Let us be human, and be open to siren songs of death cheated in the hope that lives shall be lived. Let us refuse to fall culprits into systematic robotic lives
programs because, we are human, not machines.
The 16 year term will come to an end soon.
I will graduate alongside myriads of other learned friends, throw our mortarboards in the air, and spend the night selecting the best shots and narrating our ordeals in social media. It’s been a long and excruciating journey after all, only, adulthood awaits. The only thing worse than the uncertainty at this stage is probably only the education system itself.
Only now that I know that my definition of success is not what we were told to chase after in the end. That all the math I thought I had mastered is not enough to add up all the missing figures (and letters, for that) in the equation. And really, that angers me
I’m terrified by the prospect of finishing school and not knowing what comes next. Terribly terrified of being caught in the salary trap. Scared of falling into mediocre, robotic lives. But what scares me the most, is the idea of locking dreams away in a closet saying that i’ll come back for them later. Scared that the constant sight of men in suits and ties and the smell of the corporate world will suffocate me before I’m able to return and take the dreams out of the closet.
Let us thus find our own truths and stick to them, or them to us.
Let us take a step back, that we may move forward.
Mother’s disciplinary actions are quite quirky.
She throws this very deep proverbial phrases and explains them with an even deeper non-proverbial phrase. Kiswahili has a way of making the words sound wiser, I figured. Because she will say something and seal it with “yazingatie hayo”. And really, there will be nothing to zingatia.
The latest one was “Nenda ukirudi na nyuma pia”
When she said it the first time, I brushed it off, like all the others. But for some reason it refused to leave. It needed to be zingatiwad, this one. What was this force and why was it insisting on moving backwards?
Life is large, a bit too large.
And when you’re just beginning to discover it, it’s a tad too easy to get lost. You get lost in the quest of being a writer. Of achieving your dreams. Of finding love. You get lost in the jitters of finishing school and wondering what comes next. You get lost in seeking the paper. There’s always one more thing after the last. So it’s important to take a step back and draw and redraw the master plan.
My faith fell, and is probably still falling. Like gravity is taking it away from me and like all nature’s calls you respond.
But this is a fight I have to fight, and eventually win. Because it is worth all the while fighting for. Nowadays I pray but i’m not actually praying. I’m thinking about everything but God. I’m even thinking about how i’m not thinking about Him. I think of how my hands are recklessly raised above my shoulders as I prepare to go down for an even more reckless sujood, wherein I shall mumble what i’m supposed to say and go back up. I miss the days when my head would rest on the ground and for that moment in time everything would flee and I would know, even for a second, a piece of peace. I miss when God and I would sit and talk about, all the silly little nothings i’d come up with and how we’d laugh and whine over how hard it had become. He almost always had the last laugh. The days when the words in my epistles to Him would travel from the heart-depths and i’d feel the weight as they left my tongue. Nowadays the words are mumbled off the tongue so lightly I can barely feel them leave.
So here’s to taking a step back. Turudi nyuma kidogo, anavosema mama.
Let us jump off the cliff!
There is an enigmatic beauty in spontaneity. And those decisions where your seemingly pushed off the cliff seem to always be the best. Quitting school, (too late for this now) Quitting your job, (let’s find one first at least) or deciding to dreadlock the hair!
Allow me to be mundane here, and make a very big fuss out of this hair.
14 months ago, with the help of a friend (Thank you Sheri!), we boarded a matatu to a salon in Kahawa West. I had to request for a female loctician as I wasn’t comfortable with a guy doing my hair. It was a very small space, with Bob Marley’s reggae music playing, as if it had some role to play in the business of locking the hairs. Which of course made it a very lively and noisy place too.
The salon is dedicated for dreadlocks, and is surprisingly always teeming with clients. Babies, men, young women all of them they go there and have their hairs dreadlocked. Maybe because it’s cool. Or it’s the in thing. I don’t know.
This hair has shaped a lot of what I am today. I grew into this zone where I was comfortable with who I was, and cared less about what people thought and said. These little babies have become a big part of me. A big and happy part of me, that came with a new sort of courage I had never before known, and a somewhat immense self-belief that has been sewn onto me. Even when people see meek, polite and sweet on the outside when they see me, I can almost hear the hair whisper ‘brave rebel! Brave rebel! Brave rebel!’ in the ruffled up pompadour beneath my hijab, and I smile. They think I smile at their compliments but really I’m just having a moment with my little ones. My point is, the bad decisions, often made on a whim, are almost always the best. But that’s not the point exactly. The actual point is, Jump off that cliff!
Let us be lovers, lay ourselves bare and strip ourselves off, into layers of vulnerability.
Writing, every time I think about it, I cringe. A journey so far yet so near. I wonder often if these words will hold, and be what I want them to be. If i’ll find myself, and my way with them. If I will ever be entitled to call writing mine, and if it wants to be mine as much as I want it.
Do me well, love. Please.