When I was Younger

These last couple of days have run through my head so much that I have suffered a couple of migraines and my eye is beginning to act up again. Last week, I could not see with one eye since it had decided to shut and refused to open. It was quite the experience, apparently, I was winking at people and giving mixed signals. It was not intentional. Anywho, Dr Agarwal's eye hospital choked my pocket, but opened my eye.

That is not the point of this story but since we have gone this direction, let me just say, Please, my friends, I beg:

Dim the light on your computer

Take a break from your phone

Do not touch your inner eyes with dirty hands (That one seems silly but we all kinda do it)

Do not NOT finish the eyedrops the first Ophthalmologist gives and

Wear the spectacles if they told you to wear them.

Back to my story

So these migraines

Usually for me, a sense of deep loss, frustration and pain trigger them.

You remember that run in with law enforcers and journalists this week? That one.

When I was younger, I wanted to be two things.

A journalist and later on, a law enforcer. Journalist, because I have always loved to write stories from my head, (I have a couple of blogs for that), but also to tell peoples stories.

Law enforcer because, TV I think, and the discipline I saw of the law enforcers in outside countries, made me want to be one of them. Someone who walked a straight line and protected others. The sense of discipline soldiers and police had - in my head - was to be admired.

My favourite time of boarding school was S1 and S5 because we got to do Muchaka Muchaka. I will tell you it was no joke. There was this particular afande who made us roll in that swamp along the fence of our campus and Kabaka's lake, then cane us heavily while our clothes clung desperately to our bodies which reeked of fear and sewage. I still loved it all. To have us all in line marching and and just holding up those sticks and singing songs together...that was something.

I like peace, order, discipline,...those things.

Fast forward to today.

Do I still want to be a journalist? Yes.

Might that get me into all kinds of coffin facing situations? Perhaps.

Will that get me bruises and broken teeth from stray rubber bullets, perhaps even midnight phone calls or visits with weapons of war pointed at my face, strangers asking me to get off social media and hold my tongue? Your guess is as good as mine.

I am not in the field much anymore. Now, I sit behind a desk or run up and about, some days in high heels, other days in pumps. I only smell the teargas when the journalists sent out in the morning show up at the station after hours offline because their phones went missing in the scuffle and so did their teeth and perfume. I admire them. I fear for them.

Do I still want to be a law enforcer? LOL

After the first year, I stopped apologising.

I had realised that this was not a responsibility meant to be handled alone and that if I tried, I was going to fail, and not just fail but cause harm in the failure. 

There is no isolation when it comes to raising a child. 

I guess that's why you cannot make one on your own. It takes two and then a village.

I cannot count how many sorry's I said and thank yous. 

I remember my brother constantly asking why I was apologising for asking him to give up his time and plans to come babysit or hold the baby while the doctor attended to me. 

I thought it was self explanatory. 

At some point, I even found it frustrating that he could very easily reject an apology that always came with so much guilt and fear that maybe he wouldn't make the time tomorrow. 

No need to apologise. 

Why are you apologising? 

Eventually, the sorry's had to go but the thank you's stayed.

Kalembe's son

I was looking for your father because nobody talks about him.

Everyone knows you as Kalembe's son and people have stopped asking questions. I thought the internet would tell me, because they say the answer to everything is now on google. Your mother is a famous woman. I figure some reporter somewhere was just as curious as I am about this man who nobody seems to know and maybe they had dug some and told all. Nothing.

Kalembe gave you all of her.
You have her eyes, her mouth and her hair. I know some people would describe you as a beautiful boy. You have the captivating look your mother had when I first met her, still has even now. You're just about as tall as she is and I know that in a few years, you will be much taller, staring down at us. I hope that it will not be with a haughty look. I hope you will be kind and smile as you look at us who have not grown to your height.

Yesterday

It is not enough to go past a thing
There is history
Yesterday will refuse to release you until you acknowledge it

My yesterday was nailed to my body
The scars smile brighter than my wallet ever does
I suspect they will be life long scars

I wonder if i will adapt
I hope i will, for sanity's sake
Should i fail and it all overwhelms me,
I am eternally grateful for the life that I lived and the life I brought forth

Dear Rose....is it Four years?

Dear Rose, is it Four years already? Close.

Your mom came by today. She looks young and is still as classy as always. She gave me quite an earful about cutting off my hair, not taking this young master to meet her and keeping away. I could not explain that some things are too difficult. How dare i talk about difficult when she has seen and known the kind of pain she has? I held my tongue, held my tears and listened to wisdom.

We stood outside for a while. She caught me up...shortly after you left for the higher heavens, her brother - your Uncle did too. In 2017, her sister, your aunt, did too. Why am i telling you? You're probably chilling together staring at us down here and wondering how it is that human beings continue to idolise what they do. It was difficult for her. She couldn't quite say which was a harder period but by the time our chat ended, i figured it was your time that was hardest, the other times were just shocking, like when a thief creeps up on you, grabs your phone through the taxi window. You stay with the shock of it...but it's quick. Yours....oh yours was something else.

She was wearing a Caribbean coloured kind of shirt and white linen pants, painted toe nails peeping through her sandals. She had a scarf on.
We spoke about you.
We spoke about the heavy storm from the other day, the one that painted cars with trees and brought down billboards. She schooled me on why some trees came down and others stood firm...Still a teacher, always will be, you cannot take that away.

We spoke about children
We spoke about men - i understood one more thing...okay two more things about you.
We spoke about the dream house. It's ready, she is moving in this Saturday. She shows excitement the way you did. Nothing.

We spoke about you
We spoke about work
We spoke about schools

We spoke about you
I saw a few grey hairs. The ones that just hang around and remind you that you have children who could be forty but you're defying age.
We spoke about independence
We spoke about dependence
We spoke about depression
We spoke about TV

We spoke about you
We always came back to you.
She is coming to see you this week, on Wednesday I think, with Rhoda.
They've been planning it a while but she's coming.
Didn't want to do it on her own because you know...it's your dads side and she needed the company. Faithful Rhoda will be there.

She said at five, she will be ready...oh maybe ten...but she promised, at five, if she is still here, she will be ready to talk about how it was always easier with the people around because now, she cannot sleep before midnight. You're still right there occupying the quiet minutes.