I am.

Image:courtesy.
I just want to be wealthy enough to afford evening strolls in places like this, and fries whenever I want( all the time) without bankrupting myself. That’s not too much to ask, is it? Dear miracle worker, receive this open letter from me and my stomach!

My stomach and I are a team. A force of nature, if you will…And we have some eternal wisdom to confer on thy. Pay attention! I don’t know who needs to hear this- me definitely – but I hope that you know that you don’t need to ‘perform‘. Most of us, I’ve realised, are not taught how to exist but how to survive. It is human nature after all. We are taught that camouflaging our true self’s and curating versions of ourselves that are palatable, is how to live. I don’t know, but the moment you start figuring out who you are beneath the noise and clutter, is the day you begin to truly live. Or have a mental breakdown.

Or dive head first into a state of psychosis but we are staying positive. Viva!

To truly exist is live for yourself. And I don’t mean that in a self-centered-fuck-you-and- your-dog kind of way. I mean embracing yourself fully. Flaws, imperfections et al. Knowing you for you. How can you as an individual, contribute to the collective when you have nothing to offer to you? It sounds very nihilistic but hear me out, okay?

You have no need to put on that costume. Why are you struggling to put on ballet shoes when you don’t even know ballet? Your toes are meant for standing on peoples necks (non life threateningly). You are not a dancer! A performer! We both know that the best you can do is a shimmy here and there. A little twist to spice things up if you’re feeling energetic. Sometimes you can spare two fingers in the air like you just don’t care… bazokizo style. Anything other than that and emergency services might need to be called in. All I’m saying is, as long as you live to please, they will put for you Amapiano then call you rhythmless and talentless when you don’t live up to their expectations.

The only thing you should be dancing to is the rhythm of your soul.

My dear, can you whistle? No? Then sit down! Peoples opinions are not your responsibility. Release your soul from the burdens of projected, unrealistic expectations. For example, in my head I know all the dance moves. A certified Waistline warrior. Kwa ground, my bones are stiffer than a priests neck at a brothel. Now imagine me trying to go toe to toe with a pro just to prove something. Why would I do that to myself? You get me! Its so embarrassing…like having a crush.

Ever had one of those? How did that end for you? I for one, have never pulled a crush… Well, I have never pulled anyone, period! To be fair, it probably has something to do with the fact that I dress like I reside on the whogivesashit end of the spectrum. Or the fact that I can hold a grudge like a good, ex catholic school girl. Eternally! How dare you not feel the sublimal vibrations I’m sending through discreet, two second glances and increased heart palpitations when I see you . Also, When I look at someone, they either assume I want them Or I’m afraid of them.

Both are terrifying options, I fear.

A Psychological truth is that crushes should remain unattainable. That’s how the powers that be deemed it fit. The minute a crush veers off into reciprocation territory, an imbalance occurs in nature and the world starts to tilt. A crush is meant to be one sided! All of you heathens that are dating their crushes, y’all are the reason climate change will finish us all. I hope you’re contend with causing the destruction of mankind.

I sound bitter? Oh, eat shit Margaret!

You know what else feels unattainable! My dream of owning a car in this economy. I see the car of my dreams in my dreams… And before you ask, no, I can’t drive. Friend, most days I can barely walk straight. That won’t stop me from manifesting though. Didn’t I say I want a big, expensive, shiny car, with a sunroof? I know nothing about cars FYI, but Watch this space! Who wants a small car, anyways? Gari inakaa ni kama unaeza inua juu uekelee kwa bega Kama mkuki, Hiyo ni gari kweli?

Kiulizo tu!

You know, If I ever win the lottery, I won’t tell anyone but there will be signs. At one point, divine favour will locate me. Besides, I’m a really hardworking girl (said no hardworking girl ever) so really, its only a matter or time. Amen! Listen, I want to spoil my family rotten. Ha! God, if not for me, then do it for them. if I make it out, we all make it out. I want the only thing stressing my dad, to be how far the remote is from his chair. I want my moms main concern to be what color/pattern of curtains to purchase.

Listen, even in the next ten lifetimes, when poverty hears my name, it will scatter! Scamper! Skip! Skedaddle! Scurry!

I’m buying a Camera. Immediately! Just so I can take pictures of nature. I want to take pretty pictures of the sky at night, Lord! Also, as someone who has grown up in a rural area, I’ve always been interested in how communities like mine develop, the social issues affecting people in such areas: poverty, poor education, mental health… There exist such a big disconnect.

Baby steps!

Here’s a reminder; As we pray for the things we want, we should also pray for God to prepare our hearts to receive while we wait… So we don’t waste or squander the blessings. The waiting period is not easy. Its a test of our patience. Our integrity. Dignity. I always like to remind myself that its a season and not a lifetime. Even though it feels like the latter.

I write a lot. To God. To myself. I just write. My dreams, feeelings. To me, putting everything on paper is like having a conversation with my soul. I want to know myself deeply, and so I write. I want to know God deeply, and so I write. The language of the soul.

I want to tell myself my story as I experience it. As I live it. As a reminder to myself that I am stronger than the overwhelming present emotion/situation. To affirm to myself that ‘I am’. You know? I don’t know if it makes sense but really, ‘I am‘ is the best was I can put it. In this moment, I am. In this situation, I am. I forget sometimes and again, that’s why I write.

I forget to be present. I crave and yearn for an escape. The easy fix. I think this is where most of us lose direction. The muddled, middle ground between what we are and want we want/could be. We all have our own ways of… Dealing. When you feel stuck in you own body or stuck in life in general, its so easy to jump into the deep abyss, just to get five seconds of reprieve…rest.

Let this be a reminder to you and to me that its just a season. They come and go… Like your boyfriend. Ha! Seasons of pain/rejection are inevitable in life to be honest. And they will put you through hell, break every bone just for fun, come back again and repeat. Still, remember, I am. Its important to not get lost in that whirlwind.

Listen, life will squeeze bitter lemons into your eyes and not give you enough time to figure out how to make lemonade. If you can’t dodge, just lay on the ground and keep rolling. Figuratively of course. They might call the cray cray police on your ass! Just never stop. Even if you have to crawl on your knees. Hold on to every piece of you that just wants to curl and whither, hold tightly and move. All I’m saying is, life will have you by the thong, but you my friend, can handle a little wedgie. Get up and move!

Seasons of drought are not meant to break us but to make us. Think a phoenix. A rebirth. A breaking of the old self and breathing life to the new self. Its like a constant reconstruction of the I am. A renewal. And if you believe in God, a testimony. Walk in faith. Be kind to yourself. Be brave. Be courageous enought to fight for yourself. You are and you can.

PS: Channel your inner barrack for that last one!

Is it just me, or…?

I’ve spend the last few days judging rich people for wearing ridiculous outfits, that cost more than what one of my kidneys is worth… Yes, I have googled the going price for a kidney so I know what I’m talking about.

Am I the only one who doesn’t get high end fashion? I mean, I know my broke ass is not the target audience, but why are some of the cloths so damn weird… and ugly! I am as fashionable as a dry twig and I have the fashion sense of a hippie but still…

Sometimes a celebrity will wear something that will leave me in awe!.. Awe-lly fiddle sticks what on earth possessed you to wear that outside the confines of your bedroom! Put that back in the rack right now!

But what do I know?

In my next life, I want to come back as a fly just so I can spy on fashion designers. Those meetings must be quite interesting.

Anyway,

I’m a week away from starting my exams, which means mentally, I’m hanging on by a thread. In this case, said thread has been chewed fervently by a sharp toothed rat and is on the verge of snapping! In short, I am not ready. I’m not even kidding, I would shave off my eyebrows just to spend a single day without worrying every two seconds. Are exams really that important? Can’t we just, I don’t know, swear that we understood everything, and everyone moves on with their lives! What happened to trust! Does my word mean nothing?

Well, my word here would be as credible as that of a kid caught with their hands in the cookie jar, crumbs all over their face but is still pleading their innocent. Still, aren’t we all innocent until proven otherwise?

So where’s my lawyer.

I have a creative writing project for school, assignment deadlines are scrambling up my ass, stupid exams are coming up, and then we have to stage a play.

As part of our grade for one of our units this semester, we have to stage a performance. And we ALL have to participate. Listen, in my head, I am the lovechild of Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp. My acting skills are impeccable. I have won awards and acted in films with staggering budgets that would feed an entire continent.

But that’s all in my head. In reality though, I’m not worthy of breathing the same air as Angelina Jolie. My face was not made to be in front of the camera… Or an audience. I much rather prefer to be behind those. And by behind, I mean in my room, inside my blanket, with the lights turned off, and humans away from me.

I am shy. It should be a medical condition at this point. The only acting I’ve ever been good at, is pretending that everything is okay. Really, I deserve an Oscar. If you want to be moved to tears, watch me try to act.

The worst part is,we have to dance. Do I look like I have any sense of rhythm? The dancing gene clearly skipped at least three generations in my blood pool. My knees croak when I bend too fast, how do you expect me to hop, skip, twirl and shimmy. With dancing, its highly probable that I’d hurt myself or hurt the innocent person with the bad luck of standing next to me.

I have a condition called twoleft feeticis. There’s no cure for it so far but scientists agree that it is genetic. Its advisable to always have an ambulance on speed dial.

PS: can you dance?

Dancing with my two left feet.

Bachata dancers are a whole different breed. Its like dancing on steroids. I mean, look at that pose, Jesus Christ. In fact, if ‘sexy’ was a dance, it would be bachata.

I don’t know how the dancers manage to dance like that and not catch feelings. they look at each other like they’re the best thing to happen since sliced bread, touch each other like they don’t care who’s watching and hold each other tightly, like personal space is just a myth.

If someone did all that to me, I would be on my way to move In, faster than you can say professionalism.

I guess that’s why I can never be a bachata dancer. I’d probably fall in love with all my co-dancers and apparently professionalism frowns against that. The nerve! Its not like you can control what your heart wants.

Also bachata needs a person to be quick on their feet and flexible. I simply, can’t relate. Normally, I am a ‘slow on her feet‘ kind of girl. Being quick is so much pressure and I’d rather not do that to myself. The last time I was quick, the cops were on my ass, with tear gas canister’s flying all around. That was a close call.

And don’t get me started on flexibility. I am only ever flexible when I’m reaching for the remote to put on my favorite show. Or when in reaching for my favorite snack.

As you can probably tell, dancing is an art that I will never know. This is quite sad because in my head, I have all of these dance moves that would make the les twins cry tears of joy. However every time I try to move my two left feet to the beat, I can feel the spirits and ancestors denouncing my existence. Its embarrassing really.

Dancing and I don’t get along. We have a toxic relationship at this point.

I’m not good with human interactions, or people in general. I find socializing to be a daunting task, one that I’d rather wax my eyebrows than partake in. Whenever I socialize for like two seconds, I need at least 48 hours to recharge my soul. The thing is, I would rather stare at my bedroom wall all day, everyday than hang out with people.

So I’ll stick to dancing in the confines of my room, where no living soul can judge me when I try and fail to do the shakushaku.

Photo:courtesy

PS: We need a self help group for people with two left feet.