Tribute

I saw her at the hospital and I felt like crying. That was two weeks ago. Her mother was there with her, nursing her, trying to crack jokes, forcing her to drink some milk, in that caring way that spoke of just how much a mother loves her child. I stood there awkwardly, next to her bed, for barely ten minutes, because I knew if I stayed longer I would shed tears and it would be bad because she was the one in pain, and she was smiling. I remember intentionally making long pauses as we spoke because I knew that she was straining to even open her mouth. I remember her telling me that every single part of her body hurt, every single part, and I wondered how someone could bear all that pain and still force a smile on her face. I kept wondering, what illness is this that is so cruel, that turns a girl’s body into a reservoir of unbearable pain, that covers her body in wounds, everywhere, even in the corners of her eyes.

A week later, when someone asked me if I would prepare a speech for her funeral, I felt a hotness in my stomach and I said a strained “No”.
I didn’t know her well enough. And it gives me so much guilt because I, of all people, should have known her better. The much I remember was the few times we spoke, usually when she was handing in her assignments or asking me about class or CAT’s or explaining why she couldn’t make it to a lecture. Sometimes, while hanging with my friends, I would make fun of her the way she texted. The way she would write ‘xaxa’ and ‘plix’ and ‘axignment’ so confidently and how it used to annoy me so much, this language, and how sometimes I would just completely ignore her texts.

When people pay tribute to their friends, they talk about how wonderful the person was. How many great moments they had together, how valuable their friendship was, how strong and resilient the person was even in the face of illness. How they miss her so much and would give anything to see her again.

But me, what can I say? How can I talk about what a good person she was, when I didn’t even take time to know her? She had been my classmate for almost two years, and I didn’t even really know her. I was too self-absorbed in that way that I’ve always been. And I never really understood her pain. Truth is, I never even know she was in pain, up until that day I saw her at the hospital. She was always so happy, so freaking happy, and maybe I took that at face value. This one time I hear she did a presentation in an Online PR class and left everyone in tears of laughter. Ours was never a close friendship. But I miss her, so fucking much. How is it possible to miss someone you were not close to in the first place?

I never knew what she was suffering from. Until yesterday, when someone gave me a name. It was Lupus. She had Lupus. It is a condition with unclear causes, which makes one’s immune system to turn against its own body. The immune system rejects the body’s cells, attacking them the way it would attack pathogens. Which explains why she felt unbearable pain everywhere. Everywhere. Except in her hair and nails, because those are the only parts of your body that consist of dead cells. It almost felt good, finally finding a name for this monster that had taken way my classmate.

Someone posted this Bible verse on our class group:

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”

She died at 20. I thank God that she made it to 20. Rest in eternal peace, Lilian Njeri Njoroge.

The Going

I hate the candor of mornings. How you wake up and it has to take a few minutes for you to lie to yourself that you’re I control. How you open your eyes and the first thing you see is the almost blinding brightness of day, and you have to close them a few seconds longer, just before you could get accustomed to the light.

I hate the fact that that I have never been an early riser, except maybe back in my school days. Mornings ambush me. I wake up and the sun is already up on its feet. Says something about my laziness. And my sleep disorders. And my unemployment.

Currently reading: Anne Frank-The Diary of a Young Girl.

A real-life record of events, written by Anne Frank, a teenage girl of Jewish descent, during the German occupation of Holland in the 1940s.

Great read so far.

Usually I form scenarios in my head about how I imagine my week should start. It starts with me waking up at 6 am, taking a hot shower, then sitting on my desk, switching on my laptop and proofreading any assignments I am supposed to submit this week.

But that’s just in my head.

My phone clock read 10.15 when I woke up this morning. You close your eyes for a minute jana usiku, next thing you know it’s 10.15 am. Does that even qualify as morning? I wish I could manage to get a hot shower. But I also wish I could flap my skinny arms and they would turn into wings and I would fly to the moon. Here in this campus hostel, one is equivalent to the other. I have two assignments due this week that I swear I will start doing, sometime between today and the day I turn seventy. So help me God.

Also, hostel life is shit. I need to get my own place.

The year seems to be on nitrous. Almost May already! Astounding just how fast things are going. Lately, I’ve lost track of time. Days just fly by me, each one seemingly the same as the next. Life seems to be losing its flavor. I don’t know how to change that.

Nowadays, days don’t last. Days don’t last anymore. They just fade away into a mist of repetitiveness. Each day the same as the next, and the next, and the next. Like my life is an endless spiral.

My exams begin next week, and it’s beginning to eat into my head just how lazy I’ve been this semester. Also adding to that the fact that I’ve been partying endless for the past five weekends in a row. Rave after rave after rave after rave. I swear these exams will have their way with me. In different positions. Without protection.

Movie to watch: God’s Not Dead.

This movie struck chords in me. Still hung up on the phrase, “Only a real risk tests the quality of a belief.”

I need to re-evaluate my priorities. Work on my relationship with God. But maybe that’s what everyone says when exam fever sets in. Well, it’s not just my spiritual life that’s in the trenches. I am not writing as much as I should. I’m reading even less. I sleep for long hours and play too much FIFA for my own good. I’m dying a slow death, I swear.

Lest we forget, this happened:

Thursday, April 2, 2015.

Sad how people can be so cruel, have such little regard for human life. When you wake students up and start firing bullets into students’ heads, you are in no way justified to call that a religious war. When you kill 147 innocents in cold blood, that is genocide. It is a sad day in this country when a student can no longer feel safe in their own school.

Everyone’s asking why they targeted students. I think the answer is pretty obvious. When you kill hope, you kill more than just life.

 

This is where I jump out. Enjoy the rest of your 4/20, guys.

Newness

Stand at the edge of the room full of people. Look around. Steal quick glances at the couple canoodling at the far end. Mutter silent expletives of disapproval. Walk a few paces to the bar. Say hello to the bartender with the big behind. The tag on her shirt reads ‘Judy’ and you decide you hate that name. It sounds a lot like your own name. You don’t order anything; you already have a tusker in hand. You won’t even finish it since you’ve been anointed designated driver.

Spot Dennis at a table on the right, drinking himself silly. Dennis is your drinking buddy who does weird things when drunk. From taking his clothes off to kissing other people’s girlfriends. Tonight, he’s pretty normal. Just him and his half bottle of Flirt Vodka. Drinking his senses away. New Year’s day will find him like this. And you figure he’ll probably be happier than you are. It’s such a sorrow being the ‘responsible’ one; the one who comes off as antisocial because he doesn’t know how how to start conversation with drunk strangers; the one who doesn’t know how to have fun.

In a few minutes, the place will be all screams and passionate laughter and popping open more bottles of cheap and expensive liquor, as if they’re not already too drunk to stand straight. It’s nights like this one, that make you wonder what exactly time is, other than ticks of metal sticks on rusty wall clocks. What makes it so special, that people celebrate its passing? What’s it about New Year’s Day that gives people so much optimism? Such illusion of hope for their wretched existence.

Your Tusker is halfway through, so leave it at the counter. Walk over to Dennis, who’s now blacked out on his table. Listen to the loud rhumba beats and silently wish they could turn into a Coldplay song. The countdown has begun. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. Don’t join in the frenzy. Just mumble softly to yourself. Six. Five. Four. Here comes a new one. A new year of doing the same things and hoping for different results. Join in the mad screaming as the clock hits midnight. Grab an empty glass and make a toast to 2015. Pretend that tomorrow won’t be exactly the same as yesterday.

(Inspired by events on New Years Eve / New Year.)

Live.

Preamble:

“It is sad to be alive and not be an audience to the beating of your own heart,”- I think I read that from Jacque Ndinda in one of her pieces from a while back.

“The feeling’s gone. There’s nothing left to lift me up, back into the world I know,”- Three Doors Down (Away from the sun).

---

This December, I’ve had the surprise pleasure of meeting a number of old friends. I mean really old friends from as far as twelve years back. Some of whom I had almost forgotten about. It was such a pleasure, just getting re-acquainted, trying to reconstruct those childhood memories, realizing we’ve all grown into such different people.

Which got me thinking. Time has flown so fast, goddamit. One minute you’re a 7-year-old playing street football with your buddies, the next minute 2014 is gone and you’re in third year in freaking campus. Just like that. Woah!

2014’s gone, guys. Time is flying. Life is happening all around us but we’re too caught up in ourselves to notice. We’re in such a hurry to get through life, we forget to actually live. We’re too busy struggling to finish our studies, struggling to start earning our own money, struggling to move out of our parents’ houses, struggling to do jobs we don’t like because “the bills won’t pay themselves.” In the middle of all this, we lose track. The things that ought to matter don’t. And then one morning we wake up and realize we’re miserable. We realize we have money but our families are crumbling. We realize we don’t have any real friends, since we were too busy trying to make real money.

In the words of George Carlin (God rest his soul), We’ve learned how to make a living, but not a life.

I’m not a resolutions guy, but here’s a few tips we could all use for 2015: Don’t be that person. Don’t be too caught up in life that you forget to actually live. Dance to that kwaito song that keeps popping into your head. Say hello to a stranger. Smile for no reason. Laugh at the jokes you find funny, even if they’re only funny in your head. Embrace joy. Embrace pain, too. Because it is also a part of life. Cry when you need to. Scream a few times if you really have to, even if it’s just to yourself. Feel. Feel. People, feel! Do not suppress emotion. Do not fake it either. Be an open book. Stop building walls because you’re afraid of the hurt. Build bridges instead. If you get hurt in the process, well that’s life. It wasn’t meant to be all roses without a few thorns. If you feel, you live.

While you’re at it, don’t forget to pray. God is all-important. I can never overemphasize that.

It’s not the number of years we live that matters. Our lives just add up to a series of moments. Moments that define us. These moments, we never know when or where they’ll happen, but they stick with us, marking our souls forever.

I came across this piece by a friend of mine, Daisy, @simplymoraa about the obscurity of life. And I thought how true. Have a read:

there is no clear cut time frame;

to begin, to end

to be, to cease

none except birth and death.

 

moments tumble on each other,

crushing, receding like waves at sea

 

as a child, I thought to be an adult meant a full stop to everything;

an arriving at the state of being

and also a settling.

 

not so, not so.

 

there is desire, there is more void than fullness,

more questions than answers

more thoughts than lack thereof,

and all these with no end.

 

it is a continual journey,

a continual rushing of waters from the deep to the shores.

stretching out, stretching out for certainty.

for dry land.

for land to place your foot upon.

 

but this, all this, all this rushing and waiting and rushing,

through life,

never ends

and dry land is always a wave away

always.

You can read more of Daisy’s stuff here

And there’s my parting shot for 2014. Loads of blessings for 2015, people.

Music, Memories, and a Mountain.

It’s a cold, quiet night, this one. An idle, lonely night and I feel like maybe the moon will make good company. I feel a tinge of serenity as I sit on the rooftop and stare at the world around me. I plug in my earphones and listen to Last Request by Paolo Nutini. That’s my playlist these days. Songs by Colbie Caillat and Paolo Nutini and John Mayer and other names you probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce. I don’t know what I’m turning into.

I’m miles away from civilization somewhere on the slopes of Mount Kenya. Somewhere remotely deep in the land of men who chew green twigs for breakfast. You see, Juja chaps went on a rampage last week, crappy administration policies and a few other valid reasons. And since we weren’t entirely sure when we’ll get back, my dad asked me to accompany him to the countryside. And I couldn’t resist, me with my new-found penchant for experiencing the world. Apparently what the old man forgot to mention was that the only technology I’ll be exposed to in this place is my phone, which won’t be of much use either because, obviously, network here is crap.

There’s something about this place. Something pure, intrinsic I think. Maybe the ambience, the calm, the peace. Something that makes you feel like you’re closer to God. It’s in the trees. How they stand there, tall and proud, swaying stubborn against the wind, graceful under the gentle sunset. Whispering gently, serenades of hopeless love under the navy blue sky. At times I stare at the hills. The way they wander across the terrain. Rising tall, then stooping low, moving incessantly, till they’re nothing more than ragged outlines in the horizon. Then there’s this gentle breeze that just comes out of nowhere at times. The way it wafts against my body, soothing softly the hairs on my parched skin, making me forget the hot, smoky air I’m used to in those crowded, lonely city streets.

All this, along with the effect of Paolo Nutini in my ears, is whirling up strange feelings in parts of me I never even knew existed.

It starts like maybe a distant melody. A faint breeze is wafting against my hair, soothing the lobe of my right ear. A whisper, maybe. The silent tune in my ears sends numbing waves coursing through my body, immersing me into a world from years back. Memories I had buried somewhere so deep I had almost forgot they were there.

I can see my mother, the dimpled smile on her face as she bribed my three-year-old brain with chocolate so that i could drink my daily cup of porridge at four pm. I can remember the slight fluster that would build up across my skin when I looked at the bald priest during Sunday mass; because I used to think he was God. I remember my slightly older brother, struggling to tie my shoelaces for me after my first day of school, even though he couldn’t even tie his own. I remember my father, a younger him, and the polka dot tie he loved to wear to work. Memories of forgotten childhoods back when we couldn’t wait to grow up. And here we are now, mourning lost childhoods. The irony of life.

Now I can’t help realizing how much things changed. My brother, the one who helped me tie my shoelaces, well we just saw him off to Russia last week. He’s on study scholarship. My dad misplaced the polka dot tie a long time ago. There’s no sign of it anywhere. He also seems to have misplaced his hair. There’s no sign of it anywhere. Me, of course it goes without saying that I no longer take porridge at 4 pm. And my mum doesn’t bribe me with chocolate anymore. I no longer think priests are gods. They’re just flawed human beings like the rest of us (and a good number of them are pedophiles, I keep hearing). Things have changed. People have changed. Situations have changed. Perceptions have changed too. And I realize now that I’m losing touch with my past. These memories, they’re mostly all I have. And it had to take a climb to the rooftop and some really weird music for me to reconstruct vague images of them in my mind. I don’t want that. I want to keep remembering. Who I am. Where I’ve come from. How far I’ve come. My journey. Maybe then I’ll be more comfortable with where I am, and maybe have an idea of where I want to go.

While out here on the rooftop. I also realized that I’ve lost touch with God. Not in that Go-to-church-every-Sunday-pray-three-times-a-day way. No, I’ve lost connection with God, because I’ve lost connection with the world around me. I’m so used to seeing things happen the very same way, I forget how much of a miracle it is that those things actually happen. That the stars come out at night or that blood flows in my veins. I fail to notice how much of God there is in even the most basic of these things. The sound of crickets at night. The dew on the grass every morning. The sun. The moon. The wind. The rain. Even the way that we breathe.

I open my eyes and gaze at the infinite rows of tea plantation in the distance. I look at the miraa trees swaying softly to the passing wind. If it were daytime, I would look right ahead and, if I’m lucky, see the mighty Mount Kenya in the distance, vaguely covered by mist and lowly clouds. I want to hold on forever. To this place. To this feeling. To memories of black and white polka dots on my father’s tie. It makes me feel alive.

Morbidity

At first it’s just a whisper. A lifeless hum resounding against your eardrums. A voice you can’t make out, calling out to space. Your name. Someone’s name. You can’t tell. The whisper fades into the distance, leaving a cold, black silence. You can tell the color of silence. This isn’t your typical kind of silence. Usually your silence is grey; a shy grey that’s silvery at the seams. This one’s black, pitch black like the color of a starless night. You want to run after the whisper, because it left you in silence. And you don’t like this silence because it reminds you of darkness. Silence. Darkness. What’s the difference? Darkness is not the opposite of light; it is the absence of it. Maybe it’s the same principle with death.

It boils down to this. A whole lifetime of battling through diseases, bar brawls, burns, knife wounds and a scorched liver, and this is what kills you. Shattered dreams. A couple of quinine pills slowly dissolving the life out of you. How easy it is to die. How simple it is for soul to betray body and wander off into the unknown. A pill too many and it makes the difference between life and death. Between presence and absence. Between living and doing whatever it is people do when they stop living.

Yours begins with drowsiness. You run out of breath. You feel like your feet are burning up, like you’re walking on molten glass. The sensation of innumerable fists pounding hard against your head as life slowly oozes out of you. Suicide is supposed to be simple, effortless, peaceful. This is something else entirely. This is death strangling your neck so hard it feels like you’ve run out of air. This is shadowy figures poking fingers into your eyes till all you can see is morsels of bones floating in smoke. Till finally, the voice returns, soothing your earlobes, eating away the silence, telling you sweet tales of a land beyond the valley of the shadow of death.

Sometimes the end is a whisper.

A Son’s Father

I’ve been trying to bring myself to write something about my father. But it’s been such a difficult feat, even getting the words. I’m somewhat cagey about my family, as you might have realized with my posts. Which I guess is weird, because nowadays it’s the most normal thing in the world to blurt out all details of your personal life to total strangers on the internet, right? Especially with us, the “xaxa, xema, nimekumith..” generation. Blame it on social media.

Anyway, father’s day is here with us, and I thought what better gift to give the old man than to express my thoughts about him to total strangers on the internet. So here goes.
My father loves beer. And beef soup. And the holy herb. Miraa. The guy chews the green out of khat twigs, as if it’s a way of acquiring ancient wisdom from the forefathers of his clan.

Just before I turned nineteen, he took me to the bar. And instead of ordering the usual fanta kadogo for me, he asked me to pick which beer I wanted, saying that I was now a man. I was excited like a baby, but I calmly cleared my throat and said with all the manliness I could muster, “Pilsner ice. Baridi.” Not that that was my first beer. Or second, or third. Believe me you, the while I’ve been in campus I’ve had enough drunk escapades to write a thriller novel. But there’s a pride that comes when your father calls you a man, and asks you to have a beer with him for the first time. That becomes a defining moment in your life, and you’ll sit there with legs outstretched and proudly stroke the imaginary beard on your chin. I don’t know, maybe it was a test from him, to get me drunk and make me blurt out details of my nightly activities at school, then ask, “Kumbe hapo ndo pesa yangu inaendanga!” But I didn’t care. When your father buys you a beer, for the first time, you savor the moment. You gulp down the cold pilsner like it’s milk and honey from heavenly springs.

I’ve never been able to view my father as the ‘invested’ type. Growing up, he was never the kind to sit you down and give you advice when you went wrong. That was all mom. The only advice I remember receiving from the guy was the occasional “Ng’ang’ana na masomo” when I was going back to school. He wasn’t the kind who’d show up during nursery school plays and scream “That’s my boy!”. Probably because I’ve never been in a play my whole life.

Which isn’t to say that my dad was an absentee. Hardly. I’d see him every weeknight before I went to sleep, and if I was lucky enough I’d catch a glimpse of him early in the morning before he ran off to work (On weekends it was the inverse). And on Sunday he’d drive us to church and buy us chips after mass.

Academics have always been top priority for him. He always knew that paying fees was his primary responsibility, and even though we were a struggling family, I don’t remember ever being sent home for fees in my life. He’d always ask for my report book every end of term. And there’d be that momentary grin on his face when I became number one. Or some scolding and jibes about me not being man enough when I was beaten by a girl. He still demands that I scan and email him my results slip after every semester. Demands, not asks.

I love my father. Deeply. But I revere him even more. There’s always the feeling that there’s a line I’m not supposed to cross with him, even though we’ve always gotten along well. He’s still relatively young, because a forty-six year old is a teenager by Kenyan political standards. But even now, a campus student, I still keep my distance, careful enough not to get too close. Because he’s an African father. Occasionally he’ll call me to ask how I’m holding up. But even then I can’t afford the luxury of exchanging niceties with him. A simple “I’m okay” will do.

Recently he’s developed a tendency to communicate with me via whatsapp. So one day he cracks some dry joke about boko haram (he wrote it as ‘bonko’, Meru things), and I have to reply with like fifty emojis, pretend that my ribs are cracking. Because that’s what you do when your sole source of income attempts to be funny, you laugh like it’s the end of the world.

There’s a surreal admiration I have for the old man. It’s not an easy feat raising eight brats, more so when six of them are millenium kids. But he always tried. He still does. And he loves my mother. They’ve had their difficulties, heck it’s even gotten ugly. And I’m saying ugly because I’ve seen them at their worst. But they always dealt with their shit without pulling the kids into it. And in the end they’ve managed to keep it together. And that’s the true measure of a man, if you ask me. How he keeps his family together despite everything.

I’ve only seen my father vulnerable once in my life. Sometime in 2009. Just before I joined form one. But that’s a story for another day.

I love my father to death. I love him in suits and leather shoes and spectacles on weekdays. Or in shorts and open shoes on weekends. He’s taught me that image is what defines a man. That you’ve got to dress like a million bucks even when your wallet is empty. Especially when your wallet is empty. I love his aggressiveness. The way he’s never the type to back away from a fight. He’s taught me that at some point I’ll have to fight for what I believe in. I especially love the fact that he’s not perfect. The way he’s messed up quite a few times. He’s taught me that a man’s got to live. Make a few mistakes, and learn from them. And I’m still learning from him. Things only a father can teach his son.

Happy fathers’ day to all good fathers out there. And also to the many women who’ve had to shoulder the task of being both the father and mother to their kids. Y’all deserve a glass of cold whisky, or a bottle of Snapp for the ladies. There’s a special place in heaven for you. src=”https://hisrandomness.files.wordpress.com/2014/06/savedpicture-2014615122230.jpg”

Martin

She’s holding your hand. A firm grip. Too firm. She’s looking ahead, into nothingness.

A heavy bash on your head. You wake up. A crowd has formed around you.

“They’re staring at us.”
“Mother, they keep staring at us!”

You notice something. There’s something different about this scene. No sign of your mother. You try to remember how you got here. Nothing. Your mind is blank. What’s my name? You can’t remember. You can’t remember anything leading to this scene. You can’t even remember your mother’s face. All you remember is that hazy image of her holding your hand. What the fuck is my name?

A sharp pain on your temple. You place your hand on the place where the pain is coming from. Blood. You can’t feel your legs. Something’s terribly wrong with this scene. You’re by the roadside. It was a hit and run. Your eyes wander around you, to the other side of the road. You’re looking for your mother. You can’t see her anywhere. A scream from amongst the crowd. Call an ambulance! You want to ask them whether they’ve seen your mother, but you can’t muster enough strength.

Your senses slowly come back to you. Your mother’s not here. She’s nowhere. Been dead for six years. The last thing you remember is her gripping your hand firmly by the roadside. And then flashes of a loud bang and muffled screams as she tried to save you from the oncoming car. But that was six years ago. Six years. Six bloody years. You’d think time heals all wounds, but all it does is blur the details. But the pain! No, that doesn’t blur. It doesn’t fade away into nothingness even when memory does.

And now you remember why you came here.

This is exact spot where she died. You came here to mourn, to seek closure, look for even the tiniest morsel of her to hold on to. Something to wash away the guilt burning you up from the inside. But you found nothing. Not a shred to convince you that it wasn’t your fault your mother was dead. Even then the cold air that wafted into your nostrils still smelt of death. And a cold wind blew hard against your ears, as if assigning blame. As if silently saying that you’re the one who should have died.

That’s why you’re here. On the ground, bleeding, with broken limbs. Because as you stood there at the side of the road buried in grief and agony, you heard the sound of a revving engine. And the idea came to mind. It was genius. So you silently waited another few seconds, till the red corolla was in shouting distance, going full speed along the lonely freeway. Then you threw yourself right into the middle of the road. Screeching of brakes. Desperate hooting. A heavy bash on your head.
Now you remember your name. It’s Martin.

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Posted from WordPress for Windows Phone

On a Night Like This

On a night like this you want to pretend there’s no mistakes. No regrets. No heartbreaks. No latent pain. It’s Friday, and it’s end- month. You order a drink. Tusker Moto. No vodka, just beer. Vodka is for those days when you want to drown in your sorrows. Real men drink beer. Leta Tusker Moto.

On a night like this you want to ogle at the femmes. Short skirts. Side glances. Naughty smiles. Cheeky winks. They always smile back. Nothing too serious. One comes over to the bar. Orders three bottles of Snapp. Your tab. Lipstick on your shirt collar. Nothing too serious. Just some teasing. You have a girlfriend. And you love her very much.

On a night like this you want to make fun of your friend. The one who’s been friend zoned by all the girls he’s met. You call him GPSM.Great Personality, Small Manhood. GPSM, rhymes with Gypsum, is that even a word? You’re not making sense. Three Tuskers and you’re drunk? You’re losing touch.

On a night like this you want to steal the beer of the guy sitting next to you. It seems he’s had one too many. But you remember the guy code. Thou shalt not steal your neighbor’s beer. It is taboo. No need to pick up curses from night clubs. You’ve got too many problems already.

On a night like this you want to dance like there’s no tomorrow. Two left feet. Who cares, all men have two left feet. You dance away to Mustapha’s Lenga stress. The DJ’s on fire. Hands in the air. Swift jerking. Girls twerking. Violent shaking. Bodies sweating. Life’s an Eminem song. Lose yourself.

On a night like this you want to party till the morning. But you’re getting tired. It’s 2 am and you’re tired. You’re losing your game. Or maybe it’s age, catching up with you. You leave the club. Your friend, the friend zone guy, decides he’ll stick around a little longer. You stagger to your red BMW M3 at the parking lot. Sweet ride.

On a night like this you drive unsteadily from Lavish lounge. You already know which roads to dodge; Alco blow’s a sleaze. You’ve got to avoid the cops at all costs. You don’t want to think about your girlfriend. She’s probably tried calling you like a million times. Your phone is off. You’ll tell her you were asleep. You’re a lark tonight. Without a care in the world. Life’s awesome. Alcohol was sent from heaven.

A wrong turn. You’re in the wrong lane. Oncoming traffic. You hit the brakes. Damn, that’s not the brakes. You’re moving faster. Panic. Hooting from the oncoming car. You’re confused. You don’t know what to do. Brakes screeching. A scream. Too late. A bang. Head-on. The windscreen shatters into smithereens. A shard of glass slices into your neck. Probably the jugular vein. You’re a doctor. Or at least you were. Blood oozing. Bones cracking. Blurry scenes. Like the dance floor. Oh, but the pain! You’re hopeless, losing consciousness. Distant shouts. Dimming lights. Your girlfriend’s soothing voice. You were going to propose to her this Sunday.
A tear on your left eye. Unbearable pain. Then numbness. Fading away. Time goes still. Nothingness. At least you died in your red BMW. On a night like this

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The Void

When we looked up, and saw the dull sun and sullen clouds, we wondered when it all went wrong. It’s like we were in this void. No, it’s the other way. It’s like there was this void in us; hollow, unfillable.

We struggled to do what our parents wanted. Got good grades. Went to college. Graduated with honors. Got doctorates. But still there was this void we couldn’t get a grip of; an emptiness, a yearning for something unknown.

We tried running to religion to fill this void. Went to church on Sunday, prayed for release from demons, gave tithes.But over time we realized that religion only served to enslave us. The void persisted.

We thought the void must be a result of loneliness. So we hurriedly got married, started a family, had kids. Only to realize after a while that we had just moved from one prison to the next. The void couldn’t be filled.

We succeeded in our careers, won awards, earned promotions, gave speeches, became role models. Hoping maybe the void would disappear. But it only got bigger.

So we turned to activism, championing for the environment, advocating for the rights of minorities, campaigning against corruption and poor leadership, blaming all our problems on politicians, but it wouldn’t work either. Because we knew deep inside that they couldn’t solve our real problem. They were just as human as us, just as empty, unfulfilled, troubled as we were. The void remained.

All this while we grew older, sicker. The void grew bigger inside us. Till finally, on our deathbed, as we took in our last wafts of air, and the moments in our life flashed before our dying eyes, the void disappeared.

And we figured it all out. There was nothing wrong with the void, the emptiness. It was nature’s way of ensuring we always yearned for more, worked for more, and so achieved more. The void was what kept us alive. Because the moment the void disappeared we’d see no reason to keep on living, to keep on struggling. There’d be no essence to life. And we’d just be stuck, like rocks, serving no purpose. Because even the trees had that emptiness,that’s why they strove to grow taller and gave us shade, that’s why they struggled and produced beautiful flowers which we gave our loved ones. Because even the birds had that emptiness, that’s why they woke us up with their songs every morning.

©Jude