A visitor has just left the house. She’s those friends whose jargon are just pearls of wisdom. Those with whom we’ve been brought together by circumstance. We’re neighbors. She’s a writer too. She has a fetish for secret passage-ways too. She’s tired of receiving and giving of chocolates and roses too. She disturbs the 911 girl too. She’s Nairobian too. Well, everyone from Nairobi comes from somewhere else. She has been yapping away for a whole two hours; chattering about the annual Zulu Dance. The ‘Breastival’, you know. She wants to go to South Africa and dance naked. Dance like an over-excited school teacher, she says. Huh? I really have friends! Or people just really need to be heard?
I can overhear the other neighbor. He has just said, ‘Don’t cause Armageddon here babe.’ He lives in with his ‘girlfriend’. The way people talk to their pets, you’d think they’re so holy. He once told me he is mad. I told him I’m mad too. We became friends. Every mad man has his own whole village. In his head. Then one day I kicked his cat into the azalea. Things escalated. It’s a mad people thing. Insults came at me thick and fast like bullets rippling out of an Uzi. I saw the red flag. But I didn’t hit the road. Only cowards do. I nipped the nefarious plans in the bud. After an assorted range of scrumptious biting and drinks in my quarters, a setting with exquisite music and great entertainment for us to bury the hatchet forever, somebody spilled his drink but poured his heart all out. He told me he loves animals. Not the way I know it. The different way. I threw a glance at my stuffed leopard and tiger lying on the chimney. True. People just really need to be heard.
I head to the confines. It’s just my name for the toilet. This is where ideas come and go. Here, everything from the dusty floorboards of my brain gets swept to a corner. Then they are sorted one by one onto the dustpan. Others get discarded as trash, other trash is not trash; it’s recycled. My brain has too many open tabs right now. Long time ago, people who sacrificed their sleep, family, food, laughter and other pleasure trappings were called saints. Now they’re called writers. I don’t close the door when I poop. Why should I? I live alone! I marvel at myself. I actually marvel at people who do stuff out of the conventional way. Anyway, they just really need to be heard.
Wanderings of an idle mind. Can cows go down a flight of stairs? Can giraffes cough? Can they smell farts that high? Hands parked in my pocket, it’s hard to peel myself out of the toilet seat. The things in my head are weighing in on me even deeper into the cold comfy ceramic. I should have brought my cushion and pillow. I stare at the wall-mounted up-lighters and fireflies around the ceiling-mounted pendant light. The laptop is visible from here. It’s on the table at the farthest end of the only other room. A song video is playing. I just watch it. Someone falls out of like a twenty storied building, falls on a car and suddenly starts singing. Huh? Song videos? What’s happening to our world? Or singers just really need to be heard?
Should be pulling up my khaki-colored safari-type pants I guess. I’ve managed to suppress the urge. I also haven’t slept two winks. Seating on the toilet is medicinal. I’ve just discovered the house is cold with all the relics of a disturbed youth life; a dismantled bike, cluttered desk, dirty clothes, an always-on computer, spoilt headphones (they actually only work at a certain angle), dusty carpet, a half-eaten chocolate croissant in left hand, stuff scrawled on modest sheet of paper, a pen on right hand and an open toilet door. Wow! There’s work in here for you insomnia. That’s after I get my caffeine fix. What am I even doing now? What’s all this about? The ‘so what’ of this story? Overworking myself, expressing feelings and just growing up. Actually, I just really need to be heard.