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There Is No Title For This One.

There Is No Title For This One.

1920 1280 Oliver Kagwe
Reading Time: 6 minutes

As I quickly write this blog, I am struggling to find what it is for. Like what it’s purpose is. But then my blog has been quite dormant and I am under a lot of internal (and external) pressure to write. I have not been writing because I like not writing. In fact, I have been writing just that I have not been publishing. Instead, I have been writing then deleting. Why? Because they just did not look things I would write. They were bad. They made me sad. Deleting a 900-word document is not orgasmic. But there is a style of writing that I have been formulating and I am known for. Anything that does not have an ‘Oliver-feel’ to it does not get published – only in the recycle bin.

That paragraph, I must admit, sounds a lot like someone who lives inside their head. But it also sounds like a person who is building a brand – a style. Like the way you would easily identify works of Bikozulu, Magunga, or Al Kags. Also, I fully appreciate that Rome was built in very many days. To prove that I have been having a hell of a time, here is a sample bullshit blog that I wrote (I am really sorry if by the end of it you do not see sense):

So yesterday, the event was a meeting and the people were me and this guy talking about this and that and other things that should not bother you – haha! It was the first time this both of us were meeting.

From the time he entered the cafe, his expression was that of someone who just walked into a bad memory. I instantly felt that he did not like the place, but I wasn’t willing to go anywhere else so I kept it to myself. Much into the meeting, he continued to look very uneasy. I wanted to ask him if he was okay. To ask if he had spotted someone who he owed money in the room (after which I would have laughed) – but I did not ask. There was a problem. The guy was short. If you are wondering how being short has anything to do with this, then you are not serious!

You know how short people are. They take everything in the environment relative to their lack of significant height. And because they feel that they are undermined (even if they are not) by everything else that’s taller (sometimes even shorter) than them, they have evolved to acquire a very hot temper. If people would be coloured based on their varying emotions, then faces of short people would always be red. And if they were liquid and they would be found in the body, then they would be blood – because it is red and it is hot! (Damn!)

So I did not ask if he was okay. I had already imagined how he would take it personally and think that I think he is not okay because he is very short. That I was trying to insinuate that being short is equivalent to not being okay. Maybe he would think I am making fun of him because he could not reach the table properly and he thought I was about to ask the waitress to add a cushion on his seat. Maybe he’d done some tall head work about me noticing that he’s toes barely touched the ground from his seat and it embarrassed him. Maybe he thought I had noticed how little his shoes were and thought I would laugh. But I did not even giggle – not even at his jokes. And even this was a problem – because he would think his jokes were dry – and they were.

A young lady comes to our table and presents us with a booklet. It is supposed to be a menu (wonder which curse word Gordon Ramsay would unleash on this one). She is wearing an overdone smile on her face. I wondered if it was because she wanted to show off her very exquisite dental formula or because she was indeed happy to serve us. Or because her boss told her to always wear a smile while serving clients – you know, not being herself. But anyway, I ordered first. My little friend was taking his time. Soon I realised that he was having a hard time (or should I say, it was a tall order) figuring what to eat and what not to eat – and for good reason (read on to find out). This should have been the point where I ask “Do you need any assistance?” But I was afraid for my life – and I am not a fan of extreme sports.

After 3 days, he finally made his order. Moments later, cutlery was placed before us. I don’t like how they do that to try and manage our hunger. To lie to us in broad day light that food is going to be ready sooner than we think kumbe they’re still refining the oil they’ll use to fry your chicken wings. Meanwhile, my friend’s uneasyness has gone a level higher. At this point, individual beads of sweat had emerged from the pores where they hide, converging to form what was now a lot of sweat. Or a sea of sweat. But it was flowing, so a river of sweat. Maybe a multitude of sweat – you get the point. Even his forehead was shining – and it wasn’t when he came in. His cool was not here.  He was struggling. He kept on shifting in his seat as if it was hot and he needed to burn his bum evenly. He shifted his weight from left to right, an unconscious expression of absolute discomfort.

It’s like all of a sudden after ordering, he remembered that he had not closed the tab on his laptop that he was watching porn on – and his daughter had asked for his password, which he had given her (without thinking! How does one make such an amateur mistake?). But that is none of my business. Then after another 3 days, food was served. Of course by now, my interest in what this person was saying had considerably reduced. His tension caused me some tension and we were not at optimum conversation level.

So me I dive right into the food armed with my fork and knife, and seriously backed by a mixture of hunger, frustration and tension. In the mean time, my little friend is not eating. Sasa huyu simwelewi mimi. He is just playing around with his tools and the food. I stop, take a good look at him, say ‘shit‘ in my head and ask  “Is there anything wrong? You have barely touched your food.. In fact, all this while, you have been off. Are you always like this?” He looks back at me, dead straight into me, so deep I could feel his gaze on my brain. Like literally on my cerebral cortex. I must say that for a short person, this one had one hell of a fierce face. For a moment I regret opening my mouth. I regret being seated across him, I regret having this meeting with him, I regret ever knowing him. It is sad that on this day, I would demise from this world, having not left behind any offspring of my own.

He continued looking thoughtfully. Contemplating on the whether pouncing on me now was better than waiting for me to finish then following me to my house and burning me with acid. I continued to wish I had teleportation powers. Teleport from here to Alaska and be an eskimo. Please remember, I was meeting this person for the first time, without any knowledge of whether he had any disturbing pasts like psychopathy or cannibalism. Aside from the fact that he was short, and my understanding of short people, I did not know what he did to people who made him mad! Gai!

“I am fine. I just struggle eating with these things. Unajua zilikuja na meli na si njia zetu.” He said. ” I am not used to these kinds of environments you know. High end places.” He continues while now looking at his plate. I feel the urge to smile. And I do. “Ah, kumbe ni hio?! Usitense, weh ni mtu mkubwa. Plus hii hata ni kibanda. Kuna zingine kali kuliko hii!” I console him while gesturing at the waiter to come.

Fast forward, he scoops the last of his meal with a spoon. The he opens up about how he once had an ‘egg-in-the-face’ moment in front of his client. He remembers how he couldn’t pronounce the words on the menu without rounding them off to the nearest “there is no such word you idiot!” He mentioned something about the look both his client and the waitperson gave him. Then he caused a scene because his hands refused to cooperate. They lost all harmony with each other, with his brain and with his intentions. He continued to describe how bad it was that he lost the job he was meeting that client for. He recalls how the mean people around him laughed at him. And the terrible remarks they made. And remember he is short. Already this makes him feel bad, now imagine adding another reason to feel badder.

The meeting ended after we re-did it. This time round, he was like how I had expected him to be and in turn, I was also more receptive.

Basically, I have been trying to tell you that it is okay not being able to eat with a fork and knife. You do you because you not doing you affects how you are to other people and how other people are to you. Do you!

 

 

 

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