This is an article I wrote a while back; I am currently going through some stuff in my life, which are hindering my thinking process making it hard to come up with something interesting to write about. Maybe I should write about my misery. Anyway, I might be back to my senses next week, God willing.
So due to this fact and the fact that I don’t like this blog being dormant, I thought I should post this here.
The cursor is blinking. Patiently waiting for you to write something. The word document is blankly staring back at you; You can’t wait to paint it black with your thoughts which are buzzing in your head, eager to be let lose. You begin to write;
When you woke up that Sunday morning, you knew… no… scratch that, you thought nothing was going to go wrong. The sun was blazingly hot, the sky a sea of blue with wisps of clouds here and there to break the monotony. A perfect weather to go out and take photos. But you decide to stay indoors and read The Secret History by Donna Tart instead. Oh you could have gone to church too, but you are not much of a church goer. Probably the reason bad things happen to you.
Evening came. You hadn’t been online the whole day because the book transported you to another world. It introduced different characters into your life. Some you ended up loathing. Time really flies when you are reading.
You then decide to come back to the world of the living, check what’s going on in the outside world. You take your phone, connect it to WiFi and voila! It comes to life! Vibrating with facebook, twitter, instagram, and whatsapp notifications.
You decide to check your whatsapp first because for once, she has texted. But now as you write this, you wish you hadn’t responded to that text. You wish you hadn’t connected your phone to the internet. You wish you had stayed with your book, in that other world and nothing of this sort would have happened;
All the while you are praying to God, Let her not be pregnant, please God, let her not be pregnant!!!
You know it is about pregnancy because she has been hinting that she might be pregnant; no signs of periods, nausea, morning sickness, and all those symptoms. Plus, she has been asking you what you would do if she was pregnant. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there baby. That has always been your response. But it seems the bridge is here finally, how bou dah
Please God, let there be a ‘not’, LET THERE BE A ‘NOT’!!! And an ‘after all’ after pregnant!! You know? “Guess what, I’m not pregnant after all…?”
But you have been a sinner. God quit on you a long time ago. He doesn’t even listen to whatever you have to say anymore. He doesn’t give two shits about you.
Typing… “She is typing,” you tell yourself. Your heart is beating so loud, you can hear it from across the room. You then realize how quiet it is. The silence is so ominous a shiver runs down your spine. Then Scott your dog barks breaking the silence. You are not alone after all, Scott is awake too. It is you, Scott and the world.
Your phone vibrates. You don’t want to look at it. You say a last prayer. Please God, let it not be what I think it is…hoping against hope that for once the old man seated on that Golden throne above will listen to you, just this once.
You press the power button on your phone. A bright light hits your eyes, you squint. You stall by checking the brightness, 0. %. “But why is this thing so Damn bright? Feels like it’s at 1000%!!” You complain, to yourself and the ghosts roaming the world. It is midnight, you have always believed that that is the hour of ghosts. What with always finding your blanket on the foot of your bed every morning?
You pull down your notification bar and there it is, staring back at you;
I am pregnant.
“God, when will you ever answer my prayers????” You cry out to God. But deep down, you know this is your fault. You know you don’t have to blame God for your carelessness. You don’t have to bring him into your mess.
“Are you sure..?” You text back
“Yea,” she responds almost immediately. Like she was expecting that question.
“I’m coming to Eldoret in the course of the week we talk about it.” You say. You came back home (Kisumu) to be with your mom for a week or two. To decompress before you went back to the harshness that is the outside world. But the world seems to find you everywhere you try to hide… gotcha! You thought you could hide from me! You can run Allan, but you can’t hide.
Okay. She says
You lay there staring at the ceiling, Asking a million whys, hoping answers will fall like manna from the ceiling. You try to sleep, but sleep won’t come. You toss and turn in your bed. Scott howls. The howl is so forlorn, it depresses you. It’s like Scott is asking you if you are okay.
“You have no idea Scotty, you have no idea.” You say out loud.
It barks. Like it’s saying, everything is going to be okay.
You turn to your phone and stalk people on Instagram and Facebook. No soul is awake. You feel like a ghost scouring people’s houses. Like that black cat that belongs to your neighbor next door that keeps knocking down your plates. Where does it always even enter with?
You decide that you are going to tell your mother come the following day. Or rather, later on in the day seeing as it is 1 AM in the night (oxymoron, no?). You even set the scene in your head, how you are going to bring the conversation up. Because, if you remember correctly, your mother once told you that if one day you fucked up (pun?) and ended up having a baby, she will take the baby as her own and raise him/her, and the mother of the child can go to hell for all she cared (not her exact words but her tone sounded pretty much like that).
She will understand right? I messed up, she will be disappointed but she will understand. You continuously tell yourself. After all, she has always been praying to God that she lives to see her grandchildren. “Your prayers have been answered mommy!!!” you picture yourself telling her.
But you know your mother is as unpredictable as a wild dog. You can never tell how she is going to react. She might even ask you to go and take an HIV test. “Do you know the HIV status of the girl..?” You shake your head no. You are too messed up to even speak. You vowed a longtime ago never to disappoint your mom. Be the perfect son. After all, you are the firstborn child. But the disappointment written all over her face breaks your heart, you cannot even bring yourself to talk, you are dumbfounded. “How could you have unprotected sex, Allan?” You know things are bad when she calls you by your first name, Allan. Not the pet names she is used to calling you; Babana (my father), Asande (Sunday, that’s your nickname. Turns out you were born on a Sunday), Otieno (your surname), or Nyathina (my baby). As much as you hate the last pet name, you would give anything to hear it right now, your zygote included.
“Go to the VCT!!!” She yells at you. You run out of the house.
Is it really a VCT now that you are being forced..? VCT visits are supposed to be voluntary, yes?
A cock crows. It jolts you out of your reverie. You check your phone, 2:30 am. What sort of a cock crows at this ghostly hour?
A plate falls down breaking the silence. It scares you shitless. You hear your mom cuss. She switches on the kitchen light and you hear her cussing at that black cat; the shadow that haunts your house every night.
You get up and head to the kitchen. You find your mother bent down collecting the broken glass. You get down to help but she stops you, “I got this son”
“It’s that cat again.” She says, “One day I will kill this thing!!!” You smile because she has been saying that for the past 1 year.
She studies your face for a while forgetting the shattered glass. “Are you okay?” She asks. “You look… disturbed.”
“I’m okay ma”
How does she do that? See through me like that? She always can tell when you are going through stress or heartbreak and stuff like that. It makes you love her even more. The only person who could read you. Who doesn’t think you are weird. Who understands you
You offer a weak smile. A forced smile.
“You know you can tell me anything babana..?” She says with the kindest voice that you feel like falling on her feet crying pouring out your heart out, I fucked up mom, I fucked up and I’m so sorry!! But you don’t do that, besides, you can’t say “fuck” while addressing your mother. Instead you smile at her and say
“I know mom.”
She then drops the glass she had been picking on the dustbin and heads back to bed. You drink water straight from the tap, go to the washroom, and head back to your room. Where your demons are waiting for you rubbing their hands, evil grins plastered on their faces, come to daddy…
Sleep comes at three something. It’s an uneasy sleep but it is sleep all the same. A sleep full of baby nightmares.
You wake up at 7. The first 15 seconds are pure bliss because, you have no idea where you are or who you are. You are just alive. That’s all you know and it’s pure bliss. Absolute bliss. You manage a smile even. Then everything comes rushing back, crashing into your head the way waves of an ocean would a shore. Depression sets in. you wish it was a dream. You even check your messages to confirm this. It has to be a dream.
I am pregnant. Nope, not a dream. The text stares at you blankly, smugly, mockingly… depending on how you look at it. Like it’s saying, yea, and there’s nothing you’re going to do about it.
You get out of bed and head to the living room. You find your mother seated on the couch contemplating whether to go to work or not. She is a hardworking woman alright, but it’s Monday, it lazies (that word does not exit) even the most hardworking of people.
She studies you… stop it mom!
“Are you sure you are okay..?”
Tell her goddamit!! Tell her! She is your mother, she will understand!! Just tell her!! The reasoning voice in your head tells you. What if she doesn’t? You’ll break her heart Allan. Please don’t tell her. The other voice chips in.
“I’m fine ma.”
“Sawa. Just know that I am always here if you need to talk.”
“Thanks ma.” You want to add, ‘I love you,’ but you don’t. You have never told her that and it will only worsen things because she will know something is definitely up.
So You go to your room, Fire up Lucy and begin to write your ordeal down. “I am pregnant.” That’s how you start. You stare at that title for a while, wondering where the word ‘not’ and ‘after all’ are when you need them. You tell Lucy all you are going through. She is patiently listening.
And why the hell am I writing in 2nd person..? You ask yourself.
But you know why. It is because saying it in second person feels like it is happening to someone else.
A voice in your head tries to make you feel bette; that sick bastard that told you not to tell your mother; at least you now know you can make a girl pregnant… you smile despite yourself.
P’s. I wrote this piece sometime last year when my then girlfriend told me she was pregnant with my baby. Turns out it was not true (long story. By the way, i have it saved somewhere in my laptop) so rest easy, I’m not a dead beat dad (haha).