THE UNSENT LETTER

 >>> reblog of my article that appeared on The Story Moja Festival Blog


I’m no expert on pain but like everybody who has ever been hurt I think I am well on my way. See, one thing I learnt since you’ve been gone is that pain makes the best philosophers. Think of some of the greatest writers of this century and centuries past. William Shakespeare wrote of two jilted lovers in the famous Romeo and Juliet and we all know that story ended tragically. Pablo Neruda’s most beautiful works all have this element of pain- the heartbreak of parting with a lover. Closer to home we have Ngugi wa Thiongo. Though he wrote of colonialism, the reason his works told the Kenyan Independence story so wonderfully is the pain element- how it hurts to have land taken away and to live like a slave in your own home. I can go on and on. But I have to keep this letter short.
I became a philosopher too. I had written about pain before. Previously, I documented my theories on how infatuation hurts and growing pains in little musings scattered across diaries and notebooks labelled ‘private’ in colourful marker pens. But I realized I wouldn’t go down in history as one of the greatest if I only shared my wisdom with myself so for a while I retreated. Instead I chose to focus on studying the wisdom of philosophers before me. I read and read and soaked in the various ways of expression.
But your unexpected exit forced me out of my cocoon.
And that was the first thing I learnt about pain. Like a stomach cramp at midnight, it jerks you into being alert. And even if you close your eyes and try to burrow deeper into your blankets, it hurts so bad you can’t help but notice it.
That’s how it felt like when it hit me I just might lose you.
When the pain became too much to bear, I sought release. So I wrote on and on about my fears.
They first sounded like annoying little nursery rhymes but I kept at it. Those lessons on hope I was learning as I stayed up all night praying you would wake up couldn’t be kept to myself. I shared them. Whether they cared or not, I showed it to them.A bold step. But I was following in the steps of philosophers I idolised. And just like them, with every item I wrote and shared, I realized I was getting better.
The next thing I learnt about pain, I learnt when you gave in and chose not to stay here any longer.
It hurt. I thought you would stay. But I guess someone bigger had plans that were far bigger than mine. I cried but I chose to honour you the way philosophers like me would have so I stood tall that day we bid you goodbye and gave you my best. I’m still not sure which one made them take notice more; whether it was the wonderfully woven words or the shaky voice struggling to sound eloquent. Whichever it was, in the midst of a world that seemed to be crumbling all around,I realized that it is in pain that you re-discover your strength. So on that day when my knees felt that they could barely support me, it was in writing that I found peace.
You should be happy to know I kept at it. Pain gave me the courage to make sure all the wisdom I’ve learnt over the years follows me to infinity because I kept writing it down. I’ve been doing so artistically too because what I know I have is a gift.
Three and a half years since since your departure, I was expecting to be done with pain. I have learnt a lot and discovered even more about myself.
But I guess that’s one more thing I have learnt about pain: you never get over it because it always finds a new way to re-invent itself.
It starts as the physical pain of a headache you get when you cry your eyes out. It gravitates to the emotional pain and void you feel when you realize your loved one isn’t with you but then it grows to become the mental torture of realizing how life goes on and the person you so dearly miss is only but a memory.
Allow me to explain a little better. See, I started interning at what is shaping out to be my dream company recently. The truth is I realized the pain of your absence pierces through my thoughts a little more than it should.
I remember you every time I run into my boss and imagine you calling the shots at the last place you worked. It stings worse when he talks on the phone and I swear he sounds just like you.
I walk through the office at 7 a.m and the perfume I wear lingers strongly behind me and that scent, though far from what you used to wear, still reminds me of the Hugo Boss that you would spray every morning on your way out.
At the coffee station I serve myself a cup of overly sugared hot chocolate and I remember how you would always eagerly serve me the same every time it was your turn to pick me up from school and we’d make a detour through your office.
But you know when the pain of your absence hurt me like a stake through the heart?
That first time my senior congratulated me for a job well done.
It was a giant step. To me it was a leap in the right direction.
But I experienced it without you.
And that was what hurt me more than anything. Because I know you would have been so proud.
You were my cheerleader and the cheer of achievement quickly faded when I got home and all I could see was your coloured portrait staring back at me in a frame,not your warm hug welcoming me with the words, ‘congrats Baby, I am so proud of you.’
At that moment that mental, physical and emotional recognition of your absence burned more than the fieriest furnace ever could.
But I guess it’s all good.
Just another lesson in pain I get to document for the world to see.
And though I know this letter will never reach you, I just thought I’d leave this in the memoirs I write. Maybe, the pain will start to get a little less if I allow its trace to follow me through infinity.
I miss you daddy.
Happy Labour day.


 For my daddy, I still remember you.

Scripturient Addictions

Let me tell you who this one is for.

This one is for you if you may possibly have tried other drugs but are convinced beyond any doubt that no material stimulant can ever take you to the cosmic levels of elation that the simple act of putting pen to paper(or finger to keyboard) does.

For the scripturient tendencies within you,
those moments when the words flow freely and wipe out any other thing in the world except that message you  so desperately need to convey.
For the zombie you have been known to become; oblivious of all else except the vast universe your mind begs you to explore with the sentences you keep stringing.

For that empty feeling when the sentences string themselves into a complete story.
The writer's hangover.
That hollowness because after giving a piece your all you feel drained:
mentally, emotionally, possibly physically.
And that lingering blank space where you ask yourself,
'so what next?'

This is for you who sneaks to the bathroom at the most awkward of times and hate to admit publicly that it is while taking a dump that some of your greatest stories have been crafted.
For those sneaky sneaky writing habits that remind you of those sneaky sneaky habits other substance abusers have.
For those moments your style of expression has had you questioning your sanity.

But this poem is also for you if you are suffering from withdrawal symptoms.
The tormentous mental  torture of writer's block.
When you crave to reach that peak but the words refuse to take you there because they just wont allow themselves to find you this time.
Fear not,
because in the dead of the night, they will whisk you away and you will find yourself unable to stop writing them down and when it is over, Armstrong will have nothing on you in terms of achievement because that masterpiece you create feels like the ultimate.

Sometimes the craft may even give you a high that will have you hallucinating.
So this is also for you if you may or may not have practiced your Pullitzer Price Acceptance Speech in the mirror a few thousand times.
Or if you already have a secret Pinterest board titled Caine Prize Winner Gala Outfit Ideas.
Or you already know what tropical island vacation you will spend your Nobel Prize Cash Award on.
And it is particularly for you if you know your friends and family will disown you if you ever shared the above fantasies with them but you still dare to have them anyway.

So this is for the day-dreamers
Whose dreams live a little everytime they write them down.
For the artistic misfits who know not many understand their craft but keep writing anyway.
For the introverts whose multiple personalities are revealed with every beautifully structured sentence strung together.
For the sanguine yet silent sapiosexuals whose immense intellect comes to play when they stare at a blank page.

This poem is for weirdos like me- writers with wandering minds that are only found behind walls painted white with black characters.

May the wells of words in our pens never run dry.