Why Humans Dance

Looking from the outside in, it is Genesis remembered. The stool at the bar is my balcony seat, and from here I behold-as on a stage- the universe reborn; mankind is formed once more from sweet terra mater, once more the earth is subdued and we overrun it. As all men, I am an actor in the play that is tonight. But I play the audience. I am the eyes looking inward at the workings of the body, the individual discovering the self, the introspective mind questioning its machinations.

The lights of the laser beam display pierce the heavy night. At the herald of each beam, darkness flees. It is just as at that Beginning when light was called forth from nothing. But the light is no more veiled in the modest cloak of white it donned at time’s birth. Her bare self bursts forth in its full glory. In the Beginning, it was gentle chastisement she dealt to eternal night. But tonight- too long has the shadow wielded its ghastly power; tonight the cup of her wrath is full, and from it she bids night drink deep the wine of her techni-color fury. Every hue in her arsenal in unleashed, and as darkness takes flight at her advance she imbues her blush to whatever it is her naked and weightless self lies with: and it lives- every flash a vivifying beat of her brilliant heart; It speaks: colours blended in that unutterable lyric that whispers passion to the darkest caverns of the human psyche. There is light. And the light is good.

Every flash of light, every baring of her perfect form is met with the approval of rhythm. At first it is only an odd nod here and there and a snapping of those semiquaver fingers- like an audible beating of light’s brilliant heart. Then there is an approach and an over-the-shoulder whispering of pleasant nothings. There are clearly two hearts now. And then the beat throws his arms around light and draws her close. There is a maddening acceleration of the rhythm of the beating of hearts. Soon it is impossible to tell flash from rhythm and light from music. Every hue is a note and all pitch a shade in this rainbow symphony.

And suddenly in the midst of the color and song ballet, as if painted against the canvas that is fleeing blackness, there is movement. Formless shadows melding and parting like lips in a stolen kiss - limbless, headless things. Things melded into one being that heaves to and fro with the up-beat and the down-beat of the music. This creature breathes song, eats song, lives song.

I rouse from my dreamy observations at the calling of my name. Suddenly, the fluid scene that I have been drinking in descends into chaos. The song and color ballet becomes a riotous shuffle and dub-step. The song breathing, song eating, song living beast is fragmented into countless personas, some single, some paired, each sweat-soaked and glistening and panting from the endless movement. They are slave to the music. And hard does the music ride them- a savage, unrelenting dominatrix that will hear none of their pleas for relief.

The siren whose name-calling shattered my dream is now tugging at my hand, smiling ear to ear. Her eyes betray possession by forces so primal they are beyond our understanding. Her lithe body still sways in the ever ebbing current of song. She was definitely not formed from clay-this lass; for even were the most sacred pope-kissed earth mixed with the holiest of Vatican-well drawn waters, were the finest of artist’s hands to thereafter mould that most sanctified mud into a being, was the purest air from the loftiest of mountain peaks breathed into that being, even then, that being would pale, nay it would be dross, when compared to her. I feel my side. Everything about her smarts of divine handiwork. She whispers in my ear for me to join her in the revelry, and then she steps back and swings her waist this way and that. I look to my virgin Pina on the counter…

---

The music eases her hold on her subjects. They have been driven hard for close to an hour now by the rhythmic cracking of her polyphonic whip. Endogenous opioids flood their brains. Post-dance bliss kicks in and they all stagger, grin-faced and giggly to couches and stools and each others arms. There is a lusty lustre in their eyes, as the men behold their women and the women behold their men. None doubts the intent they read in the other’s eyes. It is Genesis remembered.

---

I never took the invitation.

Spilled and Dried Black Sugarless Tea

A single glance from across the room sends me searching the floor for pennies. I cannot meet her gaze. And yet she does not relent.

Unease hangs in the air- as does a sickly bitter scent. The gold sun pours into the room from a window at the end of the hall washing over the floor in a fiery flood of gilded light. Except for the goings-in and comings-out of the hefty white-dressed and blue-sweatered nurses (I think they call them matrons) with their endless lamentations, the hallway is shrouded in silence. There are four of us seated there. And I cannot meet her gaze.

‘Panua miguu Mama’. I wince. In my head I cannot help but think that maybe the doctors should exercise a little bit more decorum. Or that maybe the walls should be a little bit thicker. But then it strikes me that here, in this secluded part of the hospital, in Clinic 66, I am the stranger. Two of the ladies continue their animated conversation in not-so-hushed tones. I cannot tell what they are talking about. My mind is probably still struggling to come to terms with this new place and the experience of it. Her curious stare still seemingly struggles to pierce my intentions. And I cannot meet her gaze.

The floor offers up no pennies. Instead, dark islands the colour of spilled and dried black sugarless tea dot the golden sea of light. The ‘Mama’ walks out of the examination room accompanied by one of the hefty nurses. My eyes unconsciously track her footsteps. Actually, what my eyes watch is the floor where her last step was as she walks. It is dry, and so my guess is that she is here for a follow-up visit. Clinic 66 caters for women with vesico-vaginal fistulae, a condition where a hole forms between the urinary bladder and the vagina. That explains the sickly bitter scent and the spilled and dried sugarless black tea islands.

I briefly attempt to look in her direction. I am still evasive of her gaze though. I am convinced that if our eyes met, her curiosity about what a lad my age is doing in this secluded and exclusive part of the hospital would be met only by an empty stare. Or perhaps pity. And I do not think it is pity she hopes to see. I do not think pity is what any of the women sitting in the hallway with me wishes to see. They have no doubt suffered it all. I read somewhere that sometimes affected women would rather desert their husbands than let them in on their suffering. And with good reason I suppose. Shame can drive one mad. One cannot help but imagine what embarrassment a problem so obvious about something so private and taboo to the African would bring to the sufferer. Women will talk. Men will whisper as they sit under trees at evening discussing as neighbourhood news what the women relished as gossip. Children will eagerly gather the crumbs and leftovers of the tall tales and the gossip. They will munch on them heartily… And what pain it will bring when the insults are hurled from the mouths of babes. So I cannot return her gaze. I cannot return it if all I have to offer is pity.

Her son walks in. Her face brightens. He’s probably in his late twenties. Her face barely betrays the years she has faced though. Quickly, their conversation evolves from customary greeting (I guess) to a very animated discussion. I cannot tell what they are saying. But the melody in the words as they utter them is bewitching. Suddenly the golden sea washes over the spilled and dried black sugarless tea islands and a gentle breeze clears the sickly bitter smell. She is smiling. Her hands are waving as she describes what is probably the wonder of being in so large a hospital. Or maybe she is just painting a vivid picture of the hefty white-dressed and blue-sweatered nurses. I will never tell. And perhaps I hope I never do. The language may lose its music and mystique. As a clueless observer, at least I can fill in the blanks with my romantic ideals. All I know is that she is smiling. There is life in her.

This article was written in response to a challenge from the World's Loudest Library. This event is organised by pmbc/library (www.pmbc.co.ke; fb: pmbc/library; blog: freshmanure.wordpress.com) and is a monthly book-swap party with assignments to boot. The challenge was: 'Observe'.

I Will Write About You

I will write about you

And loving you

And losing you

And seeking you again.

I loved you

Though how much I cannot tell

And why I do not know

And how I have no clue

And for how long is beyond me.

For there is no measure enough

And there is no reason sufficient

And there is no means proper…

And I still love you at the ending of time.

I will write about you

And losing you

And seeking you again.

I lost you

And I lost my world

My mind.

I will write about you

And seeking you again.

I WILL seek you

I will have you again

And we will sit together

On time’s shore

And watch the last surf break.

And at the breaking of day

It will be your hand that will be in mine

And we will watch eternity dawning.

I will write about you.

Dedication (From My Undergraduate Project Dissertation)

To my mother, and her undying love for her children.

It is written in her rough hands and her aching back.

It is the song of her calloused knees.

It is the whisper of her smile

And the sparkle in her eyes when we succeed.

It is her subtle boast to friends

It is her chiding us in private.

It is the very fabric of her being

And we are infinitely thankful

And eternally in debt.

It is why we are

And why we are what we are.

Caveat Lectorem

Is it because I never spoke them out back then that they return to haunt me know? Or is it that God was that dam that kept this flood in check? Because I suddenly find myself disenchanted with this moment. The present presents no allure for me. I yearn for my tender years. And the dreams of those tender years.

I understand what it is to be fortunate. I say fortunate because I’m not sure anymore whether what I’ve had these many years has been success. Success is hard-won. It’s sweat and blood. And I’ve never given that. All I have been is fortunate. Deity has beaten a path for me and bid me walk. But now Deity and I have parted ways, and I feel my fortunes waning.

I understand what it is to be fortunate. I have schooled in the finest institutions this republic has to offer. I have easily blazed a trail through every obstacle. There has not been an exam I did not leave dazed in my wake. Even math- my age old nemesis- has tasted the keen edge of this mind. The cut was not as deep, but my sword tasted blood nonetheless. And it was sweet. But that was then…

Perhaps it is because I am finally learning failure –or shall I say misfortune- that I find myself running back to those tender years when I could sit under the azure skies day-dreaming, and rise content, hours later. Achievement back then was as simple as building castles in the air. But now I find myself challenged to give blood and sweat in exchange for reward, and I fall short. And so I resort to reminiscing about that age of innocence. I attempt to make myself feel like I am still worth these opportunities accorded me; that I still possess that sterling intellect of yore. That perhaps it is not me but my lack of interest in it all that is turning me into this lacklustre carefree student that I have become. That perhaps I followed the wrong path. “I should have pursued my dreams,” I say every time I fail to turn up anything up to scratch. And thus I delude myself. Thus I keep myself shielded from bearing that responsibility that is all too clearly my burden: I have let myself, my family and those who granted me this particular honour down. I am no more than a has-been who still hopes to coast on the glory of his former years. And that cannot be.

The alternative view, again offered up by yours truly, is that I’m depressed, or bipolar, or some other bullshit fronted by the DSM IV to palliate our aching consciences when guilt gnaws at them too hard. For days on end I wallow in bed trying to convince myself that it’s all in my head, that it’s okay, that these are medical matters and that my dopamine levels are at fault. And then I think that I should get my house in order and stop clutching at these feeble straws… But how could I turn away from an excuse so convenient, so non-debatable? So I choose to lie in bed all day, letting my work fall behind. And I watch movies, and read books, and watch serialised comedies and dramas, and watch porn and hope it will all go away. But reality is at the ready to smack me at the end of my fantasy filled stupor. And this time he wears a face more grim than I have seen him don before.

For a moment I clench my balls and act the man. It is a brief and fleeting moment. Hardly have I assumed a fighting stance when he bears down at me with a ferocity hitherto unknown. He draws first blood. I flee, and learning failure once more- or is it misfortune, my flight leads me back to those tender years and the sweet dreams of that age long past. And the cycle of delusion continues, as does my fall. And how great shall be the noise of my landing!

2 A. M (Class at 7)

Night came and is now long worn

And still to wakefulness I cling

Perhaps afraid to shut these eyes

(These weary eyes!)

And wander to that vast beyond

Where among high hopes and lofty dreams

I walked bright eyed in days of yore

When the world was mine to rout and rule

When I could be one and I could be all

And I'd walk, and run, and take wing and soar...

But now those dreams...

Those dreams are gone

Reality has dimmed those eyes

That burnt back then with glorious flame

And dreamless is my slumber now

Bland, dull, and weary my starless night

And so to wakefulness I cling

There is no balm in Sleep's 'sweet' arms

From Back When I Wanted To Be Napoleon...

It is not in the straits of calm that our true mettle is revealed, not on silent sunlit waters that our character is forged. Nay. Only in hells rapids are our destinies truly altered.Let the ship steer as she will in gentle winds Captain. But when the seas rise against you, hold fast! Stand your ground, and every force in heaven, every energy, will be mustered, every angel stirred to action to lead you safe to port. Then, wear your scars with pride. To have won a war is to have suffered injury, but to have vanquished the enemy while at it. Those wounds- they are badges of honour, get out there and earn them!