Letters from class

You know how you come home in the evening from a long matatu ride and you need to pee? The way you head straight to the john, sometimes even with your bag still around your shoulder? The way you tower over the toilet bowl, unzip, and piss gushes out of you like a hose (hehe, hose), and then you wonder whether this is another type of orgasm?

Is it just me?

See, I’m toying with an idea. It’s an idea that woke me up one night (the best ones usually do) but it’s a tough one, challenging in its structure and language. I have easier ways to write it but I want it to be the way I imagined it that night. I wish I could tell you more about it but I don’t want to jinx it.

Needless to say I haven’t been able to work on anything else. I’m obsessing over this idea. I’m typing and retyping and it’s not going anywhere, sadly. But, the longer I hold it in, the better I start to see it. More ideas and phrases begin to sprout in my head. And I have a hunch that, if I can hack this thing, it’s going to feel better than an orgasm, of any type.

The piece is an act of thievery.

That’s all I will say about it.

This post here is just to save us from another silent week. It’s a self indulgent piece of writing rife with random things to get me back to the blogging mood. I’m a bit rusty you see. You won’t finish it any wiser than you were two minutes ago.

But bear with me.

**

I’m back to school. Every morning, some minutes past 5am, I jump into the car and get it warmed up as I wait for Grace to get in, to drop her at the office. At this time she’s usually handing orders to the help or packing her lunch or some such thing. If, that morning, the help has decided to do something that’s not aligned with the Law of Grace, I usually also fall in the line of fire. A little traffic on the road means we’re going to be late and it’s my fault for spending too much time in the shower.

I’m a single 21 year old with raging hormones, mom. I have to spend too much time in the shower.

Anyway, I thought by this time I’d have adjusted to the system, but I really haven’t. I struggle to get off bed in the morning. I don’t do push-ups, I’m too sleepy to start getting my blood in motion like that. And, by the time I get home in the evening, I’m worn out. My eyes have discolored and I feel like I left my legs somewhere on Mombasa Road. I can never get any writing done in that state. Needless to say I’m out of shape and form.

Now I write at the weirdest of times, in lunch queues, in traffic, on the toilet seat. In fact, I’m writing this in class. I’m seated next to a girl with a powdered nose and distractingly brown legs. Maybe that’s why this is a disjointed post,it’s the legs folks, the legs.

Some other random things:

The bug: A year on

Friends, it’s valentines again. It was right around this time last year that I wrote something about how a girl who found me at the brink of another failed dream. It was a time when I was looking at life through a lens greased with hopelessness. A lot has happened during that time, I’ve changed. For better or worse, I can’t tell you. I’m only 21. I don’t know.

Some other girls

I once talked to a girl who breathed vanity. She spent half of the time looking at her overdone eyebrows in a small mirror and the other half asking me if I think she looks nice.

Not with those eyebrows she didn’t.

That whole conversation was fruitless. She got on my bloody nerves, that one. She was pretty, doubtless, but I walked away when she finally asked me if she smells nice. Those hormones can put a sock in it when it comes to that.

And then there was another lady, seated at a cafe table across from me yesterday. She had a piercing slightly above her moist lips. The whole time, in between taking tiny bites at a chocolate donut, she was on her phone. Her hair was tied at the back and she wore a white shirt and navy blue pants. She was sexy.

And then, at some point, her phone rang and my mind shifted to something else. It’s only when, at the end of the call, she said, “Okey dokey,” in that soft voice of hers. I almost jumped on my seat to scream phony, but it really wasn’t. It was just, sexy.

Mail

When I started this blog, I knew I wanted to go somewhere with it, I just didn’t know in what direction. And I still haven’t. I’m just winging it at this point. But, when someone climbs up to my Email to offer their sentiments on my pieces, scary as it is, I feel like I’ve found a purpose, which is to move someone. I just don’t know in what direction.

Friday night lights

The only day of the week I have off school is Friday. And in those days, I stay in bed in my underwear and one hand absent-mindedly on my crotch. And then I catch up on Sherlock Holmes or listen to the mash ups on Homeboyz while I clean my room.

Last Friday started as usual, and then there was a memo sent around the house that a lunch plan was in order. I couldn’t say no to chicken. My enthusiasm for the keyboard had hit a slump and I needed some new material.

So during lunch, I tapped some things I saw on my phone while I waited for my meal. I will put it up on Instagram as soon as I’m done with this.

That night, I took a night drive and I saw two trucks on the side of the road. There was a traffic snarl up and indicator lights washed the air. The wreckage was a big one, glass and pieces of metal were spread all over the tarmac. Two black cows had been run over.

A Dreadlock thing

Si I said I might be getting dreadlocks? I’ve been looking for something that I’ll use to symbolize the move, and now I have. I’ll go and get them the day I get published. That’s my resolution this year, to get published.

Amen.

And finally,

I want to thank the guests that have been holding fort while I was away the past month. You guys have been great sports.

Time to get back to work now, needs must.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “Letters from class

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s