A harsh realization

Clarity. I love to think my wants for the future are clear. That my goals are pretty clear, albeit still unfulfilled. I have always wanted to be a communicator. Me as an anchor. As a writer. As a customer care agent. As a PR. As a journalist. The list goes on. I thought it’d be pretty easy.

As a child,I was ambitious in the way most youth are, golden eyed, crazily itching to start living. In primary school,I thought clarity would come with being a young teen. Somehow secondary school was to be the eye opener. Life would be explained. Not true at all.

As a young teen I waited anxiously to enter the hallowed halls of a university, surely then clarity would not elude me. The young adults I’d seen seemed to have it all explained. I wanted that.

I wanted to love. Love is very romantic when you’re not allowed to be in it. As are other things to be frank. I wanted to understand why hurts hurt so much and why even though I was nice and eager, oh so eager to be everything for someone, I wasn’t allowed to. I was haughty about the idea that distance could make someone hard to love, or that someone could take of you but never give back.  I thought clarity would come of age.

In University I floundered. Yes, I was of age. Nothing was off limits. This was IT! Come clarity, come. But she was mute. For the first time, my house made of dominoes and illusion collapsed on itself.

dnno

I really did not know what I was doing. I was just a small child living in a hefty adult body suit, swimming against a strong current going the opposite direction. I know we all were, scared little children putting on red lipstick, dripping the blood of our lost innocence, alone, figuring out that for once without the rules that governed our existence before, we were all lost and alone.

So I like the millions of young adults before me who make this decision, chose to start with what I knew and go from there. I did my homework, clung to the friendships of those who were willing to explore  the vast nothingness with me and we made it.

After Bachelors, I thought perhaps a measure of the elusive goddess clarity would come to me, surely we find what we seek after a time no? perhaps. Maybe she called but I didn’t answer. I do not know.

Here’s a gif of me trying to figure out life as an adult.Oo04a

I’ve been thinking, I think there is no magic formula to life, no goddess, no answers, I will never know the answer to some stuff because there is no clear answer, I am who I am because I am who I am and that’s fine with me.

I have come to realize that our lives are jigsaw puzzles but we’re not the ones playing. jigsaw-puzzle

FAQ

What I love is love.

But what is love? Is it the late night calls where you say everything and anything that comes to your mind? Is it, the food dates, where when you first met you couldn’t take more than a few forkfuls as you trembled with suppressed emotions and trepidation of finally having someone you want want you? Is it the wild abandon where you gorge yourself on the food they brought as they looked at you in admiring disgust at the amount of food you can take in and you don’t care because you know they’ll never leave you and they are secretly pleased that you liked their food offering so much, you’re almost killing yourself on it?

Is it when tragedy hits and you realize that you’re lost and they are your island. Or when you realize that you can feel a lump in your throat when they are unhappy because their pain is your pain too?  Is love smiling to yourself when you remember something cute they did that they didn’t notice was cute but you noticed because you watch everything they do and everything they do is cute?   Is love feeling heart palpitations when their mouth seeks out yours and their arms open to receive you? to engulf you? to fill you? or is love when they don’t notice they are touching you, a careless arm resting on your thigh, a thumb caressing yours as they speak or read or do something unrelated to you  but you noticed because their touch is not ordinary and it should be listed as foreplay because it induces the same endorphin as the actual act of foreplay?

OR

Is love twenty years later, as you sit and talk about your son’s school’s hike in school fees while sipping tea? Is love being so familiar to their snore that you can’t sleep well when you don’t hear it because the snore is home to you? is love, well worn bed sheets that you originally think are 16 years old but you realize that they are actually 20 years old, because they were given to you at your wedding day  and holy cow!  your wedding day was 20 years ago. Is love foregoing all the romance of valentines day for a thing you really want which is actually soft towels which they grumble about now but thank you for 6 months later because you knew what they wanted even before they did?

or

is love never having all the above but still never being bitter because you accept that this was not your journey to have and you are not mad at anyone but you love your dogs and your sibling’s children because they are your own and you will spoil them rotten because you know your sibling is raising them right and they are actually good kids.

or

Am I thinking too hard about this?

Berating Tarzan

She tells you she doesn’t know what to do at a mall0342be60fba631a2d94f91f50156305b--natural-hair-art-natural-beauty but you insist on taking her there anyway. She’s rural. She’s a village girl and proud! Why do you insist on enriching her experience when all she has is golden memories?

Tell me, where did you find her? Was she snapping bubble gum and laughing some tinned can bullshit with her friends in a mall? Was she tottering around in heels too old and experienced for her because that was the norm? Did she even have a phone?

Tell me the truth, were you not mesmerized by the way the sun hit her throat as she shrieked in deep voiced outrage when her brother’s team lost the banana fibers football to their rivals in a fast paced match to the death. Look at the surroundings once more, were they posh? Did she mind?

Are you not the one who commented to your friend, as your car failed to find it’s bearings in the deeply rutted countryside road that no one would ever look more angelic than she did at the moment her attention was inward in what seemed like divine contemplation and the sun kissed her hair and gave her an Afro halo?

Why are you trying to change her? Why are you giving her insecurities in exchange for her love for you? Why are you trying to polish an already perfect diamond?

It seems in the urban jungle, village gems can not survive.

horror

He tweeted a thought that came into his mind at 3:00 am in the morning. Then he rolled over in drunken stupor and blacked out again.

rrrr..rrrr….rrrrrr…. He knew something was vibrating but he wasn’t sure what it was. rrrrr..rrrrrrr….rrrrrr. His muddled mind took too long to register that it was a phone buzzing, and even longer to realize that it was his phone. By the time he picked it up, it had stopped ringing, he promptly went back to sleep without checking,falling back to sleep even before the phone is finished with sliding out of his hands.

When he wakes up later, the shadows in his room from the sun rays have changed position and the sun is high up in the sky. His throat is parched and his head has seven hundred stone quarry workers plying their trade in his oblongata. He has the drunk man guilt syndrome, and promises to cut back on his alcohol intake. Even as he says it, he knows he won’t keep the promise, because he knows his friends, and he knows his weaknesses.

He looks around for his phone. He doesn’t see it at first and he removes the beddings. He finds it under his pillow. He notices he has 2% battery juice left. Curse the androids. He also notices he has 250 notifications from Twitter. He blames his muddled brain for seeing 25 as 250 and he promises not to drink so much next time, this time with a serious tinge. He opens his whats app. 7000 notifs from 23 conversations. He checks Instagram. 231 notifications and vibrations mark the arrival of several more.

He is in awe. He is sure he was tagged in a meme. Could it be a pic of his drunk shenanigans last night? He knows he has never beefed anyone online or courted controversy. He is really curious now, but he forces himself to take a shower and drink some coffee before he confronts the mystery of his going viral.

As he is about to open the Twitter, which has grown to 500 notifications, he gets a phone call.
“Hey, so we need you to stop coming to work for a week or so until all this attention blows over. You understand right?”

“wha?”

“good. glad you were such a cool headed person about this. Btw I agree with you, but I can’t defend you. sorry.”

”Huh?”

“Okay, bye, oh also, we need the company car back, just for a few days. yeah, so bye.”

He is not sure he has heard it correctly but he is 3/4ths sure he has just been suspended or fired from work.

He opens his twitter. goes to the 50k+  notifications. Several blue check marks have quoted his tweet with rather clever epithets. His tweet has been retweeted thousands of times, but the people quote tweeting him have delivered the gridlock of his mentions, receiving hundreds of thousands of retweets, rebuking him.

Twitter sleuths have tagged his workplace. They have uncovered his net history, from his murky beginnings as a hi5 and tagged tween, to his failed youtube vlog career. They know that his mom died, and they,paragons of virtue that they are,have called her all the names. Thanking God she died before she could see what a disgrace he has become, saying maybe he killed her.

He has participated in these hive hunts before but he like the rest of them never expected to be a victim of them. He doesn’t have to check his other social media accounts to know that they have found him there too. He knows the web’s efficiency at smashing one’s life to smithereens.

He goes back to bed,.

 

 

 

 

 

African ballad

tu comprends?

I smell the air as you walk out. You smell like.. fresh bread. like vanilla and roses had a baby. You smell like a bath bomb. I love how you smell. I love you for your smell but that is not the only thing.

I love you for thanking me. Every time I hand you something, you say thank you and your eyes crinkle at the end as you draw out the last syllable of my name and I can see your teeth and a little tongue and I love you very violently at the moment.

I love you for breathing. Collarbones should not be romantic but I think your clavicle is poetic. I stay up some nights, remembering the staccato of your breaths, rugged and short and musical.

I am star struck. I am a disciple at the temple of your perfection. Your name is both my muse as…

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African ballad

I smell the air as you walk out. You smell like.. fresh bread. like vanilla and roses had a baby. You smell like a bath bomb. I love how you smell. I love you for your smell but that is not the only thing.

I love you for thanking me. Every time I hand you something, you say thank you and your eyes crinkle at the end as you draw out the last syllable of my name and I can see your teeth and a little tongue and I love you very violently at the moment.

I love you for breathing. Collarbones should not be romantic but I think your clavicle is poetic. I stay up some nights, remembering the staccato of your breaths, rugged and short and musical.

I am star struck. I am a disciple at the temple of your perfection. Your name is both my muse as well as my softly muttered exclamation.

Dear ordinary black african boy, thank you for existing within my timeline. Thank you for being mine.

A horror story (Fiction)

Twitter and coffee. That’s the theme of my life. The number of hours I’ve spent on Twitter, sipping kawaccino after kawaccino, cackling maniacally at a thread are shaming to be frank. Am I repentant tho? Will I stop? I don’t know, maybe the coffee.

I remember when I first saw your account. I remember it well, it was raining and I was stranded in the coffee shop, scrolling the TL idly and wondering whether the rain had reduced to drizzles so I could walk in them. I didn’t (still don’t) care about my hair getting wet because I like how frizzled it gets.

You were complaining about the government’s inability to make doughnut holes wider. Someone on my timeline retweeted you, I giggled hard at your tweet and scrolled past. Then the person, retweeted a  bevy of your tweets, all as hilarious as the first. I was hooked. I clicked your profile and zoomed to your avi.

You looked (Still look) delicious. I really could not believe how funny you were. I read through your tweets, chuckling harder at every tweet you released. Then I started retweeting you.

I think I freaked you out a little how often I retweeted you, but in my defence you are, (still are) hilarious. You were my Twitter crush, my obsession, I logged into twitter early in the morning and quote replied your good morning tweet. I pictured you in my bed, saying those words to me in person.

I wanted you.

Three weeks into my obsessive retweet routine, as I was waking up from a nap, dreaming about you and me and that surfboard tweet you sent out at 3:15 am Thursday night, I saw a notification that changed my life.

DM:1.

My heart pounded. wow. was this really happening? could this be? no! I went to the loos and came back and opened my phone again.

DM: 1 from @yourcrush

I opened the dm, hoping that the battery wouldn’t burn and the world wouldn’t stop because I am the type of person this stuff happens to.

DM opened. Then I saw it, the reason I blocked you, the reason you broke my heart in two, the reason I don’t eat or sleep anymore.

“Thank you for following me. via crowdfire” images