Will I Never Just be Enough

 

He leaned in to kiss her gently and said, “Darling you’re so beautiful. You’re so special. If only we weren’t so different.”

He gripped her in his fierce embrace and emerged from his delirious pleasure whispering, “You’re too good for me love.”

He sat next to her, held her hand in his, drank in her soul and told her, “you drive me mad sweetheart. But I’m sorry I want someone more like me”

They came and went. Each one so different. Each one seeing a different part of her. Each one falling just a little bit in love with her. With her pure aura. With her gentle heart. With her wild spirit. Each one drowned in her sea of magic. Each one took her with them.

But then they all swam ashore and left her suffocating under her ocean of mad passion and desire. Each fled when they realized that slowly they were sinking into the depths of her love. Each fled because they were afraid that if they let themselves drift deeper, they would forget to come up to breathe. Each of them fled because they couldn’t allow themselves to be prisoners in her cage.

And so they left her, a mermaid with a crown, a queen in her realm, to slowly turn into a monster. They left her with her mad grief, to save herself from the waves she created.

But, poor girl, she has no idea how to swim. She took off her crown to make herself lighter, but the weight of her pain bore her down. She took off her shells and gleaming pearls, but that only made her soul darker. She tried to scream out for help but her voice was caught in the raging tide.

So alone and tired, she lay among rocks and waited for death. Here she lies, her heart beating ever slower. Here she lies, her light slowly going out. Here she lies, he aura flickering off. And in her heart the melody replays…” I was too good for the bad boy. I was too wicked for the church guy. I was too good for the bad boy… I was too wicked for the good guy… I was too good… I was too wicked…”

“Will I never just be enough?”

Via Clover.

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What if we forget it all?

Wearing my slippers at the balcony and staring into the horizon…I wonder whether it’s true that everyone is in control of their destiny. I sip on vodka in the glass and gulp slowly…feeling it slowly stream down my throat.

What if we will never see each other again?

What if we forget to meet at Chicken Inn or KFC or our favorite cafe in the heart of the street?

If we forget the future we can still make it up to ourselves. We can get creative and build it with our hands, you know, like use clay, or carve a statue out of wood like we used to do in Art and Craft.

But what if we forget the past? What if our memories become ashes and the next time we see each other we don’t feel anything at all?

I do not want to feel nothing for you. I can’t even imagine you as a stranger. I can’t imagine walking by you indifferently; not holding hands as we’re used to.

I do not want to think that we will eventually ignore each other because there’s nothing worst than ignorance. What if all those precious memories we created go down like a house consumed by fire?

What will remain of us is just ash and melancholy. I do not want our love to become apathy. We were us. We were special, so alive together.

I’d become lifeless without you.

Okay I know what you’re thinking and yes, I have three hundred and fifty fears, but oblivion is my deepest one. Nothing like forgetting us attacks my lungs so unforgivingly.

I do not want to forget our moments of escape in paradise.

I do not want to forget all the pictures we took together. I delete some from my gallery but they keep on regenerating, why?

We had a reason to be so perfect at such an inconvenient time. And I do not want to let it go as I envisaged the best coming out of it. I am not ready to disregard my intensity of our short, vivid instants.

I am afraid to forget your sweet mellow voice and that you will forget mine.

I am afraid to forget the fervor I saw in your eyes when we met.

I am afraid to forget your sense of humor and hearty laughters.

I am afraid to forget our love.

I am afraid to forget the pace of our love, your smooth hands caressing me, goofy faces, wagging your tongue at me at a distant when we in public, and the quick glances we used to exchange only after a few hours after not seeing each other.

I am afraid to forget the late night and early morning conversations over the phone.

I am afraid to forget the cosy and comforting feeling of sleeping and waking up with your warm tender body wrapped in mine.

I am afraid to forget how intimate we can get.

I am afraid to forget that I said I’d be loyal and only belong to you.

I am afraid to forget all the songs we played and listened together and the fights of who was playing the next one.

I am afraid to forget all our first times.

I am afraid of how dolorous our goodbye has been.

I am afraid to forget how liquor tasted so better when we had it together.

I am afraid to lose myself as I lose memories.

I do not want to forget how the intensity of our love made me feel alive again.

I want to remember. I want to be able to recall those instances that made me fall in love even when we were gone.

Even when the pain is too much to bear, I want to feel you one more time.

But again, maybe I’m lost in my world alone, dreaming.

Tha Dreamchaser.

Via Fidash

Delusion

I think it is morning, I hope it isn’t but I know for a fact that it must be. Something must have woken me up, it does not take me long to find it. I smile that one smile that I reserve for him, he doesn’t return it. I guess we are not in a smiling mood. The Nyaluo in me will not agree to this, I keep smiling and he catches the drift and gives mama some teeth. I do my sarcastic giggle because I can and when I hear myself I think, it sounds good.

Among the most famous words I have heard given to me by men in my adult life are to name a few,

“Luos don’t come this pretty nowadays jaber, are you a hybrid?”,

“Those eyes tear me down jowa, I’m coming to pay dowry this weekend because there is no way am letting you go”….

One thing or another with an obvious goal that I might shame myself for falling for one too many times in the distant past. Enough about this stories, the point was that this man often told me how beautiful he thought I was, in the beginning, it puzzled me, because how? then came the understanding and I actually believed him because like I mentioned above, I like to shame myself more often than not.

This, therefore, cancels out my good giggle for, and I want to assure you, my voice is nothing to reckon with. Back to important things, i get up from my bed it’s roughly nine thirty am, no this is not the time that i woke up, i woke up roughly at six am, i get to the shower, toy about with it till i get the right temperature then my body is systematically cleaned. I don’t hate this shower i come to notice, i might get used to this…

Am feeling particularly pretty today, I put my nude lipstick on, make an attempt to hold up my weave, that I wish I didn’t put in the first place but a few people have thought it looks good, good, bad, semantics really if you ask me. The nude lipstick is supposed to make my lips pop but by the time I walk past the light-skin receptionist i instantly wish i wore the dark purple that my good friend, let me call her Barbie thinks looks good on us dark skin girls.

This girl maybe 25 or 26, i may be tempted to say 30 or 40 but i will not get personal with her, assumes my very presence. Now i was not in the “let it pass mood” because, as i mentioned earlier, i was feeling pretty today. She says to  me, and i know she was talking to me because there was no-one else in the lobby she could have been referring to but me, “that comes with breakfast,” i thought so but i stood all the same and waited for my him, lets name him Thindo to come and respond.

We did not have her silly breakfast, i say with pride, despite the smile she plastered on her face when Thindo reached me and said,

“No, breakfast wont be necessary,”

I couldn’t hide my smile, it was going to be a good morning this one.

Now there is something about eating at home that appeals to me, it might be the fact that i don’t need to put both legs on the floor when i eat or the fact that no-one would care if i showed the color of my panties as i got comfortable on the floor  and bit a far too big piece of sausage off and it proceeded to burn my tongue where i would then attempt to dispel some air out by hissing in the least dignified manner you can think of, otherwise are you even eating sausage? wait what was i saying yawa, i talk too fucking much, ooh eating out. Yes, i dont like eating out, fighting with knives and forks and whatnot yet we all know mayai you tear with your hand and put in your mouth because the taste of mayai and oil on its own minus all that bread nonsense is what we live for, dont pretend you dont know what im saying…

I get into java Hurlingham and you already know what i see, people having business breakfasts, i think, they look pretty serious and it is a Wednesday morning, others just there because they can take breakfast in java, its their damned ass money by the way you have nothing to say, others are just not in love with the breakfast their maids make at home. I classify all these categories of people in one glance at the room, then tell Thindo, we are sitting there, i indicate with my finger at the far left corner. My Thindo follows me and behind him is a pretty, short and melanised waitress just like me. We sit as she calmly waits for us to organise our shit,then she gives us our menus and while she turns she gives me that smile, that knowing one, like damn girl.

I smile back, i know at that moment that i did well going with nude, she walks away and my stare lingers on her. She’s probably my height, she’s curvy but not voluptuous, she has her braids caught in a bun at the top of her head and at that instant i realize she’s most probably better looking than i am.

Quickly i turn my gaze to the menu she gave me and open it, it’s about to happen and i know it. I’m about to hand my stupid ass back at myself a nice good plate, i have been served. What was that smile about, maybe she knows i have lied to Mrs Ochieng Nyar Kanyada about my whereabouts, i must not look like i come from around i mean rich people don’t wear doll shoes and short dresses not these 500 bob ones at least. I knew this yesterday but why did i wear them? Why couldn’t i stick to my thick sole rubbers, they’d look better for sure. my hair, this hair ojoga ma daliedalieda i dont know about this weave business it looks awful and the waitress knows it has been on my head one week too long. Maybe it Thindo here, what if she also knows he’s too good for me, i mean Thindo clearly has no problem with handling a fork knife and spoon, if need be. I  still want to talk about sitting on the floor  and bite big pieces of sausage. Im barbaric and they all know it. I mean i should have stayed longer with dad after the divorce, maybe i’d enjoy java like this people, maybe i’d know how to sit properly, one leg over another the way my cousin Mizurl does.

I hear footsteps she’s coming back, I’ve taken too long i haven’t read anything in this goddamned menu, i look up at her and then at Thindo who must have realized i was in my head again and left me to it, he knows the kind of maniac i am, he cannot change this so he walks with me while i do it when Im ready, i come back. She has that smile on her face and i know for sure that she knows i know what it meant, she makes a small nod and starts writing, that’s when i realise Thindo just said,

“ill have a house coffee and the breakfast combo,”

Via Adudahera

PAIN

What’s the first thing that comes to your mind when you hear or read the word pain. I will tell you my definition through a series of experience I’ve gone through in the few years I’ve existed on this rock that revolves around a star.

5 year old me was a confident wanna be adult. I talked fast and acted faster. And when I bolted to the kitchen to to make myself a cup of hot chocolate, no one saw me. I was a tiny being who was and is still height challenged. The hot water jug had been placed on the table and as I clumsily pulled it, it tilted and the hot scalding water poured on my chest. The pain was so immense that after I let out a blood curdling scream, I lost conscious.

The following 8 months were grueling agony of trying to heal. School, friends, birthday parties, playing, joy, became obsolete. I then yielded an unfamiliar companion and confidant, radio. My love for music, art and communication blossomed there. Sundowner, radio theater, educational episodes on KBC became ingrained in me and left an impact.

Heartbreak. I was living on cloud 9 first time I fell in love. Then it happened. I never knew love could hurt this bad. My self esteem was in shambles. I lost weight, mind and will to live. I went to a place I never knew existed in my head. Then I found Quran. I know its a cliche when people say “God saved me” but am a living testament. I created a relationship so strong, intense, personal and fulfilling with my God that has enabled me to tackle most challenges in life I’ve faced with certain confidence and assuarity.

Aug 2013,I received a notification from my bank stating that the cheque I had issued had bounced and I had been penalized. I was broke. I couldn’t fathom how I had reached here. Memories of the times I spent money on unnecessary things haunted me the same way our government is being haunted by corruption cases. I had to learn to live within my means. Gone were the days where I used to eat chicken like a caucasian. Nowadays I clean the chicken bones so good that my fellows brothers and sisters from the western community would be proud of me.

Fast forward, to Feb 2018. I had been transfered to Doha Qatar. Money, status quo, and living in the wealthiest country in the world. Yet I was living my worst nightmare. My skin color, gender and age were my shortcomings when it came to my occupation. I did everything, frkn being nice to get the whole office dunkin donuts for two months. Nothing worked. I loathed how I felt preparing myself going to work. I despised how my co workers treated me. I shuddered at the sound of Skype call because I knew it was nothing but it would be something that will totally make me feel depressed. As I lay in bed, I wondered how I got myself here.

That morning I woke up, picked my passport and left for the airport. I left all my worldly possession I had over there. I slept two days at the airport for there were no direct flights back home. All I knew is that I was done, and I wanted my piece and peace of mind. And that I wouldn’t find it anywhere else than back home with the people I love and the environment that my soul knew.

So señoritas and señors, physical, emotional, financial, occupational pains that I have gone through has created fundamentals aspects of these woman you see infront of you. What doesn’t kill, makes you stronger, and gives you unhealthy coping mechanism that helps you to waddle through this journey called life.

Thank you.

Via Nay Nay.

KING OF PIRATES: THE TALE OF CAPTAIN HENRY BENJAMIN AVERY.

 

When it comes to legends of Pirates of the Caribbean, Captain Jack Sparrow is a favorite of most especially to those nouveau to the historical phenomena.

Others that get a notable mention is Black Beard alias Edward Teach who is reputed to have lit fuses on his whiskers to look more fearsome. Alongside him is Long John Silver though to the best of my knowledge he never made the rank of captain but his exploits and respect he demanded from his cohorts have lasted for eons. Captain Flint is reckoned as a brilliant strategist, and his prowess shines brighter than most other naval commanders, howbeit I find him problematic due to the conflict of his soul or being if that is what is left of the soul after some mass murders. The one true pirate in most connoisseurs eyes is captain Charles Vane; a former slave as a boy he rose to captaincy under the pupilage of Black Beard and was a right partner and adversary to Flint. Unlike Teach, he didn’t have to fake appearances of fiercenesses or even concerning Flint he accepted his role and personage as a career buccaneer of the high-seas, a vocation akin to a highway robber, a bandit.

Long before any of this characters both fictitious and real were born, an actual pirate had already made history and indeed written his name in the annals of the record books. His exploits were never to be topped to date, and he is probably the reason most of this other pretenders to the throne ever pledged allegiance to the Jolly Roger. Henry B. Avery was born on 23rd of August 1659, at the age of 34 years after leaving the British Royal Navy he was charged to the Charles II. A warship for merchants built in tandem with the king of Spain after whom it was explicitly named to harangue and harass French ships. The man of war docked at the port of Corunna in Spain following its tedious voyage down the river Thames in its maiden voyage. Here the crew mutinied as a consequence of unpaid six months stipulated salaries due to bureaucracy. Henry was elected captain although it is not clear whether this was a motivation for his active role in the treachery. Their plot didn’t win them friends at the port and as such had to flee and sought infamy in the Atlantic ocean. The ship careened in the bight of Benin and was razeed which is nautical lingo for the decimation of the number of decks and crew onboard a galleon. This misfortune was a silver lining in their cloud as they made repairs, many non-vital parts were discarded, and the FANCY as it was renamed was able to be upgraded and was now among the fastest ships in the seven seas. After pillaging supplies from ships heading to Europe from Barbados and beyond, captain Avery was able to convince the seadogs to make sail for the Indian ocean rather than the west indies. They sojourned down to the southern tip of Africa at the Cape of Good Hope. Along the way, they ambushed a couple of ships which they added to their inventory. Henry was the de-facto commodore or rear-admiral of at least five ships and a crew of up to six hundred men when they finally lay in waiting for an ambush at the Babel-el-Mandeb or straits of tears between modern-day Djibouti and Yemen. The victims of their ploy were Muslim pilgrims coming from Mecca reputed to be carrying vast amounts of treasure with them. The first target was able to slip past unnoticed, but the privateers gave chase and caught up with them five days later, where they boarded and looted with not much of a resistance. The bounty recovered is said to be sizeable enough to buy the FANCY at least fifty times over. The second prey wouldn’t be a pushover, it was a massive ship with no less than eighty cannons commissioned by the sixth Mughal, the emperor of most of India sub-continent at that moment, dubbed GUNJ-i-SAWAI meaning ‘exceeding treasure’ but also known as Gunsway. Only three out of five of the fleet under Avery engaged, one of the other two spectated while the other had been abandoned for being too slow. The pirate numbers suffered major casualties, but as fate would have it, lady luck smiled at them when misfortune struck the Indian’s ship when one of the cannons exploded. Perhaps in the heat of the battle, the barrels and hogsheads expanded, and the projectile got stuck when fired. With the smell of gunpowder in the air and taste of blood in their mouth, the ensuing melee turned the odds to the attacker’s favor. What transpired next is a sordid tale of deprivation, as remnants of the GUNSWAY were tortured for days to reveal where they had hidden the wealth while some female passengers opted to jump overboard and drown to avoid being Sulley-ed.

Some reports indicate allegedly captain Avery was handed a relation of the emperor himself: a grand-daughter of emperor Aurangzeb was said to be part of the entourage coming home after Hajj. The illicit gains from this single 17th-century hunt were at least £600k, half a million gold and silver rials alongside other gemstones and valuables. The FANCY and her partners in crime most likely headed to Madagascar to the pirate-utopia kingdom that predates the more notorious one in Nassau, Bahamas, the GUNSWAY limped back to the Aryan subcontinent. The score and scourge by then were deemed even more reprehensible than that of the 21st century indigenous fishermen turned pirates of Somalia. The tally of what Avery and his 600 or so scallywags were to divvy-up is estimated to be worth currently 60-100 million US dollars when adjusted for inflation. The Human Rights abuses would also lead the British government to declare H.Avery as ‘ hostis humani generis’ or enemy of the human race. Subsequently, the first global manhunt and international arrest warrant ever were issued against him. Avery had beforehand purportedly given British merchant ships a secret signal that they could use to avert an attack by them, but the British India Company had seen trade volumes go down by 90% and thus had to pacify the ruler of India to not lose any more business. No longer welcome in the Indian ocean, Avery and his band of merry men high-tailed back to West Africa.

One of Bob Marley’s most famous lyrics is ” Old pirates, yes, they rob I Sold I to the merchant ships” from his ‘Redemption song’; Avery had been involved in the slave trade after leaving the navy prior to becoming first mate of the CHARLES II, before setting off to the West Indies they purchased ninety slaves whom they used as labourers and in that era was the most consistent commodity of trade, since they didn’t want to use foreign currency as it would raise suspicion. The French and Danes that had been conscripted before the escapades in East Africa had chosen to leave. The crew had received at least £1000 each plus other gemstones, but they had a £500 bounty on their heads. On arrival to Nassau, they bribed the governor with £1000 and left 50 tons of ivory, barrels of gunpowder and ammunition along with the vessel FANCY itself as a token of appreciation for not snitching them out to the British authorities.

For all their pettifoggery, Avery’s scoundrels were soon bored out of their mind with no one and nothing to spend their hard earned *cough* cash on in the sparsely populated Caribbean outpost. They chose to make headway to the United States, a decision that proved fatal for most of them but Long-Ben as Avery was also known as was able to escape to Britain. A number of his skeleton crew were arrested, tried and hanged. One in particular turned state witness against the others. According to Henry’s descendants or relatives, he died before the turn of the 18th century in 1769 A.D. in abject poverty and destitute at the age of forty years after apparently being swindled by unscrupulous jewelers and merchants. The Swahili people have a proverb that states ” pwagu hupata pwaguzi“, which translates to roughly mean a pickpocket will encounter a car-jacker.

“Look at me! I’m the captain now!.” ~ actor ABDI-RAHMAN BARKHAD in the film ‘Captain Phillips’ (2013)

Via Sir Alan

The Unbecoming – I Miss You.

There are times when I miss you terribly. Your familiar laugh. Your familiar voice. The feel of your arms.
There are times when I just want to talk to you. When I want to tell you all about my day. How my stomach hurt so bad from I don’t know what. How I have these plans to buy an apartment but I barely have any money. How I have laughed and laughed about my horrible weekend and how it made a great blog.
There are days when all I miss is company. That warm, cosy place where I felt like home. Not just any other person or friend. You. You right next to me on the pillow. You walking beside me by the roadside. You just teasing. Laughing. Playing.
So fool that I am, I looked for you. I heard your voice and it broke me. Instead of flaring up all the anger I felt against you, I just wanted to hold on. I just wanted you to keep talking. About anything. About any damn subject. I hoped that you would feel my desperation on the other end of the line. That you would just say, “baby I miss you terribly. I’m coming home.”
But of course you didn’t. And a second later… silence. The line is already dead. And now I’m holding onto the phone, begging myself not to call you back. Begging myself not to succumb to this weakness. Because you don’t care. You don’t care enough.
All I’m left with is this beautiful song in my head, that I can’t shake off. This melody that I can’t share with you like I used to.
“Darling just put your soft lips on my lips… we will just kiss like real people do. Darling just put your sweet lips on my lips… we will just kiss like real people do…”
A ballad that is so wonderful it has me twirling by myself with my eyes closed. Drifting back to the days when the melodies played for two young things just locked in each other’s arms, swaying silently. Blissfully. I smile because it’s like you’re here… for those few minutes, it’s like we’re back to the way it all was.
But as the last chords gently float in the air, I feel you slipping through my fingers. I open my eyes at last, and I am all alone.
And I don’t know whether to be at peace or in pieces.
Via Clover

Dear Future Husband

I wasn’t entirely sure why I want to write to you, but now as I start, I realize that it’s more of an apology than anything else.

When I was younger, I always believed that meeting you would be so soon, it would be so immediate; because I always thought that my life belonged to you and would be defined by you.

Of course, I fell in love with the first man that swept me off my feet. Fool that I am, I was so wrapped up in my fantasies and dreams that I couldn’t see everything that was wrong with it. I couldn’t see that this was something so twisted. And every time that it hurt, every time I cried, I told myself that all I needed to do was hold on tighter; fight harder- even if that meant that my knuckles bruised and my heart bled.

See, that’s the type of person that I am. I have never been afraid to love, and when I do, I just dive into it with all that I’ve got. I don’t know how to play games. I don’t know how to limit myself. I just give with an almost insane desire to just wrap one’s world in the light of mine.

This in itself, is so freeing. To submit to love and the fierce will, it exerts upon man. I read somewhere that few are ever strong enough to allow love to inhabit their souls like that. Few are ever strong enough to surrender control of their lives to this force.

Yet I don’t know if this makes me strong or weak. Because while I know what unconditional love looks like, or at least, just a bit of it, it is also this same thing that has caused me such agony. For love, I have felt pain as real and thick as a person, living and breathing in the inside of me. For love, I have been broken, consistently, repeatedly… but I never seem to learn.

But as I sit here, fighting to not be bitter, I realize that with every broken bone, my heart turned a bit darker. With every stab, the light in me went dimmer. With every cold rejection, the little girl in me dies.

I always wanted that the woman you meet is pure, inside and out. I ever imagined that the moment I met you, I would just know. You would only do. And from that moment on, everything would be perfect. Not because we are perfect, no, for how can there ever be an ideal kind of person. But because we would both be wrapped in a perfect sort of magic that would echo the song in our joined souls. That we would walk, no longer two, but 1 being. (Maybe I watched too many movies.)

Now I fear that if you ever find me, it would be this being, half alive, desperately holding onto grace but falling ever deeper into the abyss. Now I fear that if I ever find you, you won’t be the man I always prayed for and dreamed about- and I have no idea if that will be acceptable to me. Now I fear that perhaps you don’t even exist, for how could you be, but the Universe let the other side of you weep and bleed..?

Perhaps my most significant apology is that slowly I feel myself turning into what this world has made me. A skeptic. A cold soul. A hopeless spirit. My biggest apology is that if you show up, I may be sucked in too deep into the darkness, that I may not even recognize you at all. I don’t know if that’s the worst tragedy really. Oh well, such is life I suppose.

Via Clover

SELF-ACTUALIZATION; An ode to Cristiano Ronaldo.

A standard measure of a mans’ worth is the Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. The closer one reaches the top of this pyramid the more accomplished or fulfilled they are. As one completes the five levels the more whole they are posited to be or feel.

The first level or the foundation encompasses physiological needs. These are physical requirements for human survival, which if not met the human body cannot function properly and will ultimately fail. These needs are approximately or fundamentally nine in total and include oxygen, water, nutrition, sleep, sex, warmth, excretion, mobility, and pain.

The next level is environmental needs. Growing up there were a lot of empty plots of land around our neighborhood which were adversely occupied. We tended to convert this lots to our playing grounds, and since they weren’t fenced off yet, I could join adjacent estates’ children in playing football. Sometimes we had access to the Adidas 1970 world cup Telstar design inspired leather bound sphere football replica but more often than not we would wrap newspapers into a globe then envelope it in a plastic paper bag or two and just for good measure tie a string around it in a mesh style fashion squeezing the contents so tight the object could roll in a straight line and actually bounce.

Telstar, Official 1970 Worldcup Football

The middle passage of this strata ranking is social needs. As a Kenyan, a majority of your childhood was spent in prison-like institutions called schools. In my particular penitentiary, intermittent breaks of academic learning were spent kicking soda cans and plastic bottles around in a game of pseudo football when an actual football was not available. We couldn’t carry a proper leather one to school since the older boys would deprive us of it and our parents would whip us if it got stolen or lost plus ultimately our innovative polythene bound orbs were banned by the principal.

We had variations of the beautiful game such as the one-touch, where if you scored by kicking the ball once you faced a new opponent, any more than one stroke and you were disqualified paving the way for a new contestant in your stead. Of course, some of the popular kids would get to break the rules but how they arrived to be so high in the pecking order is open for discussion.

Self-esteem is the penultimate stage, and I was lucky enough to have never had an acne breakout during puberty in the meantime gaining a deep bass in my voice in the process. My adolescent years were spent perfecting a three-point shot on the basketball rim my elder brother had fastened to a Jacaranda tree I had hoped my father would build a tree house for me on. At the only basketball court in my town, I always managed to reach 7 points in a game of 21, when men twice my age had to sit out the rest of the play for not doing the same once the leading scorer reached 11 points. My strategy since I was small was to get the ball, shoot from outside the D, after which I would sink the first free throw earning two more points then choose to either score one more point with the second free throw or violently slam the ball against the board in the hopes I could recapture it outside the D for another attempt at a three-point shot for an additional two points plus the requisite two free throws earning one point each bringing a total of five to eight points.

I took up swimming fervently in high school until the pool was drained and the renovations took more than a couple of months. I remember standing in the deep end of the empty abyss, eyes closed, imagining the natatorium filling up with water lifting me up. A hairline fracture I neglected under my right knee limited my professional athlete career although such an excuse didn’t stop polio-ridden right-winger and forward by the name Manuel Francisco dos Santos alias Garrincha from winning the world cup for Brazil in 1958. Perhaps it’s my lack of discipline that’s to blame. My tardiness to school ensured I ran a kilometer three days a week as punishment plus my annual valentine’s day ritual of a thousand sit-ups keeps me fit. One of the many older girls I’ve dated who’ve witnessed my sporting prowess used to tease me on how dirty I was in the lower primary by evening after a day of scrimmage football. I pray the athletic gene traits I’ve been told I possess are passed onto my future generations.

Currently, I’ve taken up cycling and will resume training on my 15-speed mountain bike once I purchase new tires to achieve at least 50km in one and a half hours. I will reward myself with a ‘700’ race bike with 27 gears or more that I see on tour-de-France. I plan to do this and participate in the tour-de-Machakos before it becomes an elitist event needing millions of dollars sponsorship from multinational corporations.

The final and highest phase is transcendence, where one becomes too much associated with excellence in a field that they inspire others to be of the same caliber, even if it’s not on the same genre of practice. This because success has a generic trait of sacrifice and postponement of gratification, in layman terms: no pain, no gain. Cristiano Ronaldo is an icon who at the age of twelve left his Madeira hometown for Lisbon city thousands of kilometers from friends and family. Two decades later he has won every major trophy and award bar one, the world cup. Mayhaps in a fortnight from now this statement won’t be, but nonetheless, with his Spartan-like livelihood, I won’t be surprised if he graces our screens and grass on the pitch in Qatar and America. As with all racehorse champions, we shall retire him to pasture as a pedigree stud. FORZA PORTUGALE!

Via Sir Alan.

Dangerous Muster

 

He racked his brains, from the moment they met, where they had been to, people they met. Any clue that he thought would be able to solve this puzzle. His brain lit up like a light bulb when he remembered the one place she had whimsically mentioned a couple of times. He had a good feeling about this one. He imaginarily high fived himself for his eidetic memory.

Quickly he picked his jacket, cell phone, wallet and left the house. He didn’t want to drive because he was not in the right state of mind. Ran to the nearest stage, got into a matatu and left for town. The lively matatu culture around him felt surreal. People boarding the matatu, others alighting, the makanga shouting, the driver blasting latest obscene Kenyan songs, all to him felt illusory. The makanga had to tap him twice when he was asked for fare and thrice to let him know he had reached CBD.

He was in his own world. As he boarded a shuttle heading to Thika, he realized that chances of her being there are subjacent. But a gnawing feeling that he might see her there was too immense. The closer and closer he got to the town, the more he catechized himself on her disappearance, him seeking her out and whether he should let her go. Then he recalled how she made him feel, her sarcasm, laughter, terrible jokes…her entire quirks and quiddities made him realize to breathe and live. She brought him a peripheral range of understanding of the world, her and himself that he hadn’t unearthed despite having a brain power than most. Yet in a transitory second he knew whatever the reason she had for abandoning the ship, was valid and him seeking her out would not make much difference. But his ache to see her, even it was one last time, won this battle.

He didn’t know the place, so he got into a cab and asked the driver if he knew the area. Luckily for him, he did. He was torn whether to go empty handed or not. Heck, he didn’t know how to act when he sees her. “It is what it is” he mumbled as the driver sped on.

The the weather was cloudy, cold and grey as if prepping him for bad news. When they got there, the gate-man didn’t allow the cab to go in. He paid, got out and asked the gate-man if he knew where Layla lives.

“Layla mgani? Hapa kwa hii estate watu ni wengi my friend” 

“Ummmm…Layla Amin?”

Blank stare from the gate-man.

“Ummm….babake alikua mkubwa pale Delmonte?”

“Ah! Si ungesema tu Amin wa Delo! Nyinyi vijana mnakuanga na maneno mingi hehehe. Hata ameingia tu saa hii kutoka sokoni. Nipe ID yako na uandike majina na numba ya simu kwa hii kitabu”

Relief with a tinge of anxiety kicked in as he wrote on. He was given instructions where Layla’s house was located. Like a man on a mission, he stepped forward and fast. He was in a high pitch fervor to see her. As he opened the gate to Layla’s house, he realized he was sweating. A quick wipe of his brows and a pat on his shirt and pants, he wished he had adorned an antiperspirant.

“She likes my smell anyway, hope that hasn’t changed.” he chuckled as he knocked on her door.

He knocked twice. No footsteps, no sound coming from inside the house. Hit harder, no answer. He twisted the door handle, and the door nudged open. He hesitated to wonder whether he should go in or not. As he stepped in, she appeared at the end of the hallway. His feet froze as her hands thawed and she let go of the cup in her hand, breaking into smithereens on her feet.

Silence…….

Via Nay Nay

A Girl Named Happiness.

She’s this type of person that just pours all that she is into others.

She finds that all she needs is to find someone who will just listen.

Someone who will just humor her. Who will just take it all in and look at her like she’s more than just crazy. Like she’s just such a breath of life, of fresh air. This is the kind of affection and attention she craves the most.

So what happens is that when she meets someone who will accord her this, she just dives into it. She finds herself talking. Giving.

She becomes a fountain unending, a fountain forever flowing. She finds that she has this need to fill in her own empty space by filling another’s soul.

She fears that within her is this hole that she craves to have filled, yet cannot find solace nor this spring. She fears that she is forever condemned to long for this water without ever quenching her thirst.

She feels like a wanderer. Without a home or haven. She feels like in the depths of her is a little girl that wants to be seen.

Right now this little girl wants to dance to Indie Rock. She wants to sit on a rooftop and watch the stars. She wants to dance in the rain.

Splash and play under the raindrops until her hair is stuck to her face and she is breathless with exhilaration.

She wants to run between the trees in a forest. To just run as she disengages from every load that burdens her.

She wants to get high and lie on the grass watching the sky. She wants to sit on a hill and feel the sun on her face. She wants to watch the sun blaze red as it sinks lower and lower.

She wants to pour paints on a canvas- abstract mixtures of red and green and yellow and blue. All the colors of a rainbow in a mess that makes no sense but is so beautiful because it is her soul.

She wants the beauty of passion. She wants to feel arms around her.

Hugging her tight. She wants to feel lips on her neck. Tickling all her sensitive spots.

She wants to feel delirious laughter rising from the inside of her as love twirls her to music unheard and melodies only she can hear.

She wants to be wild and free. Wild and free like a bird. She wants to soar across the skies. She wants to watch the earth from on high.

She wants to take flight and leave behind all her fears.

She wants to free her soul.

Via Maggie Mungai.