I went to church last night. Everyone exchanging their last coin for a drop of the elixir of life. The face numbing chemical portion. Praise songs about the futility of life crushed my cranium in. Tobacco incense to sanctify the mass reduced the volume in my lungs for proper oxygen intake. Testosterone clung onto the air as well, every time I had to bang the table to get the priest’s attention for another chalice.
I met god, she had on a pungent perfume that kept me at the cliff of throwing up. She demanded to be loved desperately, kept her hand in my pocket as well.
"Buy me a shot of gin, baby"
"I don’t have money."
"I don’t want you worrying about it, you’re still young. Maybe you will buy me next Christmas, next year, whenever, okay?"
I met a blackanese, whatever that portmanteau means, I suggested he gets an Instagram and wear pink Ralph Lauren caps if he is not already.
I would have thought our hopelessness is what brought us together. Apparently some insisted in being miserable in an exclusive venue, I’m going to refer to as the parish chapel. They have muscle by the door there, they scrutinise if your aesthetics blend with their establishment;
"Hi, how are you?"
"Do you mind peeling off your hoodie?"
"No Trayvon Martin allowed inside?"
"It’s just my boss is close and he won’t be happy with me"
"Okay, fine. I will leave, I will live."
I ended up inhaling nicotine by the door, looking in from the outside. Everyone seemed to be in a frenzy, a show off contest at its fever pitch, most of the conversations sounded synonymous to;
"Hey! Look at my clothes, my car, can you see it? I’m rewarded for being the hardest worker in my cubicle at my open-floor plan economic prison."
"Hi, I’m still staying with my parents and they are getting desperate I should get married, do you mind if we do so I can stay elsewhere they are not? I won’t really need you."
"Do you have a lighter? I just came back from university outside the country, Cape Town to be precise. I am a writer, I have a Twitter, and a natural hair care blog, read my piece about, blah blah blah. Meet my trust fund boyfriend simulating poverty. Tatenda, where the hell did he go?"
And such.I could not stomach it anymore, I increasingly felt nauseated. My place is within walking distance, after an hour and a couple minutes of walking, I finally got to be familiar with solace, again.