I really want to believe that this is juice streaming back to my deserted mind. For a minute, I’ve been hooked up in strange dalliances with laziness, her brother procrastination and his main relative, unrelenting comfort. When comfort is unrelenting, it exactly means that you find more reasons to be alive in it than when you’re out of it. It is the kind of comfort zone that is hard working, breaking a nerve to keep you pinned down as you watch your life waste away before your eyes. And if you’re asking if I have found relief in this unrelenting comfort zone, I’d say I haven’t. Every other day seems to be pretty much the same. Wake up. Work out. Sit down. Eat. Read. Watch movies. Sleep. Repeat.
The only thing that I can say about this routine is that I haven’t felt sad at any given time, except the few trying times like last week when I had to watch a dear friend of mine bleed to death on an OR table. It was the saddest day in my 2020, perhaps the only day that I cried unapologetically. I had a reason to make and feel a mess. Other days when I cry, the process never lasts a minute because midway I’ll realize it’s stupid for me to cry. I would then slap myself on the butt and compose myself, and face the oncoming world.
I haven’t yet found the best way to process pain that comes with death of loved ones. You can’t handle death when you witness someone you love bleed on a table and die, a table full of highly decorated doctors and surgeons, who can’t do anything to reverse the situation despite you and a few friends selling even their kidney and last cow to pay for that surgery, after countless hospital visits and bills. It can only mean that she was meant to die. It was her entitlement. But you’ll never understand that even if you get to know that there’s nothing you can do to bring them back to life.
I sauntered to a chair, hauled myself at it, seething with both anger and grief. In this moment, I cried for all my unfixed emotional turmoil. All I could imagine is the thought of not seeing her, or talking to her, or even going out with her to trade stories and useless banters about the purpose of life, one we have always tried to find out since our childhood days. I felt alone, dejected and embraced by death. I was scared and torn up, and I almost raised a white flag to say ‘I surrender.’ There was unhinged chaos battering my mind from every direction, and in a moment, I felt it could drive me crazy had someone not called to ask me about the money I owed them. That call sobered me up, for real, reminding me of the baggage that comes with being alive in a world with no purpose, that I had other obligations waiting for me even after losing her, her that meant so much to me.
There was no particular way to express my situation to the caller on the other side because I highly doubted if that caller would understand what a murky situation I was in. I knew I needed to sort that business asap, but I had spent every little penny I had to save a live, one that was now lifeless on a table. I remember the lead surgeon saying, ‘Time of death, 10.48am.’ That was like a gong banging in my mind. Those words keep me awake at night. They go with me everywhere I go.
Grief brings certain kind of sadness that helps me write. Grief pushes me to the end of the world involuntarily, and back, like a pendulum swinging back and forth. It gives me both purpose and vanity. One time I am very sad, another moment I am pursuing dreams that had been long overdue. It is unexplainable how I manage to survive amidst those two conniving feelings. I often feel grief steals from me in one hand, and then gives back in another hand, like how our politicians do. They come and steal from us so that we become miserable. When they’ve seen we are miserable enough, they show up to save us by dishing out a part of what they stole from us to us. That way, they will look honourable. That’s how I feel my grief is dealing me, with a give and take hand. I can’t be mad at how I am feeling. I have this belief that with time I get to metamorphose and become a better person. Dark places help me come up rather than going down. They give me more strength to fight. Light always wins.
In my efforts to diversify my ambitions, and chase passions and dreams, I’ve been immersing myself in mentorship, counseling and fitness. I started this immediately Corona became a pandemic. I viewed my skills as a tool to help others when they are out of their comfort zones. So I took 10 students under my tutelage. There were more requests but I dropped most in the early days when I realized they weren’t ready for a makeover. There are many of such people; those who want to be everywhere something comes up, but with no passion or commitment to the course. They just want to be part of something, without ever lifting a finger of contribution or even trying it out for themselves. I can’t deal a lazy ass person, or one who puts money first.
I like 10. 10 is my lucky number. There’s no science or history as to how I came to love it. Among the topics I was covering, fitness took the lion’s share. You know why? Because most of us were born poor, grew up in poor neighbourhoods, got fed with wrong information about good life, and when we finally landed the good life, we made poor choices and ended up where we always hated when we were young and poor.
This is how it can be explained. Poor eats greens, works hard, lives manageably, breathes fresh air, has time to rest- but feels it’s the worst way to live. So he or she views the rich as- driving a car, eating burgers in KFC or where people eat burgers (I don’t know), live in a large house in the surburbs, have workers/helps who do everything for them, except sleeping, go out every week night to have drinks, work in big offices- as the best way to live. So when such a person makes it, depending on their success threshold, he imbibes the middle class bourgeois, in whichever way it comes because he believes it’s the best way to live.
In a few years, someone is having a mid life crisis- stress, high blood pleasure, unhealthy body, cannot walk up the stairs to second floor, can’t breathe well, can’t do the basic chores comfortably and so on. He becomes incapacitated in a way and soon he wants to revert to the old way of life where he could eat healthy, work hard, walk long distances, run on the streets, walk to work, be able to drink porridge, have a deep slumber, enjoy a banter with ordinary folks and so on. You see that!
It is not in my place to correct that because society is not my responsibility. But it is also my responsibility to ensure wellness of my neighbor for the betterment of the society. That way he will be able to deal with his shit, the shit I’ll have been dealing with if he were unable to handle it.
In the coming weeks two or three more dropped. My girlfriend dropped recently. Haha. I couldn’t motivate her enough. Right now, I have a new group of 10 women in their early and mid thirties. Mothers. Wives. Lovers. Week one ended today. And I am enjoying every bit of it. I am piloting a new fitness programme which I hope to begin soon enough. It is an immersive programme that requires one client at time for a period of three to six months of daily workouts (mental, spiritual and physical). All of the ladies in the team are willing to give it a shot, that’s where the problem is because they have means and are needy.
This is the latest development, and it is one of the best right now because from it comes newness, cheerfulness, tranquility and happiness. For the last five days, there hasn’t been a day that I haven’t smiled or laughed. I have enjoyed most bits, to say the least.
A few others had taken interest in self development, book writing, and business ideas development. Some also gave on the way. It gave me a break to focus on my appalling laziness and unrelenting comfort. Wake up, eat, exercise, read, movies, sleep. You’re wondering where I got my money from while taking a vacation like this. I also don’t know. But there isn’t a day I’ve slept hungry in this period. The gods must have been watching and taking care of me.
In my unrelenting comfort, I have managed to ravish through books. Is there another orgasmic thing apart from ejaculating, other than reading a good book? Well, there might be, like waking up at night and from your bedroom window taking a leak five stories down. Hehe. Try that. Of course you have to be a man to do that, because how do you urinate down a window minus a penis?
I bought this collection of ebooks from a certain lady, 50 books on African politics, for just 100 bob. Such books can be quite hard to concentrate on because they don’t have creativity, just cumulative narrating of occurrences, but when you have a knack for knowledge hunting you tear through their pages with equal pleasure. One might not be wealthy, or honourable, live in decent place, have a running business, or even wear decently, but if one invests in harnessing knowledge, you’re the richest person because when it comes to getting things done, you’ll have the knowledge (you become a resource). I don’t know of a single successful person who doesn’t read often. You don’t have to read every day, but try to do a book a month, starting with books you love. That way you won’t have to struggle carrying out a compelling conversation on nature of things.
People who don’t read end up becoming stupid. Their minds die due to lack of frequent knowledge nourishment. With time they cannot even carry out a normal conversation with another normal person, they cannot argue or debate as they’ve no knowledge to draw their arguments from, so they are discarded from the society and branded fools because they can only excel at folly. Reading keeps someone young.
If you are going to buy me a gift, I’m not saying that you do, get me a good book. I don’t mind how old it is, just get it.
As I stated earlier, I want to belief that this is my creative juice coming back home. I’ve been docked for long, abandoned and forgotten, like I don’t belong in a world where I once reigned. But I am also reminded that even kings get stripped off their titles to become ordinary men, only to earn their titles back with time, when time is right. To mean I have a shot. I want to write the dark stories in my mind, the long terrible tales I have heard from people this year, the harrowing experiences that have marred my existence this year, my several losses, my humble wins, my happy stories, my intrigues; stories of saving the world, stories of the world saving me, stories of my loneliness, stories of my nasty paradigms, and so on. I miss tapping the keys on my computer. I miss tapping an ass on the dancing floor. I miss eating mutura at night without imaging how it looks in reality. I wanna have more night stands. I wanna come back home in the evening and hug my bed because I missed it all day. I wanna go for road trips and hikes. I want to be able to carry my camera and go hunting for nude photography. I want to edit nipples on my photoshop. I want to see nakedness, other than mine.
I wanna have long evening walks the way I used to. I want to experience the calm of the streets at night. I want to lie down and watch the stars, or even admire the receding moon. I want to walk along Yaya at night and sample out commercial workers as they wait for someone to pick them up for an unscheduled appointment.
I want to take my woman out on a date and share a romantic evening in a nice hotel. I want to feel normal again, because right now my normal is deadlier. I am tired of the kids running outside while screaming their lungs out. I am tired of the gossip going on kwa plot every damn day. I’m tired of seeing the same familiar faces from morning to evening. I am tired of the new neighbours who come home drunk every night singing loudly. The other day I had to add another padlock to their door as payback. They had to sleep outside on the cold verandah until morning. I am tired of walking the same road because I am becoming familiar with everyone, familiarity breeds contempt, making me feel guilty if I don’t greet them. I am tired of young girls seducing me right from their balconies as if I’m a sex toy to them.
I am tired of parents who want me to tutor their kids, kids that don’t want to be tutored. I am tired of kids, adolescent kids, who think they already know the world, rude motherfuckers. I am tired of the secret eyes my neighbour’s wife keeps throwing at me every time I’m from making out with my girlfriend. I know she hangs around my crib when my woman is around, so she must be listening to her moan when shit happens. I am tired of living with myself. I am tired of watching movies all day, they aren’t enchanting anymore. I am tired of these empty-headed girls who text hi every time, and then expect you to entertain them while they reply with laughing emojis. I always wonder why they can’t think out of the box even for once and text something brilliant or even funny. They don’t understand humour, sad bitches.
I want to meet new people. I want to listen to different stories. I want to travel and see the world from another lens. I want to watch birds mate. I want to see a lion maul an elephant. I want to sit in a group of intellectuals and listen to their smart talks. I want to go out on dates with pretentious ladies and just have a fun night, and never to follow up with a text or call.
I want to jump into a train and head to Mombasa for a baby bump shoot on the beach. I want to be true in the moment of choice, but I can’t because of the contingencies.
But what I want most is for my magic hand to come back to me, for without it, I don’t matter anymore.
Where shall we go, we who wander in this wastelands in search of better selves?