Nnalolile

 “Beauty-yes, beauty is like a decayed tooth. It rubs against one's tongue, it hangs there, hurting one, insisting on its own existence, finally it gets so that one cannot stand the pain and one goes to the dentist to have the tooth extracted, Then, as one looks at the small, dirty, brown, blood-stained tooth lying in one's hand, one's thoughts are likely to be as follows: ‘Is this it? Is this all it was? That thing which caused me so much pain, which made me constantly fret about its existence, which was stubbornly rooted within me, is now merely a dead object. But is this thing really the, same as that thing? If this originally belonged to my outer existence, why-through what sort of providence-did it become attached to my inner existence and succeed in causing me so much pain? What was the basis of this creature's existence? Was the basis within me? Or was it within this creature itself? Yet this creature which has been pulled out of my mouth and which now lies in in my hand is something utterly different. Surely it cannot be that?'’

(This post was edited for a penny for my thoughts by Grammarly, for a clear, standardized Yvi Experience on Atoto Atori's Patreon and of course a picture, but if a book you Come see the Library) 

According to the Temple of the golden Pavii, The famous passage in that chapter of the Rinsairoku. Then the remaining words emerged fluently: "When ye meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha! When ye meet your ancestor, kill your ancestor! When ye meet a disciple of Buddha, kill the disciple! When ye meet your father and mother, kill your father and mother! When ye meet your kin, kill your kin! Only thus will ye attain deliverance. Only thus will ye escape the trammels of material things and become free.”

 

I had wondered about these words spoken by the man with clubfeet. I have dated a paralytic. It was the first thing I noticed on our date. We had met on Badoo and in proof that I was not talking to some robots but humans from the clouds. He bought me a nice brunch and I tried listening and talking to him. He had a nice house, a villa in Kerarapon. His family was in South Africa and somehow he wanted to be in Kenya. I cannot utterly remember his true intentions.

I’m not worried of dating one too. Infact, I’m getting used to ticking myself off as having mental health as a disability. In the the world order, intelligence runs the world, emotions doubles everything up. I’m a model, a notorious actress, who has never cast anywhere past myself.  I sat at Art Caffe and listened to this intelligent man. If he was clubfeet, his energy went somewhere else. I’m not still not so sure, he drew lots sof attention towards himelf allgethere and acted like he had already won the prize. Such a lovely man.

He was a learned and intelligent man. I cannot entirely remember his face but I remember his words, last when we spoke. It was about a charger. We supposed to meet for coffee and talk but when I arrived, I happen to be the last person to an ongoing meeting. He was going to use his friends as barriers. My phone died so obviously after an hour I would be forced to join into the conversation. I borrowed the charger from him and somehow I never returned and he demanded that I return the charger at timing that was totally inconvenient for me. We never talked after that. I chose to be the beast he perceived me. I stole his charger, “oops my mind forgot, you know how these things go…”

A few weeks, later posted a picture of myself in his closet. A friend of mine called me and asked about the same closet. She had been in there. She asked me to ask money from him, she insisted on it. I had to find a way and owe him something if I could not get a shilling from him. If beauty could be taken away, he wanted to grab mine, cut it like the man with clubfeet from The temple of the golden pavii, in order to kill his desires. I took his charger instead, and kept it, I utterly refused to give him back. I wonder if the message drove home, but he says Hi sometimes. I almost forgot his name, Patrick.

I have so many stories about Patrick, but Asante kwa Kazi, To Kinyua, You made it possible for me. I cannot wait to tell you about my day. Today, everyone thought you are my boyfriend. My baby. My other baby must have felt it. I went to work and just when I arrived K… I have forgotten the name woke up.

I have dated so many men, some I remember their faces only when I meet them again. Beauty had been  a decayed tooth in my mouth. Beauty could be taken away. Those that found me beautiful at eight and ten of years no longer found me beautiful at nine and twenty. Those that saw me at three could not believe I had made it to the third decade.

Those that found me beautiful at nine and twenty were entirely a new generation.

At nine and twenty I realized I was beautiful because of my people. My genes had mutated to the perfect simulation to a face my people liked. I spoke like my Grandmother Julia, sometimes my mother and other my mother. My people will not miss me in a crowd, not even in a split second of view in an ad. I like my people. I will never have any like them.

“You are very ugly inside,” Kings had cursed. He had failed to maintain the beauty that he once held of me after the YviX. After the skin rush I developed after the Covid vaccine, in which he had declined to take, his reality was right. I was ugly both inside and outside. I felt defiled, my soul black and ugly.

I called Patrick, he was in Australia. He was there for studies. He would not be able to make it to my wedding. He was looking for an unvaccinated woman to breed his offsprings. I had never offered anywhere. Staki mateso. I had worn makeup for the call, he would not see any of it. A blind man find ways to move, just the way we do in the dark.

Today I looked into the mirror, I look different. I smiled. I did not care that Isuza did not believe in the theory of Mirror scarring. I knew exactly how I wanted to look, genetically my mind was building my body to how I wanted to look like. If my body could fail on me, I knew someone that it wouldn’t.

Isimbi could do it, I have a certain dislike for doctors but watching Dr. Strange  had me convinced that if I stared at myself into the mirror, often attacking myself on how I looked, my morals and achievements, my body would infact respond with growing to exactly what I wanted. There must be something like that in Gene Mutation. My chest no longer held flaps of flesh growing full bossom and steady nips.

My body was looking nothing short of a barbie doll. I hardly noticed the scar on my belly. Sam had one like that too, somewhere on his belly. I turned around and saw my ass was no longer sagging, they were fuller and hard too. The dimples were disappearing. For a whole year, I have been taking milk tea and sometimes had cream in my veggies. Sweeping and drawing water from the borehole was exercise enough. Steve would sometimes get me snacks if I was unnecessarily hungry  and since Papa is around most of the time, we eat chicken and sometimes Chapo more often. My new job includes chapo.

I wake up at three almost every-day. It is hard to rub this routine off every since Grandma died. She woke us everyday at three am for her prayers. I never understood why grandma stayed awake from three but at nine and twenty, waking up at three does not require an alarm for me. I however check my phone to confirm that it indeed three o’clock before turning off the four am alarm, tossing around and going back to sleep. I only leave my room after nine o’clock.

Yesterday, I woke earlier than usual. I had completed the temple of the golden Pavii. The boy finally killed his desires. He had met the Temple and put the temple on fire. There was nothing wrong with the temple, it was simply the object of his desires. His deed made me weary. You see, like any other book from the Library of Babel, The golden Pavii spoke to me. It spoke to me like those that walked away from Omelas. I did not feel like the civilians of the town who enjoyed the full glory of the town, but rather like those that did not find a place in the community. Like the little boy in the small room scratching and acting alike  animal in the zoo for viewing and amusement, I felt like the temple of Pavii. So often I have been the object of desire, having made myself more beautiful to hold, I am people’s weaknesses, peoples, dreams and sometime nightmare, most often jinni.

 

I TOOK A PICTURE ,proof of life from my Bontel feature phone and headed to the bathroom. The bathroom is my first stop as of nine every day I wake up. After my bathroom meditation, sweeping the compound is my next morning routine after I draw two little- two ten litres of water jerrican from the well. I mostly do this before the bathroom but sometimes, I only take enough to wash my ass like the Muslim.

I prefer washing my ass than wiping with a tissue. Wet wipes will work maybe but most tissues produced and supplied by the local market leave traces of paper that may cause harm to the genitals. I prefer water. I only learnt to wash my ass at seven and twenty. Mvua taught me. She took me into the shower and taught me how to clean a female body. She also taught me how to use essential oils in my petroleum jelly, just like how her grandmother taught her in Dar. Welly, Steve once made my ng’ombe smell like Frankenstein and that was the end of lotion for me. I prefer body butter. I know how to make some but there are no decent ingredients in Mt Elgon. The lady that used to supply me with Calabashes of Shea butter prefers to stay away from me and Shea254 don’t supply them in a calabash.

I prefer sweeping with the setting of the sun, same with how I prefer mopping my house in the evening. I like to wake in a clean environment, well if I did not, and only wake at 9, wouldn’t that be a shameful thing to a woman.

Yes a woman.

An unmarried woman of my age attracts bachelors to our home. I hide at home. I try to stay away from attention. I try to be a decent human with nothing to lie under the beautiful brown skin but yesterday, after I took a very beautiful picture of myself, I wondered who would see such beauty hold for the day. Maybe a jinni.

My hairlocks were effortlessly locking. I had spent a year growing my hair so I would be able to grow permanent sister locs. I have always had a dream of growing locs, it had nothing to do with the Rastafari or Mau Mau culture. I liked how my hair coiled and as much as free-locs were an option, I wanted to coil them myself. A hair dresser had been my first option when I wanted locs but the man had developed affectionate feeling towards me.

Naturally, when someone grows affectionate towards you; when someone finds you their object of desire, most of the time, if they cannot have it, they will destroy it. There are two type of men

“One that will chop of a flower and another that will water the plant to bloom.’”

““although beauty may give itself to everyone, it does not actually belong to anybody.” And very often when I had failed to give myself to a man, he would try to chop off, remove the beauty in me like a decayed tooth. The man had been the best hairdresser  in town but I had to postpone my hairlocs altogether . Now that I knew how to lock my hair, I did not need him altogether. Nevertheless, his skills are still unmatched but the reflection in my mirror is corny with pride, my hair looks pretty and it looks exactly how I wanted it to be. It has no memory of falsity and defilement. Soon, I will get some wax and like my natural hair, I will one day be able to hold my hair in a bun, put two sticks in them if I could. For now, I head my pussycat and a fringe with white cowrie shells. Everyone smiles my way.

A stranger on the road stops, waves and inquired about my nephew. My nephew is ten years younger than me but he mistaken me for her. He was looking for her. Once again I feel like an object of his desire. The same desire I see when I meet other men on the road. Seeking companionship in something beautiful to hold. I too, I’m seeking some sort of companionship, but over the years I have learnt, that in order to get what I want, I need to say no to things that I do now want. I want it all, and if I cannot get it, I confront my father about my desires. Father will not give me a snake instead of fish. He pleases me in ways unimaginable. In the garden of Eden, If Adam had found companionship in other animals, the Creators wouldn’t have thought of creating something different. An object of his desire.