4 days.

4 days.
4 days and everything's changed.
No one saw this one coming, but again, which one did we ever see?
They all started out as normal days do- sunrise, alarm clock, snooze button, alarm clock, ironing board queue, bathroom rush, shouted goodbyes.
It was a normal day- except it wasn't.
There's a load of pain and loss in our corridors.
Only Heaven knows how heavy the load in my sisters' corridors is. 

There's none of the habitual hating on Monday-the-night-before-she comes at ours.
Maybe it's because this Monday will take us away from the dining table where we last saw her.
The couch the other was seated on when she was last here.
Away from my window where she came to say a longer hello- and ask why I'd been lost. Quiet. Not visiting anymore.

Or maybe, it's because life picked the weekend of our first pool party- and horribly dampened it.
Maybe we're not hating on Monday because reality was forced onto our youthful love and never ending celebration of life.
Maybe it's because last Sunday was ended on a high note- maybe that's what attracted the ripper.
So if we end tonight on a low key, maybe- just maybe, life will be gentler this week. 

4 days.
And nothing will ever be the same again.
Nothing. It's difficult to not be mad at God. Because I need Him to hold my second family together.
I hope the angels were waiting for her.
I hope the angels will keep watch over her who stayed with us.
4 days.
4 days that have forever changed life as we knew it.

For Els, Akiiki, Karungi, Kunihira, Kugonza, Kase, Kanyuz, Denis, Edgar, their mommy and Arianna's parents.

Love. Loss. Lessons. Life.

2012 was planned out. I had it all figured out. What I was going to do. The places I was going to visit. The trips I was going to make. The achievements I was to add to the list. The things I wasn't going to do. The people I was forever done with.
2012 started out with a review if this blog in the Sunday Vision. 2012  started out with all these writing offers, and me promising to take them on.
2012 is more than half-way gone. I've hardly written.
Writer's block, severed friendships, lost semi-love, home-front drama and 7 months down 2012, the list is still unchecked.

I thought I was done with it all, I thought I had mastered the art of self-love, self-forgiveness, survival and bouncing back. But life...oh, life. The un-warning visitor. Bearer of news both heavy and light.
It's been 7 long months. Of sighs, questions, prayers, semi-depression and just when I thought I was all dried up, tears. The anger, pain, loss, disillusionment of the past months have manifested in rivers of tears I thought long dried up.
 Reviewing; Life in lessons

1. You don't ned your entire phone book of friends.

At my lowest and darkest hours, 6 people stood out. Make that 7, for Stella who left this sucky place 6 years back. But yes. I have been the un-official mother to tens of friends. Which means I have done the friending, checking-on part most of the time. When the tables turned; the sad but liberating truth came to life. Tabitha, Liza, Joel, Stella, Peron, Peace, Sarah N. And Steve, who eventually gave up on me. 8 people fought for my life and sanity. 8 people begged, coerced, confronted, prayed and cried until bit by bit, we got me back.
8 people saved my life. And that's not an exaggeration.

  2.  I give too much.
In "Bed of Lies" by Matchbox 20, Rob Thomas sang; "I tried to be more than me, and I gave until it all went away..."
I gave my love, my time, my attention, my...all to people, yes, people. Who took, and took, and when I was dried up, they all left. One by one, I watched the people who'd claimed so much love and care for me, walk away. 
Because I had no more to give.
Because I asked that dammit, for once, could I be on the receiving end? Could I be given the time, attention and love I was giving out?
I asked for more. I fought for more. I begged for more. And they walked. Because I was asking for too much. Because I wasn't understanding. Because I was dramatic.
Because I was exhausted.
I gave too much. They gladly took it and left me empty and dry.
But then I learned. C'est la vie.

3. People always leave.
In One Tree Hill, Peyton lost so much. To death. To other girls. And this became her mantra' "People always leave."
It's weird how after one breakup, you believe you'll never feel the same amount of hurt. Until the next break up. The next walk away. Then you know. That each breakup takes it's own piece of you. Each walk away brings in its own flood of tears.
Each goodbye comes with a dozen "Please don't leave mes." 
Each "I can't do this anymore" brings on a fresh unwanted supply of "But what the fuck is wrong with me's?"
Each" I am not so sure about us" leaves you drenched with countless " Why won't you be so sure about me, instead?
People leave. Your heart gets broken.
People forget you. Your heart hardens.
People move on or, go back. Your heart dissolves in low self-esteem and "I wish I was prettiers"
People make their choices. And it's not you.
You tell your heart to be still. There's only so many cracks-and aches-it-can-take-on. For the same people.
People leave. People leave. People leave.
And you live.

4. We invented the drama.
Maybe not so knowingly, but we did. We got into and stayed in places we shouldn't have gotten into in the first place.
Some wise fellow said that when actions and words differ, believe the actions. Actions don't lie. I am a writer so it's no surprise that I am a sucker for words. How word-love turned to foolery is...is human, I guess.
Your true friends love you even when depression means you don't want to party for months on end. When you're not so cheery and smiley, the people who love you will still adore you. Even when your self induced house arrest comes in, they will adore you. Over texts, calls, IMs and prayers.
This is cliche but true; when someone wants to be in your life, they make room for you. No amount of promises, flirting, sexting or pleading will get you onto the schedule of someone who doesn't want to make time for you.
You don't need to beg for the time of someone who wants to be in your life. Rain or shine. Miles be damned, someone who wants to see you will see you.
It's that simple. And that difficult.

5.  I tried self-sacrifice. I botched the job.
Because life is too damned unpredictable. Because I consider myself to be fairly clever but Lord, have I screwed up. And the worst screw up is, I lost the love of me. Somewhere along the way, I thought it romantic to be self-sacrificial. Asking. Begging. Taking crumbs. Not demanding for what I deserved, what I was promised.
I asked for promises to be fulfilled, I got accusations of not being understanding.
I asked for a break from the night life, I learned who my true friends were.
When I thought over giving wasn't stupid enough, I took on self-blame. Blame for a failed relationship. A relationship that needed two people to make it work. I shouldered all the blame. Blamed myself for "tying...insisting..." I believed them when they said this time, they'd make it work, then I took the blame when the promise fell through the cracks. Again. And again. And damned again.
I blamed myself. And hated myself. And questioned myself. And apologised, when I should have held my head high and asked for better treatment. For more sensitivity. For understanding.
Until a brilliant woman forced me to question my self doubt.
Until she held my crying face and forced me to look into the mirror and understand. Once and for all.
My only fault was loving too much. And forgetting the simple truth; when someone truly loves and cares for you, it shows.
You can't hide love. Also, love doesn't hurt. It feels good. Really good.

6.  Ever after.
It's been a tough road. The last 7 months haven't been easy. But I learned. To let my friends in, because they're God's earthly angels and life savers.
To forgive. God, it's hard. To forgive yourself.
To forgive someone who you've come to realize, never really cared.
To forgive the small things like not calling on your birthday to breaking promises on end.
To heal. I have taken time off for me. For once in years. I shut out the bars, the parties.
And read. Slept. Prayed. Cried. Fought with God. Wept.

Until the blackness started to lift. Until I stopped judging me by looks or, lack of looks. Brilliance or lack of enough brilliance. On who loved me and who left me.
Until I learned to take it one day at a time. One item, one list at a time.
Until I learned, again; to put me at the top of each list.

Because nobody can love me like I can.

Because

I don't know about love. Or any of the things that are meant to come with passion. Or relationships.
I just know I miss you.
Sometimes it's bad. Most days, I make it through with a few pangs.
Some nights end in questions. Un-answered, of course.
You chose your path. Made your choice. Aside try to change your mind, all I could do was look on helplessly. As you broke us. Or what I thought was "us." Lately, I think...well. Never mind.

I went off the tangent, again. What I meant to say was;
I don't know about love. Or bonds. Or depth. I don't know if we ever had more that. More than the momentary-here-and-now.
 But I know I miss you.

Because I am in love. With Warsan Shire.

"I am just a body begging anyone and anything to hold me, quick; while I am still soft to touch and easy to impress,
tell me that all this love I carry by default belongs to someone worthy.”

—	Warsan Shire

for women who are difficult to love (because, its not an easy place to be, being "difficult" to love)

 you are a horse running alone

 and he tries to tame you

 compares you to an impossible highway

 to a burning house

 says you are blinding him

 that he could never leave you

 forget you

 want anything but you

 you dizzy him, you are unbearable

 every woman before or after you

 is doused in your name

 you fill his mouth

 his teeth ache with memory of taste

 his body just a long shadow seeking yours

 but you are always too intense

 frightening in the way you want him

 unashamed and sacrificial

 he tells you that no man can live up to the one who

 lives in your head

 and you tried to change didn’t you?

 closed your mouth more

 tried to be softer

 prettier

 less volatile, less awake

 but even when sleeping you could feel

 him traveling away from you in his dreams

 so what did you want to do love

 split his head open?

 you can’t make homes out of human beings

 someone should have already told you that

 and if he wants to leave

 then let him leave

 you are terrifying

 and strange and beautiful

 something not everyone knows how to love.


words : @warsan_shire
warsanshire.tumblr.com/

#NP- Let the rain.

I wish I were pretty
I wish I were brave
If I owned this city
Then I'd make it behave

And if I were fearless
Then I'd speak my truth
And the world would hear this
That's what I wish I'd do, yeah

If my hands could hold them you'd see
I'd take all these secrets in me
And I'd move and mold them to be
Something I'd set free

I want to darken in the skies
Open the floodgates up
I want to change my mind
I want to be enough
I want the water in my eyes
I want to cry until the end of time

I want to let the rain come down
Make a brand new ground
Let the rain come down
Let the rain come down
Make a brand new ground
Let the rain come down tonight

I hold on to worry so tight
It's safe in here right next to my heart
Who now shouts at the top of her voice
Let me go, let me out, this is not my choice

And I always felt it before
That the world was filled with much more
Than the drowning soul I've learned to be
I just need the rain to remind me

I want to darken in the skies
Open the floodgates up
I want to change my mind
I want to be enough.
I want the water in my eyes
I want to cry until the end of time

I want to let the rain come down
Make a brand new ground
Let the rain come down
Let the rain come down
Make a brand new ground
Let the rain come down

I want to let the rain come down
Make a brand new ground
Let the rain come down
Let the rain come down
Make a brand new ground
Let the rain come down

I want to let the rain come down
Make a brand new ground
Let the rain come down
Let the rain come down
Make a brand new ground
Let the rain come down tonight-
                                        Sara Bareilles.

Such is life. Huh.

C'est la vie.
That's all they told us. That, "Such is life", "that's life".
But no one dared tell us the whole truth. That most of time, it felt a lot like death. A lot of the time, life feels like death. Or, even worse.

C'est la vie.
If this is the way life is, I want to trade.

Also, I need a gin and gin. Scratch that, gin will do. No accompaniments.
Lets do this, Moe. Get drunk and forget. For a while anyway.

"The very thing you've been the most afraid of
You've been doing it from the start, breaking your own heart."

"Breaking your own heart."- Kelly Clarkson.

Blocked.

She believes he blocked her.
She never saw this one coming, but she believes he blocked her. She's been through the motions, the pain, the anger, self-pity, the emptiness.
She's been through all of that.

Sadness, when it comes, cannot be escaped. It must be faced. She was never going to be perfect. She was always going to cause him a bit of brain and mind ache.
And because she knew her weaknesses better than most, she was going to keep trying to become better. And when she failed, she'd make up for it with...an intensity that would make him forget.
That was her intention, anyway.

But this, she wasn't expecting. Because she was passionate about him-yes. Because she showed parts of herself she'd never shown to any other, because she hadn't been ready to let go, or be let go of... but because she thought he understood.

That she wanted freely-given love.
Truly-given and shared passion.
Laughter. Smiles. Skipped heartbeats.

And even if she missed him until sometimes, it hurt,
She finally understood that for him, she was just...well, not really important,

And she really thought he knew. That with all she felt, she was never going to beg. For attention. Love. His heart.
She felt too much sometimes, but she wanted to be wanted back.
And that, she would never force. Not even out of him.

So it shocked her that she'd been...shut out that way. Mostly, it hurt.
To think that he believed that she was that much without pride, that unless he blocked her, she'd be falling over his life.

But then again...maybe he just got tired. And blocking her was one more way for him to tell her that they were over.

"Let's re-arrange, I wish you were a stranger I could disengage..." - "Over my head"- The Fray.

Cut.

I'm not a stranger
No I am yours
With crippled anger
And tears that still drip sore

A fragile frame aged
With misery
And when our eyes meet
I know you see

I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists I find it when
I am cut

I may seem crazy
Or painfully shy
And these scars wouldn't be so hidden
If you would just look me in the eye
I feel alone here and cold here
Though I don't want to die
But the only anesthetic that makes me feel anything kills inside

I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists I find it when
I am cut
Pain
I am not alone
I am not alone

I'm not a stranger
No I am yours
With crippled anger
And tears that still drip sore

But I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists I found it when
I was cut.

"Cut" by Plumb

StayTheSame; Message in a song.

I have not written anything in months. Not a single line. Well, there was the 5 lines of a brief but recurrent conversation I have with Stella. They say we should let the dead rest but I seem to be failing terribly at that. Every night, for the last three months, there have been one, two, three, lined conversations with the girl that somehow managed to make it easy for me to breakdown. Not get on to drugs and their friends breakdowns, no. Cry, sob, brood, stop-trying-to-hold-it-together sort of breakdowns. I adore my friends but I can't seem to be able to be that way with any of them. Horrible pain, death on the outside...I'll meet them and pull on the smiling mask. I have tried but it's not happening. Not soon enough. So I rant at Stella...and when my mind is just too clogged like it was this morning, I write. Silly, text-like paragraphs that I hope she'll somehow read and maybe, just maybe, ask God to let a miracle happen...and hear her voice. Or have her show up at my bedside so I can...un-choke...

I didn't get a reply to my book-text of course. Not the conventional written back response anyway. But I got a response. And now for the first time in months I opened my blog and didn't turn away in...self-loathing for failing to do the one thing I am remotely good at. Self-loathe because I feel I am letting down the God that gave me this...gift. Self-hatred because I have NOT read any blogs, books or magazines- I could not stand any written thing because they all looked back at me in derision, they mocked me for being a failure. I read Els' blog because she's my bestie and somehow, her writing, even back in school, was the only one I always felt...un-alienated to. Maybe it' s because in my silly head, she's one of my soulmates and even at my worst-worst-est, there's always a...connection.
More on Stella's reply;

I love music. Mildred says I love melancholic music. I do. So in search for strength to get me through  the day, I wrote to Stella first, then remembered that Plus One- the Gospel group always lifted me. Thanks to smartphones, I start to download some of their songs and this list of all their music shows up, I scroll to get "my" songs and right in the centre of this list is "Stay the same" by Joey McIntyre.
The connection with Stella?

That was "our" song. The song that got two, liitle (short is...disrespectful, people)...two little, volatile-tempered, fast-speaking, overflowing with pride and attitude but stuffed with...pain, that song made it easier. Pain brought on by first loves not going so smoothly, people who made it their business to poke, pinch, a school that made prison seem pretty attractive...That song was the one thing we could always quote to each other when life happened and our own words could not do. So I go "WTFH?" She answered my...filled-with-despair-and-I'm seriously-going-to-break-down-if-someone-does-not-find-me-fast message.
As soon as yesterday, as soon as the last three fucked up months.

The excitement was short lived though. No, I do not doubt that Stella actually looked down, turned to God and said,

"Listen. I know it's not Your way to do things that're not your perfect will, but my friend is gone. She's died a little more everyday. She's told Els, Tab, Sarah, Celia and Joel that she wasn't so okay but she didn't say how not okay. She's shut out every except You- who strangely are holding back from rescuing her and, me. And I get that this is your territory but that down there was part of my territory (aka, soul-mate) and You know well how stubborn, how strong-willed that...mateship...partnership was. I will not watch my friend wither away. I turned her world black once before and if she doesn't get...help, she's going to turn some few worlds dark. Soon. So, I'm going down. With or without You God, I'm reaching for Moe's heart, and soul, and mind. Not showing up physically...that quite can't happen but I'll...reach. I'll reach in a way she'll know for sure is me letting her know I listened. I never stopped. It might be after 6 years, but dammit Makuba, I never left you. Now listen to that song, fall apart all you want, then let's get you back to living.

And nope, you can't come be with me, Moe. Not yet. You will, you will. Just not yet. Live the life we'd mapped out. There's been too many changes, I know. Too many and too unhappy.

Stop stiffling, stop fighting, stop trying to not feel. It is okay to be in pain. It's okay to be without enthusiasm for...anything or...anyone. It's perfectly normal to want to run away. It's okay to...lose the fight in you. It's okay to...not want to fight for...friendships and relationships that you cherish so damn much because sometimes, the fight is what takes the warmth and fire out of them. It's okay not to want to...remind the people you care for of your presence...if they don't remember...it'll pinch but babe...you'll live. You will not be this person anymore. For you. For me. For the ones who...care. And you will remember that just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all of them.

You used to be brilliant, what's been going on, woman? Whom have you been hanging with? Shit will happen. But you can't go down any further Moe, you've sort of hit rock bottom. And we know how off tangent you can go. In your silly head, it's attractive but the plan was to leave the stage with applause ringing..not glitzy applause but to leave a few hearts glad they got to know you. But you're at the point where if you left now...there'd not be a lot of gladness. It is life. It can't not change. It can't be sunny and rosy all year round, it can't be clean and laugh-ey. But you can't change with each season.

Look where that's gotten us.

Now people are going to think you've actually lost it. Truth be told, they always thought so ;-).
Be brave Moe.
Start fighting for your dreams. Again. And again. And again. In the meantime, stay the same. Mwaahs. Mwaahs. Flowing love. For always."

That is my crazy mind's analysis of this morning's...happenings. Maybe it's silly that I think my friend spoke to me through a song...maybe I'll still be unhappy tomorrow. But it's not silly that my Android music app said "Stay the same"  was from an album titled "Plus One". Maybe it's silly that I know of three people who like me, seek for solace in the arms of people who've left this world.
Maybe today is the day my mojo got back from vacation?
Who cares?

I have written for the first time in months and that feels...good enough. I'll question the strange journey my mind is taking on another day.

For the first time in weeks, I got a...sign that there is a light at the end of this dark tunnel. And sometimes, that's all you need. A sign- that life isn't over. That the fight is still on. That you lost some battles but you're not out.

That it's time.
To snap the heck out of depression. That it's not as easy as writing that last statement was. That there will be withdrawals and bad days, and sleepless nights but there'll also be smiles and love and hugs and Coke and...and friends...wonderful friends; the people who will not let you go down that easy. The people that will move mountains and do what it takes to shoo the darkness out of you. Even if it means reaching down from heaven and sending the message through a mobile phone mp3 down-loader.

I was at a dangerous low this morning and my 'Ella reached for me.

I have been at a dangerous low for months and my friends have been reaching for me, but with each reach, I've been slipping further away. Now, I'll let them hold my hand.

This is for the girls who have fought for me and my sanity over the last three months.
For the friends who have checked because they love and care and not because " You've been quiet/ lost Momo/ some chucking...blah fucking blah."
Yes. I am mad and hurt by everyone who's checked because I have not checked on them in a while. Maybe it's unreasonable but does it cross your mind that I need to be checked on? Once in a-three-months-while?

For Els who has...I can't find the words, and I just teared up, you osso. Thank you my love. For prying, then retreating, then prying again, then getting tough. Even if I avoided it all. Thank you for always fighting for me. In your silent, Google chat way. Thank you for not walking, even when the walls refuse to budge.

And Tab who loves me enough to have dreams of scarily-unhappy me. For reading my silence and disappearance better than anyone else I know or claims to know me. For fighting with me because I was shutting out everyone. For insisting that I talk. Even if that didn't happen, I love you. Because the first fight we ever had stemmed from you not willing to let me give up, but most of all, you not willing to let me fight alone.

For Sarah. My Mere..I heart you. For telling me to fight on my knees but being sensitive enough to not push it. For constantly checking on me even with just days left to bringing our little miracle to this world. For being my friend.

For Joel...Thank you Sunshine. For trying to see me, for checking, for letting me be. For that beautiful piece on the book group. I will make it up to you. All the cancelled dates. And you can choose what I'll wear. Pinky promise.

For Agnes and Betty, my spriritual mentors.

For God...who always finds a way in. With me, it's always been the same routine. Through my friends. My angels of friends.

For Stella. Who for the first time in 6 years, actually answered, and just on time. I miss you 'Ella. God, I miss you.

For me.
Because I wrote. Because I am giving myself permission to be happy. To stop trying to do it all. Because I don't know when/ if I'll write again. Because I know that what I can do, what I have, are not the only determinants of who I am. Because I read Mildred's blog. And ULK. Because it's been too long and too hard but I finally read other people's work. And got Google Reader on my phone.

To Android and smartphones, banaye!
Without them, this day would have gone and ended very differently. Badly differently.

To life. I am back.

No. I don't have to

be strong all the time.

I am allowed a few melt downs.
I cannot always find that determination that kept me afloat on those past horrible days.
Sometimes, I just CAN'T reach it. Or find it.
Sometimes, I will let the pain and the sadness and the sheer load that life can sometimes be, show in my eyes.
And I apologise if that scares you.
If the realisation that I too can get overwhelmed, frightens you, I apologise. For feeling.
For not masking yet another shitty 72 hours at the back of an already crowded room of masks and pretences.
Maybe tomorrow,
Maybe next week,
Or next month,
I will wake up one morning and shoosh the shadows to their hiding place. Maybe.
Not now. The strength to pull the actress mask on for you, I do not have.

be cheery, smiley and bubbly.

Because first of all, that is totally unnatutal.
Extremely.
And maybe I have myself to blame. For showing you and the rest of the world what you want to see. Maybe it's on me-that less than 5 of the people in my world don't judge me on the days I don't have any filled-with-wit-and-sarcasm come-backs to any of the conversations going on.
Sometimes, it's because my witty self has been clouded and taken over by my sad self who if you read the previous paragraph,  rightfully deserves the lead position once in a while.
Sometimes, it's because I DON'T have anything to say. It happens.
More than anyone could even begin to imagine.

The truth is I am more comfortable with my own silence.
I am extremely picky about the people I spend time with.
I adore my friends. Especially the ones who know when to not push chat sessions that have already gone too far.
Or insist on getting the words out on my silent days.
I am dreadfully shy and realised years ago, that people will term you proud, aloof and arrogant for loving your space.
The idiot I was then, turned to bubbly-ness in desperate attempts to be normal.
I didn't like being called proud. Or arrogant.

The lesser idiot that is typing this is done trying.
I am...me.
My best friends have not been made or found at the loudest parties. They didn't meet me at my most "alive-ness"
It was in those rare silences. On the don't-have-anything-to-say days.
It was at the time when those I thought knew me disappeared.
They went away- they couldn't deal with silent me. Maybe they'd drop by tomorrow.
Stay if they found the me they wanted.
The me that suited their selfish, shockingly ignorant and awesomely hypocritical egos, ego-esses, and insecurities.

I am NOT responsible for anyone's happiness.
I am not ordained in the-making-everyone-smile-every-day profession.
I am not a plastic doll. That means that who I am today might not make it to tomorrow.
It also means that yesterday's smile might not be here today.
The laughing eyes might be minus-expression in the next hour.
I am not going to be the buffer that brightens everyone's crappy days.
Let my frown be.
It has more claim to my face than any of the fake smiles I've been wearing for people who will not smile for me on the days I can't find the sun.
The me today has not even a single fear of any all labels anti-social.


Find you own smiles, for fuck's sake.

borrowing a title; for women who are "difficult" to love.

I have not written, well typed in the longest time. I have written though. On paper. I have gone back to writing the way I used to know it. Maybe its because of this job that requires I jot down just about everything. There are post-it notes around me. Two work notebooks. Two fill-my-bags-all-the-time personal ones. Filled with to-do lists, bucket lists, blogs to read, books to buy...and then the real words. Phrases that drift by during hour-long briefings. Sentences that come through while I try to re-word pages-long work files. Paragraphs that I sneak in during the first 20 minutes of the lunch break.
There are scattered and incoherent lines all over my notebooks.

I am writing the way I used to write in high school and at university. I wrote on the covers, mid-pages of my class work books.On my palms. That used to infuriate my mother.
Now I buy my own clothes, so I take more care.

Words are the only constant in my life. Even when I behave in a way that makes Blair Wolforf seem pretty tame, they never leave. They are not like my sleep patterns which are highly unpredictable. Nowhere to be found all night, all over my face at 10am.

Also, I have the world's bestest bestie.

She sent me a link to some of the most beautiful writings I have come across. Not the heady-in-your-face kind, no. The...flutter-by, settle-upon and touch-the-most-core-parts-of-you sort.
So I read a poem. I read it and just sat there...staring. Re-reading. Wondering. How someone else could capture so clearly, so simply and yet so honestly, your entire mesh of fears, insecurities, worries and lonely thoughts. How another woman on another continent probably sat down to write about herself and ended up writing about me and several other women. How another woman put pen to paper and brought to life all the aches, all the self-doubting questions, all the years of masking, of trying to be..."normal"...just so someone (usually, some man), could love you. Could accept you.
Could stop to try changing the chaotic mind and not-willing-to-be changed spirit that is you.

There are women who are born..."normal". They're pretty.
And soft.
They play keep-house. They like dolls(urrrghhh). They don't question. They are quiet. They dance without barely moving a limb.

Then, there are the women who always grabbed at the pens in their father's shirt-pockets. They played scrabble. They could not understand dolls. They understood books. A LOT. They found peace in their solitude because it was easier. Easier to lock yourself in your cousin's room at her birthday party and read a good book, because the other girls are playing house and dear Lord, that ish was just so common, so dull, so exhausting, so un-original. Francine Pascal was your best friend. And Elizabeth Wakefield was the character you felt closest to.

And when you started to dance....

Some women are born to have it easy.
God gives them the traits that make it easy to love them.
Lucky, lucky women.

Some women burst onto the planet with so much energy, searing passion and the inability to master the art of slowing down.
Fast walking. Fast reading. Fast writing of class work so they could go back to Enid Blyton.
Wonder how I got the scar under my left eye.
Then the world asks them to stop. When they don't listen, it punishes them and says it will hurt them some more if they do NOT stop.
Bruises. Scars. Permanent sadness. Constant failure to settle in. Majority of your friends are boys. They don't try to make you giggly.

Until they start to bring on the pain.
The worst sort.
You fight and damn near defeat the demons that nearly snuffed the life outta your spirit, only for the people you think will help fan them to full brightness to walk in and stamp out the small, delicate embers you'd began to light.
You shut out anyone with the makings of a light dimmer, you let in people who you believe get you.

And then, you hurt them. Badly.
Your entire world is falling apart and you hurt the one person you probably need around the most.
For the first time in over four years, you break down and cry. And the only person you tell this is the one who walks away. The one person whose hug you need the most will not give you their shoulder.
But you hurt them. So why would they want to make your day a bit brighter?

Because you would never walk away at the time when they most need you.
Because you tried.
Because you were in pain.
Because you opened yourself up at your most vulnerable and told them you were d.y.i.n.g.
Because you're styupeed.
Because walking should NOT be that easy.
Because you're searching for the pain that you thought would consume you and its not there.

Because you met a stranger, a woman who called you beautiful.
She said you deserved deep, committed, will-last-through-the-ugly-days sort of love.
She told you to wipe the pain from your eyes. To let the hurt go. She said you needed to forgive yourself.
She reminded you that you deserved to be happy.
Good, bad, perfectly put together, t-shirt and sweats, hair perfectly coiffured, messy tousles, you deserved to be loved and cared for and worried over.
No half measures.

And you believed her :-) Really, you did.
Then your bestie sent you the link and you thank God for the constants. For the friends that never go away.
You make each day easier, prettier, smile-ier and I am a lucky woman.
Difficult to love on some days. Easy on others.
Deserving love on all.

"For women who are "difficult" to love"- Warsan Shire( Look for the poem. Its the "For colored girls" of 2012.)

Moe.
With love.

Alive. Well. And Smiling.

It is weird how life can punch you so hard in the gut one day...and then elevate you to nearly-blacking-out joy the next day.
On some page in Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "Love In The Time of Cholera", a character who's been recently widowed points out( thinks...out?) how the people whom one loves should take their things with them when they die. I agree.
But in relation to the people who...leave or whom you leave. They should go with their memories, the shared moments, the feelings...they should all be taken too.
Because it's painful. It is sheer torture to be left with mind-refreshers of what was. It is simply too tedious to remain with memories that in my case, are being pushed out of my mind with each ounce of strength and self-will that I can summon.

When the good-byes have been said, the memory slate should be wiped clean. Because memories of what used to be don't exactly bring any sort of serenity or melancholic happiness. They make you sad. And achey. Then more sad. Then, mad.
At the universe.
At your creator.
And at yourself. Those moments when you're able to detatch yourself from emotion and think/ look at the situation realistically, you get angry at yourself for...being an idiot.
Then your heart-mind combo that you just insulted re-plays a memory; one of the nice ones and you stop questioning your intelligence.
You are only human.
It is okay.
You will be fine. Really. You will.

You move through the motions. Pain. Hurt. Numbness. Questioning of your mind's working processes. You spend two days trying to not let yourself get overwhelmed by all feelings nasty and negative.
Two days of working, friend-ing, family-ing and trying to NOT feel. Then you get convinced that you might have to deal with all this chaos for a longer while. It won't go away just because you are willing it to.
So you accept. And brace yourself for all those quirky mannerisms that really translate to you dealing. Furious reading, over-working, falling in even deeper love with your music collection. And, careful avoidance of friends. You will NOT talk about this.
Over my pile of ashes ( guess where I borrowed that from?)
Then as you finally allow the mess in, it...goes. Not totally, no.

You are aware that you've lost something you really and truly valued...but you also know that it would have drained you. If you had not let it go, it would have gone from happiness-bringing, care-receiving-and-giving, mushy-turning..it would have lost its entire beauty.
And then the memories of that...those would have been dark and ugly.

Everyone deserves to be happy.
Everyone has the right to decide who brings them the most happiness and to stay with that person.
And everyone should bloody know when to walk. When to let go. Or, try to let go.
Life can be harsh. And plain mean. And confusing.
But life always lets us choose.

So I made my choice. The choice that choked me for the past two days.
A choice that took someone I had grown to care for so deeply away from me.
I let go of the one person that I currently want around the most.
Because life gave me the situation. But I made the choice.
Sometimes, the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.
Sometimes, separation brings clarity. The sort of clarity that togetherness doesn't really accord you. You look back and realize that you were playing risk games with your heart. You finally ask yourself, "Did I ever think of how this would end? Did I ever stop to ask myself if I honestly believed that maybe, just maybe, they would choose me? Really?"

I made my choice and spent close to three days bearing a great amount of pain. Then I decided to let myself face the pain, and asked God to hold me together. I was not going to break down. No.
Everyone deserves to choose whom they want to take their journey with.
And sometimes, you're the one who gets left behind. There's Meredith and Allison.
And you're one or the other.
You can't be both.

Almost three days of aching and you wake up with a song in your heart. You slept almost-quite-perfectly and you wake up minus the heaviness.
So you try to recall if you got intoxicated the night before. But you were home by 7pm.
Then you recall the prayer that was your last conscious thought before you slept off.

"Dear God, at the risk of sounding silly, I can't quite find any verse in your book that speaks to my current situation. No chapter on aching hearts and difficult goodbyes. But I know that you care. Even if I am currently furious at you. Please, please. Please, Lord, make me better. Hold me together. I miss smiling. I need the joy that surpasses and brings all understanding.
Please, God. Please. Hold me. Moe."

Also, there was the IM from your very wise friend that said something about God having a better and higher plan.
You tell your heart that's leaping to every dance-y song to cool it, too much of something can osso be bad. Be-gone, euphoria.
You calm down and tell yourself you'll face the day, second by second.
And you do. A few pangs. Several reminders. Way too much missing-ness. But way less aching.
And that's a good start.
Or, a good third day.


For Maux.
Because she smiled today. A lot.

On the wrong side of right. I think.

Passion. Fate. Friendship. Depth. Intimacy.
Bloody, majorly sucky timimg.
Confused? Me too. Join the party.
Welcome to the elements that have conspired to make me giddy happy and indescribably sad at a go. No. The elememts that conspired against me and have slowly but surely and successfully managed to create a sad, achey albeit happy tale.

And the gods. You have to give it to them. At least, I do.
You win. I allow. You take the gold. For a chance at a beautiful and amazing...thing. For lack of a better word because"relationship" feels like I'm cheating. Lying to myself. Being stupidly and mouse-like blind.

FATE IS A WOMAN.
And when I finally do get to meet her, I will not kick or yell at her. I will bow down at her feet. Confess my boundless admiration for the bitch the bitch is/ can be. Then, I'll calmly ask to be her protege. Right after I have learnt all her sick, heart-breaking, dream-busting and happiness-busting tricks, I will throw her off her high and lofty throne, make her human and wreck malicious havoc on her life. I'll let her live long so till the day she dies, I can still mess her up.
Also, I will mess up other humans. I am a woman please. Fate shall just be my biggest project.

What do you do when you have to let someone go? Someone whose only crime is...perfection? Not angel-like, I've-neve-sinned-a-day-in-my-life sort of perfection.
No. Can anyone stand that?
I mean...someone who is a perfect fit to you? Quirks, perks, issues, inch-high temper, semi-craziness, major vulnerablity, sickness that seems to have picked the last three months to pay continous visits to your system...how do you come ladden with all this, and still find someone who without a doubt cares deeply for you?
How do you finally find friendship, support, laughter, brilliance that quite easily beats your own (which by the way, is major. Ahem.), and not be able to have it?
You convince yourself that all the people who could possibly get your outrageous mind are all taken or...dead...(RIP Mae West.)
You meet some of these people and you start to finally feel you belong. But what fate doesn't tell you is that, this person will get you. This person will go from being a make-work more interesting mate to...the person who for the first time in your entire dating/ flinging/ semi-love history that you will let yourself be vulnerable with. Not over flat tyres.

Over things you previously thought would either scare people away or not have their gravity understood. So you spend the day puking out your innards from the latest migraine attack, you spend the day with your dreams on the collapsing train because your work is not fun anymore, but tell your significant other you're fine.
Because you worry that telling him about the migraine from hell or the asthma attack from...out of the blue will scare him away...or that he'll give an arse-like answer to lost-job-love such as" at least you have a job...some people..."

I am NOT vying for sainthood. When I'm in the down and low zone, I don't want reminders of my luck at my being employed. I want support. And understanding. And attempts to make me smile. And practical help; point me in the direction of something that will make me love Public Relations again.
And then fate comes a-calling. She doesn't knock, the ill-mannered woman. She glides in. Un-noticed. One of only few females who don't love attention. She'll patch onto your shoulder and right when you think you've made another great friend, Fate telepath-messages Cupid...and the two busy-bodies proceed to entangle you in a twist so viciously calculated, you want to tell professors to revise calculus syllabi.
Fate and her friends create better and more complex puzzles and problems.

When you have spent your entire life masking your weaknesses, when you have been the first born that's not allowed to cry or make mistakes or be a child because well, you are a first born, when you have hidden the intensity of some of your illnesses from even your closest friends because you will not let them see you cry and turn red from horrible headaches...you get accustomed to that.
You become the perfect first born. The friend who tries to thoroughly love and protect all her friends and the daughter who makes her mama sunny-bright proud of her.

You forget with the years, how it feels like to cry. Over the breaking of your favourite CD.  You forget how it feels to be weak and human because you don't know how your friends will react to you crying. Not at a funeral. But over a bad day, a love that wasn't love at all. A job that's starting to suffocate you.
You forget what it's like to be a woman. You click your heels and be witty and proceed to best-friend God.

But God doesn't text. Or hug-lift you off the ground. Or check on your currently skiddy health.
God doesn't make you feel things you last felt with the release of Twilight 1.
God doesn't make you smile silly, silly smiles all day, all week and not be scared to be thought cuckoo by your workmates.
God allows you to be vulnerable. He does.
In the dark of your bed room or in a quiet, peaceful chapel.

But then, you have spent the last 20+ years suffering from the God-complex. You are tired of closed-room break downs. You are fed up with being damn strong. You're done masking throbbing migraines because you don't want to be the party pooper and have dates and friends leave early.
You're done.

So you slowly let in this person. You breed a monster as you let your usually stoic self show sides to you not even your closest friends have seen. You become a pile of major, jelly-like mush and somehow, somehow you're not self-conscious, or mentally dissing yourself for being...that way.

You're being silly but happy. You're caring about someone but you're being cared for as well. Sometimes, even more. You're excited but you're also calm. Because unlike most of your past closeness-building scenarios, this one has a great deal of solid about it. So even when for whatever reason you go a day without talking, you don't spend hours analysing all the possible ways you could have screwed up and gotten un-attractive over night.
You try to be a better person because you are imperfect and sometimes hurt and annoy this person but you're not scared of screwing up.
Because while said person doesn't take your...errr...crap, they also don't de-mean you in an attempt at bringing maturity into your sometimes childish self.

This is when Fate sweeps in and does a number on you. A major, number that leaves you up at 3am listening to Christina Perri and telling your heart that heart ache and loss are around the corner, she'd better get prepared (at least this time you saw it coming), you try to mentally prepare for the time when this person has to be set free, you tell yourself that God, the universe, has a better person in store.
But this is as better as it gets. I think.

Fate leads you to an amazing being of a man. And then Fate says you can't have him.

You smile but are ambushed by constant, subtle and sometimes loud reminders that this has a shelf-life. You attempt to cry but wah. Nada. Tears deserted you ages ago.

All you have are your words. Even those somehow fail you for weeks on end.
So you give up the battle to get answers from deities and gods who play let's screw-up-unsuspecting-humans games for fun. You convince yourself that the person in store for you will rock majorly more than this.
But you also can't help thinking..."What if I'm one of those people? what if the rest of my life is going to be a movie sound-tracked by Hinder's Lips of an angel?
Just, what if...this is as close as I get to almost.....(GULP) falling in love?
The real deal?"
Because while you're quite happy with what you have, you're not brave enough to fall all the way.

Some wounds never quite heal.
Some scars never quite fade away.
The break from such a fall would leave some massive injuries. And tell-tale scars.

You sit at your work desk and pour your emotional mess onto your blog because you do not want to even think of talking to any of your friends about this.
Not because they're not amazing friends or because they will judge you and be cynical.
They will hug you, and check on you every 5 minutes, but most of all, they will see you vulnerable.
And you don't do vulnerable well. Well...with some people, you actually do.

So you stop youself from fearing the future. You know you will be okay. Somehow.
You have horrible days and lonely, scared nights because you know you're the running sort who's not above sending a 4am "I can't do this anymore" text.
Because you do want to do this.
You make peace with the fact that, a good number of years from now, you will be happily married and mothering some beautiful children but might occassionally think of this person.
And what could have been.
Then you'll sit your children down and tell them of life's real issues. Not Harvard graduates whom they should emulate or your success which they should strive to achive.

The real problems, the real issues, are the ones you're never prepared for.
And the worst of the lot are the ones that come coated with bitter-sweet icing.
The ones that come bearing inexplicable complexities and make you question your creator. And His sometimes not-funny-way of doing things.
The real problems are the ones where smiles and aches quite easily go together.
And bear equal intensity.

Also, and most of all, you thank God and the universe.
Even you, Fate. Eh? You rightfully deserve a mention.
You thank the powers that run this universe for all things deep, tender, sweet, mushy, strong, caring, brilliant.
You thank them for wrapping this in 6'1 feet of darkness and awesomeness.

Then you post this. And go home. To lonely thoughts. And Christina Perri.


For...
You know yourself.

And to my friends; I shall not be taking or answering any questions.
This time, let me be.
Please.
Especially you, Yasmin. (that is said with love.)

Moe.

Hold me. Embrace me. Intoxicate me...; On Support Systems.

I am a deeply stoic being. But I am also a vulnerable woman.
The trials, the life-punches-the first-bornism, the-never ending appearance of pain, hurt, disappointment and inhumanity have made me stoic. What are you going to do when the would-be-love-of-your-life is already taken?

She is lucky, the one that got him first. In the next life, not only will I beat her to him, I will get into and fill his entire system until kryptonite begs to be re-defined.

I met a man I like. Really like. Except this man was a surprise-like. Here I was, trying to forget Mr.-But-are-you-back-for-good-or-not-out of my life or into it?( It is complicated. Very. Extremely), and he appears.
Not a single romantic or lusty thought towards that man. None. Just total admiration for the brilliance that he is.
P.S- Did I mention that brilliant, brilliant and gifted men do hazardous things to my system? I am sorry, Mr. Pretty-as-a-pin. Brains. Not chiseled jaws.

There was a time in my life not so far back, when everything seemed to be falling apart. My dreams were draining the life out of me, the man who never leaves me had just made a re-appearance, the corporate world was showing its ass-holey side; brilliance, not-so-bad-looks and talent don't get you up the corporate ladder. They get you on the wrong side of the dumb, ugly, unflattering-walking and flat behind-ed bitch who has mastered the art of spotting betterness a mile away, and smothering it.
Don't smirk too long, witch. I am gifted. The gods favoured me. And the hips help.
Two years, and I will be bringing the Blair Waldorf in me to life. I'll make Waldorf seem like a very, very, bad amateur. And God, will I B.Y.A.T.C.H.. .
Oh, you didn't know? I don't forgive and forget. I remember. And plan. And stick my heel into your heart.
I can hardly wait.

The world is such that even the we who consider ourselves strong and hardened and able-to-face-anything, we the ones who will smile when every bit of ourselves is crumbling apart, the world is made in a way that even we, we fall.
Hard. Bad. We swerve off course so suddenly and at such full speed, that no one sees it coming. When people like me hit rock bottom, it is NOT rock bottom. It is the part beneath the layer underneath the section that holds the parts that support rock bottom.
It is horrific. You watch yourself fall apart daily, you watch your self intoxicate with substances you know for a fact will not make things better, you turn off your phones, go to the bar and further self-destruct. You laugh and dance with your friends and hope, pray, that one-just one friend will glimpse the death that now resides in your eyes but your friends do not. Not because they don't care, but because you, the perfect actress has learnt to layer the death in her eyes with the light she wants the world to see.
And light, they will see.
Until one of them approaches dangerous territory. And asks. "Are you okay?"
And the ego-ess that you have bred so well jumps to attention, to declare how you've never been better...but somehow the heart, that precious thing you have silenced for so long, with one last effort, shuts Miss Ego up and says," No, I am not okay. I have not been okay in months. And I am perilously close to falling off the edge. No, Sarah, I am not okay."

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a masker. My pain and hurt discovered they are happier hiding in gin bottles. Not friends' shoulders. But pain and hurt didn't count on Sarah Nsubuga. My recently-found soul mate(yes, the relationship was rushed. Feelings do those things to you.)

So, this post is to thank the women who have held me up for the last four months of my life. Women who have IM-d me, texted me, cancelled appointments to speak sense and encouragement into me, women who have gotten me intoxicated because at the time, that is ALL I wanted. And women who have and still are slowly, but surely leading me back to God.

Acan Sara and Kahunde Lauryne.
My big sisters. Who get me fed, then totally drunk. We talk men,and life, and work and God...and Faith. We dance to Mark Morrison and whomever old school musician that Steak Out decides to play at rock night.
I feel for those two bar men who always serve us. We have scandalized them to levels I dare not analyse.
But I really don't care if their prim& poor-service selves have been open to conversations strictly-meant-for-bridal-showers.
I have had two of the world's best biggest sisters with me during some of the crappiest moments of this year.
The bar men shall live.

Akiiki Tuhaise.
Thank you Akiiki, for cooking me the most delicious meals....and concocting those deliriously-mind-altering cocktails while I lazily watch your TV.
Thank you for letting me feel secure in the knowledge that I am not alone-in my ability to beef, block out people and not feel a thing about it. Banange, that helped. The thought that I was the only being capable of such hardness was not so light a burden.
Now there is me, and you and all those intoxicants.
I heart you immensely, Akiiki.
For giving this first born the chance to be baby-ied.
Bisous.

Aimle Caroline and Melanie Kaita.
Two best friends who couldn't possibly be any more different.
Two brilliant, brilliant, gifted and crazy women.
Two women who love the LORD so much and who have subtlety, sarcastically, mercilessly, relentlessly and effort-fully led me back to God.
Most things in life happen for a reason. Meeting these women was one of them. Out of what would have otherwise been a disastrous situation, came the relentless push to pursue my dreams. The real ones. Not the ones the world I thought I should pursue.
At a time when walls were crumbling and life-long securities were losing their sheltering abilities, came in these two women. Armed with the strength of battalions and the energy of the Red Bull making factory. I swear.
Giving me books to read, showing me how to pray, praying with me, re-minding me of who I really am.
Minus the heels, and lipstick and wit.
I am my father's child. And for this year, this has been the greatest reminder.
Mela. Carol.
Thank you. For not taking my insecurities and worries and fears lightly. For knowing about the horrors that plague my life but still looking at me through un-tainted eyes. For laughing, scolding and teaching. For constantly checking on me.
For being my friends.

Sarah Nsubuga Senyonyi
My Mere to me-Yang.
That is from Grey's anatomy. Sarah is happily married so I had to find a spot that hadn't been taken yet. He is the love of her life.
I am her soul mate. Shared love of all things meaty, a bit of snobbishness, deep love for well-written books and the friendly-but-serious competition to be Maya Angelou in the next life. Or meet her first in this one.
Have I mentioned that she cooks like a charm?( Lucky love of her life)
Sarah and I have one of those unexpected friendships.
But the things I tell this woman....are things I have failed to tell some of my longest-lasting friends.
Maybe it helps that she sits next to me( We work for the same company), or maybe it's because, unlike the rest of the world that sees me in heels and passes judgement, she sees me in heels, lipstick, singing to weird rock music and still looks at the woman behind it.
For a Christian woman to know my flaws, my recurring mistakes, my erroneous decisions but still support me unconditionally, rub the injuries when once again, I shoot myself in the foot and to believe in me enough- to encourage me to take the paths that will better me, reward me and give life back to my passion.
For a woman of high such high and unshakable principles, to know the dirty on me, and still be my Meredith-loving, unassuming, and tough when necessary, I can only say....Thank you, O so very much.
I love You.
And I promise not to show up at your bedroom door, semi-depressed and ask Mr. to push over, or go to the couch. ;-)

My control systems, my sanity re-storers, my red-coloured hair and Joshua Radin addicted guardians, my party sisters...Thank You.
Without you, rehab for me might be a very real possibility right now.
Love. Love. And, more Love.

"I have been alone, when I am surrounded by friends,
 how could the silence be so loud???
 But I still go on-knowing that I have got you...."
     
                                                    "Ave Maria"
                                                     Beyonce Knowles.

Dear October (Wake Me Up When September Ends)

"Wake me up when September ends." Title of a song by Green Day. A rock band I sort of like. Good music.
That song, was my mantra towards the end of the A-level part of my high school. It is just so...sad. Nothing particularly gut-wrenching sad in the lyrics, but sad. That sad that creeps up on you, finds a comfortable corner in the centre of your already-bruised heart and curls it's lukewarm self in there. The sort of sad which doesn't have you doubling over in inexplicable pain. No.
The sort of sad Meredith faces when she asks McDreamy to choose her over Allison. And he doesn't.
The sad that does not prod or pinch, this sad is maddeningly polite. It just settles over you in a manner so complete and total...and subtle but entirely felt...it clouds and doesn't bring forth tears.
But sighs, yes. Deep, inner sighs that take the life in you and....make it one huge, burden of a sigh. This sadness doesn't present in form of wails, no. It has the ability to hide behind a good number of cocktails or a good book.

Then the morning comes. And the movie ends. And the book runs out of words.

September was bad. September was slow. Tediously slow. September was horrible. September brought no creativity, zilch inspiration and plenty melancholy. September was cold, and rainy. And awesomely ass-holey.

I fought dread. Yes, most of the past 30 days were filled with dread. Of the unknown. The horrible fear that doom and gloom were in the neighbourhood. I prayed.
Dear Lord, I prayed. And prayed. And run to Melanie. And Sara. And we prayed. But doom and gloom were just happy keeping around me.
So, in that manner of easy vulgarity I had mastered in my O-Level, I flipped them off. I flipped gloom, doom, despair, writer's block, inability to read any of the several amazing books that stood by my bed side.
I flipped them all, called their fucking bluff and told them I would be just fine.
At the right time. The fight to be gleeful and joyous...do you get the irony in that phrase? "The fight to be gleeful and joyous...?"  We are NOT meant to fight for joy. We fight to recover our waspy waist lines after child birth. We DO NOT FIGHT FOR JOY.

Screw Eve and her lack of self-control. A fruit? Come on.
Screw death. Death that went and took the mommy of 6 beautiful, intelligent babies.
Death that took away the mommy of my insanely gifted friend.
Fuck death that attempted to break the spirit of a vibrant, spiritual and God-loving man.
Screw death that made us sit in that church and try especially hard not to curse the God that is supposedly harboured in it.
Fuck death for reminding us all of our immortality. Our fragility. Our short spanned life times.
Fucking screw death for the unwanted, unnecessary and uncalled for reminder that, we are on borrowed time.

You gotta give it to death. We plan. And dream. And hope.
While the arse snickers. And then grabs. Steals. Tears apart.

We, the word bearers, we the writers, the grammatically and lyrically gifted. We who somehow manage to convey any message with a couple of well articulated paragraphs. We who always have the sharpest responses to the queries, errors and ineptitude of others. We...who make our living from stringing words together.
We were helpless. And speechless.
I sat with some of the most gifted writers in this town and all we could do was hold hands. And lean on shoulders. And cry. Silent, endless streams of tears as we watched the hearts of our friend and her family get ripped out.

Let me tell you about grief. The words to describe it have not been invented yet. You pray, and hope that you are dreaming. Or, night-maring. That you will wake up. That you will hug your broken friend and drain the hurt from her soul.
That she will stop crying, because you are getting bloody teary-eyed and she doesn't need you crying.
You want to hold her head on your laps and try to soothe away the pain you know without a doubt, will never really go away.
Our mommies are supposed to be with us forever. Oh, we scream at them, and yell, and bang doors in their faces and try to explain our excessive love of alcohol to them, but our mommies are not supposed to die.
Because our mommies are the rocks, the walls, the cooks, the doctors, the cleaners, the huggers, the embarrassing ululaters when our names are called out on graduation.

Our mommies are the grandmothers of our unborn babies. Our mommies should see us first dance with our husbands on our wedding days. They are supposed to tell you why your colour schemes are "too much" or why you do not need a wedding planner, "you lazy children of these days" and guilt you into inviting all their friends to the wedding.

And then break into sobs as she watches her gorgeous girl redefine bridal dazzle(ness.)
My mommy is supposed to walk me down the aisle. Because while she has broken my heart in various and callous ways, she is my mommy.
Mommies are our angels. They are not meant to have a shelf-life.

Dear October.
Today is my brother's birthday. Arnold is my favourite man. He is growing into the man that will make God change His mind about annihilating all male species.
Dear October, come laden with blessings. And joy. And inspiration. And friends. And love.
September took the life out of us.

I came close to self-destruction.
I do not know how my usually perceptive friends were not able to see it.
The alcohol I was drowning in wasn't meant for recreational purposes at all.
The intention was to forget. But I couldn't. You cannot forget the despair that resides in the depths of your soul.
I lost alot of me to September. Creativity. Love-that came a tad too late, joy, passion, hope, sleep.
I lost the will to be alive. September. You hit me hard.

October...
I am a recovering life -and-it's stupid happenings-patient.
Be gentle.
On us all.
Rest In Perfect Peace, Mildred's mama.

"Wake Me Up When September Ends"

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends

like my father's come to pass
seven years has gone so fast
wake me up when September ends

here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are

as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when September ends

summer has come and passed
the innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends

ring out the bells again
like we did when spring began
wake me up when September ends

here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are

as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when September ends

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends

like my father's come to pass
twenty years has gone so fast
wake me up when September ends
wake me up when September ends
wake me up when September ends 


                                     Green Day.
                                                   

minus you.

The weather people predicted that this would be a hot season. Hot and dry.
Obviously, they were wrong.
It rains about three different times each day.


My mind said I would forget.
And I did. Most of the time anyway.
But my mind forgot to mention that I would remember. Like the weather people whose inept predictions have caused us to be caught unaware at 3 am at a bar with really not enough inside sitting room, my mind is failing itself. Betraying its former stance. Because I remember.
Everything. All of it, at the most inconvenient times.
At the end of a long, bothersome and uncreative day. This day could do with a warm, alone-with-the-one-I-am-with close.
This day should not end with me in my bed, with a good book but with aches. Dull aches.
Not the ones that sting and pinch. But the ones that weigh down all the life in me.
This day should end with you making me laugh, and reminding me that I am brilliant and talented and mentally-not-so-stable but gifted. You should be making me un-doubt my lack of creativity as a sign that I am in any way, less than amazing. You should be telling me that I'll be just fine. 


You should be here. To be my friend, my mentor and my personal comedian.


You should be pouring my gin and tonic, to make just the perfect blend.
Then stare at me until I get so uncomfortable, I beg you to stop.To which you'd cornily reply that I was cute and pretty and hot...and literally begged to be stared at.
Then I'd blush. And smile. And know that tomorrow would be better. Not because it would go perfectly, but because you would be there. At the end of it all, you would be there.


And give me the perfect close to the most imperfect day.
You should be here.

THE STATE OF ME.

So my new lady love whom I gushed about in a previous post asked me to whip up a post on THE STATE OF ME. 
Its part of a blogging meme started by http://angelakintu.com/ , another blogger. And because I welcome any excuse to gush about my tres hot and vivacious self, I jumped at the opportunity. Yes, I am going to go on about my favourite topic; ME. Be prepared please. Shocks are bound to happen. Gasps even.
This woman is going to spill the beans and provide the dirt on herself. The real, dark and muddy dirt. No masks.
We go.

I have a big heart.

Literally.
I have the hugest heart ever. While the truth is it accommodates a few, well-chosen individuals, my heart is still big. I do not know how to feel in halves. I do not know how to love but hold back half of myself . I do not know how to be a friend but not help you fight your battles.. I have never understood the point in staying in a relationship that doesn't make you happier or smile-ier. Because I am the woman that will love her lovers, her friends and her families with every inch of my heart, mind and soul.
And on a really good day for the lovers, I will throw in my body. Or a bit of my body, anyway.
I am a Gemini. And passion is my blood.

This....and more.

I am shallow. Excessively so. People who are not well spoken and well written turn me off. Literally. I turn up my nose at them and make no effort to hide it. I use the ability to do cross words as an S.I unit for any man running after me. Yes. A girl's gotta have her words.
I am not above judging you because you wore the wrong top for even wrong-er jeans. I am also not shy about sneering at people who think Ragga Dee and Soulja Boy can do any sort of singing. On a day when I'm in the really-narrow-minded-and-judgemental zone, I will dismiss any sort of seriousness in your persona just because I think watching "How I met your mother" spells serious humour dysfunction.
Friends rules.

Shut up already.

I am thoroughly self conscious. My hips give me day and nightmares. The things have a mind and life of their own. I'm still uncomfortable when people look at them pointedly.

Me is a caffeine addict. Happy junkie. Coke, coffee...any time.

I love good food. Crappy food gets me cranky. And totally bitchy. So does crappy restaurant service. I've been known to write burning reviews on hopeless eating places.

I LOVE GOD. I cannot break that down.

I do not comprehend meals that are meat-less. Vegetables are not meant to be a major sauce. Ground nuts are evil. Matooke is NOT food.


I am 5'2 tall.
I love heels. Mostly because of the 5'2 factor.

SHOESES!!!!

I am attracted to men who are much, much taller than me. Something about tilting my head a bit to look into their eyes. And get me a snog.
Dark, manly men get my blood racing. The light and pretty ones make me think of....make-up. Making them up.
Sean Connery is one of my greatest loves.

Clooney has my heart.

I LOVE MY FAMILY. Mama, Martha, Arnold and Lindah, I would kill for.

I suffer from migraines. So, no chocolates please. I am trying to get off red wine. It's not easy.

I want to be a vampire in the next life. A smouldering, female vamp.
Or a man. So I can get the big deal with booty.

I am the world's bestest grudge holder. I block people out when they hurt me. In their place, I see dark spaces. Or voodoo dolls which I stab with my mind-needles.

I have never had a true or real love. I have had love, but I always left when things started to get un-pretty. Because I don't think love should hurt. Or demean. Or smother. So, I am a runner. Me and my friends await the one who will catch me. We're praying for him because, if I haven't said this, let me. My mental wires are loose. Perilously loose.

I have a shocker of a temper. I have broken crockery in fits of anger. And verbally broken people.
And slapped someone. I love you, my pretty.

I love gin. Seriously. I love gin.

I love, love, love to read. Anything written gets me.
I love to write. I was born to write. Writing is my life line. When I'm not typing away, I write in my mind. Most of that fades away, though.
My bed is my favourite place. I love the water. The ocean-type of water. One day, I hope to own a beach house. Complete with a cocktail genius of a bartender.

Somethin' like this.

Rock music is one, big soundtrack to my life.

I am insanely private. I do not let people see me cry. I do not let people see me broken. Unless I am intoxicated.

I believe in love. And fidelity. Cheating men have no place in my life.

I cherish my me time. No men, no friends. Just me and my thoughts. I have been called anti-social. And I do not care.

I have a tattoo.
I am still learning. Still growing. Still getting to know God. Still fighting demons and ghosts from the past.

But I am a strong one.
And will emerge victor.

Calling it; STATE OF ME AS AT 13:10 hrs. Friday, 02 September, 2011.

All Things Dark and Tasteless

Oh you whining, ungrateful lot. When do you ever appreciate anything? Hmmm? WHEN?? You complain like a woman married to a broke man who seems to pair the term “sauce” with all things leafy and legumes. Does he not understand that cows, chickens and pigs were made to be eaten? Mbu biringanya.  Msssccchhhew. Who tells him you want clear, zit-free skin? There’s also a reason samona was made. Mekako also.

Moving on. You Ugandans have taken this freedom thing too far. Because they allow you to complain about sensible things like unchanging election results, you now think you can sneak in other grievances. Where are your manners? Oh, wait. You must be the lot that went through school minus caning. Sigh. More work for me. But I will try. To teach you. Educate and enlighten. On the saintly virtue that is compromise. When food prices compete with house construction materials, you compromise. And you buy the meat. You can find a free house in Kololo. I swear. One is just about to be vacated.

Sugar is bad-Yes Dr. Phil was right. If you watch TV, you know that Dr. Phil has nothing to do with physical issues. I just needed a popular name. Now, because sugar prices have shot up 5 times the amount in as many months is no reason to pout.  Children, sugar gets you fat. Eventually. Our economy is helping us out. If you cut out sugar for the rest of the year, you can lose 5kgs which will provide more room for gluttony come Christmas. See?

All things foreign- Why o why, do you even rant about this? This is history repeating itself. No, we have not sent Asians packing again. Yet. First we’re sorting out the Somalis. Foreign things are the reason you spoilt kids are suffering at the unseen kick of the economy. We’re throwing them out. Mbu blueband. Just dip your bread in the tea. I know the tea has no sugar. But no blueband+ no sugar= 10kgs weight loss. Smile for auntie?

Veggies are good-Auntie knows you don’t understand how katunkuma has moved from mama’s weed pile to your plate. It’s like this; katunkuma burns cholesterol. And meat has plenty of that. Unnecessary fat. You do want to fit in those barely there dresses, don’t you? And the men? Please. It is time. Bellies are 1999-rated. We prefer tone and muscle. Quit pigging out. Pun intended.

Giving glory-God made the moon for a reason and you foreign-things-loving people have denied them their power for decades. Now, we must repent. And our beloved government is helping out. No power for…well, a long while. Bright side is you get to relive your granny’s childhood and play with battery-run radios. Now, who ever thought they’d have common history with jajja?

You see? Oba you squint? Whichever. The current situation has a dark, tasteless and unsatisfying appeal. But this is the stuff history is made of.

I knew I’d have you all smiling by the end of this post…err, typing session. Good boys and girls.