It is Sunday. I am in Douala. The heat is sweltering. The walk from the hotel I am staying at and the venue of the conference I am here to attend nearly melts me. By the time I get there, the conference venue, my Africa’s Talking t-shirt is stuck to my sweaty back. I stand by an air conditioner, my back to it, to cool off.
When walking home, there is a dirty and desolate-looking man coming your way. He is limping. His right foot is covered by a plastic bag. A dirty plastic bag that has been trudged through mud. His clothes may have been of varied colours once, when they were still dignified, now they are all the colour of dirt, of dust, of poverty, of homelessness. They are the same colour as the sack that is weighing him down. The sack he carries over his shoulder. This sack that likely contains his life’s possessions. Everything he owns, is on his back. The clothing he wears and the sack he bears.
I love kids. The best part of that has to be the fact that they always love me back. Unrequited love is another hard situation. Kids are easy to please. Just get down to their level and engage. If they are still at the illegibly mumbling stage, I always just go ahead and engage back in natural human language. (Of course true child lovers in touch with their inner child will know the kid is actually making loads of sense. Those of you that have fully been assimilated into the growing up trap have lost your childhood magic, I maintain that I still have mine.)
Why is my auto-correct an idiot? Well, like they say, if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it’s stupid. Does this not definitively determine that my auto-correct is an idiot? Its one job, ONE JOB, is to make the people I am texting think I never err on grammar or spelling. More often than not, it introduces errors and makes me sound like an idiot. Let us not even start on the, perhaps the Kiswahili threw it off argument. I refuse. It is an artificial intelligence. It should pick up Kiswahili as well as it does English. I hope you are reading this auto-correct, I am disappointed.
Intruder alert! Intruder alert! I often find myself bogged down by impostor syndrome. “Impostor syndrome (also known as […]
Hello? Hey! Hi. How are you?
So, you may or may not remember this but we knew each other once upon a time. Well, I knew you. You may not remember me. We met over on this site, kathleensiminyu.com. I used to frequently blog there. I think you stumbled across it once or twice. Maybe?
I like early mornings because of the silence. People are asleep, the surroundings are still, my brain is just waking up so there are yet to be a million thoughts cascading over each other in there. The neighbours’ chicken will sometimes be clucking in the morning. Yes, I get it, this is what chicken do, but that does not make it any less annoying. Occasionally, the neighbours’ dog will be barking about one thing or another, probably chasing its tail round and round. We have a dog too, but it is generally silent, docile. The rowdy one, my little Benjamin Button, was exiled to ushago. A story for another day, but yes, our dog is silent. This morning however, I could hear a disturbance from somewhere outside. Voices, sounds that may or may not have been there. You know how sometimes the mind plays tricks on you, like when you could swear you just heard someone say your name but then no one did and you start to low key question your sanity. I ignored the sounds but they persisted so I decided to venture onto the balcony, be nosy, snoop.
In the past year alone I have sat down severally to try and write about my mother but I always chicken out of it. I never feel ready. I never feel like I have enough content to encompass everything that she embodies, and there is a lot. If you know my mother, really know her, then you know there’s a lot. Well, let me try and put all these archived thoughts down and see if after all this time I can attempt to tell you through a series of stories who she is and why when I count my blessings, I see her in every one of them.
I happened upon a frighteningly accurate compilation of comic strips with regards to introverts. Finnish introverts to be precise but a lot of them, I found, rang true for me. Proof that I am an introvert through and through, no matter what ratio of introvert:extrovert you may have met me at. I’ll put a link to the comic compilation at the end so that if only for that, you at least have incentive to scroll to the bottom.