boyfulani

I’m insomnia-eyed.

I’ve been searching for words, under my desk, bed, ash tray, even lifted the maid’s dress.

I’ve turned all pockets, inside in, and only strange foreign coins jingle.

Days have been coming, going, flipping me over, but I’m glad the cat instincts have me landing perfectly on my two feet- albeit in an awkward angle.

When I have loose minutes to walk around, I could burn them ‘javving’ the office lift.

Crazy I know, but here is my story.

First, though some people feel like throwing up when in one, I tend to think that it has a similar effect with getting high: you just sit/stand and it takes you places. It also tends to have the same purpose as i toilet- after you leave it,  you soon forget about the relief it has brought you.

Maybe that is why they say there is no lift to success- for most people hold it that you have to sweat it out.

But don’t successful people use lifts? To the highest offices where they keep on succeeding? Never mind, just thinking literally!

Well, I have discovered offices i never thought existed after pressing the wrong floor, or zombie-ing while studying fellow occupants. This, i would have missed, had I taken my usual dose of the spiraling  staircase. On the third floor, a lady was getting busy checking herself out in the mirror. She looked good yes, and my cheeky self confirmed that with a side comment.

“Er, just confirming…” she started, a startled look on her cute face.

She was seeing some ‘new guy’ who was waiting upstairs, and wasn’t not for the abrupt end of the lift’s journey, somebody would have been turned down.

I haven’t bumped into her since, nor have I called.

It’s the Asian guy, who probably works with some bank that interests me. He stands at the front as if he is in the gents, hands clasping on his crotch. With face looking down, you could think that the national anthem is about to be played. The other day, he was accompanied by a Kyuk lady – who had a tad too much make up, hair woven into ropes- a hairstyle that seemed to have seen better hair days. But she had a perfume about her that bespoke of a ‘don’t-assume’ kind of attitude.

Her legs were chocolatey, smooth as if they came into contact with a Kamba sculptor- the most striking thing about here. Everybody abode seemed to ignore her incessant conversation that she kept shouting into her mouth piece.

I can’t forget those people who try to make small uncomfortable talk in the lift. Maybe silence is the best way to make it through the journey – as you steal looks, however suspicious, just to make sure Onyancha is not around.

Fame-ass

I’ve bumped into some pretty celebrated faces here too, and it’s suffocating. The experience i’ll not forget is that of Sheila Mwanyigah.  Her infectious smile and flawless skin, dude, you could think she jumped off the cover of  Vanity Fair. And vanities were all that my thoughts spelt out, buried in some exquisite perfume-

I mean, who taps that?

Some lucky chap, of course… I tell myself, as I strangle my crazy groupies self into the corners of inaction.

I wonder if it is possible to have that one experience in the lift;

probably get busted, fired, that scares me, but the prospects gets me kind of lifted from the reality.

A situation among my pals has made me re-think my stand on this HIV thingy.

As this semester unfurled its wing, i was with Ms. S,  Sanchez and his girlfriend in my campus hell hole, playing (light stripping) poker, my eye dancing off Ms. S’s watermellonish chesticles  as she stamped the winning card  on the table . Accelerated by the passing bong, the daring antics started to shift and swing, riding on the care-free mode of highness, the passing hours and the dimming light bulb.

Long and short, Ms.  S. was singular, in the cold.

And so was i.

Well, on the real, the signature never actually soiled the dotted lines. Maybe i was disappointed, may be i wasn’t, but with another party lined up  the following day,  my ‘insured interests’ seemed to be ’safe’.  I had just got to know Ms. S ‘well’ – at least how daring she could be- and the prospect of hitting it off the following day was exciting. (Un)fortunately, the previous day encounter fell off the radar as I shifted my gaze elsewhere.

Consequently,  Ms. S. somehow and some guy (my friend too) who I’ll call Soul Jah hit it off. He lived nearby and for the bro codes’ sake or some thing of the sort, asked for a ‘go ahead’ which i told him not to dare care about.  And well,that was the genesis of the symbiotic r/ship’ which has lasted all through this semester. Many are the times we’d shikisha goks (green Meru twigs) in Soul Jah’s crib as Ms. S. sat by, reading some novel or watching telly…and i won’t lie, the thought occurred to me not once, about  ‘finishing what i had started”- but the sensible me killed it off, halfheartedly (wanaume ni mafisi, i admit)

Long story short; turns out that Soul Jah got the thingy and somehow it passes to Ms. S. who has been so diva-stated she is just stuck at his digs, pretending all is fine. Her talk has suddenly changed. What would you do if you woke up one morning and found that your life will never be the same again?

It’s full of regrets but bears the spirit of moving on…and i don’t like thinking about it all to a certain extent. They are all my friends, and with all confidentiality, it just generates more and more questions as to why! why would you infect someone deliberately?

Other questions that can’t cease crawling in my cranium:

• If  I followed up with Ms. S after that naughty poker, would I be in the bandwagon too? Would I have ‘rescued’ her?
  
• What the hell would i do if i was part of the effing stats?
• Who is to blame? Is it even time to blame or live with the consequences?
  
• When will reality really hit campuserians and they quit this bila-protection adventures?
• Should it in anyway affect our relations?

Enjoying life?

Truth is, as campuserians, we like calling it ‘living life to the fullest’: waking up next to someone whose name you can’t recall, use protection for a while, then quit, get singing in the choir  (combi) recklessly…and when we discover tuna-enda, spread it all around mercilessly.

See, guys generally tend to rush over this topic as if it only happens to ‘other people’.  Nobody wants to admit that labda last weekend, alienda ka-dive (sex bila socks). We all want to appear squeaky clean and sometimes, depending on the level of intoxication, we, either out of guilt or floating in the feel-good rafters of alcohol, suddenly declare that they did it without one, severally-  kwani? We hide under theories of realities and realities mask our own insecurities through justifications like how it  is easier to catch HIV from your campus girlfriend than  in a brothel?

And it rages on and on, until you discover, that one among you, is the killer.

Or, you’re one of them.

Is he nuts, no- he’s insane!
Right now am as high as hell. Getting to where I am is hell by itself. This post doubles up as my highest post…as yet.
Eminem’s relapse is playing in the background….helping me accomplish my drunken chronicles,
As yet.
In between sips of refreshing twenty bob h2o, I could need another rush of bagpipes from Bhang-dad.
Really, I had such a mind-fucking day.It was the the first time I admitted I love-d someone. Really, I do.
Ask me when I am sober, and I am sober sure, I will confirm that.
Why?
I have the least of ideas. Why the heck, i don’t even care.
It’s simple, yet complex.

Like how i had such a gisty comp, in a dark back street chum.

Back to love.
I wonder why we complicate it with theories strapped with our bitter pasts.
Yeah, been there…and I know realities of life do kick hard as an electrocuted ass…as our as wheels of time spin. But yes, hell yeah, as sure as I am high, so do I love someone.
We never text, call…whatever, but we met today: by mere coincidences of my plan B-ullshit stunts.
As I knocked, lost in thought at the affluence of those South D flats, I had no idea I would scribble this tonight. I had my friend in tow, and her little sister who distracted my newspaper reading moments – I admit, I’m an information addict. Later on, time did catch us staring, mouth agape at the Kenya Burning Book…displayed on a Kwani stand…Yep, was at some book fair and the presence of so many book minded souls sure gave me a wooden hard on…no-need-ta-save-the-mau-if-this-is-what-we-get…but hey, that’s not where I be driving at. In fact, we were cruising in mats, all expenses paid, till the deep-hearted moment came….er, I mean, departing…saying goodbye?
She didn’t want to let go….ah, kitu ka hiyo: hi mneno yu nichanganya kiasi: the only thing am sure…
Is that when soberness doth dawn on my court, I’ll be saying: what the hell was I high on?