Category: Uncategorized

Rain

I love the rain

How the drops sound on iron sheets

How my body feels in my sheets

I love the smell of the first drops hitting the soil

And the sound of roaring thunder like it hits foil

And as it grows colder outside

My heart fills and bursts like riverbeds

©mirawu

Belief

Belief

I used to believe in love.
In two hearts becoming one
To hold and to have
I used to believe in together as one

I use past tense because my reality took a shaking
I was robbed of what I held dear
I stopped believing
My heart filled with fear

I am afraid
To hurt so bad once more
To touch pain with my fingertips
To shake again to my core

I used to believe in love
But the makings of today’s love is deceit
Lies to honest hearts and knives to trusting backs
I still believe in love.

“Coasto”

Kwe was living the life he left the vastly populated lands of Nyang’oma Kogelo, a village in the former Karemo Division for.

He was now in the sandy beaches of the Indian Ocean, never in one area for more than 2 weeks. He met lots of white women. “Elderly white women”, he corrects himself with a smile. He had left the poverty of Nyang’oma behind and now he was posh and classy and sophisticated. He smiles as he reminsces.

Kwe is the typical Luo man, as I am told there is a typical every tribe man. Kalenjins are tall and almost malnourished-looking, Kiuks are usually light-skinned and pot-bellied, Luhyas almost always have strong jaws and Luo men are, typically, the ideal TDH. Kwe is extremely TDH.

I was walking through the grounds when I removed my phone from my backpack to look at my face. (Don’t judge me, we all do it). I wiped the sweat off my face for the second time when he came to me. Not Kwe, the guy who took me to Kwe. Dena.

“Color iko sawa?” He asks with one of those sheepish toothy smiles.

I look at his striped suit and try to keep myself from judging. Maybe he also thinks my sweatshirt is a bit too big for me, but that is what I was comfortable in, so I let the striped suit man escape with his fashion mishap.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello. I am Dena. I stay here.” He says with a grin, the subtext to his statement being..’as if I have a choice’.

I introduce myself to Dena, whose name I wrongly think should simply be Denno like normal Dennises and who immediately thinks I am a world class journalist because I have a notebook and a Multimedia University pen in my left hand.

He goes on and on and on about a “friend who is around and whose story is news”. I get intrigued and ask if I can see this newsworthy friend, hoping to heaven and hell that it is not a disease thing or blood related because that would without a doubt make my skin cringe. I tell him this and he goes “No, you’ll like his story. I’m in it so I know it’s good”.

Dena took me to Kwe. At first glance, in his loose fitting pants and shirt, he is the epitome of man. Tall, “6 foot 7” he had said when I masked my embarrassment and asked him.

He suggested we sit on some rocks by the side and I welcomed the idea. Looking up at the building he was had started cramping the back of my neck. He was the perfect shade of dark. Not black, not brown. A toned kind of dark chocolate that brings the universe to it’s knees. His face was okay-looking. I don’t think I noticed because I spent the whole time lost in his eyes. He had so much pain in those windows to his soul that my heart broke for him.

“Hi, Mirriam, you said?” He confirms from me.

“Yes” I whisper.

“I’m Kwe.” He waits as I struggle with the spelling. He chuckles when I put in a Q. “Kay, Daboliu, iiiii,” He spells it out for me.

Helpful.

He then goes on to give me the full introduction. He is from Nyang’oma Kogelo, a village in Siaya. I tell him I studied in Ng’iya Girls High. They told us in school to always find ways to connect with people you talk to. He seems to like that. His sister went to Ng’iya Primary School. He loves his sister. I see it in the way he speaks about her. He doesn’t know where she could be today, or what she could be doing. Just that 7 years ago she had a baby boy.

“This ka-jamaa,” he places a broad strong arm on Dena, “He started it all”. Dena smiles. Dena is also his real second name. He showed me his charge sheet, because they are not allowed any personal effects.

“What happened?” I ask, already pressing the record button on my phone.

“We had just finished form four,” Dena starts. “Two dashing young men with our whole worlds ahead of us,” I look at them both. Still dashing.

“Dena proposed we go to Coasto, find some jobs, make some money then join uni after a year. It seemed like a great idea.” TDH adds in. He has a deep enticing voice.

They told their parents the plan, and after a month and a few breakings of tin banks, the two brothers from different mothers were in a Coasto-bound bus. They had so many plans. They would definitely start small, “kazi ndogo ndogo as we build our way up the chain,” he explains.

Coasto was exactly as they imagined and more. They spent their days hanging out by the beach and their nights working at Hypnotica, a club, I gathered, as waiters. They were doing alright considering the circumstances. Payment of the double room they shared was always expected on the 5th but they always paid on the 1st.

“We never took any chances with the rent money” Dena adds, trying to find significance in the story.

My leg starts cramping but I can’t tell this demigod that I can’t perform simple tasks like sitting on this rock because how then will he be able to tell me about ‘Coasto‘? I decide to suffer through the pain.

“I met Sheila in Coasto“, I feel he is misusing the word since he senses it bothers me. “I never thought much of it. We met when I had started a bodaboda gig. She wanted transportation and I could provide it. Numbers were exchanged and I became her official Mombasa caddy.”

Sheila was one of the elderly white women. The kind that escape winter to come pretend to enjoy sunburn in the scorching Coasto sun.

Kwe tells me how she kept asking him to “hang” with her at the beach, and once he agreed to that due to her constant pestering, she started inviting him to her hotel. First for coffee. He doesn’t drink coffee so he had refused. He wished he hadn’t. His refusal made her angry for some time. She even stopped calling him to ferry her to the beach. One month, two weeks and 5 days. He had counted. One month, two weeks and five days and she had not called. He was always by his phone for when Shay would call. She had insisted on being called Shay.

On the 6th day on the 7th week, they bumped into each other. It was partially cloudy and the tide was low. His shirt had been draped over his shoulders, unbuttoned. She had on a yellow bikini with white polka dots. Kwe says she looked 30. And really pretty. It must have been the heat.

He recalls taking her to Hypnotica. She paid the bills. He then “gave her a push to her hotel”. She suggested he go up for a night cap. Kwe had never had a night cap. He thought it was a hat worn in bed, “like a marvin” he explains.

He found himself falling for her. Hard. He developed feelings he had never experienced for any lass from the robust countryside of Siaya. She moved him and Dena into an apartment complex as big as the lake. She changed his wardrobe, furnished the apartment and even paid their bills. Dena was along for the ride and they all knew it. It was Kwe that she wanted and he is paying the price to date.

I shift on my rock. By butt is more numb than gums at a dentist’s, and I should know, I’ve played the dentist game almost all my life. Kwe sees my discomfort and stands, saying that we could stroll around the grounds. I see Dena eyeing the Dasanis we had come with and I excuse myself to go get them some water. They must have never seen Dasani since they came in here.

“August of 2010 was when she asked if I would like to go with her the states. I was young. And stupidly in love with a 55 year-old” he continues after a sip of water. I think he likes how it tastes because he smiles at the bottle. “I called my parents and told them I had been given a sponsorship to go study at a University in the states. The United States University.”

“Is there anything like…”

“Don’t judge me,” he says with a laugh. “I did not know any universities there, and if I didn’t, how could my parents know of any? So I lied with the first thing I could. By now Shay was living in the apartment with me. She got us two tickets. Said that Dena would come after a month,” he sighs. “I wish I had broken it off before I packed that suitcase. She even got me a suitcase! Can you imagine that?” He asks me. I can. His first suitcase! He was so excited to put his clothes in it. Made sure he packed his mother’s handkerchief first. For good luck, he says.

Events at the airport are hazy for him. Shay had given him a bag to carry. He had been stopped by security for a patdown, taken to a room that smelled of freshly coated paint. He remembers he touched the wall just to ensure his nose wasn’t playing tricks on him. The tip of his index finger was still a pale yellow when Shay’s bag was brought in by a man who “looked important”. He had asked to see Shay but they didn’t let him. Nobody believed the bag was not his. His mother’s handkerchief was in it, covering a white powder in polythene paper that he had never seen before.

“After that, I don’t remember much. They put me in cells, I was taken to court either once or eight times. I only remember those gates closing,” he points at the entrance to the prisons. “My life has changed so much. I have no contact with my family. Dena was brought here two years later, I couldn’t recognize him. He was the one who knew me. Came up to me one time on the breakfast line and was like ‘Hey bro, been a minute huh?’ and we became brothers again”

I ask him about Sheila. If he could see her again.

“I don’t know. But I forgave her. I can’t live in the past anymore. I have been taught design here, they bring us lessons and I found I was really good. I want to be done with my sentence and go back home. I hear my sister has a 7 year-old son. I’d like to see my nephew. To teach him to not be swayed by the ways of the world.”

Kwe suspects she put the cocaine in his bag when she realized she could not board with it. He looks at the perimeter wall as he tells me how much he had lost trust in people when he first got to prison. It was his first heartbreak. I can’t imagine him broken hearted. He lost faith in people, and in himself. Life was grim. He has tried to take his life, three times. But you can’t hang sheets by the cell’s frail light bulb because it comes loose and there is no time that he can take sheets out under a tree. He managed to accept his fate. His mistakes. He says he learnt a lot about “wazungu wa Coasto“.

There are bad people out there, mixed with the good ones and with the faces of humans. But deep inside, they will take the first chance they get to screw you over just to save themselves. Be wary.

In A Western Stalemate

Someone told me that my karma is my memory.

I didn’t agree. Obviously.

What could that even mean? I’ve heard karma is a bitch, so were they saying that my memory is a bitch?

And what kind of bitch? The cute poodle kind or the kind that is spoken to some and leads to palms covering chapped separated lips that know too much lipstick right after the sudden breath of air that seems to originate from somewhere in the back of the throat and ends immediately after?

Was it that my memory is the kind of karma that is commonly referred to as the “B” word?

I let it go. Really. It didn’t even bother me. Not one bit. Not at all.

At least that is what I told myself until I met Mercy and I became a philosopher in my own accord but without the crazy Einstein hair or lab coat and the theory was tested.

I was slaving hard for the man, as I usually do on my attachment where I drag myself to every single weekday morning with eyes as low as the hedgehogs to the earth, when I decided to go get a pack of fries because the stomach knows no hustle.

I had just emailed the day’s story to my supervisor and I had that feeling you get when you use words like ‘amongst’ and ‘whomsoever’ in an essay. Nothing could make the day any better than some fries seasoned with a little bit of salt and made sensational in some dark vinegar.

So I get to the fries place, the mama looks at me and smiles.
She already knows what I want and even before I instinctively say “Ya kawaida”, she is decorating my soon to be plate with delicacies beyond measure and places the kingly meal of chopped potatoes before me.

Some strange woman is now staring at me, probably because she is jealous she had not received the princely greetings I had received from the fries mama.

She gives me another look, and the 5 year-old by her side starts asking for fries. She looks back at me.

My fries? I think not Ms Jealous Lady.

This one must be bonkers. Her head must be screwed on using a couple shank nails.

She doesn’t know that you never come between a Mirriam and her fries.

I look at the kid who has eyes that are so big they play at making him both adorable and a human ostrich. One of the voices now goes… “So now you won’t give him fries? Reaaa….lllly?”

(PS. This voice sounds like Mr Hart)

I stay adamant

She smiles at me. It is a gorgeous smile. One of those infectious ones that has you involuntarily stretching the edges of your lips into an exaggerated curve and has you feeling like a hornbill.

But I don’t smile much, so my curve immediately goes back to default and look down at the heap of happiness on my steaming plate.

Somehow, I feel her still looking at me. Like her eyeballs are slowly dredging two narrow shallow holes at the top of my head. It was disturbing. Almost creepy.

My memory is truly that bitch, always sharpening her nails to dig them into my brain when I really need the use of it.

Maybe she wants to make those two holes by her heat vision and was only looking for the spot to mark X on my humongous mess of a head.

I look up.

We stare at each other as if we are in those Western movies as the cowboys in the hats with the guns and our hands are twitching at our sides to pull so as to become the most eligible bachelorettes in the drought stricken land.

We are at a Western stalemate.

She smiles at me again.

“Mambo mrembo” she coos.

Her voice is smooth and raspy.

An absurd combo if you ask me. It reminds me of the feeling on the buttock when sliding down a hill side on a cardboard box just after the rain had soaked the ground.

“Poa,” I reply before stuffing my already full mouth with more fries.

I look at her closely now.
She seems familiar. But isn’t that what we all see when someone greets us as if we are long lost relatives?

She has one of those faces that looks eerily similar to either one of your childhood playmates or a self proclaimed aunt. Her complexion is not dark enough so she can’t be from my father’s side and I know almost all my relatives from mom’s side.
I have seen this woman before. At least my mind thinks.

She could be the supermarket teller that once suspected me of stealing from the establishment even after I had insisted that she was mistaken. That wretched witch who on the 4th of August, 2012, had pried my bag open to pour its contents to the ground only to find that I only had my belongings in there, but who cares anymore?

Now I am pissed because my fries are going cold and I am not able to enjoy them since i am obsessed with the idea of knowing who this Mambo-Mrembo woman is.

Asking her might sound weird. I can’t even formulate the words in my mouth.

Who the hell are you and what sin did you commit to get such an amazing smile?

“Jana ulinyeshewa?” She purrs.

Now her voice is smooth.

Who in Potter’s name is this? She has gone from crunchy peanut butter to sweet, sweet plum jam.

But that’s not even important.

How did she know that I was drenched by the heavens yesterday? My appetite eludes me.

That’s when I remember.

Your karma is your memory, Mirrabelle”

I now agree.

It comes as both a blessing and a curse. Like a right side on the wrong bed.

The good part is that I recall a lot of things, usually irrelevant information that I need to have forgotten or details as dark as charcoal painted fingers, or as this generation’s souls.

The other part is this: simple things like people’s names and sometimes even faces escape me.
Sometimes, when someone tells me their name, I have to sing it like I used to sing the items I was sent to the shop when I was 6 just so I might have a pea-sized chance to remember it the next time.

Mercy looks at me again. By now I am used to her eyes on me.
I stare back and try to picture her at court where I was yesterday, at the same fries mama’s place, though I did not come by here and at the offices where I am on attachment.
I can’t place her.

“Naitwa Mercy” she coos again.

Mercy. Mercy. Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.

5 times seems enough.

“Mirriam” I say.

I am bored with my fries for now. Can’t have them when Mercy’s little one has dipped his tiny dirt-tipped fingernails in them when he thought I was not looking.

I get up, say goodbye to Mercy and her little tyrranical pirate thief and get back to slaving for the man, or woman in my case. But I couldn’t shake it until I walked past a cobbler in town and a makeshift beauty parlor and a restaurant and a woman who has been selling dresses since time immemorial, literally, when I see her and remember the times I used to get dresses from Mercy at a different stall across town.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

Remember when boys were the most disgusting beings?

When we could not stand the sight of them in their skinny hairless legs clad in school uniform shorts and their torn shoes due to too much football in the field where we should have been skipping rope.

When they were already dusty by 10.00 am while our previous night pressed dresses were immaculate till the last bell rang and we could escape to the safety of our homes where the perfect boys, our fathers and brothers were.

If your brothers were bullies like the boys at school, then I am sorry for you, but I’m sure the love for them was there still, or has grown over time, and they were or are always a welcome sight compared to the rugged,dusty-sometimes-even-muddy rascals that would pinch us or hit us and run faster than us or step on our thoroughly brushed bata toughees or stole our erasers and pencils or put mirrors under our lockers to peek at our P.E shorts, or lack there of or blumers/bloomers(I never learnt to spell this)

I disliked boys when I was younger.

Not that I am much older now, numbers don’t count, but I recall when I used to huddle in a group of my then besties and talk about the previous night’s episodes of Camila or Storm Over Paradise(Tormenta En El Paraiso) or Cuandos Seas Mia and recount how Maria told Alejandro she didn’t want him anymore even though we knew in our hearts of how much her heart cried out for him or of the never-going-away-ex (whom we loathed together but I secretly always liked in secret), usually called something evil like Barbara Serano Sulbaran or Carlota Espinoza De Los Monteros.

(PS. I have a weird habit of remembering things I should really have forgotten)

(PS b. Barbara always said all her names out loud and Carlorta always wore purple)

In the midst of this conversation, (and girls you have to please forgive me for spilling some of our secrets to the unsuspecting batch of the world) we would sneak in a comment or two about how James is stupid or George has not shaved his head in ages or how Steve’s shorts have been dirty since assembly time.

This post is a trip down memory lane.

I miss those days.

I was carefree and none of my friends cried for anything else other than falling down in public and grazing a knee or being caned by the teacher for a missed mark.

Back then, pain was relevant for not more than a minute and life moved on immediately after. We were happy and I never thought I should have taken a psychology degree because of my own issues piled with those of people I care about.

When our parents told us not to fall in love, that we were still young and we only needed to listen to our teachers and not all these late adolescent little feelings, we thought they did not know what they were saying.

We thought it was all banter.

And we thought we knew better.

Then we fell in love. And we loved with all our hearts. For a time, we were happy. We had found love and it was going to last us a lifetime.

Then our hearts broke. They left, or cheated or lied or did something that we never imagined someone we loved could ever do to us. And now, I see a generation that is broken, and heartless. A people that has been hurt so bad because we did not heed the advice of those that lived before us.

Our hearts have been broken and our minds corrupted so much so that we no longer believe in love. You see 20 year-olds that now only know pain from others and have also chosen to inflict an equal, if not a larger helping of the hurt they felt. What will happen to these hearts after 5 years of living like this, when society then expects us to find someone special to spend life with?

We have been corrupted. We are lying to ourselves that it is better to feel nothing than to feel at all. We have changed our wardrobes to darker colors and our childhood friends who saw us before and loved us can barely recognize us.

Our faces and hearts are no longer lit up. We have transformed the minor and innocent dislike we had for others back then and made it into something vile and lethal and I hate it.

I hate what we have become.

And I get it.

A broken heart will change you.

But isn’t it supposed to make you stronger? Better? It shouldn’t destroy who we were, but make us even greater versions of our previous selves. “Happy Nancy” should be “over-joyous Nancy”. “Funny Jack” into “Jack-hilarious”

Let’s not destroy ourselves because someone else hurt us. Trying to justify our hurting someone’s beautiful soul because of someone else’s mistakes towards us should stop.

The words of our parents to not poison our hearts with young love are already lost, but with effort, we can make a generation that can overcome pain and suffering to be tall glasses of very refreshing water.

Sincerely, Awuor.

I HAVE STAGE FRIGHT

I have stage fright.

It’s crazy, I know.
I converse pretty well with people one-on-one especially with those I am comfortable around.

Averagely well with people I don’t know. Sometimes, though, I get back to my default settings and just stare at my phone even when there is nothing to look at. I have also been told that this is a bad habit but hey…a leopard can’t change right? Anyway, put me before the same people I am able to talk to, mixed a little bit with people I don’t know, and well, let’s just say all hell breaks loose.

I get sweaty palms.

My throat dries up.

My vision gets blurry(though I think this was my short-sightedness playing tricks on me).

My mouth dries up.

I even get these tiny violent trembles that I think other people can actually notice.

My stomach gets full, and tightens.

I make a mini “fist” with my toes, because my palms are already sweaty enough I feel like a fist could slide right through

.
And oh does my mind race. Sometimes I end up forgetting what brought me to stand before all those people.
I start thinking other people’s thoughts.

What is he thinking?

Is she looking at my feet?

Maybe he sees me sweating.

Does she know I’m staring right at her?

Are those crumbs on her face?

Is he always this pretty?

And to be honest, I’ve been told everything on how to deal with it.

Picture people naked: But how? I don’t think my imagination is that vivid to enable me to put everyone’s nudity in my head.

Plus, isn’t that a little perverted? Why should I imagine a whole bunch of people, some of who I think are my friends, at least at times, naked? Why should I put myself through the torture of seeing things that I know my mind cannot unsee? It has also proven to be kind of impossible. To picture people naked. You can have a vague idea, yes, but completely naked? Really?

How many people must you have seen naked to be able to picture others, at a moment’s notice? There must be an average amount of nudity that one has to have gone through to corrupt minds to that extent and I think my number is still quite manageable.

So… No. I don’t picture people naked.

Assume you are alone in the room: But have you ever been in front of a group of people who expect you to say something to them?

The sets of eyes that are fixated on you, on how you are dressed, on whether you forgot to rub lotion on your feet, on how much your hands are trembling or if your stomach is showing through your shirt. It’s insane!

There is no way in hell that you can simply “assume” that you are alone.

But, say you do. Say you manage to trick your subconscious into believing that you are indeed alone. Then what? You become the freak that is speaking to people who are not there. The freak that is talking to herself or himself while actually talking to other people. Because to trick your mind into believing it then you really need to see it. So you will be standing there, “alone”, giving a speech to who? No one? That’s even more absurd than Sheldon Cooper himself.

There are people who don’t get me. People who find it super easy to be who they are infront of others. And that’s alright. Sometimes I get jelous of such people. I long for a time that I can walk up a podium without my heart beating through my ears and I am envious of those who do it without being unnerved, but that hit a minor pause last week.

Here’s what happened.

I was at a friend’s house, and he had some people over. He is a poet so naturally some of his friends are into arts. They started reading out some of their pieces and singing and it was fun. I was actually having a good time. They asked me to do some and I said I couldn’t. The friend, the one whose house I was at, defended me and said I would not showcase anything if I didn’t want to, and we left it at that.

Last week, at that same house, with those same people who are supposed to be open minded and understanding, I heard someone say to her friend that I didn’t stand to share with them because I’m a snob, or a bitch, or both. A snobbish bitch. I almost got angry. But at what cost? It’s not like I would have gone up to talk to her since she had already made up her mind of how much bitchness I had.

A snob percent apparently.

So I smiled and walked away. It wasn’t worth it. PS: I am not going there again when she is there and I hope that in a few years I will have blown up and she will read this post and know I was talking about her, and she will remember to not dislike others for who they are but accept them and teach them what she feels she knows and she will then be beautiful both inside and out.

I hated being talked about by someone who didn’t really know who I was. By someone who only judged me using one single encounter. By someone who did not have the guts to come to me and ask me what my deal was, because maybe that would have been the person to help me deal with my stage fright. Maybe her courage would have rubbed off on me and I would have given speeches later on in my life with her in mind and maybe, just maybe, I would have been thankful and a beautiful friendship might have grown from that.

But no. She thought it best to make observations to her friends and leave it at that.

I pray that I never become that. That I never see myself as so superior that other people doing something different to what I am used to warrants me the chance to talk about them to others or to belittle them.

I pray that I do not become the kind of person that feeds off other people’s insecurities since I already know how that feels and I wish it on no one.

I pray that I am able to help those that I can, and that I am able to lift them when they are down and that I am able to make people feel good about themselves when I feel good about myself and that when I don’t, I pray that I will have people to lift me up and help me stay there.

Being angry about something that one is not able to control is a dangerous feeling.

It eats at you from the inside and gives the illusion of self disapproval.

It destroys the light that is meant to shine brighter each day and that has to be the most unhealthy way to live.

That is my two cents.

Evil doesn’t heal evil.

Sincerely, Awuor

Japanese Splitz

I was with another amazing soul today and we were talking of the fundamentals of a happy life. Fundamental. That’s a funny word. 

He said that the Kirubis and Chandarias, with all that coin in their accounts, have a 98 percent chance of not being as happy as the Tom and Harrys who can only afford to get their basic necessities.

I know, this is something we all say. It might, on one part, be the reason behind the phrase “ukifika huko juu usinisahau”. 

Is it that we see the lack of content so early that we have the need to warn our kith and kin to not get overwhelmed by chedda so much that the past slips their minds? 

Today I’m having one of those RnB nights. All that’s going to play is some Fenty, Mariah, Ne-yo, Jordin and a little bit of Mario.

I am also hungry, but when am I not? I’m only a little bit too lazy to get up to cook right now. Plus who has the time to start thinking of what to eat right now? 

There are bigger issues at hand. 

I am avoiding social media tonight because of this yearly catastrophe. 

Saint Valentine’s day is tomorrow, meaning that almost everything that is on my online feed is related to matters of the heart and love and being single-and-not-searching, being single-and-happy, waiting-on-tomorrow and all things that I do not want to relate to right now.

It might seem hypocritical, especially because of the sounds from my speakers, but that’s irrelevant. It is common knowledge that I don’t like the dark.

I need some background noise so that when I turn off the lights, I do not put images of Ryuk (read Ree-yook) in certain shadows cast into this bedsitter by bulbs places outside to act as security lights. 

I get up to scramble the eggs and accomplish my never ending vocation of feeding myself ever so often. I should also join a gym for this developing layer in the area around my abdomen. 

I always thought the tummy could be part of the thorax for humans(because the waist is the separation line like in insects, but the waist is said to also be on the same tummy), and there was no mention of a human thorax in my four years of Biology. 

What my new acquaintance said to me keeps coming back though. How can you not be content with all that life has to offer? If you were stripped of it all, would you be happy? Perhaps feel free from the imprisonment of luxury? 

In honor of “alentine ay”, (I saw a meme about this, if you get it then good for you), I thought I should write of a few things about yours truly.

I like the simpler things in life. The small gestures that hit me right in my core. 

I like quiet nights in and sharing earphones to listen to the same song. 

Crisscrossed pairs of legs and genuine smiles. 

The softest of touches and the silence that comes with it. 

I like looking deep in eyes and falling deeper every time. 

 🎵…and these are a few of my favourite things🎵

I explained this to someone and they said I am a hopeless romantic. 

I have never thought of myself as one, but after she said it, I sat down to think. 

I might be a hopeless romantic. 

Would hearts be more free if the mind gets the freedom it so well deserves?

I might want to love deep and hard. To have one person that makes you smile just by existing. I might want to love so hard and be sure of a heart break. Because only then will you have truly loved. 

I might want a bond so strong it shows in our eyes when other people look at us. A bond so unbreakable it becomes sustainable on its own.

I might also want to argue, not a lot, just enough to get me so infuriated that I go banging doors while walking away. 

I might want to want to hit them just so they too can hurt. To have an anger towards the love I might have for them. 

I might want to dream of being with someone and miss them so bad that I wake up hugging my pillow. I might want to love hard. 

There are people with hearts like the one I think about I hope. People whose sole intention is not to leave as soon as possible. 

People who don’t want to love by the book. People who love outside the box. 

Who want to feel for a human the way I feel for Cadbury Eclairs. 

That they make them happy just by thinking of them, whether they are in the vicinity or on shelves. Whether they are available or not. The satisfaction I get when they are close. 

But then, what if I get bored with them? Not the eclairs. 

I have a short attention span when it comes to people. That’s why I have so few friends. It’s one reason why I want to own a Japanese Splitz one day, in a few years. 

I want to get home from a full day to someone who is as excited to see me as I will be to see them. 

I already know what I would call him. It’s the name my best friend stole from me and gave her cat. She doesn’t know it, but she did give her cat the name I want to give to my future dog. But what are friends for anyway? 

Like I said. I like the simpler things in life. A quiet night in. Socks for a birthday present. 

And as Sean Kingston plays and I wrap up all these lies and illusions I have been telling myself and having all week, have an amazing Valentines, whether you are spending it by yourself or with the ones you hold dear.

Millennial Boychild Doomsday(Part 2)

This past week I have been approached endlessly by the boys who read the first part of this piece, saying that I was only writing about what the girls thought of the situation. Now I tried to convince them that I needed more insight into what their side thought, so I could also tell that side of this story, before I also get accused of belittling the boychild. 

Boys claim to not be able to express themselves. That girls can talk about their issues without being judged by anyone, but once a male child starts saying what bugs him, he is shown contempt and asked to keep to himself. But I have lived with boys, and I don’t know much about other households, but in mine, equal opportunities are to all. 

I have not heard a time when my brother was asked to not speak his mind and this makes me an avid believer that both genders should be allowed to speak out. 

So boys, if you feel like someone will judge you when you ask for an ear to listen to your problems, I am here. Find me, let’s talk and heal together. 

Second, and this was almost unanimous, especially for boys who have younger sisters. Asking for money is hard for guys. I was told that for a girl, all we have to do is phone home and ask for money, and I thought this was the biggest lie of all time. If not, then maybe in my next life I should be a boy, only so I can understand this view. 

It’s not as easy, but they help us girls because we can’t go out to look for that money and still preserve our dignity for you to end up marrying girls with virtue. 

Our parents know that if they refuse to at least have the girl as a priority, it is easy for the family name to get tainted than for the boy who will simply be dusted off and back on the wagon. There were those of you who say that you will treat your boys and girls the same. That you will not let your daughters “misuse” your funds. It’s alright. But remember, I warned you to preserve your girls for the future of your family name, and you chose not to listen. 

There are those guys who are the first generation in their families to go to college instead of driving a tractor. Those who the weight of the success of their families is right on their shoulders and they feel burdened enormously, and then they look at the girl child and see how “easy” it is for her. It really isn’t. 

She has to bear the whistles of your kind and the unflattering remarks when she does not turn because she feels disrespected by the way she is oggled at and then later outwrightly insulted to the amusement of bystanders. 

She has to be strong enough to deal with those of you who undermine her and yet weak enough to have a need for you, because if not, then she is too strong and that can’t be good for your ego. 

She has to watch you have your freedom when she has to preserve herself for when you are ready for her. She deals with your chauvinistic remarks and your sexism yet still looks at your kind for help. 

You might have all these problems (which are not really in dire need if solutions as you claim), and this might only be my point of view, but don’t you see how much she has accomplished? How hard she has fought to get to where she is? 

All you are concerned about, instead, is your stature and how to not let girls stand for themselves. 

I think that the boychild should support each other. 

Create a forum for himself to help his cause. 

Listen to each other, since only you can know what is truly in your hearts. Yes, we know you have hearts, and they get troubled. Talk about it, together, not online. Stop with the comments that are aimed at making the girl child seem like a monster yet so untrue. 

Create awareness about your troubles and concerns. 

Form groups to empower one another. 

Get people to help you with funds to start profitable activities and functions to lift you up. 

If you don’t know how to deal with your situation, since you seem to think it is as bad as the girl child situation was for decades, ask her how she did it, who she looked to for help, and maybe you could learn a thing or two. 

Next time you want to type of how marginalized you are, of how the government focuses more on the girls, or of how much you are becoming an endangered species, remember there was a time that girls were not necessarily taken to school and mothers could kill their newborns when they found that it was not a boy. 

Remember when the girl could not lead her people or speak in public gatherings. When she could not speak her mind and nobody really cared. Then think hard if this is where you are now to call yourself a “sufferer” in these times. 

You are so used to the female being weak that you now feel threatened that she is as strong as you, maybe stronger. 

You settled with the idea that a woman’s place is at home such that when you find her in the office competing for the same job as you or in class doing as good as you, you get afraid of her and resort to try and bring her down. 

How about I let you in on a little secret. The more you try to make her weaker, the more she will encourage herself to soar and the more you will keep complaining without cause. 

Walk with her. Encourage her and she will do even more for you. It’s said that if you give a woman a house she makes it a home. This should motivate you to lift her so she can reach where you are. Deal with your troubles as she did with hers and rise together. Do not burn down then stay in the ashes. Rise. Like the Phoenix. Rise and burn as bright as she is, without trying to put her out. 

For this, karma will thank you. And if you don’t believe in karma, how about you try not diminishing the girl child’s success and sit back. 

PLETHORIC THOUGHTS

Do you know what I think about? 

As an introverted insomniac? 

Sometimes I myself can’t tell

But the few times I have 

I still thought of being alone 

Of food, deliciously tasty

Of strangers that will become friends 

And friends that are now strangers

I build so many castles in the air Disney should hire me

Then I think of war

And of strands of hair

Of innocent little beings

And of weather so cold it causes frost bite

I think of nothing and all things

And I don’t know when or how I think it all

©Awuor