‘From your mom.’
‘ To Justine.’ Like the old way of how we used to write love letters to girls during high school.
It is a Monday morning when I go to collect a parcel from Timo. Timo is a close friend whose postal address I have been using to import things when I need to- sometimes. Without him, many of my things might have taken an early leave. This parcel was mysterious as I had not expected any delivery anytime soon. Timo had gone to pick his mails when he got a notification, decided to pass by the store with the receipt and pick it.
Timo was taken aback when he saw ‘from your mom’ inscribed on it. For all he knows, my mother is dead, and will never be alive. So he panicked a lot- because he called immediately in a horrified voice. It was around 9 in the morning. Since I was still deep in sleep, I ignored the call. But his incessant calls made me pick it.
‘Dude! You need to come over right now. Your mother just woke up!” he was still terrified- sounding like someone hidden in a corner of a dark dungeon, where a glaring devil with shiny eyes is approaching slowly and relentlessly.
The sleep in my eyes scattered, I wiped my eyes and tried to think of what I just heard.
“What! What’s going on man?” I asked trying to seek clarification so that I could better understand the hullabaloo going on around me.
“You need to see this. Just come over.” And the line went dead.
I left my bed outspread- I had to because I love cleanliness and hygiene. I hit the shower and left for town. I found the guy seating at a corner of Sizzling Grill balcony. On a table beside his, a bag lay potently on it; like a bag of bhang because it looked abandoned and he didn’t want to be part of it. He was so pensive.
“Dude, what’s up?” I ask him
“Shit came up man. See for yourself.” He points towards the bag.
So I take the bag and retrieve its contents, pouring them on the square table just before Grace shows up to take an order. Since it’s a la carte, I request for tea and chapatti while Timo sits there frozen. He only makes no signs using his face.
There is a huge box. Okay, it is not huge but it could fit two number 14 pairs of shoes. On the upper left side of the box- From your mom. Just below it- To Justine.
I open it in a jiffy. None of us knew what to expect but we surely understood that my mother couldn’t resurrect in this day of life. There was a brief note folded neatly at the top. I grabbed it and read this letter from hell.
It is been quite a while. It is my hope that you’re okay and doing well.
I am curious to know how big you’ve grown since I couldn’t find any pictures on your Facebook account. But I hope you’re a big boy now. I miss you and hope to see you soon.
It is around 6 years now since I last saw or heard from Tracy. This letter kind of surprised me because I didn’t understand how she managed to send me that letter. Or how she managed to snoop my Facebook profile. But of importance, my mother had not resurrected from death.
I recall Tracy with a lot of wistfulness. She was a cougar I used to smash in form three. The last I saw her was the end of 2010- she had dropped me at school and pushed a bundle of notes into my butt pocket as she pecked me on the cheek. I waved at her and wished she didn’t have to go.
In a way, our relationship had grown from that of cougar and toyboy to mom and son. After my mother’s demise in late 1998, a huge gap was left in my life that later would be filled by wrong people. The lack of the motherly love saw me grow affection towards older women as I saw my mother in them. Many women passed through my life, some acting the role while others passing by like pedestrians who had stopped briefly at a bus station.
With Tracy it was different. After many years of search and broken or lacking motherly love, I landed on one that could change my whole life at that phase. Tracy became not only a friend but also understood my needs as a mother would do. The only odd thing that stood out in the relationship was the sex, which with time lost its meaning when it was clear enough that Tracy had started seeing me more of a son than a toyboy.
She didn’t have children of her own. To be more precise, she didn’t have a husband or a family. I remember very well receiving news of her permanent move to the US after my form three end of year exams. This, to this date, proved to be heartbreaking as much as the death of my mother. She left me alone, and on the pedestal of desperation and confusion. It was the last I heard from her.
So this brief erupted all the emotions stifled inside me. I quivered for a moment. It was a small note yet so powerful as it revived my hope of seeing one of the best persons I ever loved in my life. My love for her was veritable and open.
Beneath, there were like 5 boxers. It was one of those stunning imaginations that one doesn’t wanna envision. Why on earth could she send me boxers? Even Timo laughed.
“Duuude….what! Boxers! No way man.”
Deep inside, I saw love. The fact that she remembered me after so many years of disengagement, and still send me something of such significance weighed heavily on me with emotions- that she still cares for me. There were also a few body sprays and a shaver.
I closed the box and told Timo, “My mother just rose. Looks like it is gonna be the best time of my life.” Of course, he looked at me like you could at a lunatic. And then asked, “Who is Tracy man?”
A few seconds pass by because I am delighting in the idea that I’ll see Tracy soon. She might be 41 right now because I met her at 35. “Some mathee I used to bang back then.”
“So now she affords to call you son?” he queries.
“It is more complicated than it looks like,” I tell him as I pick the bag and flag him to get up. My tea sits frosty on the table as we leave, plus a few notes to foot the bill. I don’t want to tackle the subject further with him.
In my adult life, right now- I have four boxers. All bought this year though not simultaneously. Before, I had only two before I felt the scantiness and decided to add some from the guys who sell merchandise at Kawangware market, by the roadside on wheelbarrows. At every shower, I wash the boxer I am or was wearing that day and air it outside. So it is possible to operate with two boxers because by the next shower, probably the next day, the boxer I washed yesterday would have dried and ready to slide into my body.
Having this huge stock of four saw me become rich in matters pertaining to underwears. What I discovered is that I only wore, at most, three of them. It is recently I realized that of the four, there is one I have never worn.
From this new stock, it meant I had to really work hard to ensure that I wear a different one each day. Mostly, I buy the same colour, making it hard for me to differentiate which is which. Tracy’s were cotton and very comfy. The quality was high and they had a tag of 6 dollars on each, meaning she had spent a fortune to keep my crotch and member well protected.
In our life, as men, there are a few things that prove difficult for us to buy. These include- underwears, socks, vests, and hankies. We become lazy on these and we end up embarrassing ourselves publicly when people see our torn underwears.
One thing I am good at is shopping socks and hankies. I can still count the torn vests in my possession right now- meaning I am poor in that sector. I have worn much worn out boxers a number of times. At least I keep one for emergencies. There is a time you can find that someone accidentally washed all your boxers, and the one on you has lasted three days so it cannot, at all cost, sustain you one more day. So you hit the savior, and trust me- it is the day people see your old boxer.
My mother might have resurrected, but most probably she understood or understands my shortcomings and helps me deal with them. I see the light at the end of the tunnel moving closer fast.
On a different note
We have new writers on the block. As you can imagine, we’re magnanimous people who offer a platform for others to grow. Our main purpose is to help one another because we shall succeed together. So I kindly request you to welcome Joseph Ngugi and Moseti Charles.
Joseph writes on Mondays and Fridays, I handle Wednesdays. Moseti will be handling men of the cloth- as Jenifer Alison (our CEO and Boss) tells me. He shall reign on Thursdays thrilling you with what is going on in the SDA world- focusing on both women and men.
As you can see, our house has a new order now. I figured since I am in-charge of blogging, that we can put our house in order for easy navigation as well as a perfect experience for our readers. So we’ve bundled articles belonging to each category and arranged the categories vertically, that way, you have the freedom to go straight to what you want- although we’re still working on it for better functionality. We have included the following new sections- interviews, photography and Mzangila Network.
Lastly, this is to bring to your attention that we intend to interview young business moguls in Kenya (30 years and below), within Nairobi, who have stood out in their entrepreneurial journeys. We want to share and inspire young and upcoming entrepreneurs so that they can spur the growth of their businesses- not limited to any particular sector. If you know such a person, shoot us an email with their contacts through firstname.lastname@example.org.
We’re also looking for a photographer who wants to sell their work to occupy our photography category. We want that pomp and colour to fill this category, bring life and energy to this blog. All we’re looking for is smiles and life. Not animals or nature. Again if you know anyone who might be interested, in Nairobi, contact us through email@example.com .
Editor. I mean someone who understands how editing looks like on the inside and with little experience to know what is good and what is not- not just editing anything and everything. No experience needed but should be able to do a good job, highly reliable and ready to work under pressure to deliver quality work. One month probono basis and later on a payroll. Email Jenifer Alison using firstname.lastname@example.org . Please don’t confuse the two email addresses. They not the same.
Where shall we go, we who wander in this wasteland in search of better selves?