Figuring It Out-

22nd Dec 2006
Jana was one of –those days- in my life.I woke up early but coldn’ get out of bed because there was a story in my head that I needed to write.Not in paper, in my head,and it was in kiswahili.So I finish it,rephrase,correct and re-write it,then get out of bed.My palate is bursting with sores,the after effects of a fever I had las’week,which a quack I went to see had warned that it could malaria or typhoid.As if.
So anyhow,as usual when I wake up with a story,the day is normally filled with others that want to come out.A second story,a very sad one,which makes me walk aroud all day with a screwed face and misty eyes was being processed.

As if out to upset me, when I tried to post something on the site the link was depressingly low,so there is no knowing if the posting goes upSo I’m headed home feeling deflated,almost miserable and there are these thoughts that want to turn into a poem.a poem about pain that has materialised,taken form and substance,and is so bad it’s worse than losing a loved one in death.Like something is really strained and might snap,between the stomach and the chest close to the heart. and the pain is not in the head at all,it’s worse than a fever,it’s like blood replaced with a fluid squeezed out of a bitter oval forest fruit and boiled in chilli peppers then poured into the veins while still hot.I’m telling myself-you shouldn’ do this to yourself,you shouldn’ torment yourself…I pray for an extra skin,a hide ,even,and padding for my heart.
In the mat I try hard not to sob but clear tears come out of my nose,drop to the open book I’m looking at,staining it with big cream spots..

I get home and first thing I do is fall flat on the bed and heave with loud sobs.My cat is watching me with concern…
But later,I pass by my friend ‘s cake shop-Masyiku’s Bread Basket,at Fridge Clinic,J.I was waving,so she calls out to me to across the road.She tells me she read one of the stories on my site and was felt very lonely and sad.She identified with it,and even even recommended it to her husband- -
That made me feel a different feeling inside me.
BecauseI wish that my stories reach the heart.Though av realised that now that I know people actually read my blog,I’m not so free with my postings-feeling as if they aren’ good enough-
It’s great though,coz as Ken-ngishili.com-tells me,writing goes through various stages.One of them is when it’s given life by a reader,or a performer.
Writing a sad story is no fun at all.Once a story wrung me out so much coz every time I started to write I’d start to sniff.I lost appetite,started taking long walks,and didn’t even watch T.V.Had to keep the story aside for a while I later finished it,and one person who read it had similar emotions.I read it again after a while and wondered-wow,did I write this?It’s yet to be published,along with other-long short-stories av’ compiled,but are not with a poublisher coz one of long short story is yet to be typed.
I love writing,and I hate it when I cant be calm enough to sit and write.It’s like tiny bugs that crawl inside you and won’t let you settle until you release them.There were times I’d get writer’s block,then,it’d feel like when I’d go to the salon,with a head full of hair to have it tamed with-lines-for school the following morning.I’d feel like I was bound very tightly and as if my tongue had been chopped off,and felt the urge to pull out my fingers…yeah.
Now that I have a lot to write and won’t write it coz-it’s all in m y head and no one can wipe it off-I feel annoyed with myself.But av’ been very restless for some time,figuring it all out.