Don’t Gaze At Ceilings, It’s A Trap!

Don’t Gaze At Ceilings, It’s A Trap!

Don’t Gaze At Ceilings, It’s A Trap!

225 225 Oliver Kagwe

A little SQ somewhere in South B is a cremation chamber. Global warming has decided to warm this tiny overpriced structure a little bit more than anywhere else. It is very quiet, this place. A silence that has a dullness in it. But is there anything as complete silence? Is there not always a noise made by the beating of your own heart, or the loudness of your deep thoughts? That’s on you to contemplate. But in this room, a young man is lying aimlessly on his bed staring at the ceiling as if he had never seen it before. And he gazed at it for a while. You would think it was his career – to stare at ceilings.

People who gawk at things may confuse you. You might think that they are thinking about life changing stuff – revolutionary stuff. Like how man can colonise Mars (so that our Ruto can grab himself some hectares of course. Hail Ruto!). Or how we can replenish the Ozone layer so that overpriced SQs are not heated up like ovens. But don’t be fooled. Their minds are usually the blankest of blanks – even blank spaces are not blank enough. And that was the case with this young man. He wasn’t thinking about anything that would affect (or not affect) his life in any way. Just staring idly. Like how most youth in this dying country stare idly into their futures – not sure how it looks like. And an empty mind is what the devil loves to make his workshop, so he seized his opportunity.

With the devils tools scattered all over his mind, Junior started to think about girls. Staring at the ceiling finally kinda paid off, for it became a large screen where girls walked amorously. He saw the faces of many mamas. Chiles he had crushes on (to be honest it was plain lust). He particularly paid attention to Emma. That babe was so fine she had everything he had ever imagined in a girl. Her smile was the sort that made flowers bloom. Her touch would give life to dying man (or thing ha-ha), and when she swayed her hips like this it caused a light breeze to blow. I won’t tell you any more, because Google Analytics showed me that my blog has audience in the Tsavo, and so hyenas might start hunting her down.

Wave after wave of imaginations coupled with temptations came at Junior. Water was filling. Pressure was building. But he was sure that he did not wanna go back there. An alcoholic hates what he feels after he has had one-two many drinks and has to sleep in a ditch. He feels the cold. The stench. The jeering. And he doesn’t like it. He hates the look children give him when they smell the ammonia on him, and the agonising stare that his wife gives him when she sees the stain that the ammonia formed on his trousers. He does not take pride in washing these trousers as well. Neither does he feel like a king when he is sober, seated at the table trying to have dinner with his kids. If there is anything he would give his life to not see happen again, is himself holding the brown (or sometimes green) bottle to his lips. He wishes and swears that it should not happen again.

But you see, there is a thing with addictions that you cannot explain. They are like a conniving enchantress. They know how to stroke your balls and whisper beautiful lines to make you excited. They create a huge fire that consumes your insides and burns your resistance. They take you slowly on a journey, and even when you are aware of their bad intentions, you are not able to get yourself out. Addictions have mastered the art of scheming and deception. You will never know what hit you or how it hit you. They have a way of sending tiny tiny waves your way, waves that guide you very slowly to whatever addiction you are running away from.

Junior was in a battle. He tried to say a prayer to save himself. But his guardian angel who delivers prayers to heaven was out on a date. He tossed and turned in his bed. But the image of an undraped Emma haunted not just his ceiling, body, mind and soul, she was in his bedsheets as well. The more he twisted and clutched on to them attempting to fight away this burning desire, the more he could smell her in them. He could not even shut his eyes because the more he did, the clearer her vision became in his mind. Poor Junior! Dear reader, please take a moment of silence to say a short prayer for Junior. Amen.

He’s strength was fading. He was loosing the battle. A muffled voice tried to reignite his fighting spirit, but it was no more. Looking as defeated as he could, he reached out to his drawer, and pulled it out. He looked at it, sighed relief, said a curse word and proceeded to pour some white lotion onto his palms.

Later that day he was looking dejectedly at himself wondering what he was worth. He could beat himself up if he could – but he couldn’t. He wondered why he did not just step out. Or taken a book and read. Or called his dad and had a conversation about anything with him. Or made pancakes. Or…

Junior’s cup had already spilled, and there was nothing he could do about it. All because he stared blankly at his ceiling as if he had never seen it before – as if it was his career to stare at ceilings!