You’re now in your winter, but summer is coming — @Melchowistz #MisimuZangu
For as long as you can remember, you’ve always admired the turritopsis dohrnii, specifically because of the transdifferentiation aspect. You marvel at the hydrozoan’s ability to dictate its life, the ability to revert to a sexually immature stage when sick, old or upon being threatened by environmental stress. However, as it is the case with us mortals, the medusa period poses so many challenges that force these species to show more than their mettle. Life doesn’t deal with absolutes and some of these species succumb thus losing their natural born gifts, something you know all too well, yourself being in your “medusa” stage.
You’re a product of a broken home, a precocious kid subjected to a life of could have beens. You know how to grow up not calling anyone mum, or dad, how to be molested, and ultimately how it is for everyone to label you as lost. But you simply don’t know your destination, which begs the question, -How can you be lost when you clearly don’t know where you’re going?- Your ever present existential periods always end up with a familiar ponder, that there’s a day your parents put you down to walk/sleep, never to pick you up ever again.
You’re over quarter a century, a few calendars to the big 30, but the constant pressure to become seems unending. Your success has been intermittent to say the least, and perhaps that stems from the fact that most of your inspiration is on an inadvertent basis. You’ve emblazoned titles as a poet, a writer, a thespian, screen actor, marketer, a creative at advertising firms but you’re yet to find a home, something that always puzzles your grandparents {They do, however support and pray for your fervent dreams to publish a poetry book, a novel(s) or writing a show for TV}. This forms that and nadir visits you just as often, bringing despair along with it. In between your battles with depression and the constant need to survive you lose people who think that your condition has no place in our patriarchal Kenyan society, that you’re less of a man, that it’s all in your mind.
On the romantic front, you’re always accused of being elusive, perhaps too arrogant and stubborn. You see something forming into something then like a karmic slap you snap yourself into solitude, laden with memories of how those you loved left hurricane-like ruins, hence your tepid nature when it comes to dating. Very few know that you’re one of the miserable sods who love hard, the insane kind filled with intensity that can only exist in a utopian world. You want to leave footprints in someone’s heart, and perhaps revenge what was done to yours, you want to end the dependence of imbibing any time you’re about to have some horizontal fun because it’s near impossible to do it without partaking substances. But more importantly, you want to give a love that is pure, and loyalty, anything less than that is a fable.
You’ve been exposed to too many inhuman acts (to self and on a global scale) that you’ve formed a world in your mind just so you can exist. You burry yourself in books, old movies and poetry just to nourish your soul, you smile and internally thank those who have helped you find yourself; You’re now in your winter, but summer is coming, and you’ll be coming home, to yourself. You’re a son of the sun, Allan.
