Life’s way too complex in the present.

Given the chance, I’d love to live in the past. I’m not even referring to the swingin’ 70’s, the bell bottom jeans and the shirts that looked like a rainbow had puked on them. I mean way back, when names like Org and Zog made sense. Stuff must have been way easier back then. I imagine your typical life story played out like this…

Birth

There was none of that fanfare leading to this oh-so-special moment. No one constantly hounding you and prodding, asking if you knew whether it was a boy or a girl… the information wouldn’t really do anyone any good. Think about it. Equipped with the knowledge of the sex of what was to come, what would happen? Would they stroll into a little gift shop and pick up a pink pebble or a blue boulder?

And the parents wouldn’t have to put up with the whole redecoration of the room thing. From my wide and varied research {suffering the agony of Flintstones reruns}, you all slept together. In the few instances, you would have a room covered in stone. Painting was not a thing until much later. Sure, there were hieroglyphics and all that, but going all out and making the room habitable essentially involved rearranging a couple of rocks, standing back to admire your handiwork and growling with delight.

D-day would be a non-event.

“Honey am home. I bring boy” The end. No decorations strewn about creating the impression that you had in fact gone and outdone the Virgin Mary. Highly unlikely there would be some relative that would be waiting to see where the new release got its looks from. Given that razor blades were not yet invented, you looked like just about all your relatives. That moustache could have been from your aunt Ira.

I wonder how the breastfeeding thing played out initially. Were the prehistoric ladies a little different in the execution of their lacteal duties? Or is that one of those things that time has failed to defeat. Did they, much like their descendants suddenly think, “oh I know. Now would be a grand time to yank out a boob and slap junior’s face with it. Surely somewhere along the way, instinct will kick in and (s)he will open his/her mouth and give it a little suck…”

How did the baby daddy feel at that point? Was there an uncomfortable stir in his loins as he watched his seed at work or were there no hard feelings?

The 1^st Birthday

This would likely be a cause for a celebration… or not. See, the way I see it, rather than contend with the infamous childhood killer diseases that feature Polio, Measles, TB and Silent letters, the prehistoric families lived in constant fear that a Pterodactyl would sneak in to their houses, disguised as the birthing stork and then feast on the fruit of their labour.

Thus, to make it to birthday number one suggested that you would not be heavy enough to be carried by a stork and as such, you would likely be given a gift for getting this far ahead in life.

The ubiquitous hater in the family would likely look on and mutter something to the effect that you had ‘beginner’s luck’. And then skulk back into the shadows from whence he came.

 

 

 

I appreciate convenience as much as the next guy. Really. For some reason, I think this has factored heavily on my reliance on boda bodas over your regular run of the mill-striped can of sardines that the transport sector now and then tries to pass off as a legit form of transportation.

It’s been working out fine for the better part of, I don’t know, many years, so I don’t know how or why I let my mate convince me to use the most public of transport. In hindsight, I think the turgid clouds were overflowing with the most compelling of arguments.

Psych majors are always quick to suggest that sometimes one can undergo an experience so unpleasant, the brain figures it will file this away in a little dark corner that no one will ever chance upon. No one, that is, except for a nosy psych major. I suspect that’s what happened with my recollection of the taxi experience.

My brain had selflessly taken it upon itself to open a new folder, stash the memories in there and then {having closed the folder} renamed it to something it knew I would never ever chance upon if I tried hard to look deep within. Sort of like an offensive Justin Bieber lyric.

So just why do I loathe taxis? Why do I keep shunning these tin cans despite knowing  that they are actually safer than the two wheeled vehicle that was undeniably the product of a pact between Lucifer and an overzealous mechanic? Well, I’m not sure, but may be if we try to recreate my experience, some light may be shed on my plight.

This actually feels better than lying down on a fake leather couch and telling a stranger how I feel. {what I’m doing, incidentally, is lying on my bed and telling you how I feel. In many ways, it is NOT the same thing}

I climbed into the taxi and then the strangest of things happened. The hidden folder chose that exact time to ‘come out’. It didn’t really do it as flamboyantly as I would have expected. No, that would have been too easy and I’d have likely alighted before my tormentor had had his way with me. In a manner of speaking, it sort of came out in dribs and drabs, more like Andersen Cooper, less like Ricky Martin.

Act I  - The Triumphant Entry

I boarded the taxi with the dexterity of a contortionist and made my way to my seat at the back. This was, for all intents and purposes, alright. What wasn’t, however, was the little cloth-encased railing that I tried to use for support. It was soaked and all at once I started trying to keep theories at bay. Sure, it had rained, but why was the whole damn thing soaked.

There were bits that would be shielded from the rain; this thing had no business being as wet as it was. And yet there it was, unrelenting and drenched. My brain attempted to sneak in some comic relief suggesting that it was not rain water that my hand had recently made the unfortunate acquaintance of, but rather sweat; copious amounts of sweat from random travellers. Not funny.

Act II – The Pursuit of Happiness

Nonetheless, I was in and there was not much I could do. Life handed me a lemon, the logical next step would be to look for some Tequila and make this work. So that’s what I did…except that there’s really no correlation between taking shots of Tequila and fighting to find a comfortable position in a taxi. A sumo wrestler would likely register higher success trying out positions from the Kamasutra.  

After what felt like hours of trying to find ‘the spot’ {essentially any position where I’d have a fairly decent amount of leg room whilst also not bumping my head on the roof of the vehicle} I found something. Unfortunately, right around the same time, this dude bedecked in what looked like Nigerian garb found a spot in the sit right in front of me.

Act III – The Art Of War

The journey started as most do, with the taxi undergoing what probably passes for vehicular hiccups complete with the agonizing start and stop movements that with the right blend of colors would have triggered an epileptic fit from an onlooker. Then something strange happened. Everytime we would go over humps, pseudo-Naija chap would lift himself from the seat. Every. Damn. Time. Now, I don’t want to come off as insensitive or anything, but it was downright annoying. You see, for him to achieve his pathetic levitation technic, he would have to support himself with the back of his seat. This in turn would press against my knee and much discomfort would follow. I didn’t like this and even the thought that the poor slob might have been dealing with hemorrhoids gave me no joy. I really really needed to get out of there.

Act IV – The Voice Of Missing Reason

Coupled with the faux-Naija dude’s see-saw antics was my neighbour’s voice. On any other day I’d have no problem with her’s or anyone else’s voice, but with all that was going on it was just unbearable. The irony of it all is that it wasn’t one of those whiny squeaky ones that you usually find lurking about on the floors  of make-shift salons. No, that would have actually been preferable. My neighbor was, for lack of a better expression, soft spoken, Again, this in itself is not a bad thing. Soft spoken is good. BUT soft spoken sucks majorly if you’re trying to tell the taxi driver to stop so you can alight. What happens in such instances is that you feel like a fellow conspirator every freaking time the young lady opens her mouth and it’s not a good feeling. She doesn’t know me like that.

Act IV – The End is At Hand

Fortunately, the drama was coming to an end, something that was made all the more obvious when the little marker announcing my destination danced into view.  On the plus side, we were on a decent road which meant that ‘Naija-wannabe’ had finally gotten round to sitting his ass down. The hoarse whisperer on the other hand was still trying to communicate with the seat in front of her. I announced that my destination was nigh and promptly paid the ‘conductor’ who in turn, did what he does best- nothing. At. All. So I tried again. This time he had the decency to look at me and with a forlorn look handed over my change. By the time the driver had the sense to stop, my destination was a couple of kilometers in the past and I had to trudge back.

Maybe it’s just me, but I think I may have one or two good enough reasons for avoiding taxis…

I’m riding a boda boda. Not steering it, just calling the shots, ‘take a left, turn right… But I think that’s where the problem is. Through no fault of mine, something gets lost on translation. That’s a lie. I should probably try to expand my vocabulary. Now I’m riding the boda equivalent of shot-gun on a motorbike and I can not contribute to the conversation. And lord knows he is trying. • ‘whats that vehicle for? Its like a small tractor. What is it used for… Even if I had the answer, I’m not equipped with the right subtitles. I choose to laugh. Laughter is universal. Knows no language. I think he has me figured out. He keeps quiet. But this is the guy with the hands I’ve put my life in. I don’t want to antagonize him. Well, its not so much up to me, I just want to get home. I am allowed one dumb thing. So I kick start a convo. It’s not working. A one eyed guy would have better luck describing a renaissance painting. so I shut up. So there we are. Two mismatched chaps heading into the unknown with just hope. Me hoping I’ll get home safe, he hoping I’ll just keep my gob shut for the remainder of the journey.

I have what’s trying to identify itself as a hangover. I figure if I keep playing dumb, it will pack its bags and leave…perhaps in search of a more accommodative host. As it is right now, it has seemingly inherited the undesirable traits of a clingy needy stalker. I’ve tried, to be fair, backtracking to last night so I can at the very least piece together how I met this mutha. My effort thus far has received tremendous applause from futility. “come here dear boy, we are kindred spirits, you and I. We birds of a feather must…” I shut out the last part as if that’ll make it less true…less bitter. Curiously, I seem to have survived the nasty after taste that usually accompanies my remorse. My eyes may have fared well, but I won’t check.

I’m back. I don’t know how long for, but hopefully I’m going to make this stick. Worst case scenario, I’ll likely do a post a week, the way I see it, this ought to give me a chance to vent and get back to being a normal person. Except that I’m not necessarily a normal person. Not by a long shot, and I think that in itself may be the problem.

The world views my kind as ‘creatives’. It’s an interesting tag, almost makes one feel like we belong to a separate genus entirely, but fukkit, right? We are who we are.

I awoke with a start in the middle of the night, reached for my phone and saved a note. I went back to sleep pleased with myself, thinking I was on to something. I woke up this morning looked it over and thought, hey, this would make a great title for a blog post; Moonwriting… a sad play on the word moonlighting, but that sort of feels like what I’m doing at this point.

I’ve got a life outside of this that expects me to write to survive…and thus far, I’m doing okay… as okay as okay can be. However, sometimes you need to branch out and do something else on the side. The irony is, my other thing is simply more writing. As far as diversification goes, I picked the fuzzy end of the stick and I’m okay with it.

If moonlighting is about doing something else to make ends meet, then I suppose it stands to reason that moon-writing in my case, is simply writing something else to make sense out of all this. To recover what sanity has been eroded over time.

The Bible {Mark 5:5} says that the meek shall inherit the earth. Yay them, however, as you keep on dealing with people a new revelation starts to form. You suddenly realize that it’s not just the meek that are going to inherit the earth, there’s the daft people that are making a mess of things. They seem to have inherited the earth ages ago and now they want to rub our faces in it.

 

Am I suggesting that I’m smart? Why yes, and if you’ve made it this far, I’d like to think you are too. I’m not trying to sucker you into reading this diatribe, but seriously, would you tick the box next to 'stupid' under your list of special skills?

Do you ever get the impression that people around you are hella smart and you’re just putting in a cameo appearance in their little movie…If you’re lucky, you may put in a word or two, but that’s all it will ever be.

A word.., not something life changing, not something that’s going to impact the world….

That doesn’t make you dumb, it makes you one of the select few. The smart people that have to dial it back, bring it down a notch so that the rest of the world gets it.

I’m not making a play for blasphemy, far from it. All I’m saying is, in your quest to inherit the earth,  all ye who are meek and heavy laden, you’re going to have wrestle it away from the denizens of idiots that are running it right now.

I’m not one to speak. My usual approach is to just sit there and be talked about or, depending on how I feel at a particular time, have death threats sent my way. Don’t feel bad on my account, these threats never amount to anything and I stick around for quite a bit. Your friends will likely tell you that they have had  a short stint with me, a fling if you will, but the truth that hides behind those red eyes and brewery breath is that I go as I please, no one tells me what to do or when to do it.

 

The Meeting

I’ve heard your pals claim that they found me in pubs, bars and the occasional kafunda, but come on, I’ve got more class. It has been my experience from time immemorial that our first meeting usually takes place in bed. People wake up to me. Sometimes, in very inexplicable circumstances, I have competition in the form of a male or female that came home with u and is now looking at you like you spiked her drink.

 

Okay, I may turn up in some unsavory places like ditches or Mama FIna’s Sips and Swallows, but I can’t be held responsible for your taste in accommodation. To be fair, I’m not as demanding as the broad or dude that’s trying to kick us out.

 

The start of something special

For the most part I lay dormant, even after you open your eyes and profess to the world that you don’t know me. It’s not so much that I can’t be arsed to fight for recognition, I just happen to believe that good things come to those who wait…so I wait. Then finally, I come with reasonable fanfare, usually accompanied by nausea and a headache. I didn’t ask for this entourage, but surely if you’re okay with the Ewww De Toilet that you’re giving off, my crew shouldn’t be a big deal.

 

Relationship status; Complicated

For whatever reason you decide that you don’t want me around, don’t you love me anymore? Or is this you playing hard-to-get? I think I get it, you have heard stories from your friends about how we were intimately involved and now you can’t believe you’ve got me. Don’t let that come between us; we have a good thing going. How many people are as comfortable with an open relationship as I am? Go on, do your thing, I’ll be here. Whoa, that was brief.

 

The break up

I don’t know whether I should feel insulted or flattered that you have no problem discussing me with my Exes. Actually, when I hear you ask how they got rid of me, I have a clearer picture of how I should feel. If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t have me. Let’s face it, we are both adults, you knew what you were getting yourself into. For some reason you think I’m hydrophobic and attempt to flash me out with water. I don’t know who insinuated that I’m a vegetarian, but for whatever reason you really took to that chicken soup like preventing the rapture depended on it. Don’t get me started on Katogo.

 

Let’s just be friends

Fine, fine, I finally relented and left. Sure it took a while, but I thought we may have stood a chance. I wonder whether you ever think about me, whether you feel bad when your friends talk about me. Do you miss me? I don’t have to wait long for an answer, I guess, because we both know you will come looking for me again.

You hear a lot of talk about different phone operating systems and think, "who cares, a phone is a phone. all i want to do is text and call" 

For a while that's true, then you develop a nasty case of touch envy and you keep going home to your little corner, sit on the floor hugging your knees close to your chest and mutter, "a phone is a phone".

As you rock yourself back and forth, you think, you're cured, then you go back to the office and as luck would have it, you are one of those gadget fiends, so quite naturally, you will run to the nearest gadget weblog you can find and, wouldn't you know it, the battle of the phone OSes is still raging.

But what's this, it's not enough to just think OSes, not as long as Steve Jobs is around, you absolutely have to get a touchscreen, mbu who uses buttons anymore? 'The bastard' you think to yourself as you start to bring your knees closer then suddenly remember you are at work and the last time you got away with the excuse that you were trying to choke an intestine may have been just that, THE LAST TIME.

Then you catch word that there's a new phone in town, and what's this? You won't have to sell your workmate's car tyres to pay for the damn thing. 

So as you sit there,  a series of changes start to take place. You suddenly realise you can become part of the touch screen elite. The chosen few. You can finally be one of those people that bellows, "AH CRAP, FINGERPRINTS, why can't people just be born without them" like you're noticing them for the first time.

You see the ad in the paper, MTN introduces… you ignore the rest because, let's face it, all you are thinking about is the cost and the fact that you can touch, touch and touch some more.

That chic at the bar that asked you to take your hands away from her like she was worried she'd catch some strain of the Brazilian Flu is going to see now. You'll show her.

That guy at the office that thinks his phone can clear the Ntinda traffic, yeah, he'll get what's coming to him.

In an ideal situation you'd be fumbling with the box, eager to yank it out. But in an ideal situation, if you fumbled and dropped the phone, you'd be able to replace the buttons with pieces of wood, a pebble or a piece of rubber from your flip flops. 

Here, you slide the box ever so gently, like the meaning of life lays in there. Then again, loser that you may be, it probably does.

Then you see it, lying snugly in its little cradle, you pull it out gingerly, no point in rushing this, it's not high school, you're not hiding at the back of the library with that girl from that school. With any luck this is going to last a little longer than that encounter…

…and reminiscent of that encounter, you pull it out…

You stare at it lovingly, the way John Bobbit probably did when the doctor's handed him his equipment and said, "we can fix this".

You turn it over see the word Google stretching from top to bottom like an overzealous tattoo. No matter. It also doesn't matter that it's got a yellow back. Probably an MTN ego thing.  What matters to you at this point is that you have a touchscreen phone that sits snuggly in the palm of your hand without inviting glares and stares and proclamations that it's huge… or your snarky retort that everything you hold in that hand is HUGE. 

Playtime is over, you reach for the button at the top and wake it up. It stirs, then vibrates then you remember you should have charged the damn thing, but that can wait, let's see what this baby can do…