Have you ever met someone whose personality puts you instantly at ease? Someone who has you laughing that hysterical, possibly high pitched, not curated for public display laughter that you try to keep under wraps when you have to behave and be courteous around company?
I haven’t written in a while.
Not for public consumption anyway.
Did you notice?
This week started out with me giving a talk to form ones at my alma mater. A talk on goal setting. As expected…so much nostalgia! Except the tables were turned.
After a little over two and a half years, I went to the salon this week. Yes, two and a half years, no, I have not been growing one big dreadlock on my head. Okay, now that that bold declaration is out of the way, here’s a little background information. In 2011, while I was in fourth form, I decided to cut my hair. The BC. Non-naturalista folk, BC stands for ‘Big Chop’. Unlike in the religious context where BC are the years ‘Before Christ’, the years pre-enlightenment, in the world of textured hair BC is the beginning. This is the point of enlightenment after which full edges, voluminous bouncy curls and good vibes only follow. Not to sound biased against anyone with textured hair who chooses to wear their hair in any other way, but c’mon, I’m a naturalista, of course I will tell you all about the much greener grass on my side. I cut my hair on the day I finished my mock examinations. Came right home from a horrible Fasihi paper (Kiswahili…hmph!) picked up a pair of scissors and chopped it off. Loved it! A few hours later after washing my hair, shrinkage manifested. Hated it! I immediately regretted my decision, but the beauty of occasionally throwing yourself into the deep end is that you leave yourself with very few choices, two, sink or swim.
“Raisa!” called out her mother and not for the first time.
“What’s taking you so long?” she added although she already knew. In the living room was a guest, a guest that any 18 year old girl would dread… a suitor. Her mother hoped this would be the one for her. Rashad was kind and respectful. Hopefully, this was not just a front.
John-Paul was a 4 or 5 year old Australian-Colombian kid who spoke every single thought that happened to pop into his head. ‘Was’, because that was several years ago. He is obviously older now. Sometimes, the thoughts that popped into his head were were exactly the same as the ones that popped into his head 5 minutes before.(I used two “were”s to prove a point and horrible punctuation to point out that point. Oh well…) You know how kids are. When my younger brother was little, he would ask or talk about the same thing over and over and over again. Why do kids do that? Do they forget they just said that? Do they forget you literally just had that conversation 5 minutes ago? A very literal 5 minutes that has 300 seconds.(I almost reached for a calculator to do that math, but the fact that I so recently earned a degree in Mathematics guilt-tripped me into doing the sum mentally. Turns out I can still handle some simple mental arithmetic. Trust me, after some of the things you encounter studying Mathematics in uni, simple arithmetic becomes those distant childhood memories that you only vaguely remember. The ones that you completely forget about until your mum or aunts or older siblings tell you stories of when you were younger and you have a sudden ‘Oh yeah…that happened!’ moment. You remember that you had forgotten that! But, I digress…) Back to John-Paul…
I sat down and thought of my primary school days and friends recently. They were brought to mind by the fact that a Whatsapp group was created and we were all bundled in there. Nostalgia. Many I have lost touch with, have not spoken to in years!!! Yet, as I sat there, silently observing as individuals were added and they identified themselves, I found that truck-loads of memories came gushing, flooding my thoughts.
I penned this letter as a release for my nostalgia.
The TV drones on in the background. Requiem mass for the former first lady going on. What eyes aren’t glued on it are glued on phones. What did man do before there were screens to affix ones eyes on? Heavens forbid we have to look each other in the eye and talk. I am in a hospital waiting room. Well, kinda. An out-patient facility is more like it.
I’m listening to it right now. Thick, heavy, voluminous rain. Rain that seems like it came with a jam-packed agenda. It’s not raining just because…this rain knows what it came to do! I can tell from the quick succession of explosive thuds on the roof, on my bedroom window, on the ground.