Archive for the ‘Sacrifice’ Category

“We are more often frightened than hurt; and we suffer more from imagination than from reality”

– Lucius Annaeus Seneca

He turned off the alarm, pushed his black Egyptian-silk sheets to the side and sat at the edge of his custom made mahogany king-sized bed. He looked back to the other side of the bed, it was rough too. He tries to sleep on both sides now. He looked up to the ceiling

“Get out of bed

Brush your teeth

Take a shower

Get dressed and go to work

It’s a beautiful day!”

Those were the words written on the poster his therapist had advised he have made. He glued it top the ceiling above his bed so it would be the first thing he saw when he woke up. That was his mantra. He lifted himself off the bed, at least it took less time now. He walked into the bathroom, turned on the hot shower and tried to scrub the nightmares away.  He dressed up in his navy blue Armani suit, and as he fastened his tie in front of the mirror, he felt the loneliness start to creep in.

“Not today, not today, not today” he mumbled to himself repeatedly and quickly walked to his sock drawer. He can’t stop moving, helps to shut out the voices in his head. He has a quick breakfast, leaves instructions for his housekeeper and gardener on the platinum double door fridge and walks out to the garage, gets into his black, Audi Q7, opens the garage door and drives out. He is grateful for the buzz of traffic and a city awake.

Before, just a few years ago actually, he couldn’t wait to get home, now he worked overtime every day and spends the better part of the night having drinks or barbecue with his boys. They were his rock. Without them, he would have jumped off that bridge a while ago.  Therapy was working well and he had found faith somehow.  He prayed a lot. He still thought about her. Four years of history is hard to let go especially because of how she left and the mess she left behind. The mess he had been cleaning up for a whole year now.

Theirs wasn’t a story with happy ending but it had a beautiful albeit quick beginning. They had met in college where they were both pursuing master’s degrees in different fields.  It wasn’t love at first sight, far from it actually. He hated her, well hate is a strong word though that is what he felt for her now, back then it was more dislike. He should have stuck to his gut feeling but he was in a dark place back then which probably wasn’t the right time to get into any relationship but especially not with her.

He had lost his mother a few months before they met. She had died in her sleep. The autopsy said it was a brain aneurysm. There was nothing anyone could have done. At the funeral, Shaka had stayed back as everyone left for home. He fell to his knees beside the freshly filled grave and wailed. She was a mean soul but he loved her to her dying breath. His father had run off with another woman when Shaka was just 11 years old. He had left Shaka, his baby sister then only 3 years old and their mother alone. They weren’t destitute; she was a career nurse, doing well at a local private hospital. They lived in a nice house which they owned and lacked nothing, nothing but the warmth of love. His father had left him something, something Shaka wished he could scrape off; his face. Since he was a baby, everyone knew who his father was. He had his eyes, his nose, his jaw even his hairline. He truly was his father’s son. At the beginning this was something he drove great pride from because even as a child because everyone around him would make such a big fuss of it. But then that night came when an eleven year old boy’s life was turned upside down.

It was late but Shaka had always been a light sleeper. He heard his parents arguing, it was loud and pretty heated. As a curious kid of course he went out of his room to eavesdrop. His sister was asleep in her room. He walked to the staircase and sat on the top step. He could see both of them in the hall way downstairs. They were both very angry, screaming over each other like they were competing who could scream loudest. He had never seen either of them this angry.  At the time, he couldn’t really understand what was going on exactly. They would always fight in their bedroom if ever and even then, it would be in hush hush tones.

“Wacha iishe basi! (Let this end then!)” He heard his father say.

“ Sawa! (Fine!) Kwani wafikiri tutakufa ukienda kwa huyo malaya wako?!(You think we will die if you ran off with that prostitute?) his mother shouted back.

Shaka saw his father walk toward the staircase. It was too late to run to his room. His father stared at him for a few seconds at the bottom step, sighed then rushed up the stairs to their bedroom. Shaka ran to his room. A few minutes later, he heard a door bang shut, someone going down the stairs and the front door open and bang shut. He ran to the window and looked outside. As his father walked up to his car, Shaka silently willed him to turn around. Maybe if he saw his grief-stricken son’s face he would come back. He did turn around, their eyes did meet, he did see the tears fall down Shaka’s face but he did not come back. Shaka never saw his father again and his mother, well, any specks of gentleness she had left walked right out the door with that man. Shaka knew she tried so hard to shield them from the darkness that slowly crept over her over the years that were to follow and so he always tried to be a good boy. His sister tried too. They both did exceptionally well in school, did all their chores on time and essentially just stayed out of their mothers way. The hugs, the ‘I love yous’, they all stopped soon enough and all that remained when a little boy and a little girl hugged their mother was a quick pat on the back and instructions for the next day’s chores. After a while, they all just stopped trying.

Now as Shaka watched his woman walk away, he racked his brain trying to figure out what he had done to make her leave. It must have been his fault somehow. People don’t just leave, right?

End of part one…..

I used to be the coolest person you knew, I know how you laugh loud and boisterous, they used to say they could hear us from six floors up and they would know it was me and you, how you smile such a huge smile it is, how you walk even how you cough when you are sick or just clearing your throat, sneeze, yawn, chew. See I still love you, I still pray for you and yes I still feel uncontrollable rage sometimes, it bubbles up inside me and I can’t be near you for too long, small doses of you are enough.  That look grinds my teeth to dust, that shrug reduces me to a pile of nerves and that turn-away when you see me coming a mile away turns my heart to shreds so I take the long route to the water dispenser so I don’t run into you. I have made up Monday-morning-sickness so I don’t have to sit across from you for a hour during weekly staff meetings.  I have filled my roster with client on-site visits so I don’t have to see you all eight hours of the day at the office. I take long walks at lunch time and avoid all invitations to group lunches that I know you will be in. Basically my life still revolves around you even though I’m not with you. How’s that for hopeless? I know you know why it had to end but I don’t, I feel, I feel, I feel like..

I want to love and be loved. I only wish it could happen without all the complications. You love someone and they hurt you beyond measure. But so what, did u think u would be the exception? Well as stupid as it sounds, yes, yes I thought I would be an exception. So you have to go with it and you know you should because halloooo!, someone else’ life should not affect yours right? Yeah well someone should tell that to my heart coz it keeps finding itself constantly connecting, attaching, attracting, it’s like it can’t help it. No matter how many times I teach it the same lesson. So this is what’s left every time, just me and my writing and one heck of a mess to clean up coz I just made a fool of myself again thinking it’s me when it’s so obviously is not. No one really understands how much their lives affect those around them. You may care less but there is someone who does care and they hurt when you should, they cry when you don’t and they love you anyway funnily. I guess that’s on them though, I mean you cannot be responsible for their feelings too, not with all you’ve got going on. So you know you are sorry but there’s really nothing you can do. I mean this is who you are, if they are your friends as they claim, they should understand that and if not then screw them, you don’t need them, you were just fine before you knew them and you’ll be just fine after. Your world will keep turning and that’s all that counts. It feels selfish though coz every time it’s always me getting hurt, me getting left, me getting pushed aside, me confused about something, me not understanding why they act that way. So why not just turn it off? Coz it would mean turning off a part of me and nothing should be worth that. I will try though, try not to hurt so easily, try not to let that look break me, that ‘oh my gosh look at u getting hurt at every little thing when everyone else is just fine’… that look. I’ve gotten it so many times I see it coming a mile away. It’s selfish to always play this tug-of-war with people. Who’s stronger now…who needs who more; games we play with each other’s hearts every time there is conflict. It’s just pride causing strife where there was peace. The unspoken human affinity and craving for drama.

End of rant….

Once there was a family of pretty worms, well as far as worms can be pretty. They all lived in an abandoned anthill. Each had their own room of course and slept on a soft bed of ant exoskeletons left behind by the former tenants. No one knew why the ants left just that now a family of pretty worms had a big home.

East wing, West wing, North and South wing, 1200 bedrooms in all to share among six, seven, ten worms currently. Mommy kept popping them out so who knew how many they were really. Some were long 20, 30,100mm long. Some were short 5,10,15mm or thereabouts and among the shortest ones was Boo, well that wasn’t his name, worms don’t have names but this one always thought he did. He was like the rest in every way, he was brown and slimy on the outside and gooey on the inside. But everyone said he had a weird twinkle in his eyes. See Boo was born during a strange season. They had just moved into their new home. Everything was so cold and eerie and not even because there were broken pieces of dead-ant scattered all over, I mean that only meant free furniture for the worms. There was an easy explanation too; rain and wind must have simply unearthed the ants’ burial grounds and spread it around. But there was an odd feeling in the anthill at that time but Mommy chucked it up to ‘new house heebie jeebies’. It was during this season that Boo was born. It’s a funny story really. Mommy wasn’t due for another few days and despite Doc urging her to complete bed rest, she decided to take a walk around the home, down to the North wing, up the steps, down the shoot and around the pool, well it was more like a puddle with the sides reinforced with mostly ant skeletons cemented with ant poop. While gazing into the pool, suddenly Mommy saw ant eyes staring back at her; hollow, dark eyes looking up at her from afar. As she gazed deeper she saw them coming closer and closer and,

“Praat!!” a heap of ant skeletons splashed into the pool. Mommy got such a scare.

“Are you ok down there?!”A voice came from above.

‘Aargh! Construction worms!’Mommy thought as she looked up to the frightened worm holding a shovel. In the midst of the thought she thought she heard the faintest cry and felt something slither beneath her. She looked down only to see the cutest little worm staring up at her with the biggest gleaming eyes she had ever seen on a baby worm. And that was how the name ‘Boo’ came up as in “Peek-a-boo, I just came out of you”, at least according to Boo himself.

Boo was an odd little fellow growing up as if he was born on his head or something but everyone loved everyone in the worm family. They put extra cushions on his seat at the dining table so he could reach the top. Every time he was happy, the twinkle in his eye would somehow get brighter.

One day during a family outing, Boo got a little lost, well as much as worms can get lost.  All he had to do was follow the slimy trail or the trail of slime back home. So let’s just say Boo intentionally got lost or lost himself because through the twinkle in his eye he had seen something magical. Right in the middle of the forest stood a tall tree. A tree so magnificent, it towered above all others that seemed to form a sort of protective ring around it. It looked like a ballerina, I think, with a bright spot light shone on her; beautiful and handsome at the same time. Boo was drawn to it.

“Boo!Boo!” he heard  Mommy calling.

“Time to go home my weird little baby,” Mommy was always saying funny things like that.

But from that moment, he little worm was obsessed by the ‘Ballerina tree’ as he called it or rather as I call it. Home they went, had dinner, washed up, kissed Mommy goodnight and went to bed.

In the days to come, Boo dreamt only of the tree. He wondered what it must be like to be the tree; tall, handsome, beautiful, the envy of all. Don’t get him wrong, Boo loved his life, his home, his family, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. But for some reason he felt sad for the trees that weren’t so tall, so magnificent, and so shiny. “Were they sad too?”He wondered. He wondered if in some way, maybe he could help them grow tall. I don’t know why a tiny worm would think that but this one did. Day in, day out he watched, he planned, 3 days in all.

He had seen how the dead leaves would seem to give life to the trees and the vegetation on the ground. He asked Mommy. She said;

“Look at our home Boo, there used to be a big colony of ants living here. What they left behind, the dead little things, that is what has given our family life.”

And right then, Boo knew what to do. He set out, slimy trail following. He found the smallest tree among them that surrounded the ‘Ballerina tree’ and lo and behold, right at the heart of the tree’s trunk was a hole carved out. Boo didn’t know who had carved it out, maybe it was the same person who put everything in place because how else could a little worm explain how everything in his small world came to be and how so very perfect it all was. He didn’t have 3 more days to fathom it all, time was running out and he was on a mission.

So the little brave worm slithered all the way to the tiny tree just a few feet away, got into the cave like curve-out, coiled himself into it ever so gently and fell fast asleep.

“Please grow tall and strong tiny tree, you can become a ballerina too,” whispered Boo to the tree as his eyes grew heavy, his body tired and sleep carried him off into forever-land.