I wanted to tell you about Donna Tartt and this book of hers called The Goldfinch. There’s a boy in there called Boris who reminded me a little of myself in high school. I liked Boris, although his accent got on my nerves sometimes. Yes, Donna is good like that.
But you see, when it comes to this blog, I’m my own boss, meaning I can push deadlines and break promises at the drop of a hat. And this week, she –the blog- will turn three years old. But there’ll be no party. She doesn’t deserve it, because she’s still refusing to eat the stories I’m feeding her. She’s being hard-headed. And she hasn’t even hit puberty. This blog needs a time out. And you know what I’ll do? I’ll just ignore her until she realizes these guests will leave one day and I’ll be the only one left.
Anyway, I went to a party a few weeks back. Some girl brought up writing, and, since the gin was doing its number in my head, I got all philosophical about it. Someone overheard. A boy. He said he used to write. But one day he woke up and it wasn’t there anymore. He asked if I could cut him some space on my blog for him to practice. Said he’d like to write again. Said he’d want to remain veiled because he’s afraid of criticism. But he said he doesn’t have a pen name yet. And I said,
“What do you think of Boris?”
“Haha, Boris. Sawa.”
Hopefully Boris will drop in more than once. Maybe he will find his writing bearings again, and then he will call me and say he wants to buy me a beer. Sindio Boris?
You got tired of the bullshit one day, stood up and left. You didn’t say anything to anyone. Just packed up and hit the road. No one asked you anything, and that was how you had wanted it. No explanations needed. You had thought you’d last about 2 months, 3 if you were feeling particularly crappy. But you had outdone yourself.
But a year later you sit there marinating in your lack of creativity.
Oh writing, my fickle fickle mistress. All the girls I have met in my life have given me less heartache than writing has. Time and time again I have been at the top of the world breezing through 1000 word pieces and still making it home in time for supper. But lately my love deludes me. She lingers just out of touch, toying with me.
I can see her but I can’t touch her, so is she really there? I don’t know anymore.
Have you ever been in love? Like real head over heels, whole body tingling type of shit? I want that. To sit with someone and talk about life and the galaxy and who mourning myrtle should have ended up with. I want it but I’m afraid of it as well.
I’m 20 years old. I don’t feel like it. Isn’t this about the time I should be conquering the world and going places? You know, stereotypical ‘making memories’ stuff? I’m lazy, though, and I don’t have money to just go gallivanting in London on a whim. So that leaves me a common mwananchi rolling some… err… ‘Education’ on my A3 sketch pad in the secrecy of my room.
I want to have sex on the beach. After smoking a fat well rolled education stick. It’d be just the two of us under the sunrise with the water lapping at our feet. There is the little problem of course of not having access to any private beaches and not wanting to be arrested for public indecency and being in possession of education.
I want to run with the bulls in Italy, zip-line over some cliff in Antigua. I want to jump off a fucking plane, with a parachute of course. I don’t harbor suicidal thoughts involving me plummeting to my death from 3000 feet. But I also don’t know if I can outrun a bull if push came to shove. And I have no idea where Antigua is but it just sounds cool. Maybe Antigua is just a cliff-less country trying to make it in this globe and here comes an ignorant Kenyan youth dragging it where it doesn’t belong.
What I’m saying is that I habour these dreams now because youth still flows within me. However I am curtailed by not having the means to achieve said dreams. I’m afraid that by the time I have enough money to go to Italy I won’t be into bulls anymore. Maybe I’ll like Lakers then. Ha!! Maybe I’ll be a regular old person focused on paying bills and buying land instead of the important things like finding out the cliff situation in Antigua.
All I ask from the world is that it looks the other way sometimes while I get away with some shit. Not so often that I get arrogant and insolent, but just enough to remind me that I’m special to it.
I started going to church again. I’m not just saying that because I care about your perception of me. I feel like it helped. I felt good sitting under the high roofs with the large iron beams supporting them. I felt decent. But the moment they asked for more money to fund some building project, I bolted.
I care a lot about what people think of me. Especially people that I want to like me. I find it funny when people say you shouldn’t care what others think. I think it’s dumb. Isn’t society based on people’s perception of each other?
I care what my neighbour thinks about me so I’ll try not to run over his dog as I’m backing out of the drive way. I care what that girl who sits behind me in class thinks about me so I won’t fart loud enough for her to hear.
It’s really the small romantic things.