When I started this blog late March this year I was wild with expectations. I thought I had finally found my niche, you know, that one thing that would spiral me to euphoric levels of success, staggering heights of fame and make me drop out of college(finally) like all the greats:Mark Zuckerberg,Bill Gates,name them.I thought two-three flowery posts and pap! My multi-billion empire made out of just words, a lot of money enough to buy my crush and/or a beach house in Diani and/or a puppy that doesn’t poop puppy shit but sings with Christina Aguilera’s vocals; basically I had high hopes.
I wrote my first three pieces with some Messianic bouts of confidence, the kind of confidence that makes people sing stuff like”sina saa ya kupeleka kitambi sauna”; confidence that can make a Luhya believe that they are full after eating noodles. I believed my words, I touched and felt and cuddled them in some type of way. They were gems and I treasured each one of them. The pieces got better and better, more people started noticing. Friends met me on the road and they’d be so surprised I can write anything other than my government names and copied assignments.They would call me “that kawaida girl” and I would blush more than a virgin in front of King Mswati.I would bite my fingers and draw Swaziland’s map with my feet while they say how a good writer I am before I mumbled something in return like ”Oh,kumbe you read,aki thanks”.I don’t even know whether they actually read it or they could see I had sent the link and dismiss it because I have a boring face and boring faces cannot be trusted to write interesting anything’s,not even obituaries. Honestly speaking,let’s face it, my face is not as interesting as my words. Okay I have an okay face, and that is just about where it stops. I even congratulate in advance the human being who will have to wake up every day for the rest of his life to this particular face. I say Shalom! to you.But oh well,like all marriages nowadays,my face and I tolerate each other just fine,’for the children’ .I wear it shamelessly and it stays there.Facy.
Where am I going with this?
Writing is what a bald head is to a barber.Nothing much to find there-non-rewarding at first glance-until the barber realizes even bald heads love a good massage.To be a writer is to have faith,and gallons of it. You think you got it then wake up the next morning and you don’t even have to smell the coffee.It hits you.It hits you like it’s the police. Like that goddamn coffee was grown in Kiganjo.Coffee schemed how to hit you all night, it sat with other Hit’ler coffees-these include coffees of Helb demanding for college money you wasted on that chic that left you and Safaricom’s okoa jahazi/M-shwari loans texts-and it did a whole ritual on how to hit you once you wake up.What I simply refer to are the nights I slept a happy writer and woke up a bag of insecurities.My writing fears were standing naked right infront of me,fists clenched.Mornings when I worried about my next article,will the cruel cyberworld like it?will they even read it?Suddenly you feel like writing is actually a sign your life can amount to nothing more,you feel exposed having people read your thoughts and not even react,and worse still,no one pays you for it.The blank Word document is an empty space in which you think the world will love your words as much as you love them but sometimes the only emotion you get after filling it is….empty.
I have had these mornings. Sometimes they came at night. They crept up on me and tore my defenses and made me text all my ex-boyfriends about how I well I have been doing ever since they left,or I left.I brag about how I have moved on,I even have a blog.But I’m texting them so that means I haven’t really moved on.I tell them I will write badly about them in my blog(The way I say ‘them’ like it’s a choir!) and they say ”please don’t” and I tell them”SAY MY NAME” and they meekly reply “Not a kawaida girl” then I feel valid.I feel important.I feel like writing is not as frustrating after all.We may not all stop the world.Maybe only Prime minister Netanyahu can come all the way from Israel(i) and stop the world here in Nairobi,some of us have to set it in motion.With words.
Cheers to the end of my writing dryspell part one.
It’s on good people!!!