As the whole world loved and made love in beds full of red routine roses yesterday, clad in red lingerie,the type that look like red fishnets, i thought about the red traffic light, the red flag of a country that i don’t know, i thought of maroon beetroot, blood, misfortune, calamity, and loss.
I also thought about death and his friends,and you.
Many a times i think of you in the weirdest of places. Doing the weirdest of things. A day ago, i saw you on the washroom door as i battled a bout of severe anal fissures and constipation. You smiled cunningly like old times, bit your middle finger excitedly like a child who had just discovered how he was concieved.
One time, i saw you lying in the grass, jerking away like your life depended on it. I was seated on a shuka besides you playing My Old clementine on the piano app. Your face was as smooth as ever, your lips lost in that little act of earthly pleasure. There was an amount of unexplainable serenity that came over me as i watched you,and an unsaid learnt lesson that joy comes from within, and that i could make myself happy even in your abscence.
Today, i tasted you in nyama choma flavoured potato crisps. Crisp and tangy with a level of salt my mother would approve of .And i thought about you. In another woman’s embrace, making love to her like you did to me. Lost in her, never to be found again. Maybe you were in a bar, with a bunch of your friends smoking high end marijuana straight from Afghanistan while sipping on a margarita made of imported lemons and local cheap vodka.
The thrill of teenagehood is long gone and i hear you now have a beard and you only wear African prints. I heard your dad is running for mayor, and that you play the piano now ,and go to the museum during your free time. Also heard that this days, you have become familiar with Pablo Picasso and Henry Matisse and the whole concept of cubism.
I also hear that you highly respect women and you faithfuly cheat on your current girlfriend with enough caution, satan is borrowing skills from you.
How i wish you were dead,then i wouldn’t have to deal with the thought of another woman with a rounder and well moulded backside than mine, and breasts rounder than the buns in the animation sausage party playing with you and acting like she bore you.
Maybe today, you and i could be watching 50 shades of grey with our note pads hastily taking notes about the things that aroused Dakota. What was her name in the film again? What e verrrrr.We would critique the movie like Ezekiel Mutua of Kenya Films and Classification Board had asked us to give him a million and three reasons why the movie should be banned in Kenya.
We would secretly laugh and be amused in turns at the white man’s love making skills.
“Look at her butt, ”
“Psst, cut it , i know you like it,”
“We should try that,”
*the tv volume goes up, and what happens during the movies stays at the movies*
My brother once told me you were bad company. And you ran around with many girls. I asked him to mind his life. That did not matter. It was me you came to when day rolled up its sleeves. It was me you told about your dirty past of toilet shagging and recurring episodes of diseaseas my fingers would deny writting down.
At one time, we hauled ourselves a hall away from where your senile grandmother sat on a rocking chair. You swore she was too ill to even hear or remember. A week later, she passed away and you eulogised her on your instagram as your mentor. Your toothless deaf and blind mentor. We disgraced her.
But above all the insanity, i remember the first time we talked, for hours, we laughed and played amature chess, with a couple of drugs tucked inside your jacket pockets.
That was us. Young and brave. Bold and carefree. Footlose and feeding our egos. You once embarrassed a boy who winked at me and called him a little frail dick incapable of achieving a massive boner.Then, I laughed. I found it funny.
But slowly, your toxiticy caught up with me,like an untreatable cancer. I began to see the selfish patterns, the lies. The cruelty embedded in your DNA. You laughed at street children and dug into grilled goat ribs without a care about the slain goat’s family.
Then we fought, and fought and when we were done fighting, we fought again about the cause of the fights. Then we slowly kept distance and you called me out on my anxiety and paranoia. Sent your bitch friend with a catalog of hospitals that treat bipolar disorder. I got the message brother,loud and clear.
So now, my spontainty and random childish acts were no longer funny but acts of immaturity and a skipped childhood stage that was now catching up on me.
Years have gone by, you stopped the occasional checking on me,then the holiday wishes toned down, slowly, you forgot me.
But here i am. I think of you when i can. I wish to forget you, but you are like the taste of bitter herbs in the mouth; easily washed away by a pint of water but forever printed in the mind. One day maybe,in a funeral home, cold and stark naked, i will try to forget you.