Moon

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…”

“What?”

“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.”

“But Dani…”

“WHAT?”

Silence.

“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?”

“NOTHING!”

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.

My Mama Mboga and I

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?/

“Nje” /Outside/

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.

FOCUS!

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.)

Being An Introvert.

First things first. Coast was amazing and hot and beautiful and chaotic and did I mention hot? It was so hot I seriously considered sleeping outside on a mkeka and being a Nakuru person, that is saying a lot.

There was so much to see and do and complain about and enjoy and have a bus full of students lost in its industrial area.

It was actually my first time there and I have never been happier to lose the v-card as I am at the moment.

If you haven’t caught on yet, I am trying to say that I did not post last week because I had travelled to Mombasa for the better part of the week and I couldn’t post last Thursday because I left my laptop in cold and freezing Nairobi.

It was definitely, absolutely and totally not because I was lazy and the heat got to me and I lost track of time and I realized on Friday that I had not posted. Definitely not.

The Bus.

So, the bus. There was so much energy in all areas. So much creativity and fun and happy-angry people in there it was crazy. My back was killing me and a whole morning was wasted driving around lost and we were all playing at being happy or just plain old pissed at our first day.

We went by school bus. University bus to be precise since it wasn’t all yellow and ugly. There was chatter. Lots of it. It felt like people spoke to each other the whole journey there and still had more things to say to each other after we arrived at around half past midnight.

I was not talking to people for more than 5 minutes. Rude, right? It wasn’t intentional. I tried to but after the first 3 minutes I started missing my thoughts while staring out the window, meaning I was forced to cut conversations short because every fiber in my being was screaming defeat. I couldn’t do it. Especially not on the journey there. I was bubbling underneath to read every sign post and every banner hoisted up. To know where we were at each moment by not looking at Google Maps but by staring out into unknown lands and reading where we were.

Konza.

Sultan Hamud.

We were to think of stories to write along the way. There is a school project where we make a newspaper with all the perks and since everything is a story, I didn’t want to miss anything along the way. At least that’s what I thought I was doing.

Thoughts

All through school, I have been the one person who is most likely to lack a partner in class when the teacher says everyone should pair up. I prefer the group kind of assignments, simply because they are easier. I can place myself strategically around an already formed group when I see they lack a few more members and I will automatically be in the group. But the pairing part? Na-ah.

Usually, I have one to two people in a class that I am friends with. And sure, I might talk to a good number of people in the class, say 5, but I will most definitely not always be comfortable to be paired with any of them.

I have always had the kinds of friendships where if you see me, you have to ask where the other person is, and often, they experience the same thing. And I bank on these friendships. They are my world.

The friends have to understand me, understand who I am and that I will need time alone in a day to get lost in my thoughts. and more often than not, we end up having a falling out. It breaks my heart, but life goes on.

It’s not all sad though, my best friends are these two amazing souls I have known for about 8 years now and they make me happy, despite the many falling outs of the other friendships I try to conjure up.

Emali.

Makindu.

Now, the bus. I brought up the friendship thing because seated in that bus for 12 hours got me thinking. Do extroverts have this same problem? The bus was crawling with them. Students, all who I have shared a class with at some point and some who I have spoken with but none who I was really comfortable to talk to about how beautiful the stars looked in the nighttime or how my butt ached or how much my brain needed to be picked on because I had so many things I was thinking about at the same time that I wanted to scream.

Do extroverts also lose friends? And what do they do if in the rare case that it happens? Do they go out and look for new friends immediately they lose the ones they have? Do they mourn the loss of good friendships? Do they feel the emptiness that comes with losing the one person you depend on for months or years on end? Or do they just cruise through life, being the friends that let go immediately we really need them.

That bus had all characters. It had the silent shy types. The loud obnoxious types. The brooding types. The travelling while reading types (my favorite humans). The book hater types. The talking because they were talked to types. The talking just because types. The walking in the bus types. The standing up only when the bus stops types. The going to the loo types. The not peeing while travelling types. And the two lecturers and two drivers.

Mabuinzau.

Kibwezi.

We stopped at Mtito Andei. Both times. On the journey to they told us that was supper. On the journey from we had breakfast there. Friendly people. One good but expensive hotel. Chips kuku was 400 bob! Only if I was mad! I ended up spending slightly more than that amount though, but I got myself an Afia Mixed Fruit and some nice nyama choma and ugali and kachumbari, a one and a half litre of water and a pack of gum. Totally worth it.

The Voi Standard Gauge Railway terminal looked amazing in the dark. Then we went through Taru and a place called Maji ya Chumvi and Mariakani and Jomvu then Mombasa. I thought the Maji ya Chumvi place had to be the oceans headquarters because my braids still taste salty.

Here’s what being an introvert is like;

1. When you are sitting comfortably with the people you think are calm enough to be your friends and their friends show up, that is the most awkward thing in the world. You never know what to say because suddenly, even your friend becomes an alien who talks of strange things you have never heard of. It gets worse when the intruder friends ask why you are so quiet and you had not even noticed that you were quiet because your mind was running at speeds you had not realized it could reach but you know that they would not understand that so you just stretch the corners of your mouth in an attempt at a polite enough smile and hope to heaven that your friend will explain that you are sick and need to go home. (Breathe)

2. You are in class. You have an idea to what an answer could be to the question asked by the lecturer/teacher but no one else has raised their hands so you too are not going to. But because of this, the lecturer/teacher just randomly out of the blue says that because no one has answered, he or she will have to call on some random person to answer. This is where you try to shrink yourself into the seat but it only ends up making you squirm and now the lecturer has you in their sights and he or she is totally going to choose you but the flip of an idea that you had to the answer has also squeezed itself out of your brain at the same time you tried to get swallowed by the seat.

3. Those dreadful PTA meetings in schools that we loved for the food but hated for the teacher-parent sit down. I can’t count the number of times my parents have heard the phrase “She is well behaved and polite but she should participate more in class” or “Your daughter is a very bright girl, all she needs to do is answer questions in class. Thank-you-so-much Mrs. Randa from primary. (PS. Sorry Mom)

4. You know that time, when you were young, and relatives would call and ask to talk to you, but you clearly shake your head at your parents but they see it as an invitation to make your life a living hell? Then they smile sheepishly at you and say to the phone “She is right here, she is actually begging to talk to you”. I hate those times. These parents don’t have our backs no more.

5. Campus. Still in class. I swear classes are the worst, apart from the learning and gaining knowledge part. So in class, you have done an impeccable job on your assignment and everything is in order, but for some devilish reason, the person required to make the presentation of the work to the rest of the class is out somewhere pretending to be sick and so with your heart thudding in your chest, like those Tum Tum West African drums of primary school essays and compositions, you get infront of the class. Everything is going well, you even start tooting your own horn until some mumu at the back shouts “I can’t hear you”. Ladies and gentlemen, this is where we wish to kill ourselves or George Bush the mumu at the back with your sneaker.

6. You know when you are thirsty and with a friend at their house and their mom asks if you want a drink and you awkwardly say “No, thanks”. Because you want to seem polite and you were given explicit instructions at home to not eat elsewhere… but the parent asks if you are sure about not wanting a drink and suddenly the Kalahari invades your throat and you are in desperate need of that drink but you now cannot say you would like a drink because the parent will start saying things like you should not be afraid of her and that you should feel at home and that she is not a monster and you know you do not need any more awkwardness in your life so you remain adamant with your Kalahari throat and all your mouth can say is a frail “No, thanks. I’m fine”. But even then, the last part of what you say does not come out clearly because it feels like your brain is slowly being encroached into the desert.

This, is what it loosely feels like to be an introvert, without the daily struggle and the strange looks and the whispers that you are a snobbish B-word and the awkwardness at parties and the loneliness of having no friends and the learning to accept and love your introverted self.

But introvert, extrovert, you need to learn to love yourself. To not depend solely on others for happiness. To make yourself your own entertainment. And be good at it. This has to be the ultimate law of life. Because until you get to the point that you are sincerely bored with yourself for days on end, then you will have learnt everything that makes you tick. And since this will obviously take you long enough, by the end of it, all you will have learnt is to truly love yourself. Isn’t that the ultimate goal to a happy life?

PS. Sorry about the long sentences. This was kind of a rant and I wanted you to read it the exact same way that the words were coming to me. Glad you were in my head.

Jacked Up Stranger: The Meet

Sitting in a matatu has to be the most stressful thing of this lifetime. I’m not only talking about finding the perfect seat. It begins with the matatu itself.

It needs certain levels of perfection that need to be quickly assessed.

Are the seats well spaced or will I reach my destination with cramped feet?

Does it look roadworthy or will it disrupt your schedule by breaking down somewhere in no man’s land where you can’t get another means of transportation?

This assessment is done in the three seconds you have as the matatu glides magestically past. One wrong move and you either let the perfect one go past you or you get into one with seats that have seen so much of the world all they know to do is dig into the next human that sits on them.

Then there is the issue of the sun. Oh God’s greatest candle. Usually I consciously check on the sun and map out the journey in my head so as to get the least amount of time on ray exposure. Those sun-filled seats always seem to have some sort of heat intensifier.

After this, it is paramount that you find somewhere with the minimumest (read most minimum) physical contact with other humans – this being the window seat. Bonus point: you get to look out the window and imagine yourself in Katy Perry’s music videos.

The isle seat kills me. All these people rubbing their hips on your shoulder. Bony hips. Drumstick-y hips. Thigh-like hips. So many hips!

Also, this perfect seat needs not be at the back, because in these Rongai matatus the journey from the rear to the door could literally kill you. PS – I wobble so much in those nganyas it’s always embarrasing. Straight up social suicide.

After the assessment, if you can, put on the meanest face you can.

Bring your eyebrows together, purse your lips, enlarge your nose holes. Do everything to make you look mean. This is to scare potential weirdos from sitting next to you.

If you come into the matatu late and all perfect seats are taken, I recommend sitting next to friendly-looking people who look like they know the value of minding their own business. Never sit next to someone trying hard to enlarge their nostrils. Never!

I had done the whole analysis on a matatu that I had my eye on. All window seats at the front to the waist were taken so I had to do the next logical thing. Look at people’s noses to see whose looked enlarged.

In my quest I see a nice looking young woman, University age. No luggage so I will not be forced to carry her cross. No scowl on the face. Knows how to sit (guys always have one leg on your side so you have the hour long journey with some random dude’s knee rubbing against you).

I say hi. Or hello. Good manners dictates you greet people. Even mean people soften their hearts a little bit when you begin with a hello. Wish someone had said hello to Hitler.

Take out my phone and type in Bikozulu on the Google strip-like thing. I’ve been reading from the present posts going back. I’m somewhere in 2015 posts right now.

This stranger is looking at what I’m reading. I can sense her shifting her eyes to the left but leaving her face facing forward just in case I catch her spying. I intentionally read the post much faster and I see her frustration and she stops spying. But then I feel bad for doing that so I too stop reading the post and look out the window.

“Is that your blog?” Stranger asks.

Pfffft. Yeah it is.

“Oh this? Haha, no. I wish.”

“A friend’s?” She prodes.

Yeah, Biko and I are amazing buddies. He wishes me journey mercies each time I travel to Ronga.

“No. I’ve never met him. I’m just a fan.”

“Oh,” she says and looks out the window.

Now I’m disappointed. This is a chance to add one more click to my own blog. Or even learn. She might have been a professional writer undercover looking for amateurs so she could train the to be super writers with codenames working for an elite agency that has branches all over the universe.

“I have a blog though,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Can’t waste my chance to go to write-spy school. She seems interested so I leave Bikozulu and find this blog.

She reads ‘Coasto’ and says I write well. Well. My qualification to be a write-spy is well. I start thinking of codenames now. I’ve made it!

The Weller.

Weirdo Well.

I laugh at the second one. It sounds like a water spot that is haunted by a corrupted mind that gives children goat nightmares.

“Why did you laugh?” She asks.

Nothing. I’m just hilarious in my head.

“Nothing,” I reply.

She takes her phone, it’s an iPhone. Someone once told me you never call an iPhone a phone. So she takes out her iPhone X (I hope you are proud of me wherever you are). She touches it randomly like a pedophile who knows not what they are doing then finally gives it to me with the dial pad on the screen.

Instictively, my fingers begin putting in my phone number and since I don’t know how to use it, I return the iPhone to her.

“Mirriam,” I say, trying to sound like I could have saved it myself but these little jobs are things I prefer others to do.

She still saves it wrong. Miram or something.

“I’ll text you, Mirriam.”

How does one say the correct thing and type the exact opposite?

Fast forward to night time. I am at home having a wonderful time listening to Simi’s album Simisola when my phone pings.

/Hey Miram. I’m blocking your contact by midnight./

\Uhm, alright. But why did you even bother saving it then?\

/To be polite./

Points for her politeness just went low on my scale.

/You still therr/

/*There/

\Yes. What’s up\

I decide to make hay while the sun shines. Learn as much as I can from this mystery matatu girl.

She says she needs to talk to someone. A person who wouldn’t judge because they wouldn’t know her. I didn’t get her logic. Don’t strangers to us judge us more than people we know?

She tells me the story of a man she was is love with. She called him “Jerk” but we’ll read it as Jack.

Tip: For every Jack, insert Jerk

She and Jack met online. Not on those dating apps, no. She doesnt do dating apps. They met on WhatsApp.

One time, in her crazy bout of insomnia she was scrolling through the app, looking at people’s profile photos when a text “entered”. It was a group.

I ask which group and she says she can’t tell me. He might end up reading this and know.

/and new rule miram no more questions/

Oh I like her. Despite her lack of punctuation.

She clicked on the group and saw that Jack had asked if anyone was awake. As if he was looking for a heart to break. His next victim.

She had not saved Jack’s number yet so she went to the group’s participants section and searched for him. I ask why.

/to see his pic of course and know if he was cute/

She continues.

He was cute. He played a sport too. She says his profile picture showed him in games kits. She however refused to tell me what game it was.

/he might know/

Now I think she is either giving this Jack too much credit or the extra credit is for my underperforming blog.

They sent four texts in that group.

She: /I’m up/

He: \You up early or late?\

She: /haven’t slept yet/

He: \Damn, sucks to be you\

Then he had invaded her inbox. It was 3.27am. They had talked all through the darkness and well into the morning. All texts replied fast. All parts of her texts covered. She felt she had found her Jesus. He came at a time no one knew and on a day no one expected. And at a time she had needed someone the most.
She gets vague in the details but she had also said no questions.

No questions yet I had so many. I look at the time. 11:55.

/Its 11:55/

\Yeah. What did Jack do?\

/Jerk? I’ll tell you some other time/

\Do you love him\

/Probably, but I don’t know. Love is a strange thing, sometimes I think it’s bigger than just an emotion/

\Do you or don’t you?\

One tick.

12.01am

I didn’t post yesterday because I have been waiting on that second tick.

I Feel Different.

I feel different.
Like I am the only one who is different
And I fucking love that
I never have to follow the written down rules
For being the one who is not like the rest
It’s crazy
A little different
The one that is different
I like that
Being unique in yourself
Being not perfect
Loving who comes and letting go of those who let go
I really like that
Because conformity is not right
Agreeing with all that comes your way is not right
And it’s been going on for a few days, yes
I’m still pretty excited about this
And being different isn’t weird
It’s BEAUTIFUL!
Like watching flames
Big humongous ones
Watching those flames as they burn anything in it’s path
Watching them devour every single doubt
Every single misfortune
And loving every bit of it

© Awuor

What Is Your Biggest Fear?

Fear. The four letter word that does to me what it was meant to. Scares me blind.

Uncle Google says that Fear is a feeling induced by perceived danger or threat that occurs in certain types of organisms, which causes a change in metabolic and organ functions and ultimately a change in behavior, such as fleeing, hiding, or freezing from perceived traumatic events.

I think that one’s biggest fear is something else.

I think it is the crippling feeling you get when you are faced with a situation or thing that you cannot run from.

What is your biggest fear?

I asked this question to some of the people I felt were diverse enough to represent a significant number of the population and I got a number of interesting answers.

1. God.
This I understand. God is the eternal being who created and preserves all things. Christians believe God to be both transcendent and immanent. For an existence like that, one is warranted the right to fear the doctrine of the Trinity.

2. Death.
It doesn’t matter what time you fear for this. Some fear dying before 40, some right now and others in the near future.

I however have come to terms with the idea that death comes to us all. The circumstances leading to it may all be different but in the end, but it will happen to us all. It may seem scary and dark, and maybe it is just me, but death is a natural part of a life lived.

3. Being poor
Don’t I know it. This was one legitimate answer. It made me rethink what my actual fear is. Nobody wants to grow up, go to school, live life and end up being the poorest you could ever be.

4. Snakes
I used to be afraid of snakes. Don’t get me wrong, they still make me uncomfortable but I have had a number of interactions (if I may call them that) with snakes that I am not out rightly afraid of them. Instead, I think I am wary of their existence.

5. Crawling insects
A favorite of mine. I hate anything with a thorax paired with 3 or 4 pairs of legs. Slithering ones also make me cringe. Generally, I simply can’t stand anything that is not either human or an animal. Millipedes in particular have a special place somewhere that is not near me.

6. Not achieving one’s dreams
Honestly, I think I strive to achieve my dreams everyday for this to be a burden for me. I believe in doing all things possible to do what you can to be happy.

My last few posts have been about being happy and happiness for me is being content with who and what I am, meaning that I have to work to achieve my dreams because that will also make me happy.
(I don’t know if this makes as much sense as it does for me)

7. Losing all you worked for

Another thinker here. Imagine doing everything to achieve all you dream of and ending up losing it all. Tragic.

8. Rejection
This came in all forms. Not getting a job. Not getting that guy or that girl you like and such.
I don’t think this should be a problem for anyone though. Rejection is part of life. Not everyone is going to like what you do and you are not going to satisfy the needs that everyone around you has. So let loose, be free and remember that Hakuna Matata.

Also, not being enough for someone falls in this category, I think. And you should never ever think that you are not enough. Maybe they are the ones that are not for you. Remember… Hakuna Matata

9. Being hit by a guy
This was a little personal but I thought I should also address it, since there has to be a number of those who have grown up in households that their mothers were hit and where domestic violence was a norm.
It should however be motivation enough to find someone who is better than the one you grew up under, but I don’t know much under this.

10. The dark
This is mine. It’s not my biggest fear. That comes later. The dark, for me, gets kinda scary because I have a wild imagination and I put myself through horror movies for this reason. I get a kind of adrenaline rush that has my heart beating faster and my breathing becomes laboured.
I have grown to like the feeling that the dark gives me, and I might be alone in this, but I love that I am scared of the dark.

My biggest fear however, is being afraid.

Cliché, I know.

I am scared of being too afraid to try new things or living life or making life changing decisions.

I’m scared of being afraid of being me so much that at times I hold myself back from doing the things that might alter what and who I am.

I struggle so much with making new friends because I am afraid of losing them. I am afraid of fear itself because fear can be crippling.

Fear can make you do things you never thought you could do, but also, fear can make you do things you never thought you could ever bring yourself to doing, and that is the beauty of it all.
(PS… Yesterday I removed a really long slug that was on my wall after being scared of it for about 30 minutes)

But someone just told me that life is too short to be afraid of outcomes and eventualities. And that hit really deep.

Welcome To ME

It’s late. Almost half past 2. 

Yesterday, while I was making my usual late night meal for when I’m up at ungodly hours, I was holding a matchbox and something hit me. 

You ever wondered how a matchbox is a universal thing (unless you live elsewhere in the universe and don’t know what I’m talking about)? 

How it exists in all households, in both mansions and slums. Like laughter. (This comparison is not inclusive of the 5 shillings required to purchase a matchbox), though you can but laughter though purchasing of bundles to look at memes. 

I can’t sleep again for the fourth night in a row. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I keep waiting during the day to at least pass out for hours or something but that also does not happen, so I’ve been in my head a lot lately. 

It’s difficult when you’re an introvert with zero social skills, social anxiety and a number of other very numerous issues. I wish I could talk to people and not feel different or judged or anything. Instead, my happy place is a pen and paper or the one or two people I call friends and who I burden with all my twisted issues. 

I am not happy. Even with my pen and paper.It’s not deliberate, and I’m not unhappy either, but I feel like I lack a sense of excitement that has always been there. My heart is not lit up and I am told that I constantly have this resting “angry” face. 

I should be happy. Almost everything is going well for me, except for the fact that I have not been feeling well. 

I should be joyous and jumpy and weird but I don’t feel like my usual self. Maybe that’s the reason why I can’t sleep. Maybe that’s exactly what my mind is trying to figure out. 

I don’t know how to get my matchbox of laughter. I’ve not laughed out sincerely in so long. I crave something to make my ribs hurt. 

I have also been looking at lots of memes lately. I think that is the one place I find genuine comedy that has individuality and is sometimes just as dark, awkward and weird as my occasional sense of humor. 

I might have lost my spark somewhere in the past few weeks but I am working at fixing it. At fixing me. 

I’m not seeing any change yet but maybe that is because there are a few more things I know I need to do to start seeing any altercations to my general mood and for me to achieve what I want. 

Maybe I just miss home. 

What If I Was An Island? 

I made pancakes today.

They were pretty good. It’s weird how with time, I feel like I am getting better at making them.

Yesterday I had an idea of selling them to people. 10 shillings or 15 depending on the size.  That would be an easy way to make some money. Then I could get to buy some things that I know I need in this house.

But then my body is unwilling to move.

I know that I am a very lazy human being. And even if I start making those pancakes to sell, I would eventually stop because maybe I just couldn’t sit up one day. I just lay there all day knowing I would need to be active and make some pancakes, but I will not get up.

I am even more stubborn against myself.

I’ve just finished eating them. My almost 7 year old laptop is right beside me. The chocolate bar I got for my birthday is halfway on it, and a jar of honey is on my right.

I don’t want to do anything, think anything. But my brain is it’s own boss.

What if I was an island?

(Image from Fiji Guide) 

What if I could have water all around me and sit still while people vacationed on me? 

What if the only thing I had to worry about was how hard the ocean waters could hit and how deep I had to let the trees go before they were old enough.

It’s cold.

What if I was an island?

What if all I had to do was sit on my own, with my other island friends a little too far away for a daily hello.

What if I had my own problems, but couldn’t let my island family know because they would be worried and I don’t want that.

I don’t let people around me get too close because I feel like an island. Like nobody could ever understand the many little things that makes me tick.

Like they seem to have it all figured out and all I have figured out is maybe this chocolate bar doesn’t stay here for long.

Sometimes I don’t like being alone. I get lonely. And being alone then has me thinking of when I wasn’t alone. And that makes me try to find someone who wants to pretend to be with me, till my use for them is due then they leave me to be alone once more.

Sometimes I really like being alone. Because then I can rotate my mind around things that don’t really make sense.

So I can dance around my place in my own weird little way and feel, well not normal really, but me. And feel like me.

Sometimes being alone is my happy place. I don’t have to sit upright or listen to conversations that I might not have had to listen to.

I don’t have to hurt my eyes in the sun (I have a condition: myopic something : I don’t really remember the last part, but my eyes hurt in the sun and I have to wear glasses now, plus I am short sighted). So it literally really hurts to go out.

Maybe I am cursed to be inside the house. Maybe I will always feel like an outsider.

Maybe I really am destined to meet people in the comforts of my home. It would be really cool. If I didn’t need to leave my place and go outside to meet people. That there was a way I could sit at home and still have reasonable conversations with reasonable humans and make meaningful relationships.

Sometimes I am too philosophical for my own mind. I should loosen up a little. But how? Dancing around right now feels weird. I am typing with my phone.

My laptop’s problem is that it is old. I think. It shows movies really slow. It does any and all things while buffering every 3 seconds. So I can’t use it for anything but background noise to my thoughts.

I got it from my uncle after he was done with campus and I was starting.

Sometimes I feel like my thoughts are too compact. Like I need to use more sentences in my thinking and delivery of those same thoughts.

Maybe I can find something to watch on the laptop. There is a really cool series I was watching, “The End Of The Fucking World” it’s about this awkward boy and this awkward girl. And they are perfect together.

Today I’ll have a happy to be alone day. I never know it until about 4 hours from when I wake up.

©Awuor