Have you ever felt the hair rising on your forearm when a particular song comes on? Suddenly you travel back in time and the lyrics a heavy reminder of memories, some better left as forgotten.
Of late, I’ve been trying to relive the old days. Looking through old pictures. Listening to old favorites. Devouring the words of early writings. Trying to remember the strong drive I had. I was so convicted about what I wanted to do with my life and exactly how I was going to do it. It’s hilarious that now, I’m not entirely sure. Of course, I have a fabricated course for my life that I blurt out whenever an inquirer asks. But truth be told, I’m as unsure of those plans.
But the good news is that I’m learning to not fear the uncertainty but take joy in the journey to finding out what my purpose truly is. Our lives were not mapped out beforehand and handed to us as soon as we could read–sadly. Therefore, you’re not alone if you feel like you’re just wandering uncertain of your destination, if there is one. But I assure you that there is one. Take in the sights as you wander in the landscapes of life and soon enough your path will be revealed.
“Not all those who wander are lost.”
Sitting here thinking of us taking our time in slow motion. Thinking what am too afraid to say out loud, because being who I truly am isn’t cool. World Commandment number 1: “Never be yourself.” I keep it all in not knowing it’s eating me away slowly by slowly on the inside. I can’t express to you how I feel because . . . I just can’t. I have experienced a lot with you but now I’m sitting back reminiscing–wondering if it was all worth it. Throwing away who I was for you? It’s funny that even after you’re gone I’m still not willing to be who I am.
When I first heard, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. For a minute I was dead. I mean, I always knew you were toxic but you always made me feel some typa way babe. Yet the pain and anguish you put me through are incomparable. So why wasn’t I happy? Why did I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness? Then it hit. My knees hit the ground and my arms took to my face in an attempt to clear up the tears. Sobbing uncontrollably at the thought of never seeing you again shook my whole world. I wanted you to stay here with me. I would have even told you how I truly felt. I know we were over ages ago and we don’t talk but I would tell you. Love is the greatness that conquers anything. If you can’t return to me then I will come to you. The breeze up here is strong but I guess there’s no wind in hell. The air brushes aggressively against my face in my descent. See you soon babe.
“Some people are meant to fall in love with each other but not meant to be together.”
Growing up I envisioned love to be the same as the one I saw on TV. You know, the hand holding, spontaneous adventures, kisses in the rain, running through the field of daisies hand in hand but most of all, smiles. The love we’re taught to look out for is the sunny one.
However, the sun is only out half the day and only so if the rain clouds don’t dominate. Being able to weather the storm should be what love is about. Too often we overwork ourselves to be polished and dusted and nice, soft and round on the edges. But baby, my edges are jagged and you may . . . no, in fact, you will get cut. So I don’t need someone for the sunny days, I need someone who can stand the rain, the storm and the hailstones.
“Sunny days, everybody loves them. But can you stand the rain?” -New Edition
I’ve started this post about ten times, not sure how to word it without coming off the wrong way to anyone.
To be honest, I’ve been enraged the past couple of weeks. It began with the Instagram stories by @ self_made_east_african. First and foremost, I’d like to say that it’s brave to share your story especially on social media and big up to those of you who have. But if I’m being truly honest, the rage began the first time I heard about the Samburu incidences.
Rape. It’s disgusting and I don’t understand what goes on in perpetrator’s minds when he/she commits the horrific act. Rape culture is perpetrated in more ways than you think. Most people would like to think they personally cannot do anything about it, but I have news for you; you could end rape culture. I won’t go into detail because you’ll be here forever, but I’d like to address one thing.
Victim blaming. It is never the victim’s fault–ever. I resent statements such as “If you’re drunk you’ve already consented.” “You’re asking for it with how you’re dressed.” “What did you expect? “Don’t you know men are trash?”
We need to stop teaching our girls to be ashamed and hide from men, you know because they are trash. But, we need to teach our boys to be better. Rape is not okay, it never is! Spread the word!
I just want the voices to. . . stop. It’s easy to believe that any state other the one I’m in would be better.
Two days later—I want the voices back, the silence is unsettling. It doesn’t sit right in my stomach. There is only room for one kind of empty in there. It has been three days since the white man had his way with me. I was on my way to River Ewaso Ng’iro when it happened.
The unforgiving sun was raging and the minute pieces of sand etched into my skin only contributed to the pain. Maybe if I could lay as still as possible the grains of sand wouldn’t move and lodge themselves into new patches of flesh. But every shove and heave created new scars. As if in rebellion, the tears that had welled up refused to flow down my cheeks and stayed in my eyes creating a stinging sensation.
I focused on trying to control what I couldn’t. But, I couldn’t drown out the sound of his moans and groans with my racing thoughts. So I tried to look out into the horizon and as if to mock me all I could see was the sleeve of his camouflage jacket in the corner of my eye. The thick trunk of the baobab tree was nothing but a blur. Eventually, I found that if I just lay there, made no effort to move it would be significantly yet slightly less painful.
Then it all stopped and I had the slightest glimmer of hope that maybe it had all been a terrible dream and I was just about to wake up.
R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r. He pulled his zipper closed. Clink. Clink. Clink. A few coins fell to the ground. I must have lain there for hours because my older sister found me on the ground thighs still spread apart and pulled me up to my feet.
“Mama will be furious. Let’s go home. She’s been waiting for that water for hours. Make sure you clean up before she sees you. We don’t need another disgrace in this family.”
But I can’t bear to deal with deciphering the meaning behind the words. Everyone says them: to me, at me and behind my back. So I’ll get comfortable in the silence, hope it will be better—it has to be.
Maybe I’ll find that silence isn’t empty but full of answers.
I lay here trying to understand how this could happen again. Like how? I never expected that I would invest so much in the intangible. I never expected that I would melt when you said the most profound statements whose weight you didn’t seem to understand or at least pretended not to. You pretended a lot of things. But to be honest this one is on me. The signs are always there but of course, I’d much rather live carefree cause you only live once right? Wrong. I’m here making the same ol’ mistakes.