A CORRUPTED CONSCIENCE

            Writing. Writers. Literature. I have been saying so much about these lately. I notice. But for a good reason.

           

I ponder about literature all the time. All the f… (How it aches to not use the word) time. You reckon that once this seizure swoops down on you, you can’t help but oblige. It’s like flu. You know what flu does to you?

You bolt. It catches up with you. You pull away, it yanks you back. You pretend to mind other things. It wrests you from their grip. It’s hopeless tryna resist. The more you do, the more you excite the wasps of literature.

If you grew up where I did, you probably know a wasp sting is helluva an experience.

Finally you throw in the towel. Here you look like you’ve come from the wringer. Pounding. Bashing. All that shit.

            I’m a captive. A sorry prisoner? A proud slave? Do I know? Lemme see. Actually, I dunno my state. That’s another trashy feeling. Terrible. Not knowing my state. Tell me, is there worse?

            Today I’ll share how writing has changed me. It has. A great deal. I feel violated against. Like a victim of rape. Because what writing does to you is worse than rape is capable of doing.

            

             Before I began writing, now four years ago –fancy four years of servitude –I was this courtly bloke in whose mouth butter could not melt. A Mr. Goodie-two-shoes.

About if I have dementia I don’t know, but of whether my thinking and behaviour have gone off the tangent, I could never be in doubt.

The fit makes impromptu attacks. Not with stealth. With a boom. Right when your arse is as empty as a spent cartridge. You try to sit but all your derrière does is swing in the chair, like someone with stormy bowels.

The other day I took a bus home. I thought a ride would ease the weight in my cranium. Buses where the touts are so loutish and music so blaring you think passengers had signed up for an eardrum torturing session. Those.

So I was seated next to these two middle-aged mamas. Is mamas courteous to say? The duet were conversing in the highest decibels as though in contention with the raucous music. But how sanely else would they when the environment that was so damn like Hades?

That’s not what was striking about them. Rather their language. Whatever tongue it is that they were using, because I won’t lie that I could comprehend a darn thing. Snoopy. Me snoopy.

You must have heard of the bullshit of a writer’s block? No? You shoulda. I’m not gonna talk about this. Or should I? Fine.

The search for creative triggers compels one to do absolutely crass things. Sometimes I choose to eat out at joints popular with young people. Those joints that are so full of patrons clad in all manner of outrageous outfits and behave like five-year olds.

As a man approaching forty, you realise you’re in strange territory when you hear everyone sing along to Shawn Mendes’ song. You Google it later. Treat you Better is the title.

Writing makes you a pervert. Your imaginative mind becomes a troll that is so hard to tether once you immerse yourself into the pool that is pen and paper. What would you say when someone sees everything in life from a purely debauched POV?

Knitting erotic scenes particularly whittles down your moral fibre. If you own that.

Picture this. You’re talking to your supervisor, or any other person you hold in high regard. But your creative mind wanders away, undresses her, starts stroking her nipple, asks her to bend over, dress raised.

Your mind then then starts to tease her cast-iron nude butt, and tugging at her…apple.

Am I saying too much? That’s far from worse.

As a writer, you become reckless. By design. Financial ruin doesn’t trouble you in the least. Profanity becomes a companion. Ill thoughts a staple. You stop caring a rap about decency.

And indulgence. Most a writers lead larger-than-life kinda lifestyles. Like a prince royal. Sapping at all the gorgeous splendours that life has to offer. On credit. Or anything. What you call champagne on a beer budget.

You find carnage flattering. Any carnage. Blood, distress and wretchedness electrifies your cursed mind.

See? Writing is not the kind of risk to plunge into. If you already have, chin up bruh, hun. It’s a brutal intercourse for which you dropped your undies. It’s more than taking a bullet for someone you don’t like. Let alone one you don’t love. 

Or cooling off your hot balls on the nose of an angry Rottweiler. Would you do that, folks? I bet not.

There is money in writing. Lots. But of what use is money with so much heartache?

There is talk of how ugly enslavement is. But no servitude could get uglier than that of the mind. And you don’t earn your freedom back. Even when you’re old and frail that holding a pen is like trying to fart while holding your goddamned breath.

But we grin and move on.

Imma drop my pen now.

           

           

            

DIANE

I was sitting in a hotel having my lunch on Wednesday. Late lunch. It was at the organisation’s cafeteria, where the food is incredibly subsided and staff very cordial. Dining at 3pm, which has lately become the norm, had not stolen my appetite. 

That the meal was so tasty, and the environment pleasantly quiet –with the company noisemakers gone back to the office –stoked my enthusiasm. Eating at this hour, I had also the rare pleasure of being attended to by the lead maître d’hôtel, Andy. Really charming chap. 

I was eating slowly, listening to my thoughts and watching other patrons. Jill had asked me to buy her chocolate ice cream. With the wintry weather that has rocked Nairobi this week, I knew I would not. Anything else, yes. 

Her brother Joe, 4, had asked for fish. Truly, I can't quite comprehend where this lad’s love for fish came from. He’s actually maniac about Pisces. This has forced us to have fish on our weekly menu for six months now. 

Or does the little thing have some genes I suspect? Gee, is that even worth think about? 

With the schools closed, our help, Maria –the kids call her aunt Mary, and fondly like her –has started to complain of tall days. I don’t know precisely what a tall day looks like, but with Jee and Joe around, it's easy to guess. This time, dear folks, the holiday is lasting two months! It might be apocalyptic before schools resume. Heaven have mercy on us, your poor subjects.

This reminded me something. On Sunday evening, Terry had asked me if we could take the kids to the country to stay with mother. I’m still rolling that suggestion in my head.

Back to the hotel. I had just stabbed a cucumber and the fork was on its way to the mouth when my hand stopped in its tracks. A middle-age lady was aiming at my sitting place. I frowned but concealed my unease. 

A swift scan on her determined several aspects. One, she wore more makeup than would tarmac an entire 100 yards footpath. Secondly, the napkin on my plate was twice as large as her black spandex skirt. Her heels, you know the heels they wear these days, seven inch, olive and shiny? Those ones.

Hell, if she dropped something and bent to pick it up, fellows, you’d be treated to free porn. And I mean raw porn. I hear peeps talk of being cozy in one’s skin. But this, this damsel was actually audacious in hers.

Linda is our new sub. She sits next to me, where she amuses me with endless tales of her bibber girls and their wild parties, exploits in the city. Some people own this capital than the rest of us do. 

‘Your line has been incessantly called,’ said she handing me my cellphone which I had deliberately left on my desk.

‘Oh, thanks you,’ I said taking the phone.

Presently, a friend called. I was to interview him for a story.

Linda stood beside me while I spoke on the phone, something that riled me. Only a little. After apologising to him, which he duly accepted, we agreed to meet inside an hour at his work place along the Northern Bypass. 

Shortly we left the hotel. Strutting across the street to the office with Linda was disconcerting. I’m not a misogynistic fellow, but isn’t it absurd that a woman dressed so skimpily is someone’s prize horse? Thankfully, we got to the office, a few yards away. Without an incident is what I mean.

I took my laptop, notebook and the car keys. Thus I left to meet my guy.

Absalom is a mortuary attendant. I find Absalom a cool name, don’t you? I call him Axel, the German version of the name, something he thoroughly enjoys. He was waiting for me when I pulled off at the facility. Some men are more men than others. And my guy Axel is in that class of alpha men. This knight's life is, simply put, a fascination. He’s what you might call a charmer. A wooer. You’d sit and listen to him for two hours, and fail to notice the passage of time. 

He offered to show me around, which I politely declined. In the interest of time. So we walked to the institution's food court, where he ordered for cocktails. Both on his bill. I took daiquiri while he settled for mojito. The way of gentlemen. The drink was divine. After jabbering about the US election shocker, the Jubilee regime’s scandals and, of course, women, we got down to the brass tacks. 

It was smooth, and my crony made things even easier. I realised I had hardly used the questions I'd drafted for the interview. Surprisingly, he answered them all as I sat still, listening, watching and frowning as his lips moved in rhythm, eyes batted and brow arched as he narrated his journey of life. 
If some people are eloquent, Axel is a splendid orator.

Twice I asked him how he had ended up as a mortuary attendant, and on both occasions, he heartily answered, passion.

Just when we were winding up, a lady of about 30, with two playful kids, twin girls, approached us. The trio wore each a beautiful kitenge dress and matching blue flat shoes. They looked very striking. In our five year marriage, no kitenge piece of clothing has ever sat in Terry's wardrobe.

She greeted us, then announced, ‘I’m here to see my sister.’ I assumed her sister worked here. But Axel understood better.

So my friend took her documents, confirmed a number, excused himself and left. Moments later, Axel came back, with another man, a colleague of his, in his work gear. It’s then that it occurred to me that her sister had passed on and her body was lying in this parlour.

The lady looked at me and out came a smile. To my utter surprise, she closed the gap between us. When she extended her hand for a shake, a hundred questions were already oscillating in my head. 

When Absalom’s teammate motioned her to follow him, she tugged my hand and what happened next, I was following her to the viewing room. Axel also came along.

The procedure was brief and overwrought. When we left the storage room shortly afterwards, nothing on her countenance had changed one whit. The strength, the composure and firmness of character all really startled me. The kids though were utterly woebegone. They cried holding on to their mother’s dress. You see, explaining death to a minor is a horrific test, a nightmare.

Death is destructive. Devastating. It tears down and tramples on souls. I have lost family and friends, and the anguish is defies any lexical demonstration. Therefore I won’t pretend to comprehend how accurately to define the horrors departure of a loved one leaves in its wake. 

This old monster steals from individuals, families and nations. It’s  a thief. In fact worse than a thief. A thief will usually strike when least expected. Death will descend even when you’re fully awake. You’ll do nothing to stop it. 

I hugged, and allowed her to shed some tears on my shoulder. It was odd, for I didn’t even know her name yet. She stayed there for a while, muttering things, difficult things that were no doubt an expression of her loss.

When she was finally collected, after what seemed like eons, she wiped her face, and smiled at me.

‘Thank you, sir.’ she said. 

‘It’s fine,’ I responded still reeling in an extreme mental upheaval. A stranger had found solace, strangely, in another stranger’s arms.

She introduced herself as Diane. Her beauties were Beryl and Daisy. She explained that Debby had died in an accident. I tried to be as consolatory as I could. After exchanging our cards, of course for future acquaintance, which I look forward to, I bid my friend bye.

We will hang out soon, my inside kept saying on my way back to the office. I might even ask Mama Jill if we could invite Diane and her girls over someday.

As I picked fish and other household items at the store later that evening, the tape replayed in my head. I wanted to forget the episode, but the more I tried to pull away, the more it engulfed my mind. 

Through the drive home, the events of the afternoon rolled in my head with no end that I could virtually not detect the languid movement of traffic.

After I had ruled in the usual verbal battles between Jill and Joe, we had dinner. I then helped tuck the children into bed. 

      When everyone had gone to bed and the house was still, I fired up my computer, and scribbled this piece.

Has a stranger ever asked for your help? How did you react?