Damaged....

I admit it. I am a sucker for love. I know I should be talking about highly relevant issues like the riots in Mombasa, the lecturer’s and doctor’s strike or even the unnerving unhinged mental states that some of my classmates have. That’s not what has my heart at the moment. Sure the riots in Mombasa and the clashes at the Tana Delta proved that we Kenyans are true ostriches. The last elections sparked such violence that it shocked not only the rest of the world but us. The amount of pent up rage that was released still shocks me to this day, how we went for each other’s throats in the name of leaders and tribes. How when people; descent, hardworking Kenyans saw their lives destroyed in front of their very eyes by their neighbours, workers or even their bloody milkman; the very leaders for whom the fought for were comfortably living in their mansions, with their diplomatic visas in hand if the violence escalated to genocide proportions. Retaliation followed soon after, where your own foreskin predetermined your fate.  How we breathed a sigh of relief when the peace agreement was signed yet we all knew we had crossed a line we could never go back. How certain tribes still skirt around each other to this day still saddens me. You can’t be sure the person you call friend will not stab you in the back because of your tribal dialect. I wait for the day when we’ll realize that our tribes are a source of pride and honour and not a reason for division. When our leaders pulling out the tribe card to cover their greedy thieving asses will be a thing of the past, then I shall be less jaded about politics. When media houses stop dwelling on petty biased political coverage based on which rich candidate ‘invested’ in the station and start focusing on the big picture, Wanjiru, is when I will start watching news again. I cannot wait for a Kenya that actually deals with its issues, instead of sweeping them under the rug. Remember the dirt is still there people, just better hidden. If we’d truly dealt with what happened in 2008, people wouldn’t have been slaughtered in the night by unknown assailants who were purportedly brought for that sole purpose in Tana.

 If we took pre-emptive action, a cleric teaching his flock that peace could be found through violence should have raised eyebrows a long time ago. Islam has unfortunately taken the brunt of being an unforgiving religion, something not fully understood, where violence seems to be a way of life. Granted, this may not be the true Islam, it seems to have been misinterpreted or preached with half truths I don’t know. All I know is that when I was young my church was burnt by irate Muslim youths with a petrol bomb and I don’t know why they did it. I remember people who were inside were injured; luckily it wasn’t at its full capacity. I remember the shock, the anger, the sorrow. I remember no retaliation. No riots to the mosque, no weird fights pitting religions against each other. I remember we forgave them, and prayed for their souls. I remember the resolve that was cemented in that small hall when we decided that we would rebuild, on the very same spot the old church had been. We would show them that we would neither lose hope nor faith. We would show them that peace and brotherhood would triumph over violence and hatred. Today, Our Lady Queen of Peace Catholic Church is one of the most beautiful churches in the diocese of Nairobi. It’s bigger than its predecessor and is in the form of a dove, with its wings spread out, signifying peace. The number of parishioners has quadrupled over the years and it’s still growing. You all should go there for Mass sometime. Other end of spectrum- last week a Muslim cleric was killed as he was taking his wife to hospital. It was unfortunate and sad. Whether he was involved with the Al-Shabaab or not is the question but what was the motive behind it? Did he know something he shouldn’t have? My two cents on that whole matter was that it was an orchestrated murder not a random killing. Either he had been followed from the time he left the house or they waited for him where they knew he would pass. The whole thing screamed of an inside job, someone either planned the hit or sold him out to the highest bidder. What really shocked me though was the immediate retaliative anger towards Christians saying we had done it, with no evidence whatsoever. They attacked churches, and there was some imbecile on Twitter saying how they should kill pastors because of their murdered cleric. First of all, how hopelessly daft can you get! When it happened was their a crusade of masked soldiers with crosses on them who were responsible? How sure are they it wasn’t an ordered hit because the Al- Shabaab feared he knew too much? What if, I don’t know, someone just had a personal vendetta against him? What if someone just wanted to create chaos on Mombasa so that the can insist that ‘Pwani si Kenya’ and he was the best bait they could think of? Did anyone shout, “In the name of Jesus!” or something when it happened? Why the revenge killings?  Why harm people who have done you no wrong, other than what you imagine? Is this what Islam teaches? Yes, I asked. I’m asking because I want to know before I have misconceptions about it. And don’t give me that crap about holy war, Jihad or the virgins in paradise, tell me the truth. Tell me what really drives people to consciously throw grenades at their fellow human beings and feel justified. I need to understand.

Onward to personal ish. Someone I thought I knew once told me that I was lucky that I didn’t fall in love, that I would just have a number of crushes which would soon die off. I thought it was such an unfair statement to make. Just because you still hang up on your ex, doesn’t mean that I haven’t heard my own fair share of heartbreaks. They hurt but I learnt to heal, teaching myself to brush the dirt off from where I’d fallen off and move on. Positive outlook on life and a wicked sense of humour are such a balm to the heart at times too! Laugh people! Whoever coined the ‘laughter is the best medicine’ phrase was onto something. If it’s too much, I would go home, kick back and surround myself with family. My dad is my hero, the model to which I try to compare the men I like with, and they all fall short. My dad is also human, he’s made mistakes that remind me of this, some of them really do anger me and I’m ashamed for him. However I love him no less. I love him even more due to the fact that he accepts me for whom I am, he tries to sharpen both my mind and soul before it’s too late. He doesn’t leave me. I matter to him. I don’t know why, but those last two statements will always keep me holding on.  I’m not perfect, I make mistakes, he knows it, and he loves me anyway.

Ideally the daddy’s girl image is meant to mould the highly self-confident girl who sets standards on what men she should look at twice let alone date. It seems I must have missed a class because I fail miserably in this sector. Well, at least I have self confidence, enough to suddenly break into dance while walking before I remember where I am. When it comes to boys though, it’s a murky area. Like a swamp which is constantly covered with bog and you’re fairly certain that an alligator might be lurking in its waters. I find bad boys irresistible and good boys boring. Rather, already my own life is clear cut, you know, wake up, study, think about my future as a doctor; and dating someone exactly alike will bore the pantyhose off me. I know, highly textbook. Mary J. Blidge actually sang about it. I think it’s a case of opposites attract and Diana is an optimistic dreamer. I’ve had the sheltered life, being the good disciplined girl. Do what mom and dad say, work hard, pass exams and have a stellar career. Exquisitively dull. Bad boys always seem to offer an extra thrill in my life and living as I do is a guarantee of getting your fingers burned. It’s inevitable. I’ve been burned more times than I can count yet I still keep going back. I really am an idiot. An optimistic one. The worst kind.

This weekend has been spent being a good hostess with my roommate which funny enough I enjoyed immensely. It was fun having guests. Let’s throw in satisfying and fulfilling too. We cooked and made them comfortable; my two roomed house was just as happy to see new faces, it was beginning to get bored of us. All of them remarked how we were such catches, total wife material, girls who are rare gems and stuff, all very nice things. Though it could have been either the full stomachs or alcohol talking, I’m not sure. Yet the one who I would have loved to hear all that from hates my guts. Okay, I’m being melodramatic; he would rather spend the afternoon clipping his toenails than have a conversation with me. I kid you not. Stop laughing. :D I saw it in his eyes. There’s a thin line between love and hate people! He dumped me unceremoniously, and I’m beginning to see a pattern here (He’s not the first). Maybe I’m being punished for straying away from the right path. Like Mr. Rochester said in Jane Eyre, “I will demand pleasure where happiness has been refused to me.”  I have let myself take and give where I wasn’t meant to. Hell I even tried the whole no strings attached and I’ve ended up worse for wear. I have defied God in the way I deal with men in my life, mostly because I want to taste the forbidden fruit and also like to indulge on the good side of life. I have paid dearly for my wants. Rochester (yes, again!) says it best…

… “Jane! You think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog; but my heart swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He sees not as man sees but far clearer; judges not as man judges, but far more wisely. I did wrong. I would have sullied my innocent flower- breathed guilt on its purity; the Omnipotent snatched it from me. I, in my stiff necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation; instead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came thick on me; I was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death. HIS chastisements are mighty and one smote me which has humbled me for ever…”

Fassbender was the sexiest Mr. Rochester, hands down!

. Of course I haven’t lost my sight nor my arm because my mentally unstable wife burnt down my castle after the love of my life disappeared leaving me wild with grief. I still relate with that paragraph a bit too well, it strikes a chord in my heart. God definitely has the upper hand in my life, much as I try to deny it, including the existence of a higher power. Or to trivialise this whole thing, maybe I’m just boring?

I encountered raw hurt this weekend. The type of hurt where you want to be involved in a true girl fight, slash tyres, break bottles, be carried out of the club yelling and kicking just so you won’t have to concentrate on it. That hurt is the real deal, gnawing at your heart and filling your mind. I swear there were times I had double vision with a headache to accompany it. My anger at him was only rivalled by the intense craving that I had to be in his arms. I was numb for a good part of that night. I had other dudes trying to outshine each other for my favour and all I could respond with was nods and courteous smiles. It was all I could do without screaming, crying or throwing a tantrum. I couldn’t even be mad at the girl he was with because she seemed so nice. All these dudes telling me funny stories, flattering me at every turn and all I wanted was for the hurt to go away. I knew he wanted nothing to do with me but it didn’t stop me from being the complete idiot who still wasn’t over him. I was desperate. Desperate enough to do an incredibly stupid thing. I would either make a public scene and beg or curse him or something equally cringing or prioritise the pain. I chose the latter. You know how when you have a small cut on your finger you suck it and somehow the pain isn’t as bad? It’s because you make the brain prioritise between the nerve endings carrying pain signals and those transmitting touch information. The latter carry more weight therefore your brain ignores the nerves transmitting the pain information. So the pain seems to have subsided but in real sense your brain has refused to register it. Back to what I did, I simply broke a bottle, used alcohol as spirit and cut myself. I’m not proud of what I did. I have never wanted to harm myself as I adore my body. I have enough self love for two. I’m not sure whether it was truly a moment of insanity but it did give me what I wanted. Reprieve. I was sweetly happy for an hour because I only had to concentrate on the physical pain. Don’t worry, it wasn’t a bad cut, the opposing sides are still touching so it will heal by first intention and soon there won’t even be a scar. For now, I’m using it as a reminder, a reminder that I really crossed the line this time for the male species. That I am damaged and have become the one thing I promised myself I would avoid at all costs. The already jaded twenty something year old Kenyan lady whom Bikozulu and Oyunga Pala are always talking about. What’s even scarier is the fact that if he just showed up at my door, I would probably take him back with open arms. More messed up shit.

I need time to heal. I have to force myself to face the hurt because I’m a classic avoider. Maybe I should go for crying classes or something before causing personal injury is my thing. I need to re-evaluate. Take a breather and just think all this through. Just breathe. Take it day by day. Trying not to think that all men are true bastards. Staying grounded. I cannot end up bitter with life because of the y-chromosome; it would be a self defeating gesture. It’s going to take a long time, but don’t they say time heals all wounds?

one day at a time...

P.S- Reading James Frey book ‘A thousand little pieces’. It’s about the author’s addiction and his stint at rehab. It’s scary, raw and brutal at the same time. However it had some controversy a while back because apparently some of the things he wrote were fabricated (lies!), so it loses some of the power it had. It’s still a good book though, not as gripping when you realise that he might be lying to you at some point. You don’t know where and when to separate reality and fantasy. Still, drugs can mess you up pretty bad, and then kill you. I swear the thought of 'addiction' and 'dependence' had never really scared me until I read this book. It might take only one try.