ANGRY DUST

I'm seething with anger. 

I am so angry that I am sweating in this cold and lonely room. The stuffiness clogging up my mind is making it difficult for me to hear my own thoughts.

I'm annoyed. With both of us. You and me. Of course it's mostly with you. The only reason I am pissed with myself is that I have reached the maximum level of annoyance with you, and there is still some unappropriated anger in reserve.

Why am I angry with you? Aaaarh. What kind of question is that? Please. The only sensible thing to ask me now is whether there is even a single reason for which I am not angry with you.

You have really pushed my buttons. See, you have reached here.. the brim! It is only because it's you that I'm bothering to even bring up this issue. If it was anybody else, they would only be seeing dust. You know, the dust I would raise behind me as I leave tuuuuf!

Why are you still just there like that? Do I sound as if I am singing? Please, I am not. So you should just begin apologizing now now. Before you blink and then all you see will just be angry dust.

Philosophers are but fancy insomniacs.

I have been sitting behind a blank screen for hours now. At a few minutes past one in the morning I quit pretending that I was asleep, or that I was loving the warmth in my bed. And I got up to power on my laptop. It’s 4:36 AM now, and the blank word document I opened before the witching hour is still blank.

I should turn off the TV so that I can hear myself think. Instead, I am debating whether or not to switch channels. Should I let CNN play on in the background or move on to Aljazera? BBC has better African coverage, but they are not showing clips of Jon Stewart on the Daily Show. See, I’m so smart I can relate with western media without losing my African-ness.
What does that even mean?

Well, I’ll drink to whatever helps keep the horror of my sincerest thoughts hidden in my subconscious. I am afraid to look within, because the things I have done and the dreams I abandoned are lurking there, waiting to torment me.

I begin to tap on the keys. Telling myself that I am in control. That my writing doesn’t have to be as sincere as the voices screaming in my head. That it can be as beautiful as the plastic smile I have perfected in the mirror.

I miss the innocence my soul had. When I knew myself. When I knew to define myself. Whom have I become? It’s time I switched off every other sound and began discovering myself.
Maybe I should watch the drama on Afro-Cinema. I might enjoy frowning at the misfortune of the main character, laughing with the drama queens and wondering at the thin line between virtue and vice.

I am young. They say youth is innocence.
I am older. They say age is experience.
They can't be right. Perhaps they do not know what they say. They might be as clueless of fact as the lazy analysts whom local media houses have taken to parading on our screens every evening.

Comedy keeps reflection at arms length and the conscience at bay. And there are things demanding my attention far more adeptly. Like my faulty economic stability. And global warming. And political ignorance. Do I have a false sense of security? Maybe I should be editing my resume or picking a self help book.

Would they look at me the same if they knew how confused I am? Or if they could tap into the real cause of my insomnia? Would I be sleepless if I had more money? Or if I had more fake friends to show me how to concentrate on appearances and goals rather than the things that really matter?
What are those things that really matter?

Does anyone else think that philosophers are merely fancy insomniacs?

I originally published this post on the Storymoja Festival blog.

When Love bites

You meet him and instantly fall in love. Well, to be accurate, that fuzzy feeling has being brewing in you even before you first saw him. But now that you've met him, the fuzziness is the antidote to all the queerness you do not want to feel again.

So...

You meet him and instantly fall in love. Your feelings have nothing to do with the flashy car he drives or the classy suit he dons. Neither are you enticed by his expensive watch and his educated flair.

Because he has none of that.

His simple clothes and worn shoe soles tell of his mastery of the Gikomba market. On his wrist is a plastic band, bravely indicating that he knows his status. His HIV-Aids status of course. You are already so taken in by him that social status does not register at the moment. He tells time from the Nokia flap strategically seated on his left lap. His English though fluent and polished with the tell-tales of a grammar Nazi, is heavily laden with an accent reminiscent of lower Eastern Kenya.

You are so drawn to him that you feel that you must love me. You know there's no more fooling your heart. You already want to belong with him.

But what is his charm? It could be his witty sense of humour; or his factual arguments; or perhaps his point blank articulation of the political landscape. You already know you'll copy his points elsewhere during arguments to appear more intelligent.

Or could it be his manly grin? That grin brings to life the butterflies in your spine and sends blood to your lips.
Or perhaps it is the attentive way he listens to you. As though when your lips part the earth is nourished.

It could be all of him. You love how he wears his manhood better than you do your sassy. You decide that he simply must be the one from whose rib you were chiselled.

…

That was the first date. And you already agreed to belong with him.

Life begins to colour a new. Your lips are always flirting with laughter and your ribs are easily tickled. So many things now make you laugh. This love ignites a spark so bright it lightens up your once grouchy being.

Shyly, he invites you to his single room. He is excessively nervous and apprehensive that you will be so underwhelmed that you will call it quits. He has a bed, a stove and a few utensils. And books on the bed; books in the carton beside his bed; books under his bed; and books and newspapers on the floor. And books acting as a laptop holder.

Perhaps it is your mutual love for literature. And his mastery of the seductive art of putting pen to paper.
Yes, you were an avid reader of his blog long before you knew his real name.