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.


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


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?”


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


“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.


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

Ode to my Infobahn fantasy

I’ve never seen your face. But I want to touch it. Let me see what it takes to make you gasp. I want you to explain something to me in a long winded, confusing way so I can stop listening and love you so hard because you trust me enough to be boring.

I want to espouse your beliefs. I want to be your sounding board as you rail against capitalism and penguin murderers. I want you to lean against me absentmindedly as you are lost in your thoughts because its natural to have me by your side.

I have never seen your hands, but why do I know that they’ll be warm and dry and wide; that I will link them with mine many times, as we read, or talk, as you emphasize a point, or tell a joke or wipe a food stain from the edges of my mouth?

Why do I love your teeth? Why do I know that your laugh is the most beautiful sound I will ever hear. I don’t care if they are slightly crooked or even a lot crooked because they’ll be my crooked and so help me God, anyone diss them!

I’m looking forward to loving you. I can’t wait to go through the awkward first texts, then the excited first dates and then the first fight where we realize that maybe holding on to these dating ideals is not realistic and we should be ourselves, and then loving our real selves as much as we liked the fabricated ones.



Vehicular Sapiens, a study.

When I get a business card, I would like to be known as a citizen social scientist. It is only fair since I tend to spend a lot of my day empirically observing people and trying to understand them.(Also, learning the word empirically)

Hear this, I do not claim to understand people; but I love to watch them as they go about their day. I guess this is what comes out of being terribly self-conscious as I was,all through my childhood and teen age, I used to feel awkward and bumbling and I started slyly watching others including my bigger sister and my best friends at the time, Alyssa and Gloria so that I could pick up on their social cues since they seemed to have mastered them.

As a 21st century millennial, one’s driving force is to be different. This is the age of open-mindedness and the celebration of diversity and revolution against norms as well as established but archaic rules. In our striving for difference however, we end up the same, part of the frothing mainstream that we so fight against. We walk away from the madding crowd and we find that we are.
Ironically,it is actually against the norm to be adherent to the norm. Conservatives who stick to the old-fashioned way of thinking and doing every day find that they are no longer the majority and that the progressive and liberal “agenda” that they so fight against is so wide-spread. An example is the overwhelming popular vote that Hillary Clinton got in America, which even though it did not win her the presidency showed her that the number of anti racist progressive thinkers is not as little as it once was.
I digress, but in this line of thinking, I have observed that some of our characteristics are widely shared and to our collective nightmares we actually have much in common with each other.

Here’s what I think:
Some people are driven. Possessed with need that is apparent to all who are observant. A need for something, money, love, attention, revenge, even simple things like acceptance.                                            
I am sure in your circle of people you have met ,there is at least one always talking about the new deal (I just met with J and there’s a man who will give me his phone and 700 mil) They are always talking about money. Whether it’s about those who possess it, or how they will possess it or when, it’s all about cheddar to them.
Then there are those preoccupied by the romantic undertones that exist in life. lovers of life, artists, musicians,photographers,writers,telemundo watchers,They see love, they love love, they want to be in love.I’m sure you get my drift.
Others are purely into humanity, keen observers of current affairs with an eye that smokes out interesting incidences, living off the thrill of human relationships, always in contact, never alone.                                Some are driven by the roman god, Mars himself, seeking for spontaneous combustion,a fight, a thrill, competition, drugs, endorphin, They like to bungee jump off the edge of humanity, allowing their bodies to be saturated by the heady feeling of immortality.

Other people are drivers. The centers of people’s universes. Enigmatic attractors, negative or positive. They are talked about, nothing is more interesting than their lives. They are always drawn and quartered, judged to an inch of their lives. They are obsessed over and worried about and loved and hated. They are the subjects of songs, novels, their influence, whether negative or positive is the final push that is needed for a cataclysmic deed to occur. That one ex who left lasting scars, that one mentor whose words got to you and you cleaned up your act, that one celebrity who has divided a nation, that one person whose act led you on your path. That one girl who you do not get why she is popular because you are the same people, with similar backstories and ‘she isn’t even that beautiful’. People who get things without even trying, the I get it all from the black board kind. The ones who always win, no matter what.

Some people are the passengers. The unsung heroes. The man whose grave is known as the unknown. The people with instantly forgettable faces who serve as settings to your life story. The ones with the jobs we would not like to do. The math teacher whose face is forgotten whose pat on the back could also be one of the reasons you are now an engineer, the girl in the super market who was the only one to tell you how lovely your shoes are. That friend who consoles you in your hard times, who never falters, who is forever faithful to you, sending Happy birthday messages to your Facebook wall 6 years later, the first five likes on your IG people,The people who you are afraid to admit to yourself that despite them loving you,they are actually boring. That maid who tied your shoelaces when you were four, straining to get them as you leaned on her back breathing in her four am tea and chappatis smoke inundated clothes, the classmates you forget as soon as you walk out of class despite the fact that when you have dodged class they are the quickest to defend your absence, who are also the back ground laughter to the clever quips you shout back at the lecturer, the relatives one does not even bother getting to know, who always bring fresh produce from the village. The people who die fast, as soon as one is getting to know them and all they leave is a slightly wistful tang because you really do not know them.
And some are not even in the vehicle. Really poor people who you’d take a pic of to bemoan capitalism but would never deign to touch. “Beggars are actually thieves, so walk wide and don’t give him a cent” “close your window, this is street kid territory” the mad man you give a wide berth, the social outcasts, who call themselves rebels but really want to belong. The truly different, the people in unfortunate memes whose physical disabilities are only a punchline to an unfortunately really funny joke, the old, the weak, the sexually different, the very rich and the very poor. The ones who have embraced their sins, Thieves, murderers,prostitutes, politicians. Those who dedicate their lives to giving, are supported but not envied:” eh, so you left your job to fully dedicate yourself to a charity, God bless you bambi, I am not that brave.”

Where do you lie? How do you learn to leave your assigned position and experiment? Can you drive? do you wanna get off sometimes? Are you the Rosa Parks, refusing to accept your label, willing to die for the independence to be who you are?

It’s your choice.