You are probably in bed, 2am with the lights off, reading this post with the illuminating screen shining on your pretty face. You are in a long t-shirt, those promotional ones you got from a Tuzo visit back in primary when they sponsored a spelling competition that you came in 2nd. You cried that night because you had been practicing all week for it. Studying difficult words like rendezvous and phlegmatic and connoisseur just for Malcom to beat you with one point. They gave you that t-shirt for being second. They gave Malcom a mountain bike. You hated Malcom.
This is the first post you’re reading from this blog. After class the other day, Anita told you about it. She has always been telling you about this blog but it keeps slipping your mind. Or ignoring, I don’t know. But today, she got you. Just when you were about to sleep, she sent you this post because that’s how she is, Anita, tenacious like those houseflies in dirty bars. Now you had to read it, to find out what all the fuss is about.
You have a nice name, those names that every guy you meet says, ”That’s a pretty name” and means it; Norah or Ella. Let’s go with Ella. You’ve probably never been dumped with such a name. I bet you use this name exactly how it is on Instagram. Because it’s beautiful, Ella.
You don’t know why you’re awake at two. It’s a shitty move you’re pulling, being awake at that time. Because tomorrow at 7am you have class with Dr. something. He’s Indian, you’ve never really caught his name. It’s intricate, like the unit he lectures. He’s also a salty fella and always gets angry when people miss his classes so you have to go. And it’s Financial Accounting II where you miss and never recover. You hate it too, like Malcom. But dad with all his knowledge and reasoning coerced you into doing it. He said it’s a good course, something about continuing with family business and knowing many people in the field. You couldn’t say no, he had a stern face that has always daunted you.
I don’t know what you wanted to do in campus. Maybe you’ve always wanted to be a painter. I hope you’ve always wanted to be a painter. You have always been inspired by the works of Jean-Michel Basquiat. You think he’s the shit and you want to be the greatest black painter after him. You want to be a painting cognoscenti.
I hope you are pretty and have dimples (or one) when you smile. I hope that you believe you are pretty. I hope that your smile gives men in campus sleepless nights. I hope that you are shorter than me, 5’5 or there about. In this height, I hope your body accommodates nice hips that can birth a Kinyua (we are huge) and nicer bosom that will feed him well.
I started thinking about you two weeks ago, on a Thursday. I woke up and did my morning routine like any other morning. I peed first, took a dump, hopped into the shower then took heavy breakfast and headed to school. I always take heavy breakfast on exam days, you see, to avoid the noisy gripes of an empty stomach. Everything about this day had mundane written all over it, except it was not; it was my birthday.
Now I’m not those people that shove my birthday on people’s timelines and Whatsapp statuses. I believe that the few that remember are the ones that matter. I hope you’ll be one of them.
I turned 21.
Dear future wife, I had the wildest dreams for this day. I believed I would drive myself to Naivasha and sleep in a camping tent. Naked. In that dream, no insects would bite me. They’d know I was a 21 year old that had it all together. I thought I would be living in my own house, paying my own rent and buying my own bathing soap. I thought by now I would probably have met you somewhere in a writers’ convention in Nanyuki. You, in a free flowing white sundress looking like an angel in a reverie and I, in the signature cardigan writer look. I thought we would be friends, at least.
But as I did that paper early in the morning with a nipping cold disturbing my peace, I almost broke down thinking about where I am in my life.
I am currently living at home with my parents and consequently, don’t buy my own bathing soap. I am struggling to be known for my writing, and honestly, it’s harder than I expected it to be. I still haven’t fully got over the habit of biting my nails. And I still don’t have an ‘adult’ handwriting. (You know how no adult in the universe writes like you wrote your Chemistry notes in high school, neat and tidy? Their letters are either skewed or conjoined or both. That’s the adult handwriting I’m talking about). What I’m saying is, nothing has changed since my teenage years. I don’t even have a beard.
Since then, I have been thinking about you a lot. And I wonder, do you think about me? What food do you like? What’s your best friend’s name? Do you call each other twinnies? Do you like the snapchat dog filters? Do you like snapchat? What do you think about yourself? Do you drink or smoke? I hope you don’t smoke tobacco. Do you fear spiders like every other girl or do you let them crawl on you as you pick them up and observe them? What are your passions? What are your political views? More importantly, do you adore sitcoms as much as I do? There’s only one answer here by the way. Do you go to church? Do you believe that people who don’t dance in church make up for it in clubs? Do you love chapati? Do you know how to cook them? If you don’t, please teach yourself before we meet.
In your long Tuzo t-shirt and smooth thighs running underneath it, I hope Anita didn’t disappoint you when she sent you this post. Maybe you didn’t even reach this far, you slept halfway through. I hope you didn’t, though.