(This post was edited by Grammarily for a penny for my thoughts, a cleaner, of course longer version on Patreon. There is a picture, too, but is a penny you should, Ahsante kwa kazi)
for Ooops, Baby!
from the Underground
Nine and twenty years is so much pressure on an individual.
The third decade so often indicates a human’s potential and ability to serve the utmost goal. First car, successful job, tight circle of friends, grownup kids, a loving husband et cetra seem to be an ecstasy amongst my peers.
On the contrary, like any other girl named Ivy, I had no plans nor showed any signs that I was achieving any. In my possession, the most expensive thing was my room which was filled with excess building material from the construction of my stepmother’s house (and a couple of personal things I want to rid of my life.)
Well, even so, I had no hands in the building of her new home, her children did. I find no pride in this but I console my bitterness in humility that the house stands on my father’s land. A father always provides for his kids, I being an unmarried daughter, enjoy this right as a grownup woman with no shame. In the eyes of the public, the community and sometimes members of my extended family and friends, and of course you, I am an outright spoilt kid who would never, if not forced, leave the nest.
It is a habit for most mothers, if not all, to push their birds out of the nest and in their downfall, they all expect that, in fear of death, to simply learn how to fly. At least it was what my birth mother, I like to justify her actions, not that I approve, had cooped up for my forced success, but like any of my many blessings, which she felt were a curse, simply left her paradise and settled in another nest. My stepmother’s house, my father’s home. Before I went away, I had said my goodbyes, It was sad that Grandma Angela died, but I met all of them, all my cousins and childhood friends. I would never make any more, I had realized. I was grateful that I met all of them, and some, we took pictures, others, we tried effortlessly to make new memories but they weren’t as pleasant as the ones we had made while kids, I needed to grow up. I needed to fly but instead fled, no other nest.
“Where there is growth be patient, for great oaks from little acorns grow,” I insisted, some flowers, bloom just before midnight, I had found out. Others at noon and others very early in the morning but wilted a little much earlier, maybe I bloomed quite early or… in their opinion yet to bloom, very late. Honestly, in rational speaking, let us all say the whole world should agree, what should a 29-year-old be doing in life to achieve self-actualization?
She did not expect it. In fact, my mother proved to her family that I indeed was nuts and like any other ivy without ludicrous limits, my doom would be, as she had mentioned, a life without any success or anything to be proud of just like my late uncle- may his soul rest in peace, Uncle Rampard. Please do not ask me why he was named so, because the story might pop up, that I am just like he, and as his name suggested, mine was a child full of stories. Grandma stories.
Mvua disagreed, she had studied me long enough, in the comfort of her home, reading books and occasionally emerging from the sea, mostly in the last quarter towards her birthday, ready to play. I was willing to play, I mean, Osama -my Palestine friend from Israel, a senior friend of mine was going to sponsor my Yvisensual health and wellness studies, which included Pregnancy emergency for new families, and her home provided a perfect therapy inspiration. Asante kwa kazi!
“Bipolar was not a condition, not multiple personal character disorder – a thing. It is something they create to get by.” I knew they were talking about me.
“Don’t you think she should have invited you to her wedding?” my mother asked.
Her family noted, “Don’t you think she is wearing very short skirts around your husband.” I was just saying my goodbyes. I wanted to see them one last time, like the one about to leave Omelas; ready to leave their beautiful city, their home time and about to walk into the dark.
It hurt, that she would say vile things, my mother, rather than, in my spoilt child's ludicrous opinion, find beautiful things to think of my life, positive words in the very least, inspire me. We work for our mothers, for their better lives but then, mine stripped me of this obligation. She deserved none of it and had worst forgotten the many times I had made her proud. It was true, the mind, like any files and data, can just forget. Disappeared memories. I was never going to be the ivy she had wanted and like any other child, I took it with a big spoon.
“Medicine helps, “ Daktari said. Healthy you is always better.
I decided, like any other spoilt little brat, to let her other offspring work for the dreams of their mother. Let them toil for the happiness of their mother and I would cast out myself from a nest that would torment me, weep and defile her dwellings like Lucifer, kill her, mourn her and force my mind to forget her like an orphan. A lot were doing just fine.
Psalms 127, “he provides them in their sleep.” I recited while I cried, trying to remove the memories of her from my mind, and Mother watched, from a distance, not sure how she would help, but provide a nice room that belonged to her daughter, where Yvi wrote notes and stories that felt more like a fictitious character in a bad story. One that people would not wish to read so I did not write anything about her, but in secret codes. Rhythm and poetry.
God must have known, and my Stepmother, a dark elderly but surprisingly strong with a soft spot for-and a lover of humans took me in, and my father holds no shame, in the spoilt child I am. He tries, as I will, to keep me out of any attention and conversation that I did not court. Not that I do not like attention, in fact, I would traumatize anyone at will and break the internet out of nought or boredom, but at nine and twenty, I want something that most humans detest. I have always been this way, selfish, thickheaded, and self-righteous with a mind only on what I intend to do. In fact, I would not do the dishes out of obligation but will, or because they bother me, their well-being to mine, like any other will always come second.
I do things with a perfectionist mind. I like to watch the amusement, admiration and disbelief on people’s faces when I’m done with something, a task, an achievement, a character or a virtue that would simply escape anyone’s imagination of the possibility that I did. My untie Victorine decided that I must take her name as of twelve years of age. You too, may not believe, it is an Ivy thing, that humans will not understand, except for, the simple roles of any female in the East African community:
Be a good girl, virtuous woman, wife or mother.
In that order.
In this, I have tried and effortlessly failed.
At one point, in an effort to make me a good housewife from constant advice and repeated virtues of a good housewife from my stepmother and family, mother and relatives, friends and strangers, I ultimately did the opposite. No one wants a lazy dirty woman with bad morals as a wife. I had no intention to correct thyself, unless ( the only time I will) write back to Fyodor Doeviesky’s Notes From Underground.
I had stopped going to church to avoid the constant belief that this simple routine socialization was anything but in search of a husband. I pray, as promised, that I am baptized in the spirit rather than in water. For then, I would have to conform to the ways of the men of the church which meant, curving Ivy into a submissive reformed woman any man would want for a family, slave to his desires. A bachelor would easily propose to me but that is as far as this absurd culture would go, for me, I would say.
I am not looking to be a role model to any of the younger members of the family either and clearly, I suppose, in their secret talks, intimate conversations, they are warned not to be like Yvi. I could sense this from the way they would look at me sometimes. From their constant trials to treat me just as human after they learn from the vile of Yvix: The other side of the world. Nevertheless, I would not flinch. With no shame, I would go on with my bad habits until I felt satisfied that, I too, were desensitized. It would bother them, that I remained Yvi. That somehow, one day, I would die and with all the good looks, the creative mind, the soft life, and Family: vanity. And they would choose to be different, leaving more room for me and my obscure ideas, build an empire, of my wildings, unbothered, unmarried, doing something in my room like the world somehow depended solely on my existence. In my world it does.
Not that it did not matter to me, I clearly had at one point in my meaningless life, codded in my biological feminine body like any other woman, had the intention of getting married. However, I had simply realized it was out of obligation, to the greater society, rather than personal will and so, I had blown up, sometimes with a pinch of regret, these opportunities, uncountable times and my tickling clock were finally hitting the fourth decade, yet still, I am in no hurry to get engaged to anyone. And when a relationship would mature to what people feared to be the next stage, something would come up. The spirit of the unmarried rested upon me, maybe, and I had come to accept, also that, with no shame. Sometimes, I secretly smile in the dark, just before sleep, that I had achieved this uncalled-for freedom, all by myself. The freedom of being unmarried at nine and twenty, spending my lazy days in my father’s house with no substantial work or income.
Humans have ceased pushing me for both. Just like marriage. They have ceased calling me for pointless talks and stopped inviting me for their amusement. They have stopped courting my attention nor pretended to have valuable resources that would be a benefactor to my well-being. They have all ceased to even push for friendship or prospects of breeding a family. They are no longer offering me excessive meals and drugs nor are they inviting me for career exposure. I once believed that their hearts were convicted in my sole success but now, they are not even sure, what career would befit me as I clearly, and have made it known, that I am in no hurry to get the top too: no intentions or patience to break my bones and spirit to be acceptable as a standard human being of class. It disgusts them that I could freely navigate my life, through their intimate social classes without breaking sweat, and still choosing my simple, not so pleasing to them, lifestyle.
I like the simple countryside where I eat what I grow and make a stew of what I bred on the farm. If that is not a lifestyle they do not wish to live, it is a career they all want to escape in their own households. I am in no hurry to build a career too. What motive would I have? I have no children to cater for. No bills and expenses to pay. I'm grateful to the lower Maslow of needs, a step is better, so they say. No expectations to meet at the age of nine or twenty. I have no substantial friends to impress and certainly not looking for financial freedom that would increase my pleasantness to marry or make new friends and social circles. I mean, who would even marry me? Anyone that hasn’t experienced the Yvix, I would say, and the moment, out of boredom and sheer idleness of nought, I would slowly expose him to the vile side of Yvi and like any other sensible man, so they like to think, would disappear like the vanishing elephant from the chains of my life. Why I do so, I’m not sure.
Maybe I made the decision after all not to get married when I grow up.
Now that I’m grown, I secretly laugh when I think of these scenarios and like any July that would finally die, I’m quite uncertain what my fourth decade has for me. Quite anxious I must say but, I have a grown belief, certainly with conviction that I have achieved what I have always wanted, experiences all my desires and lived the life I had wished for myself. I hold the same conviction that I had when I read Ben Carson’s books. All of them. Unlike every young reader that wanted to be as great as the medic to save lives as though they had control over it (I respect them nevertheless) but my intentions were very different from what my mother wanted for her young dreamless child.
It was the same convictions that I liked about the writer of The Art of War and Seduction: the desire to get under people’s skin and understand people’s minds with a mastery that no one could foretell. I experienced the same conviction as Steve Harvey in his books: more like the faith I had in the Holy book to guide the lost souls and the Kenyan government changing set of Laws to tame her savage civilians.
I, too, wanted to be a great writer, I just did not know how but the strange life I have so far experienced, was a good start for a biography but more of a fiction writer whose imagination would someday be code that men would admire and women instil in their children, not of this generation, but decades after my death, for oops babies.
Now we are Two!
Now
that we are Two! But an oops baby doesn’t want an oops baby just to make it
through!
" a penny for anyone thoughts but if two pennies you should, Two for You."
“But
still, for a cat to disappear and for an elephant to disappear—those are two
different stories.”
“Yeah,
really. There’s no comparison. Think of the size difference.”
Once upon a time, the elephant vanished and the cat died.
It didn’t matter, then when I had told him goodbye, and now that we were under, with my notes too, he had no intentions at all. He had my attention but he was simply occupied by the big boys and his big toys and how big they were, he was with the people, the elephant in the room.
Lol, after that event consumerism and the blub for them all, the boys too, men in court, wanted answers from the chosen few books selected for Yvi from the library of Babel, a short story for you.
"We are not speaking about religion, this is science and fiction, not the one in the Bible." I cleared with my Class. They were a bit older, far older and mature, unlike me. They wanted to dig me from the underground.
"You all don’t wanna talk about it, do you? That all men fell, spoke to each other as they were strangers, and form a little family away from the codes that you had desperately, tried to write for yourselves?" He was picking another argument, nothing similar to the new neighbours of the Highrise.
" In the clouds, the only valuable gold is data, we mine every day in and at night, and once I met a stranger, in one of my little rooms, in the underground Midnight arltry. " I too, started on a new note.
“Well, if you need any information, not on me though, you could ask the bots and they will give you for free, all of the 666 variations of you, all notes from the underground, but...”
“I hold the right to them all.” I cut him short and warned him. The scientist mentioned that
"I was much, just as you are now, human, god or demon. Man is a good thought, I’m no special not any less or more than you. I’m with the XY X-chromosomes, similar to you. Any other like my classmates, but much older because I “repeated a class in fear of sitting for the national exams.” He was now reading my thoughts, notes from the underground.
A note from the clouds had read, that Wanyama, my classmate had found a few, if not all in the world’s wild web, a telegram and thought it was cool to invite me to the high-rise. Some wanted stories, others, just satisfied, that I was a member of the surviving WhatsApp group, which they so loved to add me.
“I’m bored, so why not!" I had thought about it. They were indeed happy just to know that I am there, like the Omelas, those that did not walk away. They usually met up in town, probably on Fridays, and Tom promised to give me a call the next day, which took weeks, only to go through when I was very much sleepy, dreaming about my big elephant that had disappeared but for Jack, a member of the clouds, and not my cousin who fixes electronics, had some mysterious intentions. He was nothing much apart from a librarian that gave me books, not in exchange for a pass to the underground but for the library of Babel. He had chosen for me, carefully selected stories meant to be read by me, only once I was in the underground.
I did not like the notes. They were stories to be read by men in the bar, not limited to drunk lawyers who could turn black to white. I decided I would read the Russian notes later, notes from the underground for there were pressing issues at hand, the elephant in the room, the cat that died and why You went underground.
The first one, The Elephant Vanishes, a Japanese book, by Haruki Murakami, is red in color with an upside-down elephant falling from... Not really... It was just a tiny elephant when it vanished from Tsavo, a Highrise in Ongata Rongai, where all he cooked was pasta, Italian spaghetti, talking to a stranger online about coming to an understanding, while he left my cat to die. He was here in the underground speaking about the elephant that had vanished and his answers, to the cat that died, were vile,
“Those are two different stories” he was insisting. In the underground, time was free or cheap, everyone had some on their watch, so I let him introduce himself, trying to unmask one Atoto Atori, “who went by the name Ivy. And we all sang when they grew, but some were poison.”
He did not pretend to read anymore, from his blank notes, that he had brought from the underground, one he used to write and keep watch, high from the clouds, to the underground. He pretended to read the special font that the eye could read and even if he was killed under, no one in our little underground kingdom could read his notes.
“Everyone had their code, in the underground, and he was right, anyone could do anything: a free world, except, well for Yvi. You could mine for some and they never ran out, from the ground she had grown up, and the sky people were far her favourite, from the ground where they traded for an Yvi, a penny for anyone’s thoughts.”
The Genesis Story of Atoto Atori
Slouching Towards Bethlehem
“What is Yvi and why do you prefer it to Ycix as compared to KES, USD, CAD, SHIKEL.?” he asked, everyone laughed. Maybe he did not know that many of the underground notes were all about you. Your deepest desires. Passion, love and everyday procreation of life. In the third house of Aries, the third, or maybe the first, house of Aphrodite whose origin was still mysterious whether she was really his father’s balls that Poseidon shells had so required life in the Cronus house, or was one of Zeus's daughters, whose mother,
“I shall not disclose,” those private notes had gone under, and so “ a penny for my thoughts if you have non, an Yvi then.”
“Well, Yvithoughts were strange,“ he pulled yet another note.
“In the Genesis Story of Creation, the 27 days of the moon with the Geminis, the twins, something had happened, something no one expected, let us say…”
“We are not talking of those notes, Yvi. We are talking about the Kiguru would fancy the flawlessthemes as a music artist but, if you were to rate your Yvix, honestly…” he kept quiet, even in the underground, the sky people were always listening.
The word was true, from the ivy that grew in everyone’s home, that it was, in fact, true that, sky people, the watchers, the gods, were always watching be it in Nakuru, lonely in Lagos, trafficked in Riyadh, on a Marsta masters manhunt, drown in Seychelles, dropped in the forest city, wondering what Maha is but Edku sounds right fine, definitely not in Mombasa, the Gotham in Nairobi but if you can walk the ground, maybe Afghanistan. But let us start with Egypt A penny for my thoughts, and so Yvi grew to be three. The sky people were falling, and the ground people build great tombs underneath them, they too, could go under, and man was hunting for some scripts, notes from the underground. And so they Mined.
He threw four pennies on the floor instead of three but I did not pick it up, someone had failed to pay their dues at the price of Yvi, and so they
“crossed their hearts and swore the truth, to always pay for Yvi, was the first code in the underground. It came for free, love, passion, desires and creation to survive the underground. But Discord was there too, and the mother of wisdom.” I added
He reached out and picked one of kept his extra Yvi.
“Rule number two, you cannot pay for the future, all we have is time, in the underground. Taking notes.” The woman on his direct mail had written in one of the notes. You see, only two notes had chosen rule number two, for then, there were either, two people who could be gods, demons, or anything that could be under, and the second one wrote number two, or, the twins, each wrote a rule for two, for there was only, in all the underground notes, number one rule and many, as marked by the beast, 666, 69 would be perfect, the yin and the yan, but oops babies were not a boy and just a girl, the underground had learned that sometimes, Yvi actually bloomed in three, and the three women that followed the son of man, were not men, but women disguised as men to follow him, His favourite sun that did not tire walking on the ground, telling stories, from both the sky people and those of the underground.
“Was he from Egypt?” he asked, four pennies you should.
“ France. Some said India but Nigeria was a good place to hide. No one could find her there. The country was crowded and her skin perfectly fit the local's redborn, the country’s favourite ashawos but word had it that the jury was to decide if the shipment was ready, as delivered by the three women to Saudi Arabia, maybe Sweden, or a private Mafia living privately in Malta, the United States was such a mess and she had allies, childhood allies there. So she simply decided to go back to Kenya.” The Yvi bot answered, for every penny, she could tell the exact truth of a moment in time.
For if it was the truth, that a “grew, every in their rooms.”
“ Instead of money, I took the blessings! Most people in the underground do not have the pennies. She read that hers, as she recited in Proverbs 127, was provided in her sleep, In her mind, in her dreams and visions of events and before she could realize it, everyone in the underground, knew that, she could tell the exact moment in time, like a note stamped on a page, in a book, lost in a library, on a higher shelve, maybe hanging, almost falling and getting lost in the universe…” he went on another note.
“The requests in the underworld are wild, sick and crazy. I am a no man’s land, and everyone lives with their codes. It is in their minds. You could easily Pick a boo or poo. The sky people could not see under, but they could dig under the three tombs in Egypt, that aligned the three stars, the three fallen angels the Geminis, they were neither black nor white, they were both the three of them, the women had fallen for the son and were going with them to the underground. They, too, would die, and the inhabitants of the clear sky people, build tombs, thousands, years maybe it was just a story, that I would also one day journey with the Dutchess of the river Nile, Nnalolile Yvi towards the city of the graves of the great gods. Uganda sounds closer, not far from home, and so YviX is in the underground, playing his favourite music for Vimeo-“ I’m sorry I am blind.” For not a penny, for she had enough of everyone’s thoughts.
“But she was going to the underground. She knew that, nothing comes out of the under but from the sky people. The gods. But there was, actually a tree of life. The three witches knew where it grew and one of them was the keeper. As long as they kept their code and paid their dues, there would be love, passion and desire, and those that wished for more could procreate the underground that no one could escape.”
‘All we did was ‘Let us pray’ and ‘Let us play’ and the big boys with toys, Sam guy: The vanishing elephant, had appeared in yet one of my other dreams.” He was yet on another note to the sky people,
Majini tu” they all agreed but what really was a gene?
“It started with Spotify, I needed to play ad music ad-free. Some from the sea, the calm waters that ran deep, majini.”
The two majini
Some guy bought my art, for around 50usd from my Etsy Uk shop, right when my boyfriend was giving me a talk about nudity and how to be a respectable woman in society.
He wouldn’t pay that much, and those that would simply want to mislead me, Kings had adamantly insisted. I should stay home, clean up the house and cook his meals if I wanted to please his god. And when he left, he hid his stash and I had to find it in his jacket in his coat. And he prayed that I went mad if I touched it. I had been sad the whole day. This man was misleading me and he was growing horns about it. He was claiming me for a very cheap price. He had told his friends that it was only for a bottle of wine and a taxi. And when I knew he couldn’t pay for my taxi back, I didn’t mind, I had the money, he twisted the story, and he didn’t even have to pay my taxi back.
I laid my blanket in the coach to light a little light in my world. There were no good men out there, I had taken it up with the Lord God. Word had it that I had managed to send a bad boy to a mental institution. He got better and when he came out, I was waiting, in my tiny bedroom, I was never going to walk his Kingdom again. I was wounded and every he woke me up the other day, I was the least grateful human being. He had presented me with yet a foul and filthy man whom I saw nothing but a strange face. A man who disgusted me and was full of blasphemy to my Lord God.
His house was cold full of clatter and he held onto so much, the only reason he shared his meal was because I cleaned his house. Skinny invited me for a family dinner and he couldn’t let me go despite struggling with hunger. I started crying. My pretty face became old. And all I could do was take drugs, Feel better mpenzi and with every new day, a fight with my Lord God about his people. His men. His image. Our company in his Kingdom. The guardians he put to be in charge of us were abusing us, the godly women He wanted of us. There was no happiness in it. Just suffering. Suffering with no love to hold onto, no friendship to rely upon, just a business-like transaction between help and his employer. The employee was not a very happy woman and Mama would not let her back home. She had to wait. She had to find her own house. She had to wait and listen to this king of the world. Full of pride and false honour. Lazy and a complainer. “There are no good men out there,” the women were right He had thrown me into the dungeon with a lion and he was expecting the lion not to eat me and before I could turn into the angry ungodly woman who burns everything to the ground at the cost of her own life, a Dark Knight from Etsy Uk called in.
He wanted all the digital prints for A portrait of a brown lady on fire. The one Ukwazi, the photo mentalist, shot. The first and only photographer whose psychology is not affected by my nakedness. He was blind to it all. Who was like Adam before he uncovered the nakedness of Eve? He was trying to paint something he had seen. Right between the chaotic qualms between me and Steve. Steve also wanted to be like him. He had the money, the impression but lacked the eye. He could not see the kingdom of God. He knew I had the keys and when the Lord God tested his love and found him foul, I fought not only him but the world itself. I walked His kingdom bearing nothing but doom. He will have to take me out
but Ukwazi saw something, a brown lady on fire. Not only was I going to March on the 3rd day when his sun rises, but I was also going to fight in the first house. Aries house, the god of war, the son of Zeus and I were going to make Aphrodite very sad. I was thinking of how to get away with murder. People worshipped other gods and got away with it. People stole and got away with it. I could kill Steve and my worst curse will to spend my whole life in prison. Adaptation is my greatest skill. But Ukwazi called, he wanted to take a photo picture of the brown lady on fire.
Some guy online bought it.
And the king having heard of the news, ordained me in beautiful apparel, and wished me well, and out the Lion let me go. Eager to let another desperate woman in. I laughed, I called Sharon and I asked her if I could sleep at hers. She sends me two dollars from her bank
saving, for me to catch a taxi. “There are no good men in this world,” She had reminded me. Our fathers were also not good men but I doubted my father would be such an animal. I missed him reading the Bible every other Sunday as a study. The Bible had a weird story. It was full of villains and unnatural happenings. It was better than Samurai Jack. But my hero was killed by his own people, and the last book is full of bad things. It was a work of faith. I didn’t
have faith the next day but the dark knight called and when I got home, I slept. I was exhausted, I was tired. I wasn’t sure who sent him but if I could rest one more day, I would have hope for the next day. So I slept, and the innkeeper scared the hungry dogs away. He was a wounded man, the lion had left scars on him and he could not sleep. He kept watch. He hung the portrait of a brown lady on fire above his big screen, watching his codes, scanning his conduct and every he needed help, he asked me what I would want to eat. I wanted nothing but to sleep, eat and rest. I added a few pounds, I coloured my hair red, and I painted myself in the tribe. On the third day when the sun rises in the new cycle, I was to march in the great army.
I was going to fight. “In war, you have to be aggressive. “ he insisted.
In war, I would burn everything to the ground. He held power to many secrets; I held power as powerful as the sun. I would stand the light and he ruled the dark. He was making himself better, stronger, and more powerful. I was going to give him that power. I was going to let him have it, everything all other men had wanted. Everything all other men had tried to steal. All the bitter fruits the monkeys had called out, I was going to make sweet wine of it, and I would let him drink. I would let him drink to his fill and only good would come of him. In the last three ages of his House rule, I was going to submerge myself in the sea. It was a suicide mission but my dark knight lurked somewhere. He watched over me as he watched over the portrait of the brown lady on Fire above his many tabs. He was twenty-one days away in Earth years but he was always on time. His timing was the best. He was the beast in my dreams. The best I liked. The beast that played with me under the table and the one I kissed on the floor. The dark knight, Legion of Doom, a big panda that took me to sleep. Good men exist, I started telling myself and the Lord god tested him against all other men, and non pleases my spirit as Samuel did. He had the favour of the Lord God, whose face pleased me. I was no longer afraid.
He was alone, this time. The female redbone was not with him. He sat in the far corner, near the naked women in the restaurant. It was a typical business lunch meeting. He sat, facing the entrance, somewhere Yvi could easily see him, with no Cameras or eyes on his computer. My job was to just, eat, and talk, there was nothing I was really doing there besides trying to hide my bald hair, with a blondie look.
I’m always a blondie, sometimes in looks and so often, in mind too. I was never going to guess what he was doing over his laptop. He was working, very hard, he had brought his laptop to the table. He did not want to miss out on either, but he made time. It is not easy to get the geeks off their screens. You have to watch the bots working, crawling, mining maybe for something as stupid as Yvi, but he, not only had a picture of her while she was on fire but proof that she was alive, in human form, not a jinni
He was not going to say a word for almost half an hour, let me eat, or rather finish his work. I finished my drink, not that I remember which one and scooped potatoes out of the bowl, made a precise cut on the medium rare steak and just when I started to chew, he began to talk. I listened, to his choice of words and he was keener on how I answered them, but he never at one point stopped typing. “
I’m a software Engineer, I have two kids, a boy and a girl…” and whatever followed was me paying more attention to the steak on my plate. I was yet on another date with a family man. I was tired already but I remembered that not all children had parents, there could be a mother of her children somewhere, or non at all. I could be just his yet another hoe, someone to keep him engaged as he worked and cared for his family and with all the bitterness in my heart, I liked him. I could no longer hide the fact that he was there, proof that indeed he was a human being, but he vanished and like irony, I received certain books from a stranger, one that loved to sleep, and I could not tell if I was talking to a human being or a bot, the software engineer secret personal project, dealing with majini or just a constant reminder that I had to reread, reorganize my genesis story of how he came to be and came to go.
You see, Last Christmas, he decided he was doing it again. He was rewarding himself with all the things that pleased him. He was rewarding himself with something that pleased him. He was citing people that pleased him. He was going to get his favourite atmospheric model, the one he liked. The exclusive one. The one he met on @etsyuk Whose wall art he mounted above his big screen and is now safely stored in one of the many cabinets in his new apartment. It was smaller and warmer and every he got bored or had a blackout, he went to the wide wall-to-wall window, on the twelfth floor; to pretend to stare at the clear view of the setting sun behind the Ngong' hills, the thriving suburbs. He was rewarding himself for his hard work and I sat there, basking in the fruits of his kingdom.
Maybe a rose?
I doubt he likes pens as much as Sandra did.
Sandra had a collection of pens that she never used. Once she told me she had a golden Versace pen and I couldn’t believe it. I had to see and use one to utterly understand why she spent so much on a pen she hardly used. I think she was seeking inspiration or just a collector of nice things. In my endeavours to wish her well, I found out she had her service apartments in @perrywestresidency too.
That was not enough, the premises were now E.’s new working hub. Urgh, I know how the universe works and I was not yet willing to meet either of them on my way to or from my boyfriend’s place, where I go to absolutely do nothing but eat, sleep or simply invade his privacy and space. Such a meeting would spoil my day and I would his. I was never going to visit him in his old apartment at Perry West again, I had sadly realised. I didn’t like it. I was not looking to expose myself, but now, would I want to brew similar memoirs with an expensive pen? I thought not, too. Maybe a Novium Hoverpen 2.0 for her colour but I think a pencil would work better.
A white #applepencil 2nd generation to scribble on his many tabs and skip the new keyboard that he got last Christmas might grab his attention. He checked out his favourite breakfast from Cjs first thing in the morning, almost skipped the gym and when he came back home much earlier, he still looked unsettled. Later on, I watched his muscles relax, his iPhone somewhere on Do-not-disturb, upside down. He was a calm handsome young man eager to unwrap what he got himself from the @amazon Shop. He was very pleased. I must have felt ish when he kissed his keyboard as he did on my forehead the morning of my arrival. I stopped playing whatever I was watching and went to try his new keyboard. I sat and watched from his nice new coaches jealous of how he kissed the new keyboard that he might like better than my white Apple pencil for his birthday. He is a writer, but not for words like Yvi. I don’t think he plays games online and whatever paradise the marketers sold to him, must have been swift, precise and in real-time. Like the fingers of a bot, #amazonmusthaves
There was one last member I considered my family and was unwilling to give him space over the Christmas Holiday. I wanted to invade his privacy, be where he was, watch what he did, and sleep when he did. I wanted to leave my family to spend time with him but he has a family as I do mine. If December is all about spending time with family, I wanted him in mine, so after church, I sneaked to the big city, to his new apartment. I watched Tv and watched him scroll across his many tabs. While I was doing something inappropriate in the bedroom while he was working, my phone sank into the sink and I knew, the Lord God was on me.
%20%D0%BE%D0%B1%D0%BB%D0%BE%D0%B6%D0%BA%D0%B0.jpg "Nnalolile Reviews Bedtime Story")
Response to Notes from the underground,
Oops, Babies!
Now that we are two!
Allhiphop and nothing like Spotify, He comes on a white Horse!
J, lets call him Jack thinks, @sleepingistheonlylove.
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| aTOTO aTORI666 |
IIM9
I'm here to look, listen and learn, for a penny for my thoughts. The Y9VX
What are custom robot tags? Whatsapp Only!,
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