Time has folded this particular Monday into a warm cozy night and I am enjoying a bowl of white rice and a stew of lentils with steamed spinach to balance it out as I pen this.
The tenth moon has stayed on for eleven days and I am just nine days from turning thirty eight. In two years, I ought to begin life and I am hopeful that forties will be kinder that my fading thirties.
Looking back, my life has shifted on an unimaginable scale during this decade. More like my teen years but with a much wiser head overseeing things. I am yet to believe that I am still here and somehow a genuine smile sometimes envelopes my soul and keeps it company for a while. My old self would be in for a rude shock if she were to resurrect.
When my teenage years rode in, the reaper stretched out his arms to embrace my guide and fate left me in a desert full of unaccessible oases. I was surrounded by people who had promised to be accountable replacements of my true compass but none of them lifted a finger to point out the actual path.
Nothing was sweet about my being sixteen.
All I remember from that year is long nights and dealing with issues no sixteen year should. I was semi homeless and I recall wondering what it was like to afford a roof over one's head. A place just to catch some sleep in peace. A simple home.
This largely contributed to my settling for an early marriage at seventeen and becoming a mother at eighteen.
It is also around the same time I was naively aiding misogyny by concealing the obvious bruises and wishfully hoping that better will come. I had made myself believe that I was in for life as my daddy issues steered the forever ship.
My twenties were about leaving where I had called home for decade. Ending the cycle of raining blows and belittling vibes. It was all about fighting to see past a fog of suicidal thoughts that hovered over my mind all the time and if it wasn't for my brood, I would have probably given in and moved my forever home.
Thirties began in prison whilst I served my 18months.
A certain human rights officer who loved my ability to consume books sneaked in a camera inside the blocks to take my photos. I remember flashing a painful smile while standing in the afternoon October sun in a cascading striped smock.
My body hated wearing it. It hated being there. From the uncooked meals to the demeaning atmosphere to the oppressive ways set in place. Everything about correctional facilities shouts unrehabitative but thats a story for another time.
Early thirties were all about dealing with the aftermath of my imprisonment and whatever solitude had revealed in eighteen of the most difficult months of my life. Solitary had dug enough and the contents of my shallow graves were scattered out in the open.
It is said that you can't unknow whatever you know or unsee whatever you have seen.
I had tune in my authentic frequency. Shed a few or more unhealthy skins and traits. Defiance became resilience. Chasing healing replaced the need to please and serve. Self-love was no longer unwelcome here and for a while, I assumed the coast was clear and life didn't see the need to torture my soft animal anymore.
I was wrong.
My late thirties poked on my vulnerabilities as I walked myself to a sacrifical altar and forgot the way back to myself. Attachment issues surfaced as something I had poured myself into sank. Love is not for the weak and I have proof that I am indeed a weakling when it comes to such matters.
As I was finishing to mend the cracks, death reached out to my remaining shred of support and guidance. And my unhealed teenage self re-emerged from the shadows to remind me that I am yet to make peace with death as a part of life.
It is where I am. The space I am currently trying to leave. Accepting what is has become another variable lesson as denial and quick burials aren't working for me. There is need to acknowledge pain if inner peace is something one intends to gain.
Here is to another 365. Here is to adulting by healing the inner child. Here is to the unpredictability of life and whatever it holds for me. Here is to thirty eight!
wambuku w.
Happy Birthday?
You've packed an awful lot into this. I've been reading you long enough to know details about much of what you said. Your mother, your husband, your relatives, your grandfather, your recently lost love. All the trauma! I don't know anything about your incarceration. Have you written about that before now?
For me, this is because if it ever happened, it still exists. I carry all this with me, it is me. Every moment I spend remembering it, I bring it into the present. This is the good news, because if I embody the good stuff, I walk in joy.
I love this piece.
My birthday is on the 20th.
Yes, I unpacked a whole lot and regretted it a bit after a while. I don't talk about that part of my life often. It remains the most traumatic season ever aside from the abuse.
What a beautiful ending. I love that you love it or you at least relate to some of the stuff I pen in your own beautiful way.
We all have our cross to bear so to speak. Cheers! Here’s to many more. My thirties have been awfully kind to me so far. It’s like I’m unlocking the potential of what I could be finally at this stage.
I wish I would have learned this sooner but I have enjoyed the tumultuous journey so far.
I always find your writing inspiring.
Yes. We all do have our crosses to bear. I am glad you are enjoying yours. Keep on keeping on.
I don't think you would have learned it sooner... everything happens when it is meant. Our difficult life lessons inclusive.
Thank you indulging in my reflectiveness. It is truly appreciated.
Well dear I can only wish less pain ahead, or enhanced capacities to cope with anything life dishes out. Cheers to thirty eight
I am hopeful of more than what has been. Thank you for passing through.