Category Archives: Abstract Narrative

I Need To Go

“Please explain it to me. I don’t understand.”
“I… I…. It’s rather hard to …. To….. I dunno…”
“C’mon! There’s gotta be something… an explanation…. A reason why you just woke up someday and decided to end this…”
“I told you I can’t tell, really – it just – just doesn’t…”
“Doesn’t what? Doesn’t feel right?”
“Ummm… not exactly…”
“Come on! What’s with the unsure act? You told me it’s something you do, but I’m starting to think you’re using it as a shield… to – to hide…. Look at me! Look me in the eye!” As he said this, she turned her head away to hide her tearing. “LOOK AT ME!” he yelled, jerking her head so she was facing him directly. “Tearing now, are we? Aren’t you a special one…” he mocked, in part to hide his surprise at her state.
“Nick… I – I need to go. Let go.”
“leaving already?”
“Please.”
“Like hell you’re leaving. You’ve still got a lot to answer, THEN you can leave.”
“Nick please…”
“Answer me Toni! Doesn’t what?!”
“Nick, it’s complicated. I already told you. Just… just…” Her voice faded as she felt a huge tear roll down her left cheek. “Please,” she whispered.
Nick let go of her and looked on in disbelief. She was looking at the ground, arms clasped together, biting her lower lip towards the left side. He’d been with her long enough to recognize that look, although recognition and acceptance were two different things altogether.
“Okay Toni, talk to me. Please. Help me understand why.”
Silence, another tear.
“What did I do wrong?”
Silence.
“Is there someone else?”
Nick was getting desperate. She knew this but… At this question, she actually semi-rolled her eyes through the tears. This was getting hopeless… She couldn’t speak, what could she say anyway? That she didn’t have a solid, speakable reason as to why she was leaving a perfect guy? He would deny that, say he is flawed, but he was perfect for her. Perfect. What would she say? That it was right, it felt – even looked right, but something in her gut told her to walk out? He was desperate, she was frustrated, so she raised her face and looked him in the eye. Directly. The gaze lasted long, then she raised her palm to his cheek oh-so-gently and held his face, using her fingertips to explore it one last time and to commit him to memory. Then she turned and ran, hailing the first taxi she met.
She had told him, in her own way she had.

So I found this when going through my old pieces… I really wish I had finished it. It should have made for an interesting read, but unfortunately, it is all we have for now.

Peace and love
XO

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Keshy

My grandparents have a farm help, Njambi. She is very good at what she does, very meticulous, very diligent. Everybody that has ever been to my grandparents’ place before and after her arrival can testify to the fact that the house, the compound and even the cows – everything looks better. Waaay better… but this post is about Njambi’s daughter.
Wangechi, whom we call Keshy, is a bright 6 year old girl. When I say bright I mean not only intellectually, but personality as well. Her smile, oh, that girl’s smile is the most beautiful thing I have seen in a long time. She smiles with her whole being, she looks like a flower that is fast-forward blossoming (you know the way they do it on Nat Geo?) right in front of your eyes… Her whole body seems to light up. She has these very white, very small milk teeth, and her smile gives you a free front row seat to view this gallery of twenty. Her eyes light up, they look like they hold the essence of all the fireflies in the world, all the innocence, all the simplicity one could ever wish to acquire. Somehow all the beauty in the universe, in the night skies, the sun and the moon and the stars fit in that little, little body, when she smiles.
Now, in my grandparents’ house, there’s this room I really can’t name, but it plays a central role in today’s narrative. It looks like it could be a dining room, except that there is already a dining room. Each of its four walls has a door… two doors that are directly opposite one another each lead to a bedroom. The third door opens into the living room, and the fourth into a porch that faces the outside kitchen. This room has a cupboard that has been there since my mother and her siblings were babies, and it still keeps leftovers and salt and matchboxes and milk from the cows and flour… mostly. It also has two tables, one next to the cupboard that holds dishes that are in transit from the washing area to the living room dish cupboard, and the other that holds food in transit both to and from the kitchen. Under the first table is a small gas cooker we use to warm food in a hurry, and under the second table is a karai, where hens hatch their young. In one corner, behind the door that opens to the porch, is my grandmother’s kibanji, a huge earthen pot where she stores her drinking water so it stays cool. I think now you kinda understand why I cannot exactly give this room a conventional name.
Yesterday, Keshy introduced me to her child, Stella. She came into this room as I was preparing vegetables for supper, and I see something strapped to her back. So I asked her what was going on, and she told me that that was Stella, her child. And she was fast asleep. She needed my help adjusting the pink jumper that doubled up as the baby carrier so I obliged, and she left promptly in search of food to prepare for Stella, so that when she wakes up, she won’t have to stay hungry for long, or at all.
Stella is a very fortunate doll, if I may say so. She’s not much really, not as much a doll as she is pieces of cloth inside a larger pink one, but the love and the care that she gets is out of this world. Whenever she isn’t being cuddled and coddled, she is strapped to Keshy’s back, sharing in her adventures as she explores the farm and bush around. She is always fed on time, and I find it beautiful how Wangechi models her mother in how she takes care of that doll. She will speak to Stella, explain things, tell jokes, ask questions – even prioritize and put her before playing with her friends. She doesn’t just place Stella anywhere, she has to find a place that is stable, firm, safe, soft, fit for an actual baby. And then she will cover her well to protect her from the elements, just as she has seen it done, before she can go out to play.
So Keshy went out to search for food and left me very impressed. When she returned, about half an hour later, I asked her whether she had found the food, and whether Stella had been fed already. She said no, she hadn’t found food yet, and then looked at what I was preparing with this glint in her very white eyes. Catching on, I asked her to fetch a plate from the dish rack, and I scooped some (really like two tablespoons) out of the pot and gave her, to go feed her child. We were speaking in conspiratory whispers this entire time, and when she left holding that plate of food in her hands, I wished I could bottle up the joy that little mother was exuding. Since then, every time we meet, she has this look in her eye, and I would imagine Stella does too… the look you give a fellow conspirator when you did something and got away with it… But that’s not the point of this story and I don’t even know what the point of this story is!
All I know is that this little person inspired me to write something about her, and made me so happy just to sit back and observe her go about being a small person in such a big world, still hopeful, innocent, untainted, pure.

These Guys…

There’s a certain breed of guys I find myself gravitating towards… And thank God they do not know it yet.

The kind that should know better, but don’t. The kind that have no clue what it takes, or means, to keep a girl happy… Or just maybe acts that way… The kind that look like they don’t want to touch a girl with a ten-foot pole. The kind that sends the text that kills all conversation, and you have to wrack your brain to bring up something else. The kind that is adorable, but hates to hear it. The kind that shares in the same peculiarities, that shares the same secret pleasures as I, but away from the public eye. The kind of guy whose statements almost always sound mean, until you get to know them, and understand that no harm was meant by them…. The kind that fit many of these descriptions, and then some, because they are bigger than any descriptions. The kind that also happens to be some of this, and none of it at the same time. The kind that confuses me….

The kind that doesn’t really fit into the criteria of whom I should like, but that I do anyway. The kind that would probably laugh if they knew I’m into them. The kind that may stumble across this one day, and then deny that they ever know me, that they have any association with me. The kind that defies stereotypes, that guy that feeds me a whole lot more than anybody else ever has in any given environment, give or take. The kind that makes me all giddy and all comfortable at the same time. The kind of guy that makes me write a post at one am, despite my resolutions to not write about any significant others, or potential ones, because of how ephemeral this all could get. The kind that would never know I learnt that word watching Teen Wolf, or even that I like that show. The kind that I couldn’t imagine getting all old and wrinkly beside, yet I still get pulled in… The kind that makes me think I’m waaay in over my head, the kind that makes me know I’m screwed.

I think I’ll leave it off here, lest I add things I will regret, because the thought of having a crush figured out from a blog post, by the person himself, mortifies me to no end. Lol… This life. iOut 😀

Here…

But the house looks real pretty, I must say. It is mid-April, but the decorations from Christmas are still hanging. They are gold and purple and red and blue and silver, and they add a nice charm to the place. Being here is all that matters when you’re here, barely in contact with the outside world. There’s no electricity, so the phones and laptop are dead… But I couldn’t care less. Nothing is urgent here, nothing is compulsory. I am free.
The old slanted tree we used to sit on gave in to its weight, but its fall left us the bench, that part of its trunk that ran along the ground for a metre or two. And at the very edge, new shoots are already sprouting. The old kitchen, bathroom and outhouse were brought down, and grass is all that is left, nothing to bear witness that they once stood there. I am reminded of a poem we studied in high school… ‘Grass Will Grow’.
And truly, nothing is permanent. Just like the tree, hurts get mended. Barrenness and hopelessness eventually give way to fruitfulness, given a little rain and sunshine. Here, I can heal. Here, I can be… Here, I can rediscover.