Pecks and Kisses

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Life isn’t getting any easier, not with a blog people didn’t expect. You see, on first look, I may come off as a dumb, impatient poker-faced chap that doesn’t talk anything else apart from hip hop or ass, in that order. It’s that superficial part I show to people before I get to know them better. And it works really well. You’d be amazed how fast those topics break the ice, especially if it is over whiskey, on the rocks (there’s a pun there, find it). That’s why people from back in the day that have stumbled upon my blog have been in awe, cause that’s their picture of me; a young perverted brain-drained fella.

Last week, I was having lunch with one of them. I don’t know how it got to this profound confession point but they went on to confess, “High School ulikuwa unakaa mse hana fom.” (We weren’t close at all those days, we’re closer now). That statement hurt a little. I may have smiled and bit my chapo but that shit scraped me. (You know who you are and know you hurt me, brother. *wipes tear)

They continue to make even more condescending remarks, ati ‘I didn’t know you could write.’ I tell them I’m as shocked as they are. But sometimes, they ask more dire questions. Questions that have been lurking somewhere far in your mind but you’ve been too afraid to confront them. Doors you rather stay closed. Questions that you know you should have answers to but you don’t. They ask questions like, Where are you going with it (the blog), Does it make you cash, If it doesn’t, si you should think of ways to commercialize it, Have you read… And they continue to name like 13457 books I haven’t heard of… you should read them.

I can only answer a one of these. And it is only recently I’ve gathered my cojones and thought about it.

“What do you want from your blog?”

I’ll tell you what I want from it.

I want a retired invalid English teacher somewhere in Kitui recovering from a snake bite to read it and smile. I want her to forget her hopeless 30-year old alcoholic last born son. The one left by his wife after not giving her a child. He drank his penis lifeless. I want her to forget the menace and embarrassment he’s become to the community, to run away from the depressing thoughts haunting her mind. I want her to forget financial misery she’s in after using up all her pension on her treatment, because who else will pay for it, her son? Please. I want to touch her life. But all these would work out if she had a phone with internet connection. Or even if she knew what a blog was.

Why else do I have a blog you ask? I want somebody to get laid off my work. Yes, I’ve said it. I have been struggling to get it off my chest. I’d been holding it down too long. I want a young male intern out of campus to go to a party hosted by a slightly more successful ex-classmate. I want him to be stressed because of this, the disparity in success. I want him to come to that part with one sole purpose, to drink till he pukes his liver out. I don’t want him to want a woman. (Get your head out of the gutter). As his peers grind and gyrate on each other’s genitalia, I want him to be seated on the couch watching them. Wondering. Stressing. Cursing. Sipping. I want a pretty girl, preferably in a short tight black dress, to arrive the party later and since she’s too sober to ‘wine and jiggle’, to join our protagonist here. I want them to inevitably start a conversation which will reach this point.

 “You read?” Girl asks

“I do. A lot. Yourself?”

“A world without books? I’d rather just die.”

“Blogs? There’s one called feeling the gaps. I like it.”

“What! I love it. Though I think he’s a bit of a chauvinist.”

“Ah, no way. He just writes from a guy’s PoV.”

And just like that, the ice will be broken. They will continue to argue if I’m a chauvinist or not. But somehow the conversation will turn naughty because, guys. He’ll get a peck, peck morphs into something deeper, violent. Someone across the room will shout, “Get a room!” which will be their cue to leave. They’ll call an Uber. A neighbour that night will not have a good night sleep.

But what I want, nay, need most is this. To be walking around campus on a chilly Monday morning after those energy draining classes say, Probability and Statistics. I want to enter the school café, order coffee and mandazi. But as I’m walking to sit at my usual, I want to catch a glimpse of a guy reading something familiar. I’ll slowly creep closer and see he’s reading this blog and be overcome by immense bliss and excitement. I’ll proceed to my booth and sip my coffee as tears of joy build up. And it will be the first time I’ve cried in eight years.

With that, I hope I have answered all of you inquisitive folk. I am still trying to confront all those other tortuous questions.

Side note: It’s been a good half year blogging, ego-boosting stats and all. And I thank you all for it. Now, this being the last post this year si we should call it a wrap and go to ocha?  But just before we leave, a few reminders:

  • Don’t drink and drive.
  • Make resolutions, I heard they help.
  • Balloons may run out this festive season but condoms never do.

On that note, let’s meet in 2017.

Be a darling and share this:

King

King is a mad writer on the loose. He is suspected to have lost his mind a few years after he was born. Since then, he has been writing his mind almost everywhere he can put his pen on. Someone – a government, a state, a police force, a parent, a teacher, a rabbi, a president, a sacco, a doctor, a deranged ex, a church, a therapist, or anyone with a bit of power bestowed upon them – should reprimand him and help him.

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