I am falling. No, it’s neither in love nor asleep, but into a black hole. I have always known that I would have to write about myself.
Now that I have to, I fear that whatever it is I write, nothing may be as virtual as I would like it to be.
Someone once said that there is no line between fiction and non-fiction, the only difference is three letters ‘non.’ I have thought about this for twelve years. Truth is when I write it is never for anyone, but myself. Some stories have been to free myself of a guilty conscience while others to free others of theirs.
In essence it all boils down to me. I choose who lives and who dies, not when but just how. I leave the ‘why’ to you who’s reading this right now. So, if you could meet me for coffee and ask me one question, what would it be? What would you want to know about me? On the other hand, if I were to meet you for coffee and ask you one question, it would be ‘would you like to go for a walk with me?’ I learned this from my Grandmother. She told me, anyone willing to walk with you is worthy of your time. I did not understand the depth of her wisdom then. A friend once told me that life is never ending. He said this at his grand father’s funeral where we stood by him lulled by the wailing and the eulogies. He smiled and said he was glad the old man got some rest because dialysis was killing him. The thought that tubes went in and out of him broke his spirit more than the fact that the process was extending his life. He just stood there and said that life never ended. He said that one is born out of two people, lives, dies and moves onto the after-life.
What he could not bring himself to admit was that life only ended if whoever died never created any memories with those he/she left behind. And that’s why I want to live, such that generations to come will know about me, and I am glad that in Kenya, generations name their newborn after those who are long gone. Talk of a sure way to ensure reincarnation, and Romeo had the audacity to ask “what’s in a name?” And there are some things that I will never say, not out loud, and not even at my deathbed. The moment you think, ‘I have to share this with someone,’ it becomes a confession- words spoken in the hope of being understood and forgiven, but none of it makes sense.
Truth is most of them are memories they wish to realize again and again.