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I am GRADUATING!

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I have so many similar photos saved on my phone. I’m sure that at this rate, I can curate an entire photo album. It doesn’t matter that the furthest I’ve been from my village is two counties away for school. At least I have my imagination. It has taken me to places money probably never will. Okay, maybe I’m just broke and delusional but still…

So, I’m graduating. Honestly I still can’t believe it. I’ve checked the list at least fifty times in the last hour to confirm that my name is really there and that I’m not suffering from a chronic eye infection, that makes me see my own things.

After five years (thanks to corona) I get to wear that gown, throw my hat up in the air like they do in the movies, and celebrate this higher education milestone. Now, I might be getting that degree, but listen, do I know what I’m going to do with my life?… The answer to that is a big, fat, resounding Nada! I thought that I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up, but as it stands I’m not so sure.

The story of my life should be titled, “I’m just winging it!”

I had/have a plan and everything but now that I’m actually here… I don’t know? At the beginning of the year, before everything went to shit, I harboured the thought of pursuing my Masters. Preferably somewhere far away. Like another continent… Or planet. But education is so darn expensive and I may or may not have shed a river of tears due to that fact alone. Do I have the grades for an international scholarship?… Maybe. Do I have any exceptional talents worth mentioning?… I can be real quiet. Does that count? Honestly, if I never see another exam paper for the next ten years, Hallelujah!

I don’t have any friends outside of the school setting. I never figured out how to talk to people outside of such defined structures. What the hell will we be talking about apart from the assignments that are due, and the teacher that seems to have it out for us? I don’t know how to have normal conversations. I guess that’s why most of my friendships fizzle out eventually.

Anyway, my college experience was nothing like grown-ish painted it out to be. First of all, I dressed and still dress like someone who needs to be confined to a mental asylum or a really deep hole where no human being will ever be subjected to my countenance. Second of all, I expected to have at least one failed relationship. That ship never even left the dock.

Where was my college romance that would have utterly ruined me, had me skipping breakfast because I was too heartbroken for tea and not just because I was broke and breakfast was a privilege, and then made me an even worse recluse than I am so that I could lose all this weight that seems to have a toxic relationship with me?

I’m like 5 years a way from making peace with the fact that I will die alone. The spinster life is my calling. Hear me out. The kind of guys I like are either waaaay out of my league, fictional or wouldn’t look at me twice even if I was on fire. That doesn’t really leave me with much to work with. Like seriously, what am I gonna do; manifest Draco Malfloy into existence? Pray for Divine intervention just so Chris Evans can miraculously fall head over heels for me while we’re in two different continents?

I didn’t party in campus. Crowds were not my thing… And they never will be. The idea of being in a loud, crowded place with unknown sweaty people is as appealing as getting shot in the vagina. That probably makes me a boring person but oh well… I think I got used to the “well, what do you do for fun then?” question. The answer? “I stay in my room all day minding my business, watching badly scripted movies and reading fiction, Nicholas! That’s what I do for fun.”

And so to all the night I cried myself to sleep because the end seemed so far, to the few friends that managed to break through my introverted closed off self, to my best friend for being a solid rock, to google for doing the most, and to all the memories I made… This is it. I made it.

I’m so freaking proud of myself.

I wonder what the future has in store for me. I’ll take nothing but the best, thank yew!

And above all that, all thanks to God for everything. Every single thing.

PS: Did I mention that I’m graduating?

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Embarrassing myself like a pro.

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Some people can sing like they share vocal cords with Angel’s. Others can dance like their bones are just an unnecessary formality. The more scary ones, can apply mascara without poking out their eyeballs. That right there, is talent. I however, have then beat.

I can embarrass myself like a pro. The best part is, I don’t even have to try. It just happens. I have lost count of every cringe worthy thing that has ever happened to me in my twenty two years of existence. The fact that my brain always decides to play a montage of them all whenever I try to sleep, talk to people, or heck breath, is quite maddening. Its probably the reason why I have the sleep pattern of a hippie going through withdrawals.

Sometimes, I wish I could dig a hole so deep and then dumb myself inside. Why am I always embarrassing myself. Why? Like that one time when I was on a motorbike, and we fell in front of a bar while everyone was conveniently sitting outside stargazing and drinking their worries away. Or when I was in Church back in highschool, and we had to stand up for prayers but I never realised that I was spotting a giant wedgie until the girls behind me started laughing. That moment forever traumatized me! Or when a bird( I hope it got struck down by lightning) took a giant shit on my white shirt and I never even realized it until someone pointed it out.

I could go on but I might just write myself into a meltdown. I’ve noticed a pattern here. I never notice this things until its already too late. Though that’s not surprising because I’m the most oblivious -observant person I know. Like last week for example. The one day I decide to burn the trash – on the side of a busy road might i add – and my stupid trouser has a rip in it. A rip that I didn’t know existed until someone pointed it out. You see why I want to die…like please lightning strike me!

I swear when I left home my cloths were okay. I don’t know when it went from smart to half my back thigh is hanging out. My ass is not that big. I doubt the two squats I dreamt about did a Miracle BBL. Do I look like Kim kardashian? Trying to remember when it ripped and how many people I might have accidentally flashed is fuelling my anxiety.

After the flashing incident last week, we traveled somewhere. Sometimes you go to places that serve as a reminder of how poor you are. They make you reflect on the kind of life you’ve had since the doctor slapped your baby butt. Like, yes I am a peasant! My little sister wanted to drink water, and because she is super clumsy we couldn’t give her any of the glasses they’d provided. Honestly, they looked expensive as fuck. I know I have two kidneys but I’m saving one for something more important than paying for a broken glass.

Important like say, a BTS concert.

And so, like the caring, economical older sister I am, I walked into this giant house that looked fit for royalty and asked for a plastic cup. The laughter they let out still echoes through my brain. Apparently, the thought of using plastic cups is hilarious. In my next life lord, I want to come back as either a trust fund baby or a fly.

And the best part, they had water. A lot of it. They probably had more tanks than my entire village combined. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration but still, I was shook!

Sadly, my sister was hospitalized when we got back. When I went to see her, my stupid shoe came apart and I had to walk across town looking for a shoemaker to fix it.

The only Good part about last week was, it finally rained. FINALLY! Of course since it took its sweet time, people here have no choice but to plant their crops all over again.

In a nutshell, a girl is tired!

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Tattoo’s and an impromptu wheelbarrow safari rally.

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whenever I reminisce about my childhood, I’m convinced that it could have been a pirated episode from A thousand ways to die, the survivor series on WWE and the first chapter on a book titled, “How to scar yourself for eternity for dummies 101.” That was then. Now in adulthood, its just a sad case of finding Nemo, only I’m trying to find myself.

I did a lot of stupid shit as a kid, and I have the scars to prove it. The games we used to play were sometimes so dangerous I don’t even know how we survived. But I guess that’s the fun part of being a kid; we looked at every life obstacle with certain levels of intrigue, anticipation, joy and bewilderment that life seems to have sucked out of me in my adult life.

We had an unspoken communism when it came to the games we played. Everything from hide ‘n’ seek –where you had to search for what felt like half of the village kids-, we would build ndumbia’s (I have no clue what they’re called in English) and roast sweet potatoes –especially during the circumcision season-. Without fear of the wrath of our mothers, we would steal the ropes they’d use for collecting firewood, and take them to school just so we could play skip the rope.

I remember we used to sing something along the lines of, “Bamblika bamblika, number 28…” and a whole lot of mumbo jambo that I would just bullshit my way through. I blame the kamba in me. Turns out, we were singing the wrong lyrics all our childhood. You should have seen us, shouting with our chests!

Of course, it makes sense that we would get it wrong. We are not English speakers. So even if we heard and said our own things, it is acceptable. The song made sense to us that way, and that’s all that matters. To be honest, I still hear and say my own things when it comes to English. Its the kamba influence. I mean come on, who do I look like, a low budget Shakespeare? A grammar Nazi? The Hitler of the spoken word? All hail the saint of diction!

I’m good, but honey… I’m not that good.

I digress though. I swear some of my childhood memories of the games we played are like war stories. I’m out here getting flashes and shit. Now, two occasions stand out most for me. At one point in our dumb day to day activities, we decided to get tattoos. I’m not even kidding. The older kids at school were doing it so we figured, why the hell not. And when I say tattoo, I’m being generous. Hindsight, I always say, is a bald headed mistress with the anger issues of a crack addict.

Peer pressure, is that you?

There was no way to get actual tattoos Because there is no such thing as a tattoo artist in my village. What for? People still think tattoos are like a stamp ticket to hell here. Besides, we believed we could do it way better. We came up with ingenious ways to get ‘tattoos‘. We didn’t care that it was painful, or that we were branding ourselves like cattle. Or heck, that we were as artistic as a three year old with crayons. We each had to come up with Our own style, and everyday I thank the Lord I’ve always been minimalistic.

Firstly, one had to choose a body spot for their tattoo. I chose my left hand for some reason. Then, with the precision of a wannabe artist, we used a mwiba to trace out the design of the tattoo we wanted. For it to stick, we had to really press into the skin. Then when your hand was practically raw, we would trace it again with ‘ndau‘ to ensure its permanent. That shit hurt like a mothafucka! And the beating I received from my mother when she saw it hurt even more.

I had tattooed my initials; N E M. By the time it healed, the E had faded to a scratch that now looks like I survived a fight with an extremely angry cat.

The other occasion, I was in a head on collision with a rock and a speeding wheelbarrow. See, my grand mother grows coffee. Back then when the rain was plenty and climate change was still a western problem, harvests were bountiful. So to make a few extra coins, we would help in carrying the coffee to a factory that’s a few kilometers from our village. Wheelbarrows were our means of transport. The older kids would steer and we would pull.

It was a good partnership, until they decided to hold an impromptu wheelbarrow safari rally. Participants were chosen, bets were places and lines were drawn. The older kids were the designated drivers, and I got the pleasure of being a passenger on one of the death tra…I mean, wheelbarrows. It was actually a lot of fun at the very beginning. The excitement I felt as I tried to hold on to the sides, and as we raced through the rough road, was palpable. Not to mention, the excited cheers from the other kids as they ran behind the competitors.

I’ve never found out if the driver hit a corner too tight, or if he stepped on a rock, or if the fucking cosmic aligned just so the wheelbarrow would roll over with me in it. I have never felt pain like that… Okay that’s a lie. The day one direction broke up is till a sore spot. That and the day I realised I’ll never know who let the dogs out! I just shed a tear.

I ended up under the wheelbarrow, my head felt like it had been cracked open and there was a lot of blood. I stayed under there for what felt like hours, crying my eyes out. Some of the kids got so scared they ran away, but eventually a few brave souls got me out. Here’s where things get a little bit hazy. I don’t remember what happened when I got out. But the scar that left a little bald spot on my head, is a reminder that my brain matter almost got served up as fertilizer for the soil.

Speeding triggers my fight or flight instinct.

PS: how much trouble did you get into as a child?

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A (village budget) merry Christmas.

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That was the face I always made when the torturer aka math teacher entered the class for another math lesson. I’m not even kidding. If there was a way I could eviscerate myself from the plane of existence every time we had math double lessons, I would have done it.

Math required a level of concentration my brain is not really wired for. I mean, why hurt myself by trying to find the value of x for what feels like eons, when I can look out the windows and daydream about my sordid love affair with a prince from an enchanted kingdom that nobody has ever heard of, an attempted murder from his wicked mother and a forced marriage of convenience on his part.

My younger sister asked me to help her with a math question a few days ago. She is in class eight. It was one of those questions where you have to find the circumference of a farm, but the farm is shaped like a trapezium, a rectangle and a bunch of semicircles. I was shocked. Who do I look like? Albert Einsteins long lost daughter? A freaking calculator? The pope?

My head hurt just from looking at that diagram. I know what ¶D is and that’s about where my limited knowledge ended. A whole graduate student and I can’t find x or the circumference of an headache inducing diagram. I would be ashamed if I wasn’t so happy I got that part of my life- where I had to sit in a class and pretend to understand numbers- over and done with. As long as I know my 1+1 and I have a calculator app on my phone, I will never have to worry about circumferences, probabilities, and all the missing x’s and y’s.

I say, good riddance!

Anyway, Christmas season is upon us. It is a total budgeting nightmare for most people. That and valentines day, not that I would know. The entirety of the christma-niac season has people making bad financial decisions all in the name of Christmas spirit and Santa Claus. I wish I believed Santa was real so I could ask for a couple more zeroes in my bank account. Come on Santa, I’ve been a good girl… Mostly. Does that count?

Now Tommy, let’s try and remember that its Jesus birthday and not yours, okay? We don’t want you to resort to questionable means to pay the rent when January comes, now do we? Honestly though, if your bank account does not whimper in pain every time you make a withdrawal to feed your snacks addiction, then heck spend like this is the last Christmas you’ll ever have. For all we know, in the next year dinosaurs might just decide to take an off day from their extinction to come and finish what corona started.

Besides, its freaking Christmas! We all deserve a little bit more this time of year. So buy that expensive gift, book that flight and go to that vacation you’ve been dreaming of, buy the biggest tree you can find and go extra on the decorations, then get drunk on the rooftop with a bunch of strangers while listening to Christmas songs. I won’t do all that but Listen, the last years have been hard on everyone –expect world billionaires – so try to be happy.

Growing up in the village, Christmas was quite different for us. It still is. Christmas tree’s and decorations were unheard of. I have never in my twenty years of existence, seen any of my village people put up a Christmas tree. The only presents we got were from the relatives who would give us a few shillings to buy sweets with. Don’t get me started on vacations. Who do we look like, the Kardashians?

My people really take budgeting for Christmas seriously. Or most of us were just poor. As kids, Christmas was the only holiday we looked forward to with anticipation and excitement. Forget Santa, none of us even knew who that fat bearded white man was, let alone expect him to come down chimneys and leave presents under tree’s. It was the only time we were guaranteed to get new cloths. Throughout the year, you’d be lucky to get a pair of slippers unless there was a wedding or a funeral you had to attend.

The cloths would be bought months earlier and we would be counting down the days to Christmas day, just so we could show them off. Of course in a village as small as mine, it always seemed as if everyone bought their cloths from the same place, and so we would all end up dressed in similar cloths. They had us looking like identical twins from different mothers. Still, not getting new cloths for Christmas for us, was right up there with child abuse, Premeditated murder and child abandonment. I did not make the rules.

Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without chapati. People that would cook chapati’s on days that weren’t holidays were part of the elite. The rich. In fact, the Illuminati. Chapati’s were the holy grail of Christmas. They were sacred. Next to the mandatory new cloths, if your family didn’t prepare chapati’s for Christmas, the only option would have been to change your name to Abdul and move to Sudan. It was practically law.

On Christmas, the whole village would be smelling like new cloths, chapati’s and hope. Although some things have changed, others have remained the same. We don’t really care much for Christmas tree’s or decorations. Presents, we don’t know her.

~last Christmas, I gave you my heart, but the very next day you gave it away, this year to save me from tears…~ that’s my favorite Christmas song.

PS: what’s your favorite Christmas song?

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Memoir of a (non)traveling girl.

Image:courtesy                                                               My life long goal is to walk barefoot on a place like this, while holding hands with the love of my life… Be it a person or a dog, I’m not choosy. Sandy beaches speak to my soul. I don’t even care that I’ve never been to one, I just know it would feel right. Also, if I’m ever going to learn how to swim, I might as well do it in a place with a nice view.

My favorite kind of people, are those that travel to places and keep their stories updated. For people like me who would love to travel but lack the means, lurking in peoples stories is the next best thing. And before you shout stalking, I call it appreciating. Trust me, there’s a difference.

I might just be a prettier, less psychotic, poorer version of Joe from You.

Like yes you, show us the airport, take pictures of the plane, your hotel room, the food. Show us everything! After all, you are updating your stories every second because you want us to see. You want us to be there with you. I see the way you look at the camera, you want us.

Honestly, if I ever set foot in an airport and someone doesn’t run after me and tackle me to the ground in tears while saying goodbye, or proclaiming there undying love for me, I’m going to be so pissed. I blame Hollywood. Then again, I’ve heard of the profiling of black people by airport security so maybe getting tackled wouldn’t be such a good idea.

I recently traveled home from school. The 8-ish hour journey was… Interesting. For someone who loves traveling, I get really carsick. However, I’m beginning to think its because of the matatus themselves or my body’s way of telling me to try out aeroplanes. Although I’m scared of heights so I’d probably hyperventilate myself into a coma.

I don’t know what’s worse than being squeezed together like bags of potatoes inside a matatu, fighting to breath the stale air in the confined space and worse still, fighting off the urge to high five everyone on the face, with yesterdays lunch.

Thankfully, my guardian angel must have been working overtime that day because no high fives were witnessed. I put my gut, throat and stomach on a leash and commanded the bitches to not embarrass me again… Yes, it has happened before. We shall not talk about it. Ever!

Struggles, I tell you! Forget the fact that we’re supposed to keep a distance from people due to the pandemic, in a matatu you’re lucky if half of your ass is not on the person sitting next to you.

You see, traveling in a matatu is an experience. A rite of passage. Culture. They’re loud, cranky, dusty, and recklessly driven in a way that will surely shave off ten years off your lifespan or give you a boost to meet your maker. At least this particular driver did not drive like the hounds of hell were on his ass. Also, the view of the rift was as usual, quite breathtaking.

The driver controls the playlist. That means that if his wife’s brothers uncle’s cousin twice removed has a song –preferably vernacular– he’ll be pressing on the replay button like it owes him money. We had to listen to the same kalenjin song the entire time. I did not have the lady balls to demand for the aux.

Normally I prefer window seats,just so I can watch people, houses, and other vehicles as they pass. The problem was the old lady that sat next to me. She kept on dozing off on my shoulder, laying all her weight on me. Do I look like I exercise? I mean, I don’t really blame her because the journey was long and tiring and it was also a struggle for me to stay upright too. Still, my shoulder is not that strong.

Whenever I’d try to move, her head would roll right along with me. The only option would have been to let my upper body hang out the window. I like my head where it is… firmly attached to my body, thank you very much.

Long journeys can be boring. It eventually gets so quiet such that all you can do is sleep, watch people or sleep some more. Now I’m not nosy… Okay, maybe I am a little bit. But can you blame me if someone decides to have a full blown family argument on the phone, full volume in a matatu? That really doesn’t leave me with much of a choice, now does it!

And so that’s how, I spend the journey with someone’s head on my shoulder, guzzling water and sweets so as not to throw up, struggling not to become an asthmatic and listening to a woman tell her family that when she got home, she would be throwing hands.

PS: the next person that lays their head on my shoulder better be whispering sweet nothings to my ears.

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Birthdays and introspection.

Its our birthday today.

My little sister and I share birthdays. Cool right? She is turning 4 and I’m turning 22. I feel so old I should probably change my name to relic.

I think I would fit well in a museum. Right next to that Australopithecus guy. We could be homies!

Excuse me while I randomly share our favorite pics together. Future me does not remember what past me was bellowing about.

I never really thought much of birthday celebrations while growing up. Most years, the day would pass and I wouldn’t even be aware that it was actually my birthday. One day, I will fill a room with lots of presents for all the birthdays I’ve missed.

Anyway, birthdays come will a lot of introspection for me. What have I done with my life? That question makes me want to cry, laugh, prostrate myself on a highway or simply find out how much my body parts are worth in the black market.

I’m joking… Mostly.

I am a chronic over thinker and sometimes, my intrusive thoughts shocketh thine self. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been on the proverbial road of shit, pretty much all of my life. It is a two way street and I  am cruising on that motherfucker.

Seriously though, in a world of over 7 billion people, I can’t be the only twenty two year old who has never been in love. At least I hope so. Is there like a late bloomers association retreat camp I can join? Its hard not to feel like I’m missing out in this age of tik tok and the shade room but then reality smacks be straight in the face and I think, maybe I’m better off.

If I see another in your face I’m-so-happy-and-in-love-I-could-cry on my timeline, I’m throwing my phone away. Okay, that’s a lie, but still. Go and be happy somewhere else!

So, what have I achieved in my 22 years of life. Last year, the answer would have been a resounding nothing. I really don’t think being alive counts as an achievement. At 22, I have a uncompleted degree that’s trying to finish me, insomnia, instead of a circle of friends mine is an ellipsis, and this blog. Also, I always manage to scourge up a little will to live every morning, so that’s something. All in all, I’m doing great.

22 years is a long while to be an introvert. It changes you. Socially, I’m disabled. Incapacitated. In fact, I would rather swim in shark infested waters than face the animal called Socializing or worse, make friends. I just threw up a little.

I’m too young or too old – depending on how you look at it- to be so……. Alexa, what’s the English word for ” scared of people?” If I ever wake up a fifty years old cat lady –honestly that’s the most probable route my life will take- living in a secluded mansion with a nice view, and have an unlimited supply of marvel movies and junk food, I’ll be blessed.

But that’s still 30 years from now, so I still have more time to suffer, be happy, cry, smile and contemplate my existence. Then again, if I made it through 21, I can make it through anything. Even a zombie apocalypse. Or God forbid, another pandemic. Every day of 21 was “what the hell is that.”

22 better not come with the same shit though, or I will be throwing hands…. Up in prayer because I can’t fight for shit.

I can’t wait to be fifty.

PS: is 20 cats too much? I’m trying to plan ahead.

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Climate change: chronicles from my village.

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Ugh! Is this what they call baby girl treatment? Whatever prayer she prayed, I copy and paste lord. Alexa, play broke bitch by Yours truly. I’m not saying I want to ‘.. Shake my ass in Dubai…’ But yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.

Hear me out, developed countries have succeeded in destroying the planet and now we’re all doomed. Seriously, if there was a drop off point to get off of earth, I’d be the first girl to buy a ticket.

I ask, does Elon musk accept stowaways?

Climate change has become a global pandemic. I’m no scientist or environmental activist, but me thinks that these countries built on industrialization and slavery need to answer to someone for fucking up the planet for the rest of us.

Some of us barely have functioning governments and now we have to deal with climate change too?

My village is in a really dry place. Most of the people here are small scale farmers. That’s how we survive. Over the years, we’ve learned how to make do with the occasional rainfall that we get.

However,climate change has ruined all that. The seasonal rains that most of them relied on to grow crops has stopped coming. They can’t predict weather patterns like they – and my ancestors – used to. Access to food and even clean drinking water is becoming a problem.

Do you realize how hard it is to walk kilometers, with a jerrican on your back, the sun blazing like it has a grudge on tour forehead, only to get to the well and find a line of other people, so now you have to wait for hours then start the journey back, only to repeat the entire process because one jerrican is not enough for the entire household?

You can’t relate, can you?

The sun is scorching the life out of my village. And its not just because its making us sweat in places we really shouldn’t. The planting season is here and people have planted but where is the rain? If it doesn’t rain in the oncoming weeks, then these already marginalized people are going to be counting losses. The funny thing is, we are still better off than most communities here.

I know Winston Churchill once said, if you’re going through hell, keep going. But wuehh!! Must you really? Its too hot. I’m already black, I don’t need a tan lord! And neither do my people!

The old people here say that we must have offended God or something. That the potential drought staring at us on the face is a punishment for something.

Its a religion vs science situation. But mother nature has a way of balancing things out. For years, humans have plundered and taken from her –and I’m not just talking about white people- and now we’re facing the consequences.

In a way, the planet is punishing us.

Drought, floods, famine, hunger. Reminds me of the ten plaques of Egypt. In this case were all going to be dead and the planet turned Into ash in the next few years if things don’t change. I honestly don’t want to be around when lack of food drives people into becoming blood thirsty maniacs. Unlike brad Pitt, I’m neither handsome enough, or have the leg strength to run from someone looking to eat my brain.

I’ve said this before, my legs are only conditioned to run from my problems.

The worst part is, third world countries are facing the brunt of it all. We don’t have the necessary resources to deal with the consequences of climate change.

Still, to stop climate change we all need to do our part. Maybe I can start by telling the oldies in my village that God isn’t punishing us with drought. We brought this all upon ourselves. God is saving his strength to deal with colonialists and slave owners.

PS: how has climate change affected you?

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Color: All shades of it.

I don’t know if there is a percentage for this, but I’m pretty sure that I am 30% color blind. The part of my brain that’s supposed to identify colors seems to be out of commission… That and the part that’s supposed to understand math.

It literally took me years to learn to differentiate between blue and green. How the hell am I supposed to know what indigo looks like. There’s a reason why black is my favorite color; one, because it’s the color of my soul –kidding– and two, because I’m sure if I had a gun to my head, black is the only color I would remember.

Besides, the only indigo I know is from that one Chris brown song. See why that might be a problem?

I wonder what’s its like to be completely color blind though. To live life without seeing color seems so, I don’t know, depressing? I mean, imagine not being able to see how Hollywood colors third world countries as compared to their more developed counterparts. The contrast is so amazing it makes my skin crawl!

Speaking of color, Instagram is such a ‘colorful’ place. People on there make us think that their lives are like hallmark commercials and are set straight out of a cw romance flick. Of course that is a load of bogus. This might be an incorrect and overzealous generalization, but hear me out. Most people curate this amazingly colorful profiles that are so far fetched from reality….their reality.

In a way, color can make Something so beautiful that its perfection makes its hideous. I don’t know if that makes sense at all. I have learned to take whatever i see posted with a grain of salt. People only showcase their most vibrant and bright colors. The colors of perfection.

Its 2021, almost 2022…. Nobody looks like their profile picture. I don’t look like my pictures. We are distant cousins… Thrice removed. If that isn’t enough to scare the testicles back into the stomach of any man, then I don’t know what is.

I definitely wont be starting a career as an Internet pornstar, I can tell you that!

Also, love is such a colorful phenomenon too. We should all love love, and if you hate love then una lambanga shetani matako! That’s Swahili for God bless you! Still unconditional love is such a fallacy. Love comes in all shades. Sometimes its a vibrant red that makes your heart flutter, other times its a bright yellow that gives you butterflies. And other times its an oozing black that hurts and leaves you miserable.

Love and be loved in the shade that is right for your soul.

Well, unless you’re an egomaniac, a sociopath or something or other reminiscent of Joe from You. What you need is Jesus. I heard he’s free this time of year, try talking to him.

I hope I made sense…

PS: I probably didn’t.

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ID photo; I can explain!

I don’t like the way my ID photo makes me feel. Every time I look at it, I get depressed. What I need is emotional compensation. The thought that I’ll have to use it for the rest of my life, makes me want to move planets.

Does Elon Musk allow stowaways? Asking for a friend.

I don’t know if I’m the only one, but I’m convinced that the person who took that photo must have had a personal vendetta against yours truly. Seriously, ‘what the hell is that!” Is what I ask myself whenever I look at it. They had me out here looking like the hunchback of Notre dame and a leprechaun had an orgy baby.

Okay,maybe that’s taking it a little too far, but still. They did not have to do me like that. You see what I have to work with? That’s clearly not me. I might not be the prettiest girl out here but on a good day, when the sun hits just right, I offer a sacrifice to my ancestors and Jesus intercedes on my behalf, I can pass off as one. I also have a permanent residency in the state of denial so…

My ID photo though, makes that impossible. To pass off as pretty, I mean. It is not fit for public consumption. Every time someone see’s it, I have to hold in back a cry of “I can explain!” I swear I don’t look that bad once you get to know me. Well, only on Mondays through Fridays. But on the weekends Chile… Yeah, I can explain too.

My motto from now on will be, ‘I can explain.’

I take one good picture and it will be my profile for the next ten years. I don’t know how to take good pictures. Its a once in a lifetime thing… like your first and only kiss.

I’m one of those people who will have one good picture then go ahead to post it everywhere,because we know how dry it can get. Anywhere from Facebook, Instagram and even google maps. We don’t hold back.

As I write this, I’m listening to hands to myself by Selena Gomez. Whether that’s vital to today’s nonsensical point of discourse is neither here nor there. I am a free spirit. I let the words write themselves.

PS: what are you listening to?

PSS: Anything other than miss Gomez is blasphemy!

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A forgetful girl once said…

This is a perfect depiction of me ignoring my alarm. On a normal day though, I just let my problems wake me up… That works wonders!

I have a toxic relationship with my alarm. In fact, the way I usually slam my phone when my alarm starts blaring is borderline abusive. I am one of those idiots who will set an alarm to wake up early, and still NOT wake up early. This is usually because of two things;

One, it doesn’t matter if I’ve set it to an edm track or the volume is enough to wake up an ancestor, I’ll still sleep through it. I pity my neighbors sometimes. Two, –and I’m not proud of this- sometimes when I hear the alarm, I’ll choose to ignore it…just like I ignore everything that’s wrong with my life, but we’re not here to talk about that.

Its one thing to not hear it, and another to unconsciously pretend that your alarm is a soothing lullaby. If you’re like me then Holy son of a carpenter, Mary Magdalene and peter parker save us all. Why can’t I be one of those people who actually follow their alarms, wake up knowing what they’re gonna do, exercise, eat breakfast and go about their day saving old ladies from burning houses and shit. I think my life is broken and In my next reincarnation I demand a software update.

I refuse to wake up early just to suffer!

Anyway, I recently found out something interesting about my grandfather. I never met him and I wish I had. Apparently, he had vied for a position as a councilor one time and actually won. The kicker was, he went out to celebrate and forgot to go and sign the papers, forcing his opponent to be declared winner in his stead. I really don’t know how the electoral system worked at that time.

Well, at least now I know where I get my forgetfulness from. If my old man could forget all that, then its no wonder I always forget to text back. Or wake up on time.

He must have been so pissed when he found out though. They really did him dirty. Couldn’t they have, I don’t know, send him a messenger or something? Or heck, a smoke signal. I doubt they had phones at that time. It was low of them to rob him of his victory like that. They denied me my bragging rights as the grand daughter of a councillor.

I have a rule, when someone decides to go low, you dig a tunnel, take them to hell and show them around the place. In short, dog walk a bitch. Sometimes you’ll be around people and think, maybe serving twenty to life isn’t such a bad thing. I think that’s my grandpa’s spirit talking.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he still haunts those who called that win. Then again, they’re all probably dead by now.

PS: Fun fact, both my grandpa’s were soldiers.