The nausea has been on and off the past couple of days. I stopped trying to figure out what would get rid of it. Right now what counts is that I do not have to spend every waking day and evening on my back wishing the fever away. I am better now, part of me is glad, the other part of me wishes I stayed in bed for the rest of my life. Adulthood has proven to be less glamorous than it looked on my parents; when they bossed us around as children and went to bed late and left the house when they felt like.
Now I have bills to be paid, a dragon breathing boss and pitchfork carrying landlord waiting to shove me out in the cold with the slightest rent default. I am kind of warn out of trying, trying anything and everything. Writing is sadly a routine. What I once treasured and thought I couldn’t do without. Now every time I see my laptop I want to run away from it. Damn this Eric Wainaina song again! The damn thing seems to be on an irritating loop! Like how many times can you listen to “Nchi ya Kitu kidogo.” Maybe it is the morality gods nudging me to fill in Boniface Mwangi’s ‘vacant’ activist spot.
Nothing makes sense anymore, I feel pain and despair and that is what is fed to me when I turn on the radio or TV or stand at a bus stop to go to town to work. “Mia gari!” Thanks! That was the only money I had left over for meals and fare till my next pay check comes in. When is that? That is a very good question. I have no idea because everything I have been doing for the past couple of months has tanked severely. I passed the “I am a failure” phase to, “who isn’t”. I live and wallow in the land of mediocrity and despair. Hope is a luxury for the potbellied rich and a fantasy of an idealistic pauper flinging poo around the slum in a juala.
I recall years gone by a minister explaining why poor people bear so many children. ‘Shagging’ is the poor man’s trip to the vast Amboseli; an exploration and ecstasy that unfortunately brings more stress, the burden of children, and more reason to further indulge in this cyclic release and fulfillment, in this grim life. The irony, when you say you are tired of caring in itself indicates that you care.