New year. New things. New place. Yeah, I shifted. Well, it actually sounds like a big thing but i was moved by the lady from eighth floor to ground floor. Now I live in a dark quarter that is actually just the garage extension. Half a window. Yes. Just half window. Facing the fence. Facing what? Trust he who answers prayers to answer when you pray, ‘lead me not into temptation …’. But how will I survive here?
I sit pondering. I’ve just watched a YouTube clip of ‘goats screaming like humans’. Sure, I googled that! Not much of catchy view outside. The dramatic girl-fights I’d enjoyed of neighbours’ househelps weave-plucking, scratching and biting each other can’t be seen from here unless you are watching a Nigerian AfroCinema. I’ve once the while enjoyed watching spiders abseiling like paratroopers up and down their silky lines from the top corner of the window to its base and back. Then, I open a can of surgical spirit below their webs for them to inhale and now they’re ‘drunk spiders nursing a hang-over’. I like it when everything plays by my rules in my house … well, yeah, house. Here, I wield fear-borne power with the rod. Errant house lizards for example are to be flogged senseless with the belt. I’m bored though. I recently finished sticking ‘suggestion boxes’ on every wall in this room and the only other room; bathroom. Of course I live alone but these come in handy. And by the way, I call the wardrobe a room too because I sleep in there sometimes. So, this is a three-roomed affair.
But, arranging a one-roomed hideout (I swear it’s three rooms) is the lesson i need from the cavemen. Though not quite spacious, the bed has to maintain my New Year resolution of long-distance relationship with the food cabinet. The previous setting had the food cabinet just an arm’s stretch away from my pillow. My midnight and wee (never mind, it’s just those late hours when you can hear nothing but the wind screaming ‘wiiiiii’) morning hours food raids in the dark had to stop; if farting too has to stop. In other news, the worst happened one dark chilly night when I stretched my arm into the cabinet to grab a roll of sausage I’d won from some girlie’s mum. I’m not that much of a sucker of warming my way into ladies hearts after all. But halfway into munching the crunchy affair, it dawned that I’d reached out for a banana. Anyway, I ate the remaining half still in it’s peels convincing myself , ‘well this is just a dream.’ Don’t things taste different in dreams? However I came sober when I asked myself what a sausage masquerading as a banana was doing in my dream, yet in a typical dream of mine, I’d be shooting wild game in the Maasai Mara for supper for my imaginary girlfriend waiting in the tent. Come morning, a prevailing tummy upset pinned me to the floor and left me there lying for dead like an inverted comma. Only hunger woke me up.
I also have to stop eating one bite out of every snack in the food cabin to make it mine. Apparently, there ain’t any cockroaches and rats. It’s too pitch black dark and cold for them in here. I also don’t expect any human visitors this year too. So, the farting will surely stop. Remember, it’s only one window. Never mind. The inspiration comes from a life-hack piece I read on “passing exams instead of passing wind”.
Wait, it’s 2016?! Oh!
Friends, I’m scared. Even though few things generate more of a lack of trust than the words ‘trust me’; trust me, my life feels like I’m playing mind games with myself. How did I become this hard-to-get? The other day I invited myself to a date at ArtCaffe’s but I didn’t even turn up because I was sitting right here rotting my brains, skipping showers and playing ‘EuroTruck’ on a P.C. That was just on the 2nd day of 2016! On the other days, I’ve been crushing sweets on ‘CandyCrush’. This is just those times of one’s life when the dark night is your only friend, constellations your only guide and your goals, your horse from which you fell from and it bolted far away into the dark with you hanging on to the dear mane. A power black-out notice has just reminded me to have ‘candle-lit dinner’ tonight. Sounds like a good way to catch up with myself. Enjoy my own company by plonking myself on the couch and staring at the ceiling in between forkfuls of steaming ugali dipped in sossi soya and smoothie served in wine glass.
You see, things change. Weird things still happen to me. I’m only cool in my stories and I stopped morning jogs. Auto-correct just suggested I change morning jogs to ‘mourning’ jogs. Now, even though those things are not just fun but sweat-guzzlers, who’s dying here? Not me. The only exercise I do nowadays is jumping into conclusions; and boy do I get hurt. Like this lady I met (so hot she denatured my brains) who smiled back after I hungrily yawned at the grocery’s store queue. I did my ‘conclusions’ homework well; went closer and asked her if she’d like to come over (to my place). She pulled that signature ‘Mscheeew’ move ladies do (when they like you, is it?) that left peeps looking at me like I was the pervert. Of course I meant ‘come over and do lunch with me because i’m lazy and so hungry’. And just like that, I lost that chance to become a friendly neighbour. Friendly? Someone wake me up from 1965 please; who wants friends this year? Not now when my life has become fodder for blog-thirsty readers to trade blows. Is it just me, or everyone I meet on the streets and everywhere look like they know something I said in here. Seemingly, behind every mask is a face pondering curiously about my affairs. Maybe I’m just paranoid. No wonder the stars aligned and heavens sent me to pedal life next to a roofed parking lot as a tenant. That’s so I see less of humans and more of autos. At least the whiff of burnt ugali will substitute that of engine oil, grease and exhaust emissions.
The only problem with this new place is that there’s not much to write about and that my two-wheeled demon has no space. The mountain bike will either have to go under the bed or stay outside in exile. Yet, under the bed is preserved for unexpected landlady visits, so stay outside bikey. I still love you bikey.
Know what? This January, even though you can smell a lonely heart beating inside, I’m happy. Happy because it can’t rain forever. I’ve made a life staring at the moon on my insomniac nights and fist thumping hard on the window grills when she hides into the clouds. And I’ve watched a falling star whack the life out of itself by smashing into another star. And i love zipping my mouth and making a little mystery of my disturbed self. And I’m planning to get trendy geek glasses. And the moral of this story? That “he who is in pursuit of an elephant never stops along the way to throw stones at birds or feed monkeys with bananas.” In short, he who wants to tell the world about his new quarters in a blog post shall not go round and round and tell tales of drunk spiders, a complicated relationship with a bike, a long distance relationship with ‘food cabinet’ and of the ticking time bomb that he is. He shall go straight and tell us about the house. And if your house is small, thou shalt not use tricks to call it an elephant.
I’ve also been asked that next time I migrate, I do it quietly. ‘Wildbeest migrate to Serengeti from Mara every year and they quietly do it! So who are you??’
Well … uh huh!