“The lights are off.

The theatre is empty.

Why do you still act?”

Loss is such an interesting concept. Something is there then poof, a phone call and it's gone. An off-hand comment and it's gone.

It's hard to lose a person. It's harder to lose yourself.

I think about who I am a lot. What I am. I remember when I was a child and trying to figure out the whole concept of being.

I’ve been a rowdy kid for a while. My parents looked at the violent energy in my eyes and said “This one is our problem. Ain’t no goddam way we’re taking him to board”.

When I was in highschool, for the longest time my teachers have always said “He's so energetic, he can barely sit in class for a minute. He wants to be everywhere, all of the time. That’s lovely, but he needs to sit and focus, have a clear goal in mind.” They’ve never said the contrary. For 7 years, every open day (when parents come discuss with the teachers about grades and performance and stuff) it was the same dance. Every. Single. Time.

Maybe I didn’t have a solid goal. Maybe I want to be noisy. Maybe I like being known by everyone. Maybe I hated reading, maybe sitting down was a concept that really pissed me off, that such brilliant minds be confined to chairs and pens and pencils and homework.

“But he’s smart. He’s really smart. Ibrahim we can tell your smart. You just need to focus more.”

Focus more. Focus. More. MORE FOCUS IBRAHIM IT’S NOT THAT HARD YOU JUST NEED TO FOCUS AND YOU CAN GO OUTSIDE AND PLAY LATER. NO, DON’T SQUEEZE YOURSELF THROUGH THE WINDOW TO GO PLAY WITH YOUR FRIENDS, CAN’T YOU SEE YOU NEED TO SOLIDIFY YOUR FUTURE? SIT DOWN, IBRAHIM, READ-

I never did. I tried, I swear, but it didn’t work. I wasn’t built for the life of focus, until I was.

When I want something to happen, I move mountains for it to do so. A defect by excess of implementation. Stubborness. It’s brilliant how the need to please people can make you change yourself so fast. I had been there. Cue the peopole pleasing.

“Ibrahim, you can’t please everyone. People who focus themselves on pleasing others barely have a personality. You have to move with your own image”

what is my image?

I’ve never known. It’s hard to lose yourself. Its harder to never have known who you are.

I call myself a paradox. A combination of all the things I don’t want to be, one that gets further and further away from what he wants to be.

Some may call it pessimistic, others might call it deterministic, but I know. I don’t think I ever was someone.

I am too much of a mosaic of others that I’ve lost the blueprint. I’ve lost the plot. The narrative has turned into dust. Sometimes that makes me wonder…

did i ever have the plot to begin with?

I feel like I'm floating a centimeter off the ground. Close enough not to float away, but far enough I feel alien.

The ground spirals beneath me. I’m afraid I’m sinking.

Maybe one day the ground will feel real again, and my feet will finally touch it.

fuck it. the ground’s overrated anyway

I still want to touch it.1

You've exchanged long term gain for short term pleasure, filling your head with the lies of 'Why not?' and 'You Only Live Once'. Look at you now. Can you even see yourself under the masks and the facades you wear?

Of course you don't. You don't try. People put make up to hide scars, so hiding scars is fine. You're hiding scars that aren't scars. You're hiding lumps. Defects. Growths and bumps, blisters that pop and leak out the disgusting puss of your true self.

And the more you try to hide, the worse it becomes. But you keep on hiding, don't you? Hoping that the more you hide, the more people will like you.

Your mask has fused to your face. You can't tell who is who anymore. The last mirror you had is broken before you and you won't even bothered to find another.

Who cares?

You don't look at yourself to see beauty, but to hide what beauty you see.

And you've hidden it for so long that it's hard to find it.

So you're okay.

And it's okay,

Because,

you know if you don't recognise yourself

nobody will.

You don't.

It's been 4 years.

4 years since you felt like yourself.

You know the last thing a mirror would do is help.

You're lost in the illusion of your dissolution hoping only that time won't tell.

It will tell.

What will it say?

You sit with it.

You wonder all day,

Thinking about the dirt and the secrets it will spray

But It must speak, it must

Before you become dust

What are you going to do?

Well, what you must.

isn't it God?

My complete loss of control.

You want to hold me by the nostril and pull, don't you?

You disgrace me.

I disgrace myself.

Time and time again I screw up.

They'll get used to it.

I'll never get used to it.

Forgive me father...

I've asked for your forgiveness too much.

Sometimes I sit down and wonder,

With your all encompassing love for me,

Do you still forgive me?

Or are you tired of me wasting away

Then coming back and asking for your forgiveness?

Would you still forgive me?

If I was in your chair,

Staring at my little frame from the heavens,

Watching me screw up, then ask for forgiveness,

I would not forgive me.

I would throw me away.

I’d let the hyenas eat my remorseful corpse.

Maybe, as they sink their teeth into my sinful skin,

They'd taste the genuineness of my sorrow.

I come back again

I come back again.

Do you ever forgive me?

Even if the world sees me as sin incarnate,

Do you still see me as your sunshine filled son?

Do you regret using the delicacy of your fingers to mould me?

Do you regret giving me breath?

I don't know.

You...

You never respond.

The sky grows brighter.

The sun rises again.

Once more,

Another day,

I'll ask for your forgiveness.

Maybe this time was your last.

I don't feel like I have any more chances left in me.

I don't think you have any more chances left in you.

Love me father. I think I will sin.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned.

Help me father, because I am the sin I want to be forgiven from.

Hear me, father.

Hear…

Hear me.

1. BENEATH THE MASK

When we last talked (I think) I was in a play, Beneath The Mask. This is a love letter to the play.

This play gave me the first main character role I've ever had. Nilikua na presha? Of courssseeeee. But who am I!! I ran that show like it owed me money.

I've never been so in love, yet so confused by a character in the little plays I've done before. Robert Magiwa, AKA “The Devil's Disciple”, is so misunderstood by society, that as a character he didn't understand himself. Getting to his satirical nature required really hard work, but who said this stuff was easy?

Though what made it easier were the rest of the cast. It wasn't a one man show, and even though there were points I wanted heads to roll, I loved working with them. The atmosphere was always cooperative, people out themselves out there. These people were the only people keeping me from genuinely losing my shit.

Much love fam.

2. The thieving of my phone

People think I don't know how to use my phone, because they're always willing to take it from me. People in town that is. And Westlands. And Majengo.

Maybe it's people everywhere.

Anyway, it was 4 am. After the last show. After-party nayo ilikua inabamba mbaya, mpaka Molly's. But masaa ilikua mbaya pia. So as people were going home I was feeling very confident and told them “Issokaaaay, I got thissss, the Uber is just up the corner. I'll walk”

Kidogo kidogo, as I walk up the road, someone's coming up to me. Then two more. Then a knife is flashed (knife play at 4 am is an insane concept) and I'm like “my good sire, would you like my phone and my shoes?” The knife moves, slashes at my hand, making me drop my phone. They pick it up and run with it.

Nice nice nice niceeee.

That day I was like NEVA AGAINNN.

I was at Molly's the next week.

My father still laughs at me because of that story.

3. Call me Ishmael.

This is here because it touched me very deeply.

Those who've heard of my noise - or read like 4 of my notes - know that I love being around people. They also know I make noise. They also know I've been MCing for a cool few events, and loving it.

I greet someone who says they've seen me before. They were there when I was MC for the many karaokes I do. He asks of my name.

“Ibrahim”

We leave for a secondary discussion with the lovely gentleman and another friend of mine. Fast forward to the end of the discussion, and we're bidding each other adieu, when he says:

“Goodbye Ishmael”

Now, shockingly, I ain't offended. I ask him what he says, he repeats it, and I'm like damn.

I fuck with that heavy.

There's this line that has been ringing in my head for a long time, the first line of Moby Dick, and it goes;

“Call me Ishmael.”

And I've been looking for a stage name. I'm clocked out of the bidding adieu because I'M CONNECTING DOTS! I shall give you all a sneak peak into this beautiful mind:

Call me Ishmael → Moby Dick → Can be shortened to “Ish", which works? → Religious angle?→ RELIGIOUS ANGLE! → Ishmael, Ibrahim? → Abraham → Ishmael's FATHER → Stage name technically is just another me, just younger → CALL ME ISHMAEL!!!

Yeah… hmmm. It's a pretty mess up here.

Anyway, throwing it back with heels is an experience that should be made a right a passage.

SEE YOU NEXT TIME!!!

She holds her hands together and blows hot air into them. It’s midday, yet she stll feels cold. She looks to the phone on the wall. He could have called if he needed anything. He didn’t call.

She’s worried too much.

It’s that man’s doing, isn’t it? She moves towards her crocs, and puts them on. She needs to get more wine. That pig-headed, oatmeal faced dog. She told him to stay far away from her son. Maybe he’s found her son, and is corrupting him. The thought plagues her. How dare he try spoil her son?

The liquor store is closed. She has to walk slightly farther down towards the crossroads. close to the casino, to the shady shop with the little shopkeeper that always has some white powder on his nose and a wierd sniffling problem.

A wail tears through the air. One that makes her jump.

“WHY WOULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN TO HIM!”

There’s a crowd infront of her. She slows down, moving apprehensively. Its on her way to the shop, so she has no other option. She needs her wine. It’s the only thing that helps her forget her son is gone.

She slowly pushes through one end of the crowd, curious but careful. She doesn’t want to see the origin of the wail. That’s the least of her concern.

“He’s been gone for two weeks. I haven’t seen him since then. Why would you do nothing?”

He ears perk up. She stops wading through the curious. Her son has been gone for two weeks. Coul that be her son? No. The woman has claimed the child, he cannot be her son.

“I tried! I kicked him out of the casino, told him he didn’t have enough money to keep going, that he should go home. That’s the last I saw him!”

She turns. That’s her son. That isn’t that woman’s son. The woman has claimed the wrong child. Gloria, now spurred with new strength, continues wading through the curious. Only now its toward the woman. She knows her son too much. That is her son.

She stops herself. They would have called her if it was her son. She turns back.

She finds the Shopkeeper sat on his chair, legs up, and is directed to the liquor cabinet at the end of the aisle. She walks past a door, and something within her makes her stop to look at it. It’s not a wierd door. Its standard, grey and metallic. A shiver runs down her spine.

She buys her wine.

Her hand slowly opens the door to the two bedroom. Half of her wishes her son is home. The other doesn’t want him there. She is tired. Violently. The door creaks open. Nothing. A sigh leaves her, and she tries to understand which emotion it carried, but she gives up promptly. The bottle of wine finds residence on her table.

This, she promises, will be her last.

Its been a minute since Menz was home. He’s lost track of time. He’s walking toward the Shop. He’s been there alot now, and lost interest in gambling with money. That’s boring. Everyone does it.

He has nowhere to go. The last thing he wants to go do now is deal with a wine-drunk mother.

The Shopkeeper meets him again, and waves him in. He leaves the Golden Tooth at the table. A Final Gamble, he’s decided. He’s been winning here, but loosing elsewhere. He walks toward the grey metallic door, as he’s always done. It opens, and he moves down into the dimly lit basement.

A revolver lies on the table.

He knew he would get here someday. The blood rushes to his head, and with new fervour, he grabs the revolver, and spins the chamber 20 times. His lucky number. He puts the revolver to his dome.

It clicks.

Gloria can’t take it anymore. She looks up to the ceilling fan. It spins slowly. Ominously. She looks at it with longing.

She’s been a bad mother, and its been eating at her all afternoon. The scene with the grieving woman isnt out of her head. She’s halfway down with the bottle.

She’s been a bad wife. The man loved her.

Why did she leave? Because she was selfish. But if she was, she wouldn’t have left with the child. Then why did she still leave? The man was violent when he got drunk. Too violent. He beat her. Beat the child. She left because he threatened to kill her. Yes. It was coming back to her, in drunk flashes. The hands on her neck, strangling her, as he said how easier it would be to do something right there and then.

She’s been a bad person. She looks once more at the ceiling fan.

She won’t be a person any longer.

Menz spins the chamber. Once. Twice. Thrice. All the way to 20.

He’s played this game a few times, and every time, twenty was his best number of chamber spins.

This time he should have chosen twenty-one.

Gloria’s son walks into his mother’s two bedroom apartment. He’s lost all his money. Tears streaming down his face, he wants to meet his mother.

The room reeks of rotten flesh.

Be warned, dear reader. Proceed with caution.

It’s metaphorical, of course. If literal, jail shall find me with open arms. I feel like I’ve taken a life with my hands, hands that are soft from never having worked a day in my life.

I remember the childish glow in my eyes. A glow that abuse never took away from me, a glow that would have to be pried from cold corpse. I remember sobbing in a corner, singing to myself that brighter days will come, that I have to hold on just a bit longer.

I held on. That child never saw the sun.

I remember it vividly. The trees rustling in the night, my eyes struggling to adjust in the dim moonlight as I chase the little me through a forest, trying to dodge trees and loose branches on the way. He’s fast. I’m faster. We emerge into a clearing, with the moonlit grass wafting slowly in the midnight wind.

The wind carries his sobs. I hear them plainly. I cannot stop.

He stumbles. Falls. Turns to me, seated, and begs. Tears stream down his face. Tears stream down my face. I want to save him. I do. I don’t know what to do anymore.

Do I?

I go down on one knee. He stiffens, and sings the song he sang to get him through the night. He knew brighter days will come. He knew he had to hold on.

I stop. The song grabs something in my chest and twists it. I don’t know what. I see the glow in his eyes. I know, for his sake, brighter days will never come, but I join him in singing it. He knows what I know. The sobs get louder. Harder to miss. I move to him, cautiously, and position his neck on my elbow. Pull his head slowly to my chest. Keep singing.

The glow leaves his eyes.

Silence.

I did what’s best for him. Right?

As I lay there, the body atop mine, I wonder if maybe I’m wrong. Did I need to do this to save him from the world? Could I have done something else?

Too late. Thoughts like this wouldn’t bring him back. I roll him over onto the grass, and lay next to him. With a heave, I sob. I don’t know whether it’s right or wrong.

In an attempt to comfort myself, I try to remember the song he sang to get him through the dark nights. The song he sang while crumpled up in the corner, muffling sobs with a blanket as he waited for sleep to find him.

I can’t remember it.

I can’t remember it.

I can’t.

Gloria lets out a sigh. Its heavier than alot of things in her small two bedroom.

“He’s done this many times. He’ll be back soon.”

The man she’s talking about is gambling. He’s placed all the money he has left on number 19. The wheel spins, the ball flies.

20.

Must be his luck! The last one landed 5 away from what he bet on. The one before was 10 away. The spaces were getting smaller. He just needed one more chance and he’d win big. He rustles his pockets for the remaining of his money.

He feels nothing.

His body feels colder now. The warm arms that were around his shoulder slide off slowly, the giggles turning into scoffs and curses.

“I knew he was worthless” They say. The only valuable thing he has on him is his tooth, a gold one, that he won in a bet in that very same casino. His mind flashes back to the day he got it, and he was so ecstatic that he got his own tooth pulled out to place it there. Now it was the most expensive thing on him.

After that, he had nothing to lose.

His mother sat home, curled under a fluffy purple blanket, a glass of wine in her hand. She’s been through this before. He’d run away, gamble all the money on him, and come back home disheveled and tired.

She’d let him back him, help him wash up and make him breakfast as he swore he’d never do it again.

He always found a way to do it again.

And she always knew when it would start.

You see, as his mother, she knows his tells. He would get this glimmer in his eyes. His speech would darken. He would eat less and less, and when the day came, he wouldn’t eat breakfast. Just up and leave, in the night, like a thief.

She puts the wine glass down on the table, and pauses the video on the TV. It’s raining outside. Her slow walk to the kitchen reminds her that before this relapse, its been a long time since he’s done this. He actually began reforming.

That at least he doesn’t abuse drugs. But how long will that last?

She read an article that atleast 60% of people who gamble are more likely to be drug addicts. She’s willing to spend money for him to gamble away, but not to use for drugs. The thought of him tying a belt across his arm and shooting up heroin sends a shiver down her spine.

She gets to the kitchen and pours herself another glass of wine. The bottle is over. She has to get more.

She utters a prayer under her breath for her son. The rain pours harder.

Menz left with his dignity intact. Some of it, that is, the rest was taken by the guards who lifted him by the boxer to the street.

It’s began drizzling slowly. He thinks about his mother. At this point in time she’s probably drinking some of her wine. He never understood alcohol. He saw it as a deterrent. Why impair your senses when you can gamble when perfectly sober? He never really tried it.

He never really gave it a chance.

He’s been at his friend’s place for a day. He doesn’t like going home when he’s gambling. His mother looks at him funny when he does that. His father used to gamble when he was younger, but he did it worse. He did it drunk. That’s why he lost too much money.

Menz’s father didn’t know his craft well enough.

Mother said all these things when she was wine drunk. She complained about his good for nothing son, and how its her karma for loving a pig-headed man like that. She cried about how she met the man when she was young, and that she left the man when Menz was young. She threw things at Menz, complaining how he looked awfully like him.

Then the next morning she would make him breakfast like nothing happened.

The man wasn’t too bad himself. He just had this heavy smell of liquor that following him like the tail on a cat. He was smart, but ended up missusing his genius by drinking copiouos amounts of alcohol. When his mother compared Menz to the man, he would cringe. He could never be like that disgusting old man.

The rain starts picking up. He can’t walk anymore, and since he bet his phone away, there goes his method of calling a taxi. He crawls into a shop. The shopkeeper has his nose down on a piece of paper, and lifts it, wipes some white of his nose, and smiles at him.

He looks at the Shop-keeper. Looks down to his hands. He has lost more than he has won. He was getting lucky…

…maybe he can get luckier.

I wasn’t expecting to live this long.

Cut the waterworks. Not in a pitiable, sad way. For the longest I honestly thought life would end at 20. “Black-out” end. Cue the credits.

Now I’m 20. Apparently the Network loves the series so much they’re thinking of revamping it for another season. And the writers are having shit-tons of fun with the script.

I’ve started seeing recurring characters. People who were supposed to be guest appearances have pitched their camp and now reside full time on the show. Others who I expected to last longer has other prospects. Some left for greener pastures, others were poached by other shows. No worries though.

Okay, enough with the TV metaphors.

I never really knew what to do with my life after 20. I watch people around me with life plans. SEGUE TO A STORY:

So I remember when I was 12, and trying to figure out teenagehood. Crazy time of my life, and my lovely Mother got me two Jehovah Witness books who’s names I’ve forgotten. Anyway, there’s this one chapter inside about life plans, and they had a full blank page that asked you to have a life plan, and a set of goals, of what you want to do when you grow old.

I had nothing.

I stared at that page for a good thirty minutes, pencil in hand, wondering what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t know. I’ve grown up priveleged, thankfully, so my greatest wish was to get a phone (my parents were haters of allowing children on social media which- valid. Created my first instagram account at 16, but I used to use it in the dark so they never knew till I officially turned 18.) and I scribbled it down and smiled. All that thought, at least I got something to write down, right?

I turn the page, and see this little section - in pink - of a child who had a full life plan of till he was old and grey, detailed, who died before he turned 16.

I stared at that page for another 30 minutes. I have felt insignificant before, but at that point I felt minute. Tiny. I was thinking, If I could add my years onto that child’s, he could have done way more instead of “I wish I get a phone”

So I turned back to the page.

And I thought. Real hard.

Nothing.

The only other thing I could find was: “I want to help people.” The powerlesness I felt at that time shouldn’t be something a sheltered 12-year-old should have felt. I shut that book. I’ll think about it later, lemme go play outside. God knows I never opened that book again.

From then on I more-or-less never bothered to think about what to do in the future. I was always a happy-go-lucky child, going with the flow of things, with no specific direction. To me, thinking about where I could go is a waste of time. I’d rather just do. Wacha I figure out baadaye.

You know, as I sit here writing this, I realize I still don’t have direction. For all those years I’ve never re-opened that book to add anything I want to do with my life. I’m Impromptu. I do stuff for shits and giggles. Is order necessary? Yes. Is planning vital? Absolutely. However, until then…

I’ll never stop moving.

I’m glad I never stopped moving.

“

The sun has finally shone on you, child.
You know that you’re a fighter
You’ve realized that the cracks you hate
They all make you shine brighter.

So shine on, child.
Embrace the sun, Feel the wind in your wings
For now you will fly, forever more…

…and your heart will truly sing.

“

“Is there something else you want me to hear?”

I play with the ring on my thumb. I have a lot to say. I could say it, let him know that I’m a big boy, that I can take care of myself, that I’m tired of hiding who I am.

tick. Tick. TICK.

My heart beats in my head. My hair, pulled back from morning in a sad attempt to create a ponytail, is tugging at my scalp. My heart beats louder. I say nothing.

“Come. Sit next to me.”

I adjust myself, eyes stuck to the floor. My fingers suffocate each other in their own heat. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to feel.

“No thank you”

“Huh?”

“I’m fine here.”

I was an hour late. I wasn’t supposed to be this late. I slowly open the door. He’s there, sat on the chair, glass in hand. The opening of the door signals his next move, a scrunch of the eyebrows. A “Hey” slips out of his mouth.

“How’d your day go?”

“Well. Really Well. I had so much fun actually.”

“I’m glad you did. Take a seat.”

I know the conversation that was going to be had. I have had it before. I was late. I wasn’t supposed to be late. I slug my way through to the seat. It’s not too far from him.

The room expands. His head moves further and further away from his body, becoming smaller and smaller. My chest tightens. This has happened before, and its more intriguing than scary, but it’s been 15 years. My hands move to grab the glass of water infront of me. I stretch. I can’t get to it. It keeps moving further and further and further and even though I touch it I can’t feel it and-

“Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

I forgot I was in the room. Everything snaps back. My hand feels the cold, plastic cup, and I drink from it. I almost choke.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“So, what did you do today?”

I did alot today. I ran around, made noise for some friends, attended a birthday, and some other things. Things I didn’t tell him. I let one slip.

“I met someone new today. He’s really nice.”

“I thought we discussed this.”

“I don’t want to. I’ve been quiet for 15 years. I’m tired.”

“Do you know you can go to jail? It’s depressing, I know, but you just need to keep a low-”

"I…”

I catch my tongue. What… can I say? I can hear the fear behind his voice. It’s cracked a few times, every crack instilling in him more fear. He clears his throat.

What should I say?

-i dont care-

The words fall out of my mouth, heavy, and I hear them hit his face. Silence.

-and what about us?-

His voice shakes. Jolt. Silence again, The clock ticks louder. The ticks fill the silence with words I cannot find. The air grows heavier, and it starts getting harder to breath. With great struggle, I take a deep breath in. I can smell the pain in his voice.

“I just want you to succeed. To get far in life. People are unforgiving. Where you stand, how you stand, you stand alone. We get it. Nobody else does.”

Exhale. I want to tell him about the lovely people I’ve met. The amazing people I’ve met for just being me, the ones who know me so much that i’d be willing to die for them.

“You trust too easily. If you don’t watch out, it will be your downfall.”

More silence. I don’t know what to feel, but I know the last thing I feel is fear. I slowly angle my head upward toward him, to see his red eyes.

“Is there something else you want me to hear?”

The silence ends.

He bids me goodnight, and he leaves the room.

And I know, very soon, I will leave.

Leave into whatever comes next. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know if I’ll get there. All I know is that the fear he gave me is not mine to carry anymore. It was never mine. It was his. He gave it to me because he didn’t know what else to do with it. And I held that fear for 15 years because I didn’t know I could put it down.

Now I know.

I will not wait for permission to be who I am.

I am tired of being the son who inherited his father’s terror. I am the son who saw it, held it, and I am the son who will let it go.

I am not afraid.

I am not afraid.

I am not afraid.

There is no line, just a grey blur,

A blur of what could be and what isn’t.

Where could be-s and might be-s come out to play.

******

I am the line between perception and reality.

There is no line, just fuzz

Fuzz of what is and what cannot be

Where want to-s and need to-s are finally recognized.

******

I am the line between love and hate.

There is no line, just haze.

******

I lie.

******

There is a line.

A definite, thick, line.

I neither teeter on love’s end,

Not totter on hate’s start.

I stand, feet firmly planted,

On the line’s thickness.

It encompasses me.

******

I am a false paradox,

A deaf painter,

A blind musician.

Not hampered greatly by my lack,

But bothered significantly by its absence.

******

I am something.

Anything.

The son of the dust on desks and windows,

I am the child of the wind that touches the stars.

From the water that falls on the grass and the road,

I am the first flower that breaks through the concrete.

I am alive.

******

What am I?

The days have decided to become bleak. Nobody forced them not to. The sun feels… awkward. Nostalgic. It shines, not because it sees tomorrow, but it remembers yesterday. The day before. How the people under it loved each other.

I like to wonder how the sun feels. I tend to ignore that its many millions of miles away from the Earth. I want to think of it as a ball in the sky, a little dot, with eyes, that watches what happens under it.

What does it see?

A couple, having a picnic under the sun. It’s watched them pass each other, unaware of who the other is. It’s watched him ask her out, as it shone through the apartment window. It’s watched them have lunch as they laugh, and watched her laugh so hard she snorted the noodles out of her nose. (Nobody else was looking. That’s what she thought.)

A man, as he walks to work. It’s see him walk every morning. How happy he was when he got the job. How happy he was the first week of the work. How the pep in his step disappeared when the days went by. How he slouched on his desk. How he skipped lunch entirely.

It sees much, I can guess. More than I can see.

I don’t see much. The sun creeps behind the clouds. It doesn’t want to see some things. I can imagine it hates death. It hates watching it, and hides behind the clouds when it feels its about to happen.

It doesn’t know when its going to happen. It tries to predict.

I wish I could crawl behind clouds. I cannot.

What is this all supposed to mean? I do not know. It’s not supposed to have meaning. What is everything supposed to mean? Things can mean what you want them mean. If you can explain it well enough, it becomes valid. That’s what my literature teacher would tell me.

I failed literature. The books were boring.

Hold my hand, won’t you? Lead me from this incessant rambling, guide my thoughts to a plane where they know themselves well enough to give themselves order. I will ask no questions.

Take me away, will you? Take me where you want me to go. I am afraid I am too confused, too tired to know better. I will follow. Without qualm.

Lead me to my downfall, as I cannot lead myself.

Do what you want.

Regardless, I will pick myself up and move. Where I go is unknown to me. I may not get there.

I may not get there.

I look at my mirror. Its been a minute since I looked at what was beyond it. What looked back at me. The light above the mirror broke and I’ve ignored it ever since. It’s in a dark part of the room. In the darkness, what can you see? Nothing. I come back to it with a flashlight, and I notice something in the corner.

A crack.

I’ve never seen it before. I stare at it. When did it get here? You know when you crack a mirror you can get seven years of bad luck. Or is it when you break i-

crack.

I recoil. Another one. I just heard it. I stare at the mirror again. I can’t see where it cracked. I move the cone of light from the little flashlight around. What’s making it crack? THERE’S THE CRACK! Its small. Not too big. It can’t be seen from afar. That’s great, It’s still usefu-

crack.

Silence. Is it me? Am I making it crack? I’m making it crack. No. It’s the light. I turn off the flashlight and sit there in silence. Nothing. So it was the flashlight. The flashlight was the-

crack.

It wasn’t the problem. Damn it. What else could be the problem? I turn the flashlight on again. The mirror hangs on the wall, in partial darkness, with a crack across its bottom left quarter. It’s loud. The mirror hangs unbothered. Maybe it’s from behind the mirror. I stretch my hand to turn the mirror.

cracck.

I guess not. It’s louder. More. Does the mirror WANT to break? It does. I stand, the cone of light half hitting the mirror, half hitting the wall, as I stare at the new crack. It spans the bottom half of the mirror. The mirror still hangs unbothered. What can I do?

crack.

What should I do?

crack.

I can’t touch it.

crack.

The light isn’t the problem.

crack.

Am I the problem? I walk away. Silence.

CRACK.

I give up. I turn back to the mirror and stare again. What am I doing?

crack.

I don’t know.

Shatter.

I look at the pieces on the floor. The sun sees where they’ve fallen. It can get there. They reflect different parts of my face. Different parts of the ceiling. They fallen to where the light can get them, and turn it everywhere.

The wall where the mirror hung is now brighter. It sees light. When was the last time it did? With a long inhale I squat. I see parts of my face on the many little pieces of mirror on the floor. Some are lit. Some aren’t. I sigh. I’ll have to pick these pieces up later. I stretch my hand to grab a piece.

crack.

The mirror is broken already. The sound doesn’t come from any of the pieces.

crack.

I pick up a piece of the broken mirror.

crack.

I put it up.

crack.

stare.

crack.

The room goes dark. The sun is gone.

crack.

I turn on my flashlight

crack.

Turn it to my face.

crack.

A long crack runs across the bottom quarter of my face.

Maybe it’s the flashlight.

…

Feel me like alcohol.

Let me burn as I go down your throat.

Let me drive you crazy.

Insane.

Let me release you from what holds you back.

Crave me like a drug.

Look at me with want in your eyes.

Raw. Uncivilized.

Drool at the mention of my name.

Shiver at the thought of me.

I can be your undoing.

Let me be your undoing.

What else would you need?

I’ve given you destruction.

Hunger.

Burn.

Myself.

What more will you take?

You look at me, the moon gleaming in your eyes.

I look for something to say.

What am I to say?

Nothing, it seems, because now you will speak.

What will you say?

You will say nothing.

You will open your mouth, and you will shut it.

And

since actions speak louder than words

you will hold me in your arms

hoping that the warmth of your skin will sing me songs

songs that soothe my heart

songs that your tongue hasn’t learnt yet.

However

one day

your tongue will become native to the songs.

what then?

I will become obsolete

gone

a memory

because

finally

your words will speak louder than your actions.

And

i will learn

that from the time you first held me

to now

i meant nothing.

i never did.

Since your mouth never opened

i was never set in stone.

I will leave.

Sadness in my heart,

tears in my eyes

until i’m held by another who’s not

yet

found a voice.

why, you ask?

because i love.

It is the doom of he who loves.

And love more,

he shall.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want.

Yesterday I saw a kitten on the roadside. It was small, frail, its skin visible in patches where fur was supposed to be. I stopped and stared at it. It didn't move. I approached it, slowly, and touched its little head. It didn't move. It was cold. I wanted to remove my hand from it, but I could not. I crouched there for a few seconds.

Then, with a heavy sigh, I kept walking.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

I was in a club a few weeks back. I live for dancing, and saw these absolutely beautiful women doing just that. I wanted to join them. I did.

“You have such amazing fashion sense!”

“Thank you, you queens! You look amazing too! What brings you here?”

“We're here with our friends! Just left work after a long day. I love how free and mobile you are!”

“Thank you again! Yeah I'm here from home, wanted to go out.”

They proceeded to go to my table, where my cousins were, and complain to them that I'm “Too feminine” and “Not catching what they're throwing back.”

We left shortly after.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

I tried to shoot my shot once, found their instagram page, followed them, and they followed me back and liked my stories. I felt happy. I felt like I was at the top of the world. They did talk to me too! Then they met my friend.

My friend, to them (apparently) was more intriguing than I was. Easier to talk to. To touch. To tell all of their hidden secrets to. That was well by me.

A day later I was branded as wierd for following them, and that I was “too much”. I did the most adult thing someone can do: I blocked them, unfollowed them, and completely avoided their presence. That was not.

They met me a week after that. Talked to me. Asked how I was doing.

It was because they were interested in my friend, who sat beside me.

I left.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

It was midnight. I don't remember which day. I wasn't home, I left the house to see someone who swore upon their mother's life that they've never loved someone the way they love me. I walked in the quiet streets, hopping through some plant overgrowth that I usually use as a shortcut and squeezing through fences.

When I got there, a sketchy corner of a random apartment, I called. No response. I called a second time, and a third, and a fourth. No response. I waited for an hour. Maybe they were busy, or finishing something, or on their way back home.

I was approached by a shady man. He said something. It was my name. I squinted into the darkness, seeing only an outline of a person. He asked me to walk with him down the sketchy little path that went round the apartment. I complied. We talked about what I did, where he lived, where he worked, and what he liked.

When we got to the gate, I mentioned I left my sweater at home and that I'd come right on back after I picked it up.

“Yeah, I live close by, just past the corner. I'll run. It will only take two minutes.”

“Ah, that's fine. Don't take too long!”

“I won't!”

I never turned back.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

“It disrupts the natural order! God would never want that! If I could, I would kill them all. Without a second thought”

“But they're people! Why would you kill your fellow human?”

“They killed themselves when they chose that path. I'm just finishing the job. Let's not talk about this further. Why do you defend them? It's not like you're one of them-

Are you?”

“I defend them because they are people. Human, like you and I. You are sitting here, looking at me, with a picture of Jesus above your head, and yet you talk like that. I am loving my neighbor, the way I love myself.”

Would you kill me too?

“Let's not have this conversation. Are you coming to church tomorrow?”

“No.”

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

I was in the back of your mind because you had nowhere else to put me. I was… confusing. New. An experience you didn't understand, that you wanted to bury behind defined thoughts and learned interactions. I was something you wanted close, but you didn't want to decipher. I was to remain a puzzle in your mind, ringing over and over again to be noticed. Not solved, seen. Not understood, visualized.

Do you let go out of love, or of the fear that staying would be a sin?

I was in the back of your mind because you wanted me there. Where else would you place me? I was the star of your show. I was the wind behind your sails, the sun above your roses…

I was important.

Do you love me out of sin, or the fear that letting go will show want?

Your arms shook when they held mine. You touch me carefully. Methodically. You don't want to stir any old scars, yet you want me to feel love. You let me feel your love. You fall into my arms as I hold you up. My shoulder feels wet.

Do you fear me out of sin, or the want of letting go will show love?

You knew what you were doing. Measured the distance and called it affection. Calculated the touch and called it care. You touch me methodically because you know, deep down, you can't fall in love. You touch me once more. It hits you. My love isn't enough. My love won't teach you how to-

Do you sin out of love, or because the want of letting go will show fear?

It's 2 am. I read the message over and over again, my eyes unable to see with each iteration. It's gone as fast as it started. I read it one last time. It hits me. My love was too much. I turn off the phone and try to sleep. I can't sleep.

Do you want me out of love, or because letting go will show your sinful want?

It's 2 pm. You turn on your phone. Nothing new. You look at the last message you sent. Read 2 days ago. You open the message and try typing something. Stop. It's too late. The phone slides back down into your pocket.

You let out a sigh. Unsure whether it's one of relief, exhaustion, or grief, you refuse to dwell on it. You were always bad at puzzles anyway.

I wanted you out of love. You let go out of your fear to sin.

Dear Reader,

Remember the article I went for an event that wasn't alcoholism ? So the day before, I went for an event that was alcoholism. And boy didn't I do things.

This story starts at 5pm on a Friday. I'm with a good friend, wasting time because we know all good bashes start at 7pm. So we're in an Uber, heading to West mall (the home of robbed phones, insane classism and something else I forgot) discussing how it's depressing for 2 men to drink alone because how dare they drink alone and there's so many other people to drink with?

Anyway, we get to West, and meet 2 other people that we didn't intend to meet. Now we're 4. Four’s a quorum. Now the drinking can begin.

Allow me to break the story and say something. I do not abuse substances. I love them. I treat them with the utmost respect they deserve. I know my liquor.

But that Friday, something peculiar happened.

The Devil whispered into my ear. Yes, the Devil from Gatundu. Not the whispers that people who are lightly aquainted exchange at a funeral, no. The slutty whispers that dirty dirty lovers tell before they do his tango.

He whispered “Sleep in a ditch today”.

As the darkness waters down the Friday evening, his whispers become more and more alluring. When 7pm came a-knocking, I had only one thought in my mind; “Merde”. My glass, half full of KC, (I know it tastes like shit but beggars be not choosers) found it's way to my lips, and thus the series of bad choices begin.

“Take another shot, Take another shot!” Mind you, my shots are glasses that are half full. I down one, and another and another and another and another and another. The colors in the room bleed into each other, the lights bend and crack and the Devil whispers louder. Sluttier. He bites my ear and caresses my chest. More alcohol finds its way into my mouth, and before I know it, the mzinga is empty. My shirt is half open. I'm talking to a someone who wants me but is “scared to do anything because I'm scared of everyone around me”

Since the bottle is finished, we talk a few, do a lot of dancing, then leave.

I get my bag from a vehicle I don't remember placing it in, passing some people I knew but could not see because frankly my eyes decided that seeing is an option, and go back to the clurb. And in the clurb, I meet them again.

“Waaah Ibra you're so drunk”

“Nouuwww, no I'm nawt” I am. I'm drunk. Very drunk. So drunk I'm a different person. And “them” is a few friends, a situationship (ughhhh I knowwwww, kill me) and a good female friend of mine. With her boyfriend. I don't think we understand how crucial this detail is.

The time is 9pm.

Now, Dear Reader, everything that I write from here on out was narrated to me, by an external party, two days after they happened, because from that time onwards the one whispering in my ear took over. Mind you, he is the epitome of released inhibitions. If there is rain, he will feel it on his skin.

I leave to the washroom, then come back. I drink even more. They hide the bottle of liquor for me. I don't notice. The girlfriend tells me “Go on, see if he catches the bait”. I go on. He catches the bait, hard. We excuse ourselves to the washroom, and are unceremoniously interrupted by the third party telling me this story, the situationship and the girlfriend. We’re inches from each other's face. I, clearly bothered because LET ME FINISH, leave the washroom while getting shouted at by the girlfriend because “OH MY GOD IBRAHIM, WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?”

Men.

Don't worry, I am also aware that I am a very big part of the problem.

Now, my third party was also “Under the influence” by Chris Brown, so she remembers in both bits and pieces.

From that point onwards, I gave a very nice (Okay, it was stern. I shouted. I was mean. Shoot me.) expression of my thoughts to the situationship in the room, then left, wandering like a confused animal. My wanderings brought me to a second group of friends, ones that, for the record, are the most beautiful, amazing, thoughtful people in the entire world.

They made sure I was good, had everything I possesed, and got me and Uber home safe. Dear reader, this was not an easy task.

I don't remember what the time was.

But I got home, paid the Uber driver, called My father to also pay the Uber driver, then hobbled into the house and slept, removing nothing from my body whatsoever.

Thus, you have come to the end of my perils. The coin, indeed, has 2 sides. And now you know both of them.

Next time, I won't listen to the slutty, slutty whispers of that Devil.

I probably will.

With a sober mind and missing thoughts,

Ibrahim

Dear reader,

My heart holds on to pieces I want to let go of. I remember his laugh, and even though he dragged me through shit, how he made me feel good.

He’s gone now, but pieces of him remain. Sharp. Jagged. Pieces that I pull out of myself slowly, wincing from the pain of it, but craving to hold on to the memory. Hold on to how I felt. I'll get them out one day.

Old habits die hard. Today I waited, like I always did, under the pretense that maybe I'll see him today. Maybe he’ll wave in my direction. He'll glance, notice me, and flash a smile. Those days are long gone. He shall never return.

Even as I sat where we usually sit, face sticking out of the window, I can't help but wonder, how, after he's done all that, can he live with himself? His seat next to mine, filled with empty hopes and dreams of what we could be, I still feel the heat of his thigh next to mine. The most he’s ever touched me.

Old habits die regardless. Today someone bought me a small plush. Multiple people I know gave me little sweets, I was given a cupcake, and at the end of the day I was just given perfume that smells beautiful. I had an amazing day, full of love from the people around me and nothing less.

Funny how some little thing can turn a day sour.

I will let go. The bell on my neck rings no longer, but I hear its call in my head. My heart is learning to love someone new; myself.

With love, tweezers I'm tired of holding, and wounds bleeding all over the satin carpet,

Ibrahim.

“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread”
Alexander Pope

Dear reader,

“I’m not ready. I’m not sure who I am, and I’ve been really busy. Can you please give me time?”

What happens when you care too much? When you misread a room, misunderstand a cue, walk onto a stage that you weren’t supposed to be on before the show is over?

“Sure! Take all the time you need. I’m here for you. Some of us know who we are from the get-go. The other of us are trying to figure it out. If you need any help, or a hug, please don’t hesitate to look for me.”

I did that. Screwed up by thinking something was there. I was left in the headlights many times, sacrificing great chunks of self and time trying to help someone that’s so hell-bent on not changing.

“...don’t blame alcohol for what you did.”

Huh. Drunk words are sober thoughts. Drunk words are sober feelings, sober feelings building up for weeks on end. Sober feelings that watched as you’d rather sit silent next to me instead of even trying conversation. Sober feelings that waited for you to touch me how I touched you. To want me like I wanted you.

Sober feelings that turned sour.

“ndo naona messages zako mingi. Good night!”

Did I mean nothing to you? Was what we did meaningless to you? I was just a game to you, wasn’t I?. Something you could enjoy until you figured yourself out. Something you could keep an arms length, feed with crumbs, and still be happy because I’d come back.

On all fours. Bell on my neck, ringing, knees leaving bloody spots on the ground.

I came back crawling, because I may be beautiful, and I may be lovely, and I may be worth a million dollars, but for you I was willing to turn into dust. To contort, to change.

“No. I’ve never fallen in love before. This is strange.”

For love I was willing to hurt. For what is love if not to rip out chunks of yourself for someone else? Love, therefore, can be compared to the burning of plastic. Violent, disgusting, leaving the soul a remnant of what it was before.

Well that’s stupid. We all know it isn’t.

“Okay”

This piece is me reclaiming my strength. This piece is me re-learning my worth. This piece is knowing that, at the end of the day. I do not deserve less. I deserved to be treated like a human being, not rag for your tears and your lonely nights.

What did I say that night? I was drunk. I don’t remember. What? I was flirting with the friend? Oh, wow. Let me text them. Tell them I’m sorry. I don’t remember.

I said something mean. Something that hurt their feelings. I’m sorry, but alcohol opens up wounds wrapped in cotton. It rips band-aids off, it opens doors that were once closed and closes doors that were foolishly opened.

Maybe I said what I needed to say. Maybe I’m not sorry.

With love, hate, discovery, confusion, loss, and a somewhat new sense of identity,

Ibrahim.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying drinking is bad. Neither am I holier-than-thou. You do you, go drink yourself deaf, sweetums. But, for the first time in a while I’ve gone for an event that didn’t need me to be drunk, and I enjoyed it.

The event itself was Substack Sato, organized by and .

Now, when I told my parents I was going for an event, I could see their eyebrows perk up a bit. The little perk that sounds like they’re saying oooh, so leo huendi kulewa? Mind you, I was from getting black-out drunk yesternight.

Anyway, it’s Saturday, I’m still woozy from yesterday, really sleepy, and I see the notification from my calendar at 10:30 AM that I set because I knew I’d do some random tomfoolery the day before and forget. Aren’t I glad I did that? So I dress myself up, with the amazing help of my little brother who suggests ideas for the fit, and leave.

I expected nothing at all. Genuinely. I wanted to meet new people and talk about things with them, and since this was my first time being there, I was a bit tense. Though I had one thing in mind, before the end of the day:

I’ve got to talk to as many people as possible. I’ve got to talk to everyone.

Let’s just start with getting there. There are these glorious moving tin cans called matatus that are just revolutionary technology. That’s if you know how to use them. I think we all understand where this is going. I take the matatus that go to Ngong, because revolutionary technology, and the ask the wonderful conductor to drop me off at The Junction, where I would walk the remaining distance.

Allow me a side note, but she was SO NICE! She was so polite, and she said “thank you” after taking fare. She genuinely was one of the beautiful people I interacted with yesterday.

I alight from the matatu at Junction Mall and pull my phone out of my pocket. Google Maps. About… 40 minutes of a walk. Ah yes, now I do the one thing I love, cardio. I collect myself and start walking in the general direction of the bookshop. I blame capitalism (I have to thank for this).

And 30 minutes later (I walk like I’m hunted for sport) I get to the venue. Very, VERY fashionably late.

So I’m at the venue...

I walk in with my head held down because shame and sit at a spot where someone’s friend was supposed to sit but hadn’t gotten there yet. I’m just in time to listen to the ending discussion before we go on break. From where I’m sat (a bar stool of some sorts) there are a few course-mates to my right, an amazing amazing person that I haven’t seen in a while holding his trusty camera, all in a room heavy with the scent of thought and beautiful discourse.

“We’re having a 10-minute break, so make sure to mingle with each other.”

My time had come. I went first to those I knew, gathering strength from them, then I turned and talked to strangers. I had a script, one that sort of stayed the same:

“Hello! How are you? First Substack Sato? How are you enjoying so far?”

I speak not to a person, but to a vibe. When I ask questions, I love long answers. I love information, and a lot of it. I love it when my energy is reciprocated. And I’ve come up with a foolproof way to know whether it works.

If I stick to my script, our vibes don’t really work.

And what makes me stick to my script is if you don’t ask me questions. If your answers are vague. Because it feels like I’m forcing a conversation with you. Luckily, most of the people there forced me to ignore the script all together. gets it!

But anyway, back to being at the venue. The break ends, of-course, and we move to the next article, of which the discussion we have about it is quite tasteful (I divulge nothing more so y’all get FOMO and come for the next one) and the event closes with giving us a lil speech (Bless his lovely soul).

And the event ends.

I move around, talking to just about everyone I can, asking them what they thought about the article, and swapping Substacks. It felt so nice talking to people and seeing the faces behind some of the stories and notes that I see on the app.

But something that really touched me after the event was when I got the Fourth Issue of Qwani, a compilation of stories, art and poems that I will review as soon as possible (wacha niimalize kwanza) so stay tuned.

Now, allow me this segment to talk about the way home. You know how people say that a long journey is shorter when talking to someone? Well, a particular brilliant minded stranger accorded me the pleasure of shortening my journey for me. Topics blending into each-other. Interest remaining constantly piqued. When I get to town I feel a little sad that it was ending. Because sadly, knowing my circles, this might as well be the last time my brain would be tickled like that. Thank you . We shall meet again.

But I got home. When I did, I made the greatest realization I have ever realized: I had no photos. At all. My phone was in my bag, and I was too taken aback by the sheer beauty and thought in the room that I didn’t take any.

Harumph.

Anyway, I had a lovely day. I did what I wanted to do, I made friends, and most importantly, I was myself the whole time.

I feel like that’s the best thing I did for myself.

With a lot of love in my great big heart (for all of you, even those who didn’t attend),

Ibrahim.