I’ve been dreaming incessantly lately. Different realities
with their different timelines. We all stare at each other in different
mirrors. I slip into normalcy in whichever dream I slip into. It is so easy to
choose this route, none is wrong and every decision is right. I’m only awake
for a few hours of the day, when everything is quiet. The night is such a
forgiving time, never judging nor imposing its expectations on you. It calms me
down, letting me slowly peel off every skin holding me in bondage.
I dream of your broad
dark shoulders. The little scar on the broad of your back, imprinted on the
back of my mind. A memory my hippocampus stole from my occipital lobe. Only
returned when needed. Always when my eyes are closed. How did it get there?
When? The events surrounding that day, what were they?
They say nothing is new in this world. If so, then why do we
live? What are we doing here if everything that we will do has already been
done? Is every thought a reproduction of someone else’s mind? The blood that
courses through my veins, is it really truly mine? What if there’s an exact
replica of all my cells respiring in some other body form? Were we just born to
die? To propagate the same fucking gene through the ages? We recycle so much in
this life, our books, our fashion and even the gender roles that ‘society’
dictates. I tire as easily as I am motivated. My friend would quip that I was
born in the wrong era. I don’t think so. With more than twenty centuries
already passed, it excites me to traverse the past. Like entering archaic ruins
and imagine them when they were once whole. Where they held conversations,
wrote letters, triumphed or failed. Where they fell in love and ended long term
friendships. I believe if you go far enough, you’ll end up exactly where you
began.
I see the rays filter
in through the wind on an early afternoon, the dust speckles dancing in
circles, revelling in their daytime ball. Most of the dust in homes originates
from human skin, did you know? I smile and continue to whisk the batter in the
bowl, enough with these questions. I feel a touch on my ankle length skirt and
look down at the little boy, happy to be near his mother. My little dark
skinned child. Swooping down to steal a kiss, I continue whisking, singing, and
staring at the afternoon sun. Don’t we both just love it? Yes Diana, I know
you’re here, go back to your present. Live a little.
I’ve been looking for words. They had left me you see. I
found some of them in letters. Letters full of humour and life lessons. Letters
with stories to make you laugh and others will render you numb with pain. Letters
that make you question or strengthen your faith. Letters with scrawny scratchy
handwriting and others had written using typewriters. Reading them, I instantly
wished the Post office was still relevant and not just for high school students
love letters and success cards. I still don’t know how to actually post a
letter. I think that’s sad. It kills me that there’s a generation that is
intent on mutilating the language, expecting us to follow suit. It enrages me.
I fight with my sister all the time about this. I enrage her. Our back and
forth texts are our constant fights for dominance. I will win eventually. Or
will she? Will this attempt at relevance by the younger generation endure? Or
will they soon join the rat race and bend to ‘the man’?
I found more words at the drums of Shostakovich. I lapped it
all up with glee. I was amazed at his easy flow with them. He played around
with them and bedazzled you with even bigger words. Words you never expected in
literary discourse, words that made you feel like you were still in elementary
school. You had to be quiet, the big boys were talking. I was filled with envy.
They were not even my words, those that had abandoned me, the heartless
bastards. He was so raw, so very raw with them that I would blush at the very
indecency he used them. I let myself swim in his world, burning with envy and
wishing to steal them and run away with them. Was it Picasso who had said that
great artist steal ideas? However I didn’t dare. They were his. They could
never be mine. We wouldn’t fit. I had to find my original words I understood
that but first I wandered in his land. It was only when Hillary reminded me
repeatedly to write again did I finally pack my bags. So we have Hillary to
thank for the first step. Thank you Hillary! I looked for them where they first
disappeared. In my very own mind. I’ve teased, threatened and bribed it to give
them back. Slowly they came, reluctance in their stead. They came in snippets,
while I napped, while I walked, while I listened to music. I would whisper them
back and savour them as they echoed through my very being. I would write little
notes and leave them alone. Type a few lines on a Microsoft word document,
delete them and sleep content. They were coming back. They were back. I guarded
them jealously, I wasn’t sure if they were strong enough to hold on their own
in this world. The Coke band changed everything. I don’t know how he knew I was
just stalling. I hate being given something I do not deserve. He’s shoved me to
action.
I’ve been throttling
her repeatedly in my dreams. She keeps showing up acting like we could renew a
friendship. Doesn’t she know bridges have already been burnt? She lit the match
but I fanned those flames. I have no interest in building new ones. I don’t
have the budget for it. The cost of cement, sand and stone is high and I cannot
afford the labour. Her pseudo-piety is what infuriates me the most, acting like
the protector of good morals. What are these good morals? Who labelled them
good? She dared to hurt one of my friends I wringed her neck, she dared to
offer him to another to love, murder became my intent. He is mine.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I intended
to stay away from him. He shows up and I follow. Is this how iron feels in the
presence of a magnet? There’s something about him, around him that appeals to
me. So many have tried, keep trying and I second guess myself. My heart still
looks around whether or not my mind respects them. My body is tame, a passive
viewer in the festivities. He shows up and nothing works right. My body betrays
me. My mind- numb, my heart-content, my soul tags at his mercilessly. We fight
for dominance. This is new to me. A man who defies me as openly as he’s pulled
to me. A man who makes me want to rule and be ruled. A man whose future is too
bright, how does he not see it? He hides his goodness, I wonder why. I want to
take care of him. I want to tell him every day that he’s going to make it big
in his life. I want to tell him to stay. This has to end. It’s becoming
ridiculous this angst. I’ll take care of myself now.
It’s my friend’s
birthday. Or is it mine? Definitely my friend’s. We threw a surprise party and
are having an amazing time. I’m dancing. I’m always happy dancing. I make all
my friends join me, clapping in glee. I am experiencing that buzz that one only
gets from alcohol. God knows what I’ve taken. A hand stretches over to me,
turning round I extend my own hand to his. Who else but him? I hug him tightly
as he laughs at me. He tells me he’s back. I look at him and hug him again. His
shower scent, yes, it’s him. I’m sure of it. I’m not dreaming him up, am I? I
don’t care. I’m home. He’s home.
I love my family, my culture and my country. The elections
really brought the ugly side of some of our friends. We failed to respect each
person’s opinions. We all wanted to protect our personal interests, covering
our own backsides. Elections were so sensitive an issue that we’ve chosen to bury
our heads in the sand for the sake of ‘peace’ without actually addressing the
underlying issues. When will we be able to talk frankly without offending each
other? We all saw how we voted along tribal lines, yet there were small pockets
of hope in the name of radical voter in some areas. Voter apathy may arise
after this due to the feeling that nothing ever really changes.
The Old Guard are
trying to sneak themselves into the new government. There is this perverse
political ideal of ‘It’s our time to eat’ perpetuated in the country. When did
a post of public service become a seat of financial windfall? I tire easily
after reading the newspapers or watch the news. Bikozulu put it the right way,
there is no problem with being proud of your tribe, it’s the stereotyping and
lack of tolerance coupled with bad tribalism that leaves a bad taste in one’s
mouth. A friend of mine thinks that what
we need is a civil war. I don’t think so. War begets war. War brings about a cacophony
of problems; never solving the initial issue. What we need are radical
thinkers, voters who think for themselves, leaders who are accountable. People
free from the country’s baggage that it seems everyone carries, maybe that’s
why we don’t walk with our backs straight, our heads held high. It’ll only work
if we don’t let this bile fester in our hearts, spilling it to our babes while
they still lie on our bosoms. For haven’t we heard some of these stories and
stereotypes from the mouths of our very own parents?
A yoga mat rests on a
stripper pole, a complimentary contrast. I’m busy sketching lines on drawing
paper. Lines that want to tell a story, hopefully showing an inkling of what I
envision. Smoking a joint seems to give the scene such a risqué view, yet it’s
what is needed to complete it. That and the man shirt and socks I’m busy moving
around in. Brushes, pencils and pens lie all over but have nothing on the books
in the room. Books lay everywhere. Pages open in some, others closed. The
balcony doors are fully open bringing in the warm breeze, the lace curtains
welcome it. Enya plays in the background. Again she shoos me away. Diana I
can’t draw with someone looking at me, surely you know that!
