I want to see myself love myself — @theveon #MisimuZangu
Bensoul’s ‘Ningependa Nikuchukie’ has been playing for the last 10 hours, maybe more. A continuous thump in my ear, just one ear. Left to catch a terribly old movie on TV, then came back and found him crooning mid hook. I listen and it feels like it is no longer his song, my feelings have found a life in his voice, the words are no longer his, they are no longer there; all that’s left is vocalized feels. Then he sings, ‘No, no, noo…’ (And I can feel him stop himself before he screams) I rub my hip on the mattress, even circular rubs, but only when I am lying on the right side because my dancing is only good on one side. I stop where the ‘no’s stop. Then I just lay still and listen to the rest of the song, I listen to it die and start all over again
Then I want to text his girlfriend, ‘Yoh, your boyfriend is now our boyfriend.’
But it is only 4.01 in the morning and I think I have some semblance of manners. So instead of texting, I listen to the song one more time, then one more time, then one more time… and each time he sings ‘Ningependa nikuchukie’ , I think to myself, ‘Ningependa Nikupende’.
I want to see myself love myself. I want to talk about self love, and not the kind that insists you do not use glycerin products. I want to question what love is, then build from there… but at 22, crazily encroaching on 23, after X amount of boyfriends, after Y amount of boys that were dating me in relationships I didn’t even know I was in (and vice versa), it feels like it would be wrong to start a conversation questioning something that I have strongly professed.
So I shut up, and listen to that one song. One more time. Then One More time. Then I know it is time to stop thinking of a love that I cannot define, and I make an effort to gravitate towards something else. And since writing is my life…
I have been hoping to write, all night. I want to write. Love feels like writing. Pain feels like writing. Feeling feels like writing and right now there is a feeling at the back of my face. It has been there all weekend, and all of Monday. It feels like the taste of a green mango with a side of salt and I would die, I would kill to be able to write it but there are no adequate words to turn my green-mango-with-a-side-of-salt feeling into sensible sentences. So, I toss, with the lights off and the flashlight on my phone turned on (because lately, thanks to Ngatia and Juliet, I am afraid of snakes crawling into my bed). Then uninvited, bad thoughts crawl in; someone recently called my writing generic and weak and myself; moody, sulky.. a bad emotional fit (for her) and while I am convinced she was wrong, I find myself thinking about this almost daily.
I find myself thinking about this every time I think about my writing. This morning is no exception. Then Kaesa interrupts, because Kaesa recently developed a talent for interrupting when I am being self absorbed (pitying?)…and at the end of his interruption, I am thinking, ‘I want to be the kind of person you call to pray with’
I am not though, not yet, but Bensoul is still playing, I think I’ll send that text after all. #MisimuZangu feels strange in my mouth but don’t let that stop you from sharing something (personal) using the tag and photo).
Digital art by kelvin kaesa
