Yogaman

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It is in the evening of 12th, on a warm Sunday. Ruling inside of me is this anxiety that nothing can kill, pushing me to the edge of fretfulness because that’s what anxiety does to people. I cannot stay at one spot, or even think clearly; everything seems to move gradually, in a way that irritates me and makes me more anxious. I have been always anxious when heading out especially to new places with new experiences, or when even meeting new people.

Could it be that I have a rich imagination that is so busty and can’t wait? Is it that fear is curling inside my stomach and I don’t have the balls to fight them? Not really, I would say. As many will say, it is normal. But again is it really normal? Or is it me trying to find comfort in my weakness in how I handle my emotions?

I take a bus to town. With me is a black travel bag and a back pack with a laptop. The travel bag is brimming with clothes and shoes. I throw it at the floor of the bus, clutch to my back pack tightly and try to scare any thoughts coming my way by trying to sleep; much of which is pretense.

To be true, all I need is a woman to rub my back and I, leaning my head on her thighs; listening to the silence of her womb and the gentle feeling of her delicately soft hands- something to calm me down. There isn’t any coming, plus I am in a bus. So I throw all my thoughts away to the winds, abhorrent winds, breathe profoundly and attempt to regain calm. My stomach is twitching in so many ways that I can hardly find a word to describe the inclination- a feeling with no name.

Everything suddenly starts to sound far and far as I close my eyes. Moment by moment my brain shuts its doors, sending me to this land where anxiety is inconceivable, leave alone pain or musings or stress. A real world that we only see when we’re very unaware because our minds are temporarily dead. Death would be beautiful thing then if the world we were to go next would be so serene.

The clamour, the chirps,the honks, the voices, all ebb away and there is aggravating silence…in a good way because it is silence you don’t notice. And I die. For few minutes before there is a tap on my left shoulder. Is there a need to come back really? To what? Why? Can’t I just exist in that world for a while without disturbance?

I hand over 50 shillings to the tout. There is an old folk seated next to me who naturally can’t control his breathing.  You can feel it even with earphones on. This is no the normal breathing because I can feel his breathing pressing the walls of my body and endeavouring to collapse my bones and system.The heavy breathing distracts me so much. For people like me who love fitness and would do anything to stay healthy, such breathing would be taken for loss of direction in personal discipline. But who am I to judge him? Is he a lesser human being at this moment than I am?

Again I have to compel myself back into the world that I just rose from. The world of the dead. Sleep snatches me away from all the jumble around me. Tranquil hugs and peace kisses my brow as my head leans softly on the window.

It is funny that today is two weeks later and so many things have changed after that. I, together with 99 other participants from 14 countries are bundled in KU for a Yali training.

Things are moving fast and in the course of the past two weeks the excitement has faded now that we’ve gone past the personal guards of pride, fear, language barriers, semantic barriers and many other perceptions.

Without a doubt, we’re getting settled with each other and becoming more acquainted with more about individual existences of individuals. Kinships and ties are getting to be starker and there is a climate of exuberance and directional companionship among us. .

My roommate is Ethiopian with a Sellasie name attached to his name. Many could mistake him for a guy from UAE because he looks so. There was much to talk about when we initially met. But as time goes by, there is less to talk and there is more peace.

But one thing that is more pronounced after the two weeks is that I have been baptised YOGAMAN. If you asked me if I like this moniker, I would say I don’t hate it. There is such a great amount to be joined to something.It influences me to feel like there is something that is unique about the things I do, including private yoga sessions at my room 210, where woman learners come in bikini.

While many felt felt that the thought was advancing some type of wantonness, confusing my aims, furtively the exchange is picking up popularity and importance. The possibility of yoga exuded when I went out last Saturday with my newly formed friends who wanted to see Nairobi city as they came from different nationalities. A large percentage being ladies. We were three guys, two Kenyans and this big guy from Central African Republic (CAR) with a name that alludes to powder we use to do our laundry.

While sitting at the first floor of Pizza Inn, we had this conversation whereby my friend from CAR brought up the issue of yoga and to some degree implied that we should begin doing some with our women, which some way or another, turned into a mysterious assention. Being as proactive as I am, I took to the thought and wound up sober minded. I had two effective sessions, significantly more fruitful sessions from that point and before I even knew, Yogaman was my street name.

When I look around, comparing the man I was when I first entered a YALI class, and the man I am now I guess much has changed. Most of my beliefs have been enhanced, I have become more open-minded as well as more composed. Earlier on, I didn’t care much about people, not that I care now, but I have learnt to understand them more.

This piece is one of my efforts to clear the cobwebs that are muzzling my writing culture for this year as this is my first article this year. That said, there is also a need to say that we’re sorry for the few challenges we’ve been having as the blog was down for the last two weeks. Now that we’re back, I hope that you forgive me, and look forward to having a great time.

 

 

With love

Mzangila Snr (Yogaman)

Where shall we go, we who wander in this wasteland in search of better selves?

 

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About Mzangila

Mentor, media consultant, photographer, editor, poet, writer, and counselor.

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