The good thing about the Internet is the distance it puts between people — @theMagunga #MisimuZangu
It comes again like a cold. You know it is creeping up on you and you think you can just wish it away, but then it consumes you. Arrogance always has a price. And when it finally arrives, you find yourself standing under the shower for long, staring at your drenched thoughts being washed away into the drain. You crave for alcohol and thank goodness for that friend who introduced you to Rum and Coke. Captain Morgan begins to steer your ship and you become an adventurer. Your exploits take you to private messages where you take things a little too far. Sometimes you snap and try to cover up your melancholy with posts on social media. You react to every Facebook post with a smiley. You respond to messages with happy emojis. But the good thing about the Internet is the distance it puts between people. Meaning you can as well use monkey emojis, emojis of tear laughter and extended LOLs, but the truth is you are not laughing.
You are constantly sad. Your life plays out in sepia. You are curt with your partner; always answering questions with single syllables. You don’t want to be around people, unless it’s a WhatsApp Group. Physically you want to be alone. Lonely. Standing outside your balcony and watching flies dirt around lampposts along Langata Road. The roads are empty now. A mirror reflecting yourself.
It’s not that you don’t have money. Or you have lost someone. It’s your words. They are failing you. They have been for the past few weeks. They don’t sound right. You meet deadlines just because you have rent to pay. However, when you sit down to produce something for yourself, beginnings sound horrible.
Command. A. Delete.
Start over. Menacing cursor blinks back.
File. Shut down. Yes, I don’t want to save that document.
Phone buzzes. It’s your mother. You let it ring.
Phone pings. Inbox from a sister. Two blue ticks.
Phone buzzes. A message. It can wait.
So you bring the glass to your lips, swallow a bit of raw Rum and let it burn your throat on the way down. Perhaps if they burn you right, you will be able to create again. You are a jilted lover watching some other bastard treating your woman right. And still holding on to this pathetic hope that she comes back. You want to give up on her, to curse and tell her to fuck off. But you know that deep down in the poetry of your heart, you wouldn’t mean it.
