TRIGINTA LOVE I

Love & Heartbreak
GENESIS

You are an 18-year-old. A blogger to be precise. Your life is a mix of both post-high school memories and trying to step into the shoes of tender adulthood. You’ve attended a few parties here and there; all of which you most probably talked to some pretty bird (And told her you own a blog, of course)

She is mildly interested as you ramble on about the kind of stories you write and what a following you have; and you’re saving to buy a domain (You lie; because every shilling you get either ends up in your stomach or as airtime)

“Ah…interesting,”

She says while checking whether her girlfriend has texted her. You try to cover for your utter lack of charm by asking her for a dance (Clearly knowing you have two left feet – but you saunter on nevertheless – no son of Koitalel ever backs off from a woman)

“A dance?”

She asks, with this look on her face that speaks volumes about your scant knowledge of history – or rather, current affairs. It hits you hard that the year is 2017 and not 1978 when you could just talk up a female and ask for a waltz.

Awkward.

“Uhmmm…ah…I mean, don’t you want to grab a drink?”

You ask a second time, you are sweating at the armpits and you thank the benevolent gods that you wore a jacket – lest she smells fear.

“Well, I guess I don’t mind,”

You realize you have not been breathing for the last what? 50 seconds? And you sigh and inhale before you pass out.

She said yes.

“What’s your name again?…ah..don’t tell me,” She closes her eyes pretending to remember a name you never told her.

You will probably never know whether she ever did remember.

You take two Coke cans, open them and hand her one. (Coke; one because hard liquor has never seen the inside of your stomach; and two, you still live in your mother’s place and any of her offspring who as much smells like alcohol is banished to the shed)

You talk with her and you find out that you both share a passionate love for smokie pasua, chapo madondo, nyama choma (Ah…a true Nairobian) and dry jokes – the Trevor Noah kind. You pleasantly resign to the fact that she’s not one of these hare-brained Nairobi girls who insist you take them out to Java or Coldstone; when you can barely afford a decent meal of ugali (That’s the glitterati type – with an Instagram following as big as her ego and a billion-dollar attitude)

She tells you she lives in Kahawa Sukari and you reply in a surprised voice; that you also live there (Although you have never been anywhere past Nairobi)

Somewhere in between this téte-a-téte, you begin to notice her full lips; the way she arched her eyebrow every time she asked a question; her Tom Ford Fleur de Portofino perfume; her dark, dense, short, kinky hair; the womanly slowness of her gait; her nose ring that caught light everytime she shook her head this way and that way; and maybe, just maybe, the way she ran her hands through her hair whenever you smiled.

She notices your second hand Ralph Lauren shirt from Muthurwa market, your vans for shoes (that you stole from your brother) the way you kept on smoothing that crease on your shirt and blushing like a 10-year old girl.

“Are you shy?” She asks.

“Me?…Uhmm..yes…I mean no,” you stutter.

You feel thoroughly embarrassed and exposed as you try to hide your hands in your pockets.

“You’re cute.”

“You’re not so badly off yourself,”

You calmly say, trying hard not to reveal the inner turmoil that is raging inside you. You have never felt like this; not ever since Beatrice-with-the-long-legs left you two years ago.

“Follow me.”

And since you have no other choice – you follow her into one of the many rooms in the house.

She sits you on the bed and closes the door behind her. This is the point where all the sex education classes back in school come flooding back. You try to recall what was said about contraceptives and safe days.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Uhmm..what?” You ask-and your blood pressure rises.

She comes and sits next to you and whispers in your ear. Naturally, something awakens in your pants and there is nothing you can do about it. You don’t want her to start thinking that you are one of the easy ones. So you start to think of everything that turns you off (Ashy elbows, city council toilets and saggy tits) but none of this works because her hand is now on your crotch.

Now you try to remember whether you had a Durex tucked in your wallet because you cannot – I repeat – cannot let this chance pass.

It’s a rollercoaster ride from here and you earnestly wish you never met her in the first place. She’s got you cornered- and when you’re most vulnerable.

“What do you want?” you ask.

“To be in Hell with you,”

She says in the midst of her soft moans, digging her nails deeper into your back. Her eyes a different colour altogether. Her back arched. With every move, her patience stretched to the limit. Her eyes shut in bliss. Her moans turned into demands.

You still remember the look on her face, frozen in your memory. Her expression contorted in a confusing mix of pleasure and anger.

All this time your mind was clear. Calm. You felt detached from your body; from what you were doing. It was as if you were watching it from afar.

You hear her let out a lustful gasp – as she breaks into a shattering orgasm. A feeling of pride wells up inside of you – you’ve been able (quite miraculously, of course) to satisfy a female.

You dress up, kiss her goodbye and leave.

You feel empty. You feel frustrated. You feel unfulfilled. You feel tired, desecrated and filthy. The kind of tiredness that weighs on your spirit and drains you of all emotion.

Her name is Alyssa.

She was using you.

And you loved it.

 

SEX MONEY MURDER

Musings

 

There were those tiny stretches of time,of exhilaration, where I most definitely thought that I finally had the world in my grasp and that the universe had finally decided to bend to my will-Hitler style. And more often than not, it did.

But when it did not, I would, just like the rest of the world, blame everybody else for my boring shit. I frankly did not deserve a reminder of life’s impermanence. I did not need any reminder that my uncle Joe was slaughtered in cold-blood by heartless freaks in the middle of a cold Nairobi night. Murder.Death.I heard somebody once said that Death is what gives Life meaning. Curse that guy.He doesn’t know the pain of having somebody you love so much wrenched away from your life.Just like that.Bam.And for what? Money? Politics? Hate?

I would contemplate suicide and think of sailing to the high seas and drowning myself in rum and brine.But what good would that do to anybody, forget myself. I honestly did not derive any sense of purpose in living, existing,breathing, loving, hating, envying,winning, sinning or any other of those things I did on a daily basis.I craved to be an animal. To forget my human essence and live by my raw instincts.Pursue my ambitions with a single-mindedness that I cannot even relate to, that seemed alien to my very self.But what good would that do to society?

Fuck society and all of it’s stereotypical bullshit. I thought myself a sinner and a rather thorough one for that matter. My girlfriend(ahem,she doesn’t exist anymore) would often point out to me the amazing adventures we would have together.

“Let’s live in this moment baby. Admit it, sinning feels so fucking good. Let’s  drown ourselves in this stretch of time.Just you and me.Forget everything else.God can sort himself out…” she would religiously say, rather ironically.

I wanted to tell her so bad how much I hoped that God existed and feared that he didn’t, after all. She would ultimately shoo away my dark thoughts and change the subject to a more sensual one-Jezebel style.

“If it’s darkness we’re having, let it be extravagant….,”she would say.

“What do you want?”

“To be in Hell with you..”

In the midst of the bliss and her soft moans I would feel a terrible despair that this would be over soon. This high.The Cloud Nine. She told me it made her feel alive.That she’d feel it in her toes.That it woke in her a refreshing feeling of newness.

Bullshit.

And did she know what it did to my conscience?And she’d soon need money for the Uber, the airtime, the hair, the make up, the blunt. I really did not mind spending money on her. The’re was this feeling i had when i was with her.A feeling of freedom, of pleasure, of madness.Wild. One that I could not bear letting go of.

I’d tie a noose around my neck and wait for the wonderful sound of my neck snapping and my unfortunate life ending.And realize that Heaven and Hell are but just the creations of man’s insecurities on Earth.

But does God exist? I cannot answer that, and neither can you, and there lies man’s greatest tragedy. We are often faced with life’s unfortunate circumstances and unanswerable questions and where do we turn to?Faith.The Bible.And hope that the Almighty God in His  everlasting throne above will solve all of our problems. I’m no Jesus though.But you can crucify me if you want. No l’s given either way.

But still in the grand scheme of things, stuff still seems to work out, even if they don’t, if you know what I mean. And all of those things that make us humans. The raw human emotion.The Animal instinct. The focus.The determination.The sinfulness.The insecurity. The family. The hope.The despair. The good. The bad. That’s who we are. We will fight for our lives, hope to the end and make it work out.

Just as my favorite rapper once said,

“… Sex, money, murder-these are the breaks…

…Sex, money, murder-our DNA..”

DOUBLE INFINITY

Heartbreak & Nostalgia

I​t’s a peaceful night & I’m sitting in my room alone listening to sad music, reading sad poetry and thinking about other sad things. Why am I so sad?I wish I wasn’t. I was trying to get myself drunk on hope, so I wouldn’t wake hung-over on pain. Hope. I was drowning myself in it. I couldn’t let it go.

Although I’m a typical loner in daily life, my consciousness of belonging to the invisible community of those who strive for truth, beauty and justice has preserved me from feeling isolated.Let me tell you a story. A tale that has surpassed ages and outgrown time but still a fresh and solid narration. There is something maddeningly attractive about the untranslatable, a word that goes silent in transit. Love.

When I was still in highschool, during the holidays, the neighbour’s kid and I, we used to sneak out of our houses every Sunday night, after the world fell asleep, to try & find what it dreams of. She was a gift. She had a soft voice and strong hands. When she sang, she would seem too large for the room and she would play the guitar and sing, which would make my chest feel huge. Sometimes I would touch her knee and smile. Sometimes touch her face and my eyelids just battered. I remember those hot afternoons, we would take a walk uphill, relish the heat and basically talk about the generality of life. And the first time our lips touched, they tangled in swirls and swings of desire and lust. I assured myself that I was safe and within the walls no enemy could pull a threat. And I thought it was just for fun, but deeper, we knew our story had just begun.

On this night, we went outside and lay on the cold grass and shivered and stared at the stars and first we talked about school then we talked about the coming elections. In the darkness, I saw the change. A non existent space of our salvaged love. All lies, I love one and it cannot be any more true. Her name remains a secret and I’ll keep it that way.

“I’m so tired,”she said

“Then fall asleep.”

“I’m not that kind of tired.” She said,” Sleep won’t cure this type of tiredness.”
“What do you mean?” I sat up to look at her. Now trembling.

“I’m tired of acting like am OK. Tired of these people of our town, and tired of saying sorry. I’m sick of running from my life and I’m tired of being stuck. I’m tired of being tired.”

“You have made so many enemies?” I asked with gentle irony.

“Strangers,” she replied,”I seem to make strangers of all the people I meet.”

Then there was the silence for close to a minute. I didn’t notice I was staring directly into her eyes, my thoughts had wondered far into oblivion. When she asked, “How do you spell love?”

“L…o…v…e…” I said absent-mindedly

“No Owidi, You don’t spell love, you feel it.”

Instinctively, that premonition I had felt before. And I knew where this conversation was headed ultimately.

She cuffed my hands in hers, a tear rolled from her left eye and another from her right almost immediately. “I have overlooked how I survived through tornados and storms and heartbreaks & tremendous pain, and I want to take a moment to be gentle to these bruises. For once to not berate these scars for marring the body that saved me. I have seemed to overlook how I learned how to love in this body and was loved in return. How it endured, how it thrived. How it served as a vessel to travel and help others and hold love in these hands. A temple for my hopes and ambitions.”

Her tears were flowing two way uncontrollably but there’s not much I could do as I tried to conquer my own.
Oh, I knew she would leave me by the way her eyes spoke to me telling me to run away. But I loved her anyway.
And in a coherent whisper I murmured, “Maybe we’ll meet again, when we’re slightly older and our minds less hectic and I’ll be right for you and you’ll be right for me.

But right now, I am chaos to your thoughts and you are poison to my heart.

Her departure leaves a scar on my heart never to be forgotten but her slipping right from my hands leaves a scar that will forever be carried into my future. A dark soul that yearns for her touch but gets locked up in a quiet world in a beautiful, pretentious smile and the incorigibility of the words ‘I understand’.

I became blind the day we parted ways and my eyes disagreeing silently fell from my orbits. And so she drank my tears as an elixir for her low self esteem. Then suddenly I was all alone with a body that can’t love me and a will that couldn’t save me.
To You: Prisoner of Pain

May your tempest hit still, May your soul find rest. In peace may you push through, love may you find. May your walls of pain shatter into a billion fragments. Within may you once more be whole.
Yours Truly

Owidi DERRICK

MIXED FEELINGS I

Heartbreak & Nostalgia

So it came to be that the benevolent gods that gave and took teenage loves had willed that M. and I would be destined for each other. I had most certainly chased her for almost four years now, and this moment where our lips locked in intimate passion seemed like a scene off a Mills And Boon novel.

Through the four years that we communicated vague ‘I-miss-yous’ and ‘I-can’t-wait-to-see-yous’ she went through two relationships and myself none. Both of her past boyfriends, current and newly ex, were close friends of mine. I remember the first time we met. And tried to know each other. The fact that I could not read her nor get past the veiled look in her eyes startled me; so to me, she was terribly intriguing, and painfully so.

At the end of every year, we would text each other often. Flirt heavily. But during those tiny stretches of time, I figured; ours was a relationship that was safe. Bound. In which both of you carefully avert from discussing anything of considerable depth. Shallow. We were both bat-blind to the things that happened in each of our lives. I did not give a damn. I was entirely convinced that ours was a match made in Heaven, less so in Hell.

The first time I took her out on a date was the beginning of an inevitable end. Yes, we went and ate KFC chicken, played Injustice on PlayStation and made out in a  tattoo parlour. Her pouring liquor on my Harvard sweatshirt so she could have it.

I guess she was the kind of girl not to bear herself fully to others but bear herself fully to the world. She’s a good kisser, that I’d have to give it to her.

But(There’s always a but in the story) there was something that had changed. The first time we kissed was an ethereal experience, my stomach twisted in undoable knots and my hands trembling badly. But the second time.

No magic.
No tongue.
Same girl.

It was time to go and I offered to take her home. We got into the Matatu; waiting for it to fill up. I asked her whether she wanted another Trident gum, yes, she said. She took the Trident packet and split it in half and said that never should I lose the other half.

A symbol of our love she said.

I went home feeling empty inside.
I did not know why.