Lest you forget

Disoriented, distressed, unprepossessing and permanently disfigured, three abortions later, Emmy stood rigid, gazing through her bedroom mirror unable to recognize what she saw anymore. As far as her eyes could see, stretched before her, lay a vast desert landscape. Hard edged shadows sculpted in the sands, danced in the horizon; dark patches formed on the ground, left behind by the scalding heat.

She had looked through this mirror many times before and always she thought she would know what to expect. Every time it would painfully dawn upon her; she was like the man who everyday, admires himself in the shaving mirror. His self examinations once complete, he goes away from it and what he saw immediately escapes him; only to return the following morning to stare afresh at his frame.

Like the man in the mirror, Emmy would return to the window of here heart and look into her eyes, the pain staring back. From it too came the repeated mocking sounds of broken promises that she had time and again made to herself and her maker on previous journeys. Fighting hard not ot unveil the ugliness within, she would strive to remember. But this, she did not.

Hence it is for this rancid forgetfulness that always found herself back in front of her mirror.
Emmy’s was truly a wrenching tale. Yanked from her biological ancestry only nine months old, she came to understand the true reality of being a ‘bastard’ child. Neglected and mistreated; barely into her teens, raped by the one she was taught to call ‘uncle’; jeered and made fun of at school and trapped in her closeted distorted world view, an esteem seed so low, was planted.

Fortunately, her unbridled intelligence successfully steered her into campus life where the well watered humus rocks aided her germination and ‘saved’ her from ignorance.

There, she became a flowery existence known by all as ‘the one’. However as is always the case with fame and fortune, they could not keep their deceitful haram tongues and hairy greasy hands off of her silky body. Far away in a distant land, her friends could not guard her heart for her; that, she had to master on her own. They did try though, but not hard enough. It was her prerogative. ‘After all,’ they horrifically declared with their hands lifted up in disburden, ‘it’s her life.’ Her only true mate, forced by what one may occasionally refer to as unreasonable loyalty, resigned themselves to counting the clock, watching in gaping torment and disbelief; for they could not control their friend nor her lovers.

Now deflowered, the shattered pieces of her being dispiritedly dispersed, standing there all Emmy could think of, her mind reeling, was how learning had always been a task. The blurred image of her would be ‘role model’, constantly hammering insults at her; her only evidence of the size of her brain. “You are thick, you child of the devil!”
As if cursed to such a stark truth, indeed, though unconsciously, Emmy found herself making deals with the devil, unassisted. They were numerous. Each time he played her for the fool that she had become.
A million times over he had sworn by his mother’s foot to love her. Not that she was unable to smell him for the dungeon rat that he was; her nostrils always full of the pungent scent, she just refused to remember.
Handsomely branded, he would loom above her, tall and dark, like the daring knights of King Arthur. Sometimes he seemed short and pudgy like the elves in wonderland. Always he was sly, a step ahead; maneuvering his way into her life, then moving casually to the next stray puppy he picked up on his way.
Forever short of wisdom, Emmy remained undeterred. Her incredulous obsessive character and unrelenting quest for love and affection, warm hugs and kisses, family, truly absorbed her, blinding her. Unbidden, he continued to worm his ‘innocence’ into her paths.

Three times under the alias, ‘Kisha’, ‘Sasha’, and ‘Tesha’, she faced her worst nightmare personified; the masked doctor who expertly brandished his silver wares. Softly he had whispered sweet words of comfort, “It will only be a minute, it won’t hurt a bit.” Each word was a lie. The excruciating pain and bloody sweat only comparable to the giving of life, almost every time, threatened to send her to never land.

It was here that she began to comprehend the heavy gloom that accompanies hurting. Left weak, withered and scarred, wondering if she would ever be able to once more bring forth another, Emmy prayed fervently for it to never happen again. Now almost chocking on her bile, she recalled on the other hand, how boldly he had promised her it would never happen again.

Using all her will power, her insides screaming for mercy whilst threatening to viciously pour out, she knew for sure that it could never happen again. As she lugged her otherwise spent remains out towards her, silently beckoning. She began to trudge towards him, her childhood lover.

He had claimed it was for the best. He was unemployed and she lived with her malevolent godparents. They had no cent to their names and being the sole breadwinner of three in a mud hut had no name to talk about. As she edged closer, she could hear him calling out. As if in response to a prompt she came to an abrupt halt in mid step. She was not surprised by her mechanical reaction for she had stopped to feel; nor by the confusion and turmoil she sensed, in his now strange voice.

“Darling, don’t leave,” he pleaded, “we’re soul mates. We were young and reckless, but we’re smarter now.”
The yearning for the familiar solid warmth of his reassuring embrace guided her and she struggled onwards. Now a mere foot away, closing her weary bloodshot eyes, Emmy willed herself past her mate of ten years, her past accomplice in sin. Haunted by decisions they had made that she had thought and felt she had an obligation to make, spurred her on. She only hoped that after she was gone the world would understand; if only, to make a difference.

Looking straight ahead, not chancing a glimpse at her mirror, for the very last time, Emmy clumsily but swiftly, managed to shove down the tiny chalk like substance down her throat. Gagging, oozing spume and frothing at the mouth, she collapsed in a heap. Her eyes slowly rolled themselves back as her neck snapped in defeat; and as she now recognized what she saw the whit e light enveloped her.

Lest we forget, she had finally learnt to remember.

Your Perceptions Could be Wrong

Yesterday evening on my usual shuttle ride home, I had the pleasure of enjoying the unusual company of intriguing conversationalists. A young couple found themselves right next to me in the backseat. Had I not been within the appropriate proximity, one would have without need for hardcore evidence, accused me in any court of law of staring.

The gentleman was dressed in one of those shirts all the men in this country seemed to be camouflaged in lately, cufflinks, with frayed faded jeans that appeared a tad feminine. Come to think of it they could have been hipsters. Then there were the girlie black pointed boots and immediately it hit me. This was the same guy who I had met some months ago and my friends had been trying to convince themselves as well as I, the fact that no ‘manly’ man would get out of his humble homestead and walk around town in high heels unless of course, he had unusually high levels of estrogen, He was immediately blacklisted. This one was gay.

Moving along, this time around his head was clean shaven, a contrast to the last time where it was evident that some specialist had donned upon his head some intricate hair do. His well manicured hands noticeable only as he gestured I discourse, made me cringe in embarrassment as I hid my ‘ugliness’ under the sleeves of my jacket. It was a cold day.

I do not know how in the span of a minute I managed to grasp all this detail. Call it a woman’s intuition. I choose to call it being a ‘girl.’ That’s what normal girls do. With one pretentious ‘I am minding my own business, thank you,’ look from the corner of my eyeball, is all I need to confidently size you up.

Anyway back to my story. They sat their bottoms beside me whilst my ears involuntarily cocked wide open. Even I was surprised at their quick reflex action. You see, here was a guy, who according to presumed perceptions or otherwise unreliable sources swung the wrong way, but yet at that moment our hypothesis seemed to be having some cracks in it, for hanging onto his shirt sleeve for dear life was a ‘real’ girlie.

Obviously she was from one of those planets where some words are carefully exhaled and the ‘r’s’ must be gently rolled off the tongue in some sophisticated drawl. From my side view mirror, I could see that she was absolutely a pretty child giving pride to the one near her. Her temporary hair cover that most likely was ingeniously concealing horrid corn rows badly I need of some miracle soap and water, was glamorous. She smelled or scented, depending on which politically correct side you want to be, of expensive body odor, of which promptly reminded me of my urgent need for one.

Their conversation was amiable. He too was at pains to pronounce each word with clarity, taking forever and a day to complete each sentence. Nevertheless it was impressive. I was in awe. The lovely bird adjacent to him was in awe. That deep, “I am Jeff Koinange,” like voice was enough to keep any English teacher glued.
As we shuttled ahead through the blackness of the night, I struggled with all I had to focus my vision and thoughts on the past events of my day, watching the darkness rush by. Then the droning in my head had to be interrupted by a novel melodious sound.

Who would believe how hard I tried not to steal a quick peek at the latest in mobile inventions. Can I really stand trial for voluntarily eavesdropping?

He reached out for his miniature model answering, “Hello Benji, why is it that you call me?” I could not stop myself. I literally swung my somewhat big head sideways for abetter view of this strange creature who was completely oblivious to the now shifting glances being thrown at him by his newly increasing fan club.

With his voice reverberating against the interior of the bus not forgetting our poor eardrums, nothing was going to stop him. He continued on. “Benji, are you looking for a number? Is that a yes Benji?” I must be right to predict that whoever was on the line at the other end was at task to respond to the unique question or possibly be dying from laughter. I for one was on the verge of breaking point. Stifling my hilarity, the palm of my hand was my only barrier.

After finishing up with ‘Benji’, still blind to the gawking Africans around him, as if on cue he began to delve into a kind of deeper intellectual and spiritual tangent with his nonplussed female primate. It was here that my doubts about his orientation began to settle in and I was forced to become genuinely interested in this couple.

I had heard it all before. For some reason though, inexplicable to me, it felt like fresh morning dew. It was as if something began to tug at my heart. He spoke of giving. Of a millionaire friend of his who claims only to appreciate those who are givers. Of the reality that we live in. a reality whereby those who have are fewer than those who don’t have. Those, whose palms are always outstretched and open, waiting to receive, rarely do have the ability to give. They mostly if not always remain beggars, always in want. He went further on to analogize with the biblical story of the sower and in conclusion declared Gods favor on the hand that gives as opposed to that which is constantly eating.

There, like the blind man at the pool of Siloam, the scales fell off and I experienced within a new reality. My focus had been on things that would never change the price of my shoe. Indeed this couple was different and extraordinarily still unaware of my intrusion and blatant misguided notions. He swung the other way. She was a blonde. The question; ‘so what?’ engulfed me.

As I raised my hand to signal the conductor to hail at my drop; I realized that she too was on the same wavelength. Was this a possible telepathy? For no reason at all we burst into giggles and it dawned upon me that I was no different. We all descended from the womb. We all had gaiety in our hearts. We all had varying perceptions. Only truth was, my perceptions could be wrong.