HIGH SCHOOL CHRONICLES : INTERLUDE

Things my mom taught me were wrong:

1. Reading another person’s diary without their permission.
No wonder they invented diaries with padlocks.
2. Lying.
It is too much work, not worth it, and also too much work. Meh.
Also, speech is silver, silence is golden.

The cure to the human condition?
1. Safaricom’s YouTube bundle, for only 10 bob you get 1GB and for 3 hours too. You get to dive deep in YouTube’s rabbit hole and find weird stuff. Do you have it? Is it only available for poor people like me?
2. Junk food. Lads and lasses, remember to eat healthy.
3. Physical exercise. Yeah, right after that junk food.
4. Cooking, if you won’t burn the kitchen, that is.
5. Literature. Read, it is good for you. Also, if you’re remotely artistic, go for it, write, draw, paint, sing, make music, sculpt, do your thing.
6. Avoiding some schools. I promise it is good for your mental health.

Image Source : The Borgen Project.

Did I ever mention about how this great school was probably scammed of an estimated about a cool half a million shillings in terms of shopping and cash or more? Hehe, let me tell you how that went down.

So, people claiming to be from a children’s home supporting orphans and abandoned children living with HIV/AIDS in Uganda showed up one Saturday night. Well, they probably showed up earlier for the school to plan to have them interact with the students. So, on a Saturday night, which was part of our free time by the way, we were called to the auditorium. I wasn’t happy. Saturday evening was one of the rare free times we had with no evening prep, before Sunday crashed into you with all the pending assignments due the next day and preps. So many people were disgruntled, but we dragged ourselves to the auditorium all the same. Not that there was an alternative.

So, we were let in on the subject matter of the impromptu meeting and the stage was left to our Ugandan counterparts. I think the children shared their sob stories and did a play then a song. Not necessarily in that order. The only things I remember are the sobbing people sitting next to me and one name. Chapati. Some of you should know of it by another name, Roti. Why chapati you ask? Well, one of the children, as we came to find out later was called Japheth. But in the moment, we all thought he was called chapati because that’s how they pronounced his name. Or maybe we were just hungry. It was a Saturday night after all and we could have been outside with the option of going to the tuck-shop to buy snacks.

I have another vague recollection of an older person, probably in his twenties who claimed to be a product of the Orphanage and came to help. Was he a dancer? Did he look good? I don’t know. I can’t remember it even with a gun pointed to me. I might remember people particularly interested in him though. Maybe he got some pocket money out of it. Apart from the performances they were also selling some discs with god knows what inside, and of course asking for donations. The kind souls who bought the discs, what was inside? They also asked for people to find out if their parents would be willing to adopt foster children. One particularly bright girl attached herself to the deputy principal and expressed her willingness to be adopted by the lady. On stage. Moral kidnapping much? That bit really rubbed me the wrong way because they put her on the spot and she had to agree to save face.

They must have done this event quite a number of times because they knew just what words to say to hit the softest parts and what to say to stimulate the tear glands. Especially in a girls’ school? People cried until they started hyperventilating. Some fainted, I think? I was there worried about them. Later is when people noticed the discrepancies in the sob stories. Like someone who claimed to have no knowledge of their parents suddenly claiming that their parents didn’t love them and chased them away from home or abandoned them, among many other things a rational person would have noticed straight away. But the emotional manipulation worked and people were puppets on a string, led on by their sympathy and empathy. Those good actors and actresses…. They should have formed a performing troupe. More sustainable. I honestly think that.

It was towards the end of the term and I must say they really choose a good time. People donated everything they had left over from the term, extra pocket money, toiletries, stationery, everything. They made a kill with it. You should have seen the mountain of things present. Now, the school has a program that involves visiting some children’s homes close by and a home for the aged. I have never seen even a quarter of the same amount of donations. There are vulnerable students in school who depended on similar donations to support their stay and sometimes they were lacking of basic necessities that people gave away freely. Did I find it hypocritical? Yes. Very. Very. The school even offered them the school van to transport their loot. Is that what we call being sold and helping your seller to count the money? Anyway, tulioshwa mwosho mmoja safi sana (we were spectacularly scammed).

Later, someone who had gone to the library to read saw an article on the dailies shedding light on the scamming crew. Turns out they had repeated the same show at quite a number of high schools. At least we were not the only ones. Haha. Mean, I know.

Although I can’t say for sure if the children involved were forced or agreed voluntarily, I consider that exploitation and no children deserve that. If you are going to make a donation especially a hands-off donation, please carefully investigate the organization you are sending your donations to. If possible, ask for a break down of how your funds are put to use. Most donations end up in people’s pockets while vulnerable children who are used to obtain the funds get nothing. Its normal to get a couple of street children, promise them a meal and have them act out whatever the donor wants to see, record a video and get approval for funds that never serve the purpose they were intended for.

Either donate through recognized and reputable established organizations, demand accountability or a financial audit report or if possible, pay a visit in person. Don’t be one to enable these selfish exploiters of children.

One of the 10 most important children’s rights is the right to be protected from economic exploitation of all kinds.

SEPTEMBER BLUES 1.2

It is September again. It is blank September. The recurring theme. It came too soon, didn’t it? It was just the beginning of August the other day and we were all blasting Taylor Swift from our speakers.

🎶 But I can see us lost in the memory, August slipped away into a moment in time, ‘cause it was never mine, and I can see us twisted into bedsheets, august slipped away like a bottle of wine, cause you were never mine. 🎶

I always knew I had a short attention span but I recently realized maybe calling it just short might be an understatement. Google says that fruit flies have the least attention span and that gold fish have longer attention span than humans. Me and Drosophila Melanogaster are floating on the same wavelength probably. For shame.

I feel like I am never ever really ready for September. There’s always so much going and I always feel out of sorts. Rushed. I don’t like it, not that that changes anything. It is the last quarter of the year. Am I the only one that feels like time has moved too first? January simultaneously feels like it was yesterday and two years ago. Strange, right? I know. Did I even have resolutions for this year? I can’t remember for the life of me. I really can’t. losses? Gains? Is it time to start counting them yet?

September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. This year’s theme is creating hope through action. The theme colors are purple and teal. Mental health in my opinion doesn’t receive as much attention as it should. According to the world health organization more than 700,000 people die due to suicide annually. That is the population of an average sized city. Suicide is also the fourth leading cause of death among 15-29-year-olds. 70% of the global suicides occur in low- and middle-income countries. If those statistics don’t scare you, nothing will. You may not be able to help anyone but kindness does go a long way.

What can I say, it is September again. Again. Again. So here is a poem I wrote recently.

Righteous demons and immoral angels,
The portal to damnation remains stable,
What a strange world,
But it surely goes round,
In the fourth circle of hell,
Greed rings a bell,
It’s time for dinner,
Humanity must not be the winner,
The ghosts and ghouls prey on innocence,
And tortured souls scream for a glimmer of hope’s luminescence,
The demented dance on the graves of the dead,
And the oppressed send a virgin to the devil’s bed,
Meanwhile my demons hunger for chaos and blood ,
So I feed them and have no time to be sad.

Blue 👑

I wish everyone a kinder sea. Cheers.

HIGH SCHOOL CHRONICLES PT 3 – BAD DAY AT SCHOOL

So, its 0510hrs.

Sad Luigi. Image source : Google

I am from watching a sad drama. Today’s post is definitely sticking to that theme. This is the prototype of a really bad day for a junior at the great school. For reference, a junior is a student in their first or second year of high school while a senior is a student in their third year or final year of high school. This is staged in Rebecca Karanja house/hostel which I am more familiar with. The day is Wednesday, more specifically, the Wednesday where there’s smokies (smoked sausages) for breakfast.

Normal waking time, or the standard time is 5am. (We never had dawn preps. Hallelujah for that.) The house captain goes to both the junior wing and the senior wing telling people it is time to wake up. But you stayed up the previous night trying to get hot water for showering but did not manage to, from 10pm up to past 11:30pm. 10pm is when the evening prep for juniors end while seniors stay up to 11:30pm latest. You queued with your pail there for that long but since you couldn’t run fast, there were a lot of people who got there before you and booked slots for other people. Its never your turn. And because it is almost always drizzling randomly, you got rained on while waiting since you didn’t want to leave. As soon as there is only two people to your turn, the seniors arrived and of course out their pails directly under the running hot water. There goes your hopes of showering with hot water, down the drain. You therefore decide to hurry and take a cold shower before the showers are also occupied and inaccessible. After that, you were in a bad mood and ignored everyone and just slept knowing very well you didn’t finish exercise 14.1 on KLB Math and Math is the second class on the timetable.

So, this morning the ‘junior wing wake up’ from your house captain sounds like the sweetest lullaby and you burrow deeper into your blankets. Your petty room mate is holding a grudge from being ignored yesterday night so they only half-heartedly try to wake you up then stop the second you stir. Guess what else is making you extra sleepy? Congratulations. You caught a cold due to being rained on last night and adding a cold shower on top of it. As soon as it is 5:30am, the captain walks around pouring soap for the house cleaners. She meets you asleep and you wake up to a scolding with clogged nostrils and a very runny nose. You’re in a panic and run around like a headless chicken trying to get dressed. You stub your small toes on the dresser in the middle of the room and fight back tears. You have to stop every now and then to blow your nose and because you’re worried that your handkerchief will be soaked too soon, you start using pocket tissue, which is only making your nose more irritated.

You can not use the sinks inside or outside the house to wash your face or brush your teeth because its cleaning time. So, you use wet wipes on your face and decide to brush your teeth later before leaving for breakfast. You can’t seem to find a complete pair of socks so you wear tow mismatched ones, fold them and hope they look the same. Your tie is not tied because you removed it in a hurry yesterday and you, have never learnt to do it. Your petty room mate of course will not do it for you so you’re stuck. The bell for breakfast rings at 5:45am and you’re 15 minutes late to your work station. The captain comes looking and upon finding its you again they immediately brand you a trouble maker. There will be a house meeting later and the house mistress will definitely show up, so you’re assured of more trouble coming your way. You dejectedly walk to the under stairs to pick your cleaning materials, only to find them missing. While getting up in shock and anger you hit your head against the edge. Now on top of a raging flu you have a throbbing head.

In the allocation of duties, juniors get the worst. At least in my opinion. Its either toilets or the showers. Talking of toilets, we used to call them Georges. Apparently, there was once a cook named George. I don’t know what he did with the food but quite a number of people got running stomachs. Public health hazard. Long story short, he has the honor of having the school name toilets after him. I think that’s an honor many would be happy without but anyway. Washing public toilets is not fun. Dealing with poop isn’t exactly a good way to start a day. But it has to be done, either way. There is no way to get used to it either. Unless you’re a mother, or someone who changes bed pans. I’d have to ask first. I don’t really think there’s a common ground you find with dealing with it, regardless of time though. Mad respect to all cleaning staff.

Oh, my 6am alarm just went off.

So with missing cleaning materials and only your heavy duty rubber gloves that you hid elsewhere in a rare burst of wisdom, you go to the washrooms to find that there’s no water. Despite that, the flushing system tanks of your two assigned toilets are leaking, but remain unflushable. Everything looks so messy you want to cry again, but can’t. You have your rubber gloves on so you can’t even blow your nose so you just sniffle. You hear something like a stampede and realize the last batch of people is leaving for breakfast and the dining hall doors will soon be locked. You decide to go with them so you run back to the room to pick your unmade tie and change into school shoes. Maybe a kind stranger will be willing to tie it for you on the way. Back in the room, your petty room mate has your shoe brush and of course is nowhere to be found so you make do with wet wipes again. You pick your school bag with the untouched homework and go out, dreaming of hot coffee and sausages to soothe your battered heart.
You rush with the rest.

There’s no kind stranger. There’s no breakfast for you too with no tie too. But you hope. At the door, the dining hall captain slams the doors closed on your face. Unwilling to give up easily, you follow the group of seniors to the back door. They successfully enter and you let out a sigh of relief. As soon as you stretch your hand to pick the bread, a new loaf has just been opened so you aim for that so that you can get the crust. But immediately the captain notices that you’re not wearing a tie.

“Where is your tie?!”

She demands angrily and you can only raise your undone tie in a silent plea hoping she will let you serve first. You are so close. The dining hall is so warm. Everything smells so good. You say a silent prayer.

“Go back and wear your tie!!”

The verdict is passed and people in the nearby tables are looking at you with pity, others open mocking laughter. The dam bursts and the tears you have been holding back rush out as if summoned. You take your walk of shame, head lowered, shoulders bent and decide to pick your bag from where you threw it and sulk to class. The bag is missing. No, it must be the tears. Yes, it must be the tears. You wipe them away to no avail. Your bag is still missing.

Just how bad can this day get? Oh, this is just the beginning.

Stay tuned for more abuse.

HIGH SCHOOL CHRONICLES PT 2

I think it is really a pity that my mother taught me manners. Because I really want to drag some people. By name.

Why am I writing about high school years after I have been there? High school, at least in my education system, takes up four out your six teenage years. Teenage hood is the period in time where we are all finding ourselves. Creating our identities. This is the time whether we either lose or find ourselves. This is where growth happens. It is like the moment when a butterfly breaks out of the chrysalis. If its wings are broken or clipped at this stage it may never be able to soar. So, whatever happens during those 4 years has a very large impact on how we turn out to be. And I will talk about it.

Someone told me to mention our blue trousers. As part of unofficial clothes, the school offered two really unflattering navy blue sets of trousers. You see those KPLC overalls? Yes, something like that. In fact, I think their overalls look better. We were allowed to wear them during the evening preps and during the weekends outside special school functions. Remember how I mentioned they were unflattering; this is where that comes in. For the cool kids who couldn’t wear that for whatever reason, they could buy a more flattering pair from Connate and Outfitters. I say flattering because they were narrow where they were supposed to be and wide where they were supposed to be. And of course, the material was different. The only common thing was the color, of which they could get away with a slightly lighter shade or a slightly darker one.

A big shout out to Madame Geke, our deputy principal and teacher of French. Yes, I did French in my first year of high school.

Comment allez-vous mesdames et messieurs?

You know how they say that one parent spoils the children while another is in charge of discipline? Madame Geke was in charge of discipline, and boy, wasn’t she strict. Other than that, I personally found her to be a humorous and admirable lady. Yeah, it was all funny until that day she walked into my physics class doing a detention from our teacher and sent us to her office for a beating where we were supposed to say thank you after the beating. During her tenure before her transfer, she pioneered the Aca-Bush, which unfortunately nobody kept going after she left. I missed her witty and thought-provoking remarks in the small journal.

Someone also mentioned Valentines Day. Hehe, we were special girls. Roses for everyone, and cake for every class!! We’d go for parade and take pictures. I’m going to attach pictures and links to newspaper articles here. We weren’t called the best school north of Cape town for nothing.

https://www.citizen.digital/news/students-staff-at-alliance-girls-celebrate-valentines-day-n292451

https://litkenya.com/alliance-girls-celebrate-man-who-delivers-their-love-notes-at-alliance-boys/

Now around the school there were these little placards? Sign boards? Whatever the name, you should get the idea. They had different quotes and sayings written on them. I remember one saying ‘you give us girls, we give you ladies of substance’ if my memory serves me right. Then there was another one around the physics lab that always made me laugh. I can’t remember what it said. I just know it made me laugh.

Who do I think deserves a pay rise the most in that school? Mr. Njuguna, the mail man. Apart from his usual duties, that is official correspondence, he did a lot more. He made sure that the little love letters students wrote to our brother school got there safely and the replies got to us too. Apart from that, students would send him to buy some necessities which weren’t available in the school tuck shop from the closest supermarket like thermal cups, alarm clocks among others. I remember wanting to send a success card to my sister who was in her final year of high school in a different county. I was worried about it not getting to her because it was a bit far and it would be a hassle. Despite my misgivings, he promised to make sure it reached her. And guess what, it did! Despite the bulk of the work he had to do I never once saw that man not smiling. I hope this man gets his flowers.

Another shout out to our unofficial school DJ. Legend. I remember this one time the principal insisted on us listening to one genre of music which a lot of people were not happy with. So, while she was there, he would play what she wanted and when she left he would play what we wanted. When she came back, he would seamlessly switch back to her favored genre. Very thrilling if you ask me. Absolute legend that man. Entertainment nights were always on point.

The year book. The picture there, that isn’t me. That’s a mugshot. Am I the one who answered those questions? Highly doubt it. That mugshot will go down as black history. Is it the ugly stitching of BWM on my sweater? Is it the gray polo visible through my collar? Is it the small Avicii sign on the front of my collar? (I was obsessed with Avicii, still am. May his soul rest in peace). I guess we’ll never know. In my defense, the school demanded that everyone label their stuff due to rising cases of missing and stolen clothes. And those stitches are what I paid for and what the tailor gave me. I should have done it myself, but anyway.

So, on Fridays we used to have community work (comm work). This was basically a general cleaning of the school and every class was assigned a particular area to clean. The principal used to say ‘work willingly and cheerfully’. I didn’t have a problem with that. Not really. Enter white scouring powder on a pavement. I swear the white never used to come out. So whenever possible we would run for liquid soap and pour it on our individual slabs. If you were unlucky a captain would pour more scouring powder on your slab with vengeance. Good luck in getting that out. Do you know what some of them used to determine if your slabs were clean? Tissue. Surely Brenda, the chances of white tissue coming back spotless from any clean surface is one out of 10. Also, the fact that it was class work meant that there were some uncooperative people you would always have problems with. Definitely not a good way to end a Friday evening.

To end this on a musical note again, shout out to the school orchestra. Those girls played with their hearts and I as a person irrevocably obsessed with all things music was there to appreciate it whenever they performed. Especially when the Rift Valley Academy (RVA band) used to come over. Music galore. Good music galore. Live orchestra? Yes please. Any day.

When they sit, we stand.
When they stand, we stand out.
When the stand out, we become outstanding.

See you, or not, with more chronicles of the great bush.

HIGH SCHOOL CHRONICLES

I don’t actually remember the reporting date,the date when I joined high school. I could check from the admission letter of course, which I still have. But I’m too lazy. I just remember it was a cold morning. So cold, as Kikuyu almost always is. I was probably among the earliest, since my father is a strict time keeper. And when I say early, I mean 5:30am latest. I was in my primary school uniform, as was stipulated in the admission letter. A dirty brown shade, shivering, with bone straight short hair straightened as per the regulations too. Something I hated and still hate to date. My scalp is extra sensitive and I’d always get burns when getting my hair done, headaches for days on top of my migraines. It hurt so much that I stopped letting anybody touch my hair. I’d stay with my unruly type 4c hair during the holidays much to my mother’s chagrin.

Unfortunately, wearing my natural hair was something that wouldn’t work in the school that discouraged and punished it. Afros were strictly prohibited and I remember at one point the deputy principal going around with a pair of scissors cutting people’s hair and forcing them to shave. Yes, I was in an African school, in Africa. The constant rain and humid weather also didn’t make things easier. Moreover, I couldn’t stand my hair not being neat so I was forced to blow dry it often. For more information about how constant heat damages your natural hair, visit google. It got so bad that at some point I just cut off my hair. And not once too.

So, back to reporting day, I must have looked so green, in the green uniform, (after it was issued out) pun completely intended. Now arriving early is convenient and all, but I was too early and bedcovers hadn’t arrived so I wasn’t issued with one and asked to go check again later. There was a small sheet with the list of things to be issued and it was needed to issue anything. To date I don’t know where mine went, so I never got my bed cover issued. I had problems with the house keeper and the house mistress probably through out my four years of high school because of that. I tried to explain but they refused to issue one. I wasn’t going to pay for another one. How was I supposed to explain to my African parents that they had two pay twice for the same thing?

I remember my first detention. So, on weekends and school events, we used to have roll call. We’d line up on the parade ground, regardless of the sun or cold and captains would tick our names against a register to confirm everyone was there. I used to hate roll calls after the JIS (Joint Interschool Service?) because we used to walk to and fro and carry seats on our way back sometimes? Rusty memory, but I should be right. That was torture for a certified salted fish such as I. We would get done around noon and walk back while the midday sun was beating down on our (my) fragile spirit. It would be past tea break and the only meal we would have had was breakfast, well or nothing if you were unlucky (I’m coming to this).

Do I digress a lot? My apologies. The detention. It was probably on the first or second week after reporting. I was late to rollcall, according to the captain who gave me the detention. I, together with a few other unlucky souls were asked to wash the path leading to the art room. That’s where I met one of the few friends I made in high school, Rita. I don’t even remember the conversation. But I remember thinking, this girl is hella funny and sunny. The detention was horrible courtesy of her and I was able to actually laugh about it.

You would think that was my last detention, but no. I probably did like 6 more. Three or 4 individually, two or three as a class. The school had 7 streams (S,T,V,W,X,Y,Z) per form when I joined. Right now, probably more letters of the alphabet. I would know because they added Q and R while I was still there. My stream was V, I was, is a Vian. Now I don’t know why my stream was known for notoriety but that’s the black history I walked into, together with the rest of my classmates. Everyone was already prejudiced against us and I can proudly say we were the pioneers of a better V stream. Little sheep in wolves clothing or something. I remember my class door written V for Violent. I feel like we need a class t-shirt with that printed on the back. Our class color was green. V for vitality innit?

I met both the best and worst people in that class. Peace and chaos in equal measure. Ella and Sally at the back benches with the beats and songs (totally upheld that back bench reputation). Mischief aside, those two are excellent performers. Don’t be fooled. I would go back one more time for the little music sessions at random times of the day. Ivy, shout out to you wakili, I won’t say too much. Sheila, girl, cheers to all the drama. Taylor (Talya), all the music days in the computer lab and sharing lyrics. My back desk mate Peninah. I owe her a little bit too much. Shirley, there’s literally no words or way to explain anything. You know all about it. Mitch, I honestly don’t remember how this conversation started, but I know you owe me a girl’s date with wine. I’ve realized that this list is pretty long. So, I’ll leave it at this, but honestly, to everyone that made even a single moment of high school more bearable, I love you.

Moving on swiftly (like my teacher of English used to say, I admire that wonderful lady, Ms Openda) to food. I’m not going to complain about the quality. The kitchen was the cleanest and the food was up to par for a national public high school catering for more than a thousand girls. I won’t even complain about the cook everyone called ‘shake and balance’ or the caterer people called ‘cater 360/cater tomboy/cater macho nne’. I won’t even mention our little relationship with spoons. However, …….

A moment of silence for my high school DH captains.

So, bags, jackets, scarves and leg warmers were not allowed in the dining hall. Bags, I understand. They could obstruct movement and take up space. The rest??? So, you had to leave your bag outside, around the dh, the flower bushes/hedges around or take it to class.

Enter dh captains, confiscating bags randomly. Apparently, we were making the flower hedges dry by putting our bags around them. Now bear I mind I was in that school for 4 years and never once have I seen them dry. Do y’all know how anxiety inducing it is to look for your bag at six in the morning and not find it?? Everything is inside! You don’t know if its stolen or if a dh captain took it. Yes, despite the presence of CCTV cameras outside the dining hall, bags went missing all the time. Between the dh captains seizing them and thieves stealing them, I don’t know which was the lesser evil.

Also, meals were served in the morning, breakfast, 5:45am, doors were closed like 15 minutes later, 20 minutes tops. Bear in mind that everyone except form fours had morning cleaning duties and water wasn’t always guaranteed. You either had to wake up earlier or risk missing breakfast. Tea break was at 10am. Ended at 10:20. Doors closed obviously before 10:20am. Owe unto you if your teacher extended the lesson and ate into your break at any point. Lunch began at 1:10pm. Doors closed by 1:30pm. Supper was at 5:45pm, doors closed same time as breakfast.

Enter dh captains. Locking the door on your face. We were all between the ages of 14 and 18 yrs. I understand the importance of keeping time, trust me I do. But why are you locking the doors on my face? I’m literally here, the food is still there, I paid for it. There was an option of going to the back door (exit door) and beg to be allowed to serve, and you’d still be denied 9 out of 10 times. Like bro, clearly, I am doing all this because I want to eat, I am putting my dignity aside to beg, why are you refusing me food and I can see it? I pitied form ones the most because they’d just cry and go to class. Funny bit, there are specific people who could enter using the back door at any given time and be served food. And other captains also were exempt from the time constraints. In my high school, captains were another class of students. They were called ‘cops’, and we were ‘commoners’. Completely different social classes. Not all cops were bad though. There were a few misplaced angels.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not for any purpose or intent dragging dining hall captains, or any captains. I’m just stating facts. Some of the things they deliberately did are not reasonable. One might argue that they were just implementing school rules and regulations. But they had meetings every now and then with the school administration and were in the position to ask questions and suggest better ways of working out things. There is no way to convince me that they couldn’t do anything about some of the unfair policies the school had. Captains were considered above the rules though, no matter the number of times they sang to us at parade that nobody was above the rules. You could openly see the difference between you and the person with a striped tie.

Anyway, enough about that. High school was mostly horrible, but there were a few good moments here and there. Especially during the reign of Mrs. Kamwilu. God bless that woman. She really went out of her and I am sure I am not the only one who can vouch for her. She treated us like her daughters. With equal measures of doting and strictness.
We had movie nights, special meals, a functional tv room open every Saturday and Sunday, inter-house sports and music (the horrors of ‘commo’), class fun days, contests, music and drama festivals, socials (which I only went once because I thought it was compulsory).

There were song good bits. Like the field, almost always ever green where I always felt at home. Like the tuck shop, which was never empty, and Sarah, who was always nice. Like the little balcony in RK/JM where I’d go and stare at the sky almost every night because I couldn’t sleep. Like the phone booth where you could call home even though I barely used it. Like the flowers planted everywhere around the school which were always blooming and I’d pick them for my friends on their birthdays and on Valentines. Like the loquat tree behind Kenya house where sometimes a watchman would help us get the fruits because climbing trees was prohibited. Like the piano in the auditorium with the labelled keys where I’d go and teach myself how to play. Like the nice Nurse Mwaura who took care of me when I had to get a root canal while in school, when I had an ugly wound on my knee that needed daily cleaning and when I had to get injections daily for 5 days after a horrible tonsilitis case. Like the little kids in the servant quarters who thought I was cool when they saw me doing splits in the lower field and wanted to see me do it again. Like this kid who thought I was strong and wouldn’t stop asking me to swing her around.

To end this on a musical note, in an inter-house music competition in 2018? Pamela Achan Victor led Burns Annex (I hope I got the names and year right) in singing Love Potion by Mafikizolo and that was the best thing I heard. it made me love the song more. In fact, let me even listen to it right now.

I will be back with more chronicles, or not, featuring the best school north of Cape town, south of the Sahara and somewhere in relation to Limpopo.

MEMORY LANE

Sometimes, I wonder if I am the only one who remembers some things.
Like does this girl and her horde of brothers remember pushing me down to the ground just outside my house in lower primary?

Does this teacher remember calling me out of class after an essay writing test and telling me that my writing was exemplary and that they believed in me?


Does the judge of my first ever public speaking competition remember this shocked girl in brown uniform who stumbled on her first words then went on to give a brilliant speech on the important of free primary education and took second place?

Does the person I sat with in kindergarten remember the sickly girl next to her who was always lying down on the benches every now and then, after severe nose bleeds?

Do my classmates remember that time in grade seven or eight when we decided to plant flowers outside the class and sort of turned it into a competition with the next class ? I must say my class won.

Do the reporters remember my first tv interview? That’s an embarrassing but cute memory in its own way. It was immediately after KCPE. I always want to crawl into a hole every time I see it. I envy my younger self for the confidence though, whether fake or real.


Does my highschool principal remember me asking to stay behind for a few days after schools closed in my first year? Thats a story for another day.


Do the first people I met on the first of high school remember ? We all looked so new in the green uniforms and pin straight blow-dried hair. Like freshly minted notes straight from the bank. Hahaha. The first people I met were actually two girls in my class. Did we go on to become friends? Yes and no. One remained more of an acquaintance. One was a spectacular fail of a friendship. No name dropping for privacy purposes.

Does the cook remember I always used to say ‘kidogo’ while being served because I am not much of an eater and I didn’t want to waste food? Sometimes they’d disregarded my request. Did I look like I was starving? I don’t know .

I made alot of acquaintances in my time at highschool. Friends even, if I say so myself. Workers, a teacher or two, kids from the staff quarters. There’s this kid I gave the last thing I ever painted. It was a beautiful sunset over the sea and a lone boat. He wanted something and I was leaving.

Sarah from the tuckshop gave me a treat on her bill because she thought I looked sad. Oh that kind soul…


I wonder does the nurse remember me? I was pretty sickly. There’s this time I had to go and stick around the sanatorium daily for IV injections because I refused to be admitted to the hospital. Another time I fell and a pebble got into my knee. As if that wasn’t enough, the disinfectant burnt the skin so it became a bigger wound. If you have never had your skin peeled off, literally, don’t be in a hurry to find out.

I wonder does my english group remember how we would discuss for a few minutes then everyone would start napping one way or another. Does my chemistry teacher remember me demandingly that he stops picking on me? That was funny . Being bullied by an adult and having your peers laugh at you, especially in a classroom isn’t funny though. My English teacher was my favorite. She always had stories to tell. And I like the way she always used to say ‘nobody died’. In some way, it made everything seem a tiny bit easier. Moving on swiftly… (Another favorite phrase of hers)

There’s so much to reminisce about.

Do people who were once my friends keep the cards and notes I made for them?

Does the little black kitten my mom gave away remember me?

Do my first workmates remember me?

Does my first love remember my naivety?

Where did this kid who was my friend when I was in grade 8 and he was in grade 2 go?
Has the world taken away his innocence and pureness of heart?
Is he still curious about the world?Does he still catch grasshoppers only to feed them and let it go?


Do the ladies I used to share novels with in highschool remember? Having a book no one had read was like winning a lottery.

I feel like my life is made up of these little not so significant memories that everyone seems to have forgotten. Everyone but me. In all honesty though, I’d prefer to be forgotten. I don’t make it hard to either.

Blue 👑.

CIGARETTES AND HURRICANES

I want to write. I’ve been thinking how to start for a while now. I don’t know how to, and it’s driving me crazy. I hate it.

There’s so much I want to say. But my mind is blank. Yet words are chocking me. Beating against my rib cage. Clawing my chest. Asking, demanding to be let out. I hate it.

It’s so funny, isn’t it. How laughter gives way to tears. To anguish. To so much misery and anger, and pain, and helplessness. So funny, how you wake up one morning and everything you knew is gone. You’re surrounded by gray walls, gray skies, gray faces. You are a stranger to yourself too. I hate it.

Isn’t it funny, how you could be obsessed with a goal today,a person, a topic, an event then wake up the next day with absolutely no inkling or hint of desire towards the same thing?
I find it partly scary and intriguing, how fast the flames of desire can turn cold. How fast burning passion abates. How a raging storm of obsession suddenly gives way to calm seas of indiferrence . How fast a radiant heart turns cold.

The world has a way of sucking the joy out of everything. It’s designed to try, to test. And more often than not we’re found wanting. Unworthy. Oh, how sad, how devastating, how heartbreaking, it is for a young generation to be so faded, so jaded. Utterly lost. Broken. It is better to die young. With dreams. Hopes. Aspirations. Than to be old and jaded praying for death every night.


We’re stuck on a vicious cycle of self destruction. Get high till you don’t remember your name. Surround yourself with people who you wouldn’t think of calling at 3am when you’re having a mental breakdown and call them friends. Try to fill the hollow inside with everything superficial, try to pretend that it’s not there. If we maybe pretend it doesn’t exist hard enough, it will go away.

Write us a romantic tragedy, my friend says. Write us the saddest story ever. There are no happily ever afters left in the world. Happiness is an illusion. Its a fool’s dream. Its a lie.


Pain. We crave pain like an addict craves his fix. Its what we know. It’s what we are used to. We’re hurting so we’re angry with the world. We’re hurting so we hurt everyone around us. I don’t know how to not be sad anymore. I can’t even remember how it was like not being sad. I feel like it is the only thing I ever was. Sad.


Time heals nothing. We just grow around our grief. Build bigger and stronger walls. To keep all the pain inside. And warmth outside. Walls so strong, yet so fragile, that the slightest show of concern is enough to bring them crashing down. So we wield our tongues like double edged swords. We lash out like wounded animals. Caged animals. Agitated. And we build a fortress of sarcasm and cynicism, and skeptism. To keep all the warmth and light outside. We found a home in the cold, in the dark.

What is the philosophy of our generation? Is it misery? Depression? Is it intolerance, judgment and discrimination? Is it so much pent up anger and madness that the day we burst we will raze down the whole world? Is it coldness, indifference, apathy that we’re always plunged in sub-zero temperatures? Is it running away from everyone, everything, our problems? Hiding from facts and the truth? Refusing to see things as they really are because we will never be ready? The 18s and 19s were the eras of enlightenment and romanticism. What is the philosophy of our generation?


We’re a restless people. Always feeling like we don’t belong. Always running. We never stick around too long. Because we’re afraid. Afraid our past is going to catch up with us. Afraid that our demons are going to catch up with us. We crave freedom like caged eagles. But caged eagles we are. Caged by our emotions, our past, our dreams, our future.

Smiles uglier than crying. Self loathing. So many what ifs and whys at 3am when the world slumbers and the moon shines light on our deepest wounds. When old scars itch, asking to be scratched, to be ripped open, again, to fester.

You apologize too much. I do, too. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry for everything I was, is, and everything I wasn’t, isn’t. I am sorry that I was hurting and hurt you too. I am sorry for everything that I could have fixed and did not. We are a generation too proud to admit our mistakes and apologize. We’re willing to lose what we care about, than lower our pride and ego. Pathetic.


We have loved in vain. Trusted in vain. Laboured in vain. Waited in vain. Toiled in vain. Hoped in vain. Everything has been for naught. We have not only failed to gain the world, but we have lost ourselves too.

I don’t think this is what I want to write. I am not so sure I didn’t go off topic from the word go. I am not so sure I didn’t run away.

Oh love, you smell like heartbreak and a field of broken promises and shattered dreams. Come, let me give you a hug.

November is Men’s Health Awareness Month with International Men’s Day falling on November 19th. Men’s Health Awareness Month is dedicated to bringing awareness to a wide range of men’s health issues.

SEPTEMBER BLUES

I guess blank September is becoming sort of a recurring theme for me. September is the month after my birthday month. And trust me, I have had few things to be happy about in August since birth. I probably have had more losses in August than any other time of the year. Or maybe the fact that the month is associated with that day makes them stand out more because I am unlikely to forget. In as much as I want to.

I usually find myself lost in September, and this year is no different. I feel stuck, like I am sinking in quicksand no matter how much I try to stay afloat.

I feel lost. Like a tiny canoe in the midst of a tsunami, bloodthirsty waves, hungry sharks, a cold, dark ocean waiting to swallow me.

I feel like I am walking on a tight rope. One wrong step and the abyss will joyfully swallow me.

I feel like I am constantly at war. Fighting myself, fighting other people, fighting the whole world itself. And my soul grows weary of the constant breaches to my peace.


My physical health has been shitty, which has taken a dip at my mental health too. I am getting migraines as often as I get into a bad mood. Which is too often, if you ask me. I am off meds, not that they did more than mess me up further, but it was something to hold on to. I try not to wear the frustration and pain on my face but some days the façade cracks. And I hate looking weak.

I am having uncomfortable conversations with myself. Every time I feel myself slip further and further from reality. I am trying to glue the pieces of my life together. I am trying to be strong. I am trying to be kind to myself. I am trying. Hard. It’s taking everything in me.

On days I think I am doing okay, a mere song will push me into a mental breakdown. A stray thought will trigger a panic and anxiety attack. The voices in my head will tell me that all my efforts are for naught.


I am trying to stay anchored in the present. Although I feel myself slipping further every day. I find myself running away from friends. From myself. Running, running. Illusion and reality, the line between illusion and reality is so blurred. I don’t know where I am holding on to anymore. The hold is slippery and the safety belts are worn out. All it takes is one wrong step, one wrong move, one second lapse of concentration….

I am convincing myself it’s okay to feel like this. It’s okay to write this down, and put myself out here…

Aut vincere, aut mors !
Either victory or death.

September has been mental health awareness and suicide prevention month.


This is my September dump, I guess.

SIMBA

He was a mix of a German shepherd and a breed I don’t know. He was special. White paws, socks, I like to call them, because of the way the white patch came just below his knee joints, brown fur with another white patch at the tip of his tail. I called him Simba (Lion), and fierce he was…

He was the only one who listened to me. We’d sit on the verandah and watch the sunset as I complained to him about anything and everything under the sun.

He knew to come running to welcome me no matter how long I was away, with cries of being wronged, smiles, wagging tail and zoomies. It was always the best part about coming back. He was my best friend.

He trusted me, like I did. He let me touch him when nobody else could come near him. He even learnt to share me with my cat for me. Then they slowly became best friends. He knew to place his paw on my hand when I offered it and offer himself for belly rubs, pats and scratches.

He always ate from my plate. I’ve always had a love hate relationship with food, so alot of the times I’d empty my plate in his bowl as he did the eating for me. I’d sneak treats before and past his feeding time because he was the first thing to cross my mind whenever I had a treat. I loved him too much to quantify it in words.

He was a proud dog. Sometimes ignoring calls by others. Yet he knew to come any time I called him. With a wagging tail and patience. And smiles. He could smile, I swear. And perked ears. Eager.

I remember the first day he came. He was so small. I was scared he wouldn’t make it through the first night. I bottle fed him and wrapped him up in a thick cloth. He made it.

I would check on him in the morning before I went to school and rush back in the evening to see if he was okay and well fed. Then I’d bring him around to play in the compound. He went from whimpering at night to running circles with me around the house every evening.

Too fierce, that was Simba. Too fierce that nobody dared trespass. Or show up without asking to be fetched for fear of being bitten. He would sit on the lawn close to the gate, basking in the sun or on our spot on the verandah waiting for a hapless soul to scare. He had fun with it, and so did I honestly.

I remember this day, I don’t know what some kid said, whether to him or to me. Probably a rude comment from what I can remember. Simba took it upon himself to make sure the kid lived to regret that. He barked so aggressively and chased the kid around while snapping at his heels much to my mother’s consternation. Meanwhile I was on the floor dying with laughter as my mother screamed at me to make him stop. I wasn’t worried he’d bite the kid because he was too intelligent. But I had to call him back, of course after the lesson was over, lest my mother decided to lock him up.

He was such a stubborn dog, that I became his appointed vet. Hell would have to freeze over first before he followed anyone, willingly or unwillingly to the vet. That dog could run! And he always knew, so we stopped trying. And I’d coax him to take any meds or do his check ups as necessary.

As he aged, he lost a couple of teeth, and required a softer diet. I saw it truly for the first time in 2020 when covid lock down forced everyone to stay at home. And it broke me. Time flies so fast and I wished it didn’t.

I am thankful for the time I got to spend with him during that period. There wasn’t alot to do and he was a welcome distraction from the madness all that staying cooped in one place was bringing me. We played, and talked, I fed him, watched as he got closer and closer with the cat. He was also less naughty. It’s like he knew he was leaving.

I saw it too, and I stubbornly refused to believe it. Until one day in the morning I called him for breakfast and he didn’t come. I had stayed up late with him the previous night, just watching the moon and making random small talk. My heart stopped and I rushed to the kennel. He was sleeping so peacefully and I was afraid of waking him up to find out that he wouldn’t wake up anymore.

I stayed there for a long time, waiting for him to open his eyes again and perk his ears. Only this time round, he didn’t. I asked to bury him alone, the same day.
I dug a sizeable pit, carefully placed him inside and sat next to it, mourning my best friend. It took me forever to cover the pit because I knew doing that would mean saying goodbye forever. I wasn’t ready. I will never be ready.


I have known loss, intimately like a lover, but that kind of pain was different. Is different. I still hear him barking excitedly across the lawn welcoming me to the place he made me call home. My heart still constricts oh so painfully even now as I write this.

I wish he’d stayed longer. I wish I had been home more. I wish I had taken more pictures, spent more time together. There’s so much. But I am also grateful that he had been there for 10 years of my life. A decade of friendship, memories, fun, laughter.

I hope to never love another as much. Because the pain never goes away.

ROCK BOTTOMLESS

PAYING HOMAGE

Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Image source : Google
Edits : Author’s own

Today I pay homage to one of my favorite poets, Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson FRS (6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892) was an English poet. He was the Poet Laureate during much of Queen Victoria’s reign. In 1829, Tennyson was awarded the Chancellor’s Gold Medal at Cambridge for one of his first pieces, “Timbuktu”. He published his first solo collection of poems, Poems, Chiefly Lyrical, in 1830. “Claribel” and “Mariana”, which remain some of Tennyson’s most celebrated poems, were included in this volume. Although described by some critics as overly sentimental, his verse soon proved popular and brought Tennyson to the attention of well-known writers of the day, including Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Tennyson’s early poetry, with its medievalism and powerful visual imagery, was a major influence on the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.
[Soure : Wikipedia]

One of my favorites from Lord Tennyson is ‘Crossing the bar’ which is widely considered his last poem. It was written during a spell of sickness during a voyage in his twilight years. Another favorite is ‘In Memoriam A.H.H’ written to commemorate his friend and fellow poet Arthur Hallam who died of a stroke at the tender age of 22.

Lord Tennyson is the ninth most frequently quoted writer in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations.

Crossing The Bar



Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

©Alfred Tennyson, 1889.

“‘Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all”,

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

SUNDAY HUMOR

This, I truly believe! 😂😂

NEWS FLASH

1. Conspiracy theories.

2. Does that satisfy your vanity?

3. It is all for naught.

4. Subtle manipulation, instant gratification.

5. The less you know, the better for you .

6. So what if nobody else thinks the same?

7. Nothing is what it seems like. Just nothing.

8. The opposite of love is indifference.

9. Take your revenge.

10. If you were more decisive your life would be easier.

11. You are the problem, grow up.

12. You are the friend in the friend group, move on.

13. The monster under your bed now stays in your mind.

14. What you are scared of most might kill you.

15. Make yourself happy, even at the expense of the whole world.

16. Be selfish.

17. Be proud, unless you are a beggar.

18. Don’t fall in love. Swim, run, dance, crawl or whatever, just don’t fall.

19. Don’t listen to them, they don’t know anything.

20. Make ugly faces at kids until they cry.

21. Keep your head up, or down. Step on dog shit or swallow chlorine water. Your call.

22. Learn to say what you mean, or mean what you say.

Blue memoirs

BREATH

Yesterday was gratifying.Abit. But enough.

I didn’t have to wake up early and go to work. And it wasn’t too cold either.
I was up by 5am of course. Out of habit. But I didn’t have to get out of bed. So I stayed in bed and made a new playlist while listening to an old one from Spotify. Miraculously my server connection was very stable. So it was a relaxing exercise.

After that I played the new playlist in the background while I picked up on a book I had been previously reading. I read for almost two hours and then took a break. I played a couple of rounds of Candy Crush Saga until I was out of lives. I had been stuck on level 538 for some time, but I managed to get past that and complete a few more levels.

I used to play Candy Crush and word puzzle games religiously on a nightly basis a couple of months ago. It was a nice way of unwinding after a long day and something to look forward to. Then life got busy. I hadn’t realized how busy until yesterday.

At around 9am I finally got out of bed. The sun was fully up and it was warmer. I decided to take a short walk to see the farm. I came across some trees we planted late in 2020. You know, that Covid lock down period where everyone was around. We had planted up to 50 trees but unfortunately many never made it past the year and the next one when everyone left again . Abandonment issues I guess. I counted, only twenty three survived.

I remember how we had dug pits for them, filled them with suppliments and fertilizers before planting. And the subsequent care. When there was running water, we connected several pipes and watered them individually and when running water wasn’t available we would carry watering cans and make sure every single plant was well watered. I can honestly say that we did our best for the trees. It’s a pity life doesn’t work that way. Sometimes, effort isn’t directly proportional to results. I wasn’t mad though, it could be worse. All of them could have died. I was grateful for the ones that are still growing. It is, and will be a beautiful reminder of time spent together.

Talking of trees, there’s this tree. I wish I had taken a picture of it. It is an avocado tree. It has been there even before I was born. And it is very productive. It is almost always in season. Bearing quite a number of avocados. The problem is that nobody likes it. Not even a single person. Because it’s fruit is fibrous. Honestly, it’s not so bad. I have tried it. But I wouldn’t go out of my way to have it either. It’s bearable. But the existence of 5 other varieties of avocado trees doesn’t help its plight.

Once upon a time, it was a big and leafy tree. But due to the general dislike and existence of other options, it was pruned constantly. Without a shred of sympathy. Any attempt at further growth was nipped in the bud. Literally. At some point it was totally cut down to almost ground level. Of course it grew again. And bore fruit. In the dozens. Many dozens. And it was pruned again. Then it grew again. It was, is, almost like a game.

Now only a single, lonely and proud stem stands, joined by countable branches. Branches bent from the weight of hanging fruits. In their dozens. The bark is withered and almost falling off. But the tenacity of this tree astounds me. It is still constantly pruned. And its fruit goes back to the earth to provide nutrients for the next generation. Because no one picks it.

I could tell you about tenacity and perseverance from the story of that poor tree . But I won’t. My only advice is, don’t grow where you are not wanted. You will suffer, just like this tree, and nobody will appreciate you. Learn when to hold on, and when to let go.


My last stop was at two twin mango trees. The story of these trees is actually funny. They were planted along time ago. They refused to grow and everyone was sure that the seeds probably rotted and became part of the soil. Then suddenly after one rainy season years later, there was two saplings. Everyone was shocked. We decided to let them take their time. And boy, didn’t they! More than five years later, they are inches shorter than me and still taking their time grow! Sigh, let’s give them a couple of decades I guess.


After my walk I picked a ripe pawpaw from one of the trees and brought it back to make a smoothie. The rest of the day was largely uneventful and spent lazing around. I chose to not do my laundry so that I would have more time to myself. Or rather so that I could be lazy in peace. Haha, sue me. It was a much needed break though, because life has been moving way too fast. I don’t expect I will have the same opportunity again any time soon, but I am satisfied with the chance I had, and took.

Life stops for no one. With or without me and you, the earth will still revolve around the sun and life will move on. Don’t drive yourself to a coma trying to stay on top of things. It’s okay to take a break sometimes. Take a breath, relax. Life’s too demanding anyway. Don’t make it more miserable than it is.

Take a break. Breath.

IMAGINARY

Chatty is used to describe one who is very talkative. For example, I would say, I am feeling quite chatty to mean that I am in a talkative mood.
So, what would do you use when you’re in the mood for writing? Writty? Is it okay to say that I am in a writyy mood? I can sense ancestors of grammar turning in their graves, haha.

So, I asked my good friend Google what he thought. But instead of giving me a clear answer, he gave me a couple of suggestions. That’s just typical of my friend Google, I have gotten used to it. Among the suggestions was a particularly interesting one from Quora.

The question asked was what do you call someone who loves writing. Among the answers was : imaginary. Haha, yes, imaginary. Of course I was curious as to what form of the word imaginary would be used to describe a writer so I went to my offline dictionary to check. Nothing. My friend Google also gave me the same results. Nothing.

See, since I was born, I have always questioned my whole existence. I felt like I existed between reality and illusion. Who knew I was a figment of someone’s imagination!! I am imaginary! Ever since I found out that a few minutes ago, I feel like a fog has been cleared from my mind. My eyes are suddenly opened. I have found meaning in life again. I have discovered the purpose of my life!

I still can’t believe it! To all my imaginary friends, this is the truth we have been chasing all our lives! This is the truth, this is the Dao. Don’t spend sleepless nights anymore. Don’t wander like lost sheep anymore. We have found our path.

WE ARE IMAGINARIES! WE WON’T BE SHAKEN, AND OUR INK SHALL NEVER RUN DRY! OUR BOOKS SHALL NEVER RUN OUT OF PAGES AND WE SHALL NEVER RUN OUT OF WORDS.
GO IMAGINARIES!

SMALL TALK AND A POST

So the other day, someone asked me, what kind of writer are you? Guess what I did instead of answering. No, just guess.

I laugh alot. People mistake, confuse, relate, and equate laughing to happiness. Bunch of foolish people. They’re the farthest things from each other, rest assured . Sometimes I laugh because my life is a joke. Sometimes it’s because of the never ending reel of self-deprecating jokes playing at the back of my mind. Sometimes it’s because I am just insane. Sometimes it’s because I want to cry but can not. Sometimes I am reading. And other times I am just in awe of my mortal insignificance in the grand wheel of existence. What’s that got to do with happiness?! Nothing.

So what kind of writer am I? I am.. No. I don’t like to put definites to anything. Because the only constant thing about me is my love for music. Some days I am not even myself. And other times the idea of writing repulses me. I think I might be more of a sentimental writer though. I said might. Don’t look at me like that. Sometimes it’s sarcasm and dark humor. Sometimes it’s lofty ambitions and fantasy. Other times it’s petty, or heavy sentiments. I can never tell when I am playing or when I mean it. Neither can you. Unless you think you know me. But how can you know me when I am a stranger to myself on most days? That’s how it is. Everything is relative. Nothing is definite.

I don’t even know what I am talking about today. It’s one of those days. Lol.

I have an old post to share though. There’s that. And a blog site to recommend to anyone who has a sense of humor. I think that’s enough for today, right? Also, I think I will be late for work today. But the bed is so warm, and it’s so cold outside. I don’t want to leave. It might create trust issues between me and my bed. That’s what Gottfried would say. That’s the owner of the site I’ll be recommending in a while. Relax, in a while.

I hope my boss will never come across this. I am a diligent and punctual worker. Don’t argue with me.

I am rambling alot, aren’t I? Haha. Yes, but do keep me company. Ouch! Who threw a stone? Rude. Here’s the post in any case,, no need for violence. Unless I am the aggressor, of course.

Physical wounds, and pain is easy. Relatively so. You can distract yourself, do targeted exercise, take pain killers, sedatives, you can wash it, band-aid it, bandage it, use a hot or cold compress, amputate parts. There’s so much you could do?

But what about mental pain? What about mental scars? What about emotional scars? What can you do when your mind is your biggest enemy? What can you do when your subconscious repeatedly tortures you with the cruelest of memories, endless misery and anguish? What can you do when your sleep is plagued with nightmares and the ghosts of your past?

What can you do when your brain is stuck to the most painful moments of your life on repeat? What can you do when misery and agony clutch at your heart and threaten to squeeze the life out of you? What can you do when despair cloaks you and follows you around like a shadow? When your very existence is fraught with the longing for death? What can you do when it’s your heart you can’t trust? When you’re your biggest enemy? What can you do when every morning you wake up you sigh in helplessness, dreading the next minute?

How do you collect the broken pieces of your heart and try to put them back together? How do you get out of the prison of your making in your mind? How do you let go of the bitterness, the hatred, the self loathing? How do you stop hurting when you can’t see where it’s hurting? How do you stop feeling?

How do you stop this nameless, all consuming pain that never ends?


Blue.
31st May 2022.
21:55pm

Image sources : Google.

Now let me go copy the link for Banter Republic. Another stone. Ah, how impatient. Should I use these stones to build foundation? A new foundation formula for my non existent make-up brand. Haha. I don’t know if that’s the foundation they meant.

https://banterrepublic.blog. I promise this blog will instantly brighten your day. And your face too, maybe. If you read it over coffee it might even cure your premature balding. Why don’t you go and give it a try?

ABOUT TODAY

So today, (Tuesday, July 12th 2022), I had a really rough time. I’ve spent a large part of the day pretty much mad, pissed and all those negative emotions. Why, you ask? Well, don’t get me started.

Anyway, owing to my dark moods, I got a really horrible migraine and low blood pressure? Riddle me that. I thought it’s supposed to shoot up when you’re angry??! 😂😂, anyway, yes. I am sure it’ll be back to normal by tomorrow. So of course, I had to leave work early, which I did. Heaven knows I was a ticking time bomb. With a magnitude 10/10 migraine. I think people who get them understand the kind of madness that pain can drive you into.

I got home and took my meds straight away. Not that that made anything better. But in any case it’s the act that matters. Or is that not what they say? I also took sleeping pills, three hours later, here I am, wide awake, writing about this horrible day. Again, it’s the act that matters. Haha. I think.

So to pass away these miserable hours of painful existence, I took an old notebook and started going through it. I do that alot, going through my old notebooks. It’s like a ticket back to the past. A trip down memory lane. I love going through all the crazy things I wrote in moments of anger, madness, happiness, despair or the random things I drew. It makes me content. Relatively.

So here are a few gems I found, in black and white, just because.

Yesterday,
When I woke up,
The sun fell to the ground and rolled away,
Flowers beheaded themselves,
All that’s left alive here is me,
And I barely feel like living.

_RUPI KAUR_

Notes from my high school friend Sheri 🏵️

Spiderman 🕸 😂, probably drawn at around the time Deadpool came out.

A note from my school friend Riman 🌸

A note from high school given by my friend Sheila

EDIT : So my server was down yesterday and couldn’t upload the images. In between that frustration and my second dose of sleeping pills, I drifted off to a very restless sleep. Half unconscious, half conscious. So today, my blood pressure is back to the normal range, thankfully. And the pain from my migraines is still persistent, but I am sure it’ll be okay within the next 48-72hrs.

LOVE

PART 1,

He was tall,
Not too tall, but tall enough to shield me from the scorching sun and the biting winds.

He was strong,
Not too strong, but strong enough that I always believed that if the sky fell he would hold it up for me.

He was dark,
Not too dark, but dark enough that the beauty of a thousand midnights could never compare to him.

He was burly ,
Not too burly , but burly enough that every time he held me in his arms, I knew I was warm and safe.

His eyes were deep,
Not too deep, but deep enough to draw me in and drown me forever.

It was in the way he walked,
Big strides and a confident gait,
Like nothing in the world would stop him.

It was in the way he spoke,
Secrets in plain sight,
Wisdom like an old sage,
Soft but not too soft,
Like the winds and rains would obey his every command.

There was something about his smile,
Simple yet complicated,
Like he had seen all the vicisitudes of life,
Mischief and unprecedented intensity,
It always made my heart beat faster.

It was the way he stood tall,
Unyielding in the face of disaster,
With a back that could carry the world,
That was what left a shadow in my heart.

A yearning, an unquenchable thirst that only his presence could cure,
Ah, is a warrior not the fatal poison of any flower?
I lost myself the day I found him,
He became the bane of my existence,

The yin to my yang.
He..
He was my first love.

PART 2.

He was tall,
Not too tall, but tall enough that I felt I would never reach him.

He was strong,
Not too strong, but strong enough that I always felt I was useless in his battles.

He was dark,
Not too dark, but dark enough that I never saw the scars he purposely hid.

He was burly,
Not too burly, but burly enough that I was unable to see the cold that he blocked me from.

His eyes were deep,
Not too deep, but deep enough to hide the demons that plagued his nightmares,
Tainted with sorrow that I couldn’t recognize.

It was in the way that he walked,
Like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders,
Like every step he took had to be steady lest he crumbled and fell apart.

It was in the way he spoke,
Like he had experienced countless eras of existence,
With fatigue coating every word,
Words of caution in every sentence,
Like he was scared someone else would go through what he had gone through.

It was in his smile,
A soul deep powerlessness,
Resignation mixed with indignation.

It was the way he stood tall,
Willing to sacrifice himself,
Who said saving the world was overrated?

That was what left a shadow on my heart,
A regret that ran bone deep,
I am unresigned.
He…
He was my last love.

AZUL 👑

MOON CHILD

So the other day while going home from work, I chanced upon a full moon 🌕. Well, not exactly chanced, I am a devoted moon watcher, so I always try watch the sky every night. The night sky is magical, I’d recommend star gazing any day.
So back to what I was saying,
I was entranced by the full moon so much that I wanted to exist in the same space with it, touch it and bathe in the moonlight.
But sigh, it’s so far, too far. So ethereal, celestial, proud, distant. It will never know my thoughts.
So of course I thought of a poem, to bury the helplessness in it.

You’re a heavenly fire,
Your presence is my funeral pyre,
Proud and rampant,
That doesn’t stop me from being adamant,
But I am only a dry paper crane,
Just like a moth drawn to a flame,
You draw me into your light,
I am helpless to fight,
You bathe me and drown me,
You devour me till I cease to be,
Oh I wish I could touch you just once,
Under the night sky dance,
I wish I could hear your voice,
Anything, with words of your choice,
How I wish you were aware of my existence,
And the deep awe of your existence,
Bewitch me, even as your grace gives me a wide berth,
Chill me, freeze me to death,
Vanquish me like a foe,
Dying by your hands would be a mighty way to go.


AZUL 👑

Stay wild, stay true to yourself.

THOUGHTS

THOUGHTS : SONG BY SASHA ALEX SLOAN

Thoughts
Sometimes, I just can’t control my thoughts
No medication’s ever made them stop
All I think about is everything I’m not
Instead of everything I got
‘Cause I’m scared they’re all laughing, so I make the joke first
If I beat ’em to the punchline, then I can’t get hurt
Yeah, I swear to God I’m trying, but I don’t know how to be
How to be a good friend to me
‘Cause sometimes I just feel like I’m a freak
When I wake up, I just don’t like what I see
All the way from my head right down to my feet
I wish that I thought differently
But I’m scared they’re all laughing, so I make the joke first
If I beat ’em to the punchline, then I can’t get hurt
Yeah, I swear to God I’m trying, but I don’t know how to be
How to be a good friend to me
Change
Wonder if I’ll ever really change, mm
‘Cause I’m scared they’re all laughing, so I make the joke first
If I beat ’em to the punchline, then I can’t get hurt
Yeah, I swear to God I’m trying, but I don’t know how to be
How to be a good friend to
The voice inside my head that’s telling me I’m okay Entertain it for a second, then I push it away
Yeah, I swear to God I’m trying, but I don’t know how to be
How to be a good friend to me
Thoughts
Sometimes, I just can’t control my thoughts