A Strange Sameness

Stupid immature prick! That’s what I should have called him, a stupid immature prick. Maybe not stupid, but immature and prick, definitely. Instead I went on and on about loyalty and betrayal; how he had broken something between us, an invisible cord, thin and thready, the only thing holding us together. Now there was nothing, only the realization that we had lost whatever we had, lost it in the abyss of things that could never be unsaid, undone.

Mutua always says anger and bitterness are like a poison, wasting away your body as you watch and wait for it to kill your enemy. But what does Mutua know anyway? He is old, an old man, and way beyond his time. Maybe things were as he says in his day, but things have changed, dynamics are different, today people act differently, relate differently, Mutua himself acknowledges the fact that these are different times, he has no right invading my thoughts, putting words in my head, beautiful words by which his whole existence makes sense.

Anyway, I should give it some time, maybe he’ll call, talk to me, explain himself, or better yet apologize. But then again my expectations will once again leave me staring at the wide gap between them and reality. Expectation and reality are always worlds apart; I hear Mutua’s words in my head again. I hate that the old man’s words are always around me, I should have been more cautious, I shouldn't have let him fill my head with his nonsense teachings. Anyway, I don’t think my expectations will be met, they’ll probably stand there like a lonely lover on a dimly lit corner, waiting, waiting to be met, to be validated, but reality will not come, and maybe my expectations too will be as frustrated with reality and maybe they too will think of reality as a stupid immature prick; I guess that’s just how life is, a barrage of immature pricks waving, winking, saying, smiling, as you wait for Mister Right to come riding his white horse of expectation, which will never come.

Maybe I’m overreacting, overanalyzing. I’ve been called overdramatic before; then again, me? Overdramatic? I’m the victim here! Mutua would…. There go the old man’s words again! What’s with old people and thinking they know so much anyway? Entitlement issues, that’s what it is. You live long enough and at some point you will think that the world owes you something. You think it’s the world’s fault that you have milky cataracts in your eyes, or that you lost all your teeth, or that your back doesn't stand straight anymore. Or that you lost the flawless features on your face and now the furrows on your brow stand strong, valleys deep enough to swallow worry and concern and leave you in a state of perpetual peace and seeming wisdom. It is not anyone’s fault, it is not the world’s fault that you lived this long. If you want someone to blame…. I’m getting carried away. It’s not Mutua I’m angry at.

Maybe I should call him and tell him what I think, but he will probably ignore my call. I should write him an email instead, tell him how immature he was to do what he did, tell him that I now realize that I had been wasting my time, that we were never going to be together. That I should have known right from the start, when he used the word wait more than he said my name. I should have seen it in his eyes when I noticed that they never really met with mine, that they always skirted about my face and then stayed fixed, just above my shoulder, beyond me. I should have known that his spirit was never in tandem with mine and that his was always meant for something else, someone else. Forget the email, I’m beginning to sound like Mutua. Come to think of it, what is the difference between these two? Age? Experience? How they relate to me? One is the fool I decided to give my heart to, the other is the one who saw a fool to give his heart to. But both are one thing, both are the same. It doesn't matter who they are, a failed boyfriend, a friendly grandfather, all are cut from the same cloth, both are the bane of what is wrong with the world, both are filthy beasts which I want nothing to do with, creatures I can live without, beings the world does not need; both are men.

Both fill me with angst. One takes over my heart the other my mind. My words are swallowed by want, a wanting to tell this man how he hurt me, how in his indecision my life stopped and now I can’t remember how to walk without my hand being held. My words are swallowed with feigned wisdom, borrowed genius, of a man who taught me all I know, and now I do not remember what I know, what I knew, who I am, who I was. I am caught between these two forces, and now I fall into an abyss, further and further from the truth, from who I am.

The immature prick and the old man. Antonyms, funny. Immature is old and man is prick. Sameness. A strange sameness.

Maybe I should let them be, assume that all they did was be who they knew they were. Maybe the problem is I don’t know who I am. Maybe I’m living a borrowed life. Maybe I just need to let go of both and walk my path. Learn.

Sigh, I’ll let it go. Immature prick can take his nonsense somewhere else, maybe he will learn to look into the eyes of the poor girl he charms next. Maybe she’ll wait like he wants. Maybe she’ll convince his scared heart that she can take care of it, like I couldn't.

Old man, grandpa, Mutua. Maybe I should keep this one close. Every day he sits waiting for the gracious horseman to bring with him sweet death, and though I won’t admit it, I pray the horseman takes his time, for whether I like it or not, I am him.

I am him.  

#SmallFatesKe: The Old Man

Everyone saw it, the dark blue Toyota Vitz with the bloody back seat. Everyone also noticed how the two men handled the old man; like used diapers, pinky fingers sticking out, noses facing away trying to smell something on their backs. The rumor started immediately the tiny car pulled off the emergency parking, and soon after, everyone knew the story of the man who bled from everywhere.

The collective gasp of the doctors almost sucked all the air out of Mombasa when one of them suggested that the 61 year old man might be ailing from Ebola. The man, who's bleeding they could not stop, was placed in a shoddy quarantine and handled with two pairs of gloves and two masks, for extra care. Later, when the tests came back, Peter Simiyu, the Coast Director of Medical Services, wiped his brow and breathed a sigh of relief, "We can now celebrate," he told a nurse as the old man was moved, unconscious, to the general ward, "at least his severe bleeding will not kill us as well." 

Her Mother Died

Her mother died on Monday, or Tuesday, you are not sure. Diabetes. For some reason they thought you would be the best person to break the news, never mind that it has been two years since you last saw her. So you call her and arrange to meet. At first she does not know who she is talking to, then a few awkward words later she recognizes your voice, and you listen to the excitement, and the Oh My Gods, and agree to meet on Thursday next week. She picks the venue.

She seems smaller. You hug her and feel it. She pulls away quickly, and then reaches for her chair. You follow, slowly and cautiously. She asks many questions about home, and you try to answer all of them. She doesn’t ask about her mother. After a short while you both go quiet. “I should have told you I was leaving.” Her eyes are fixed on yours, she caught you unaware and now you have to think of something to say, something that will throw her off the scent of your emotions. “It’s okay, I understood that you had to leave.” You manage, and then you reach out for your iced mocha, because suddenly your throat feels like you swallowed a thousand coins. Silence.

“How is the city treating you?” You ask, trying to change the topic, trying to pull her away from where she stands, a place where she sees your vulnerability. She doesn’t barge. “I thought about you every single day that first year.” You didn’t see that coming. You reach out for your glass, it’s almost empty. You swallow the last of your drink, and then the words gargle out of your mouth, “Let’s not talk about that, please.”

She reaches for her mug, and buries her nose in it, then places it gently on the table. “The first few months were the hardest. I got a job at some restaurant, it didn’t pay well, but I met some people who helped me settle.” “After two months I got a job at a movie place, then started my own MPesa shop. After a short while I decided to draft my CV, and got a job as a blogger for some company. Now I write fulltime, I like it a lot.” You watch her as she speaks, you take in each word, and feel the loneliness, the strength, the resolve, and then you feel it in your gut, hard like a punch, the realization that she did it all without you, that she did not need you. “You should have called me, I could have helped.” The words fight hard to come out. She doesn’t say anything.

It’s been two hours. You need to tell her about her mother but you do not know where or how to start. “Do you plan on going back home?” You ask. “Not really, there is nothing to go back to.” Her words plough at you, you feel the way you did two years ago when she left; hurt, betrayed and abandoned. “What about me?” You ask, then immediately regret it. “What about you Biko?” She asks, her voice breaking slightly, “but I explained to you why I had to leave.” She adds.

You aren’t sure if you are angry but something in you has changed. “All you did was leave me a badly written letter telling me things that didn’t make sense.” Badly written letter the words float about your mind, they were unnecessary, and you know it. She lets it pass, she knows you too well. She knows how you get when you are angry. “You were my best friend Biko, but our friendship was laced with attraction, with a desire to become your lover one day, I wasn’t ready for that.” She says this leaning forward, her back hunched as if trying to get as close to you as possible. “Biko I needed to be alone.”

A lean yellow hand reaches for your empty glass and places a leather bound wallet on the table. You stare at it, then at the white mug with her long fingers wrapped around it. Her nail polish is chipped. You look at the cracks and think of your own, and you watch as your emotions sip through the cracks, through the walls you had built the last several months.

“So, do you ever miss home? Me?” You ask.

“Not really,” she says, her eyes staring out of the window next to us, “I’m so glad I came.”

“Why is that?” You ask, staring at her face, taking in all that the light throws at you.

Her eyes start to water, and then she looks at you. You see those eyes, familiar eyes, eyes that carry you back to your childhood, back to when things made sense, when your whole world was just about you two.

“Because I am so in love with a girl right now.”

You don’t know what to say. You want to throw up. Everything moves at super speed then nothing moves at all.

“Your mother died.” You say, and then you swallow the hate that has been dancing all the while, in your mouth.

The Deliverance of Comfort

I wasn’t supposed to write this, but for some reason I felt compelled to. I felt you needed to know the truth so I gathered enough courage and decide to write. The truth is I wasn’t really writing for you, but for me. I needed to write this more than you needed to read it, though reading it will give you more peace than writing it did me.

There is a noise, faint and continuous, coming from the wall. It sounds like a metronome, marking the time to life’s heartbeat, slowly, like it will soon stop. So I write faster, to you, but for me.

Hope you can read my writing. I tried to change it, but his hand is strong on mine, and every few words remind me of him. Of course you know I’m talking about Mark; and no I will not call him by any other name. A man should earn his title, and mark was never a father, at least not to me. So my life has been about being as different from him as possible, but all I have learnt is in life we become what we run to and what we run from. So I’m sorry if my writing reminds you of him, and if I remind you of him.

I should write him, but I won’t. Peace is given those who deserve it.

I won’t take much of your time. Remember that red tie you bought me? The one…. Forget it. He came to love it. He ruined everything I loved, including you. I am sorry I couldn’t be there for you, I could only watch as he called you into his room, and as he shut the door, his face blank, void of any emotion. I would hear your muffled cry and his grunting, and I would watch you leave his room, doing nothing, not even sharing in your pain, but what could I do? After all, I was and still am, my father’s son.

When I left, knew I had damned you to his hell, but what could I do? I had dreams to run to, nightmares to run away from, and I could not be the one he loved, I could not be the one he didn’t hate. I had to leave on that cold April morning. I felt your warm gaze on my back, I felt its weight on me, but I could do nothing, I was nothing, I was everything to him and therefore I was nothing, so I had to leave, I had to leave you, and be something, by being nothing to you.

I am sorry.

I’m done going though. I am done running. After a while you realize dreams and nightmares all share one thing in common, they both stand on the other side of reality. When you wake up they are no more, and all you are left is with choice. So I’ve decided to wake up. To wake up from a dream that is made up of my running from my nightmares; and nightmares made up of not running towards my dreams. I am waking up.

I hope as you read this you will get to share my freedom. I hope in my disappearance you will feel my presence more than ever, and I hope in the land of the living, I will not meet him. I will have nothing to tell him when he asks why, unlike you, I didn’t go for his funeral.

I wasn’t supposed to write this, but for some reason I felt compelled to. The room is filled with silence. The wall is silent, my mind is silent, my heart is silent.