Memories. Bitter like the roots of a medicinal herb. As I sit with my cheeks clasped between my palms I feel like I am drowning or will soon drown in these sad memories I loathe. I might as well drown in my tears. My heart is sinking away into my stomach. My head is spinning like a wheel invented in 4500 BC. Slowly but painfully. Soon I will be under attack. Palpitations, piercing pain, vehement denial and loneliness will all kill me in their well orchestrated mob justice.
I want to scream my pain away but my voice fails me. The taste of tears in my mouth is sweet supped against the flaring tribulations. Questions after questions prick my soul like a hooked bramble. As I struggle to untangle, it grabs me tightly sinking its honed edges deeper into my skin. The bush will swallow me; I want it to swallow me and finish me. For the gush of the tears will only wet my blouse but won’t wash away these memories.
Memories of fallen comrades. I can not find a way to fathom how they had to depart without a word. I understand the pain of letting go but I do not know how to receive news of departure. I do not know how to wave and will not learn. The memories of the warm mirth they carried on their graceful faces. Those sharp questions again, slicing me up ruthlessly. I’d rather hunch over the Guillotine. I’d rather raise my hand above the face of the wrath of a blazing inferno. I’d rather die, like Kimunya would, than resign to the fate of these harrowing questions.
I hate the echo of silence that is splitting my eardrums. Where are their sweet voices which used to sooth in the midst of pitch darkness? How can I bear the weight of my burden laden heart even when the Lord invites us to bring thee burdens to him? How Can I exist with a poisoned brain and an orphaned existence? Somebody please…
The breeze is sweeping over my face as if begging the tears to stop flowing. The rays of the setting sun is shinning over my eyes emphasizing the drops of tears lingering in my eyes as if afraid to roll out. They did set like that sun but for them and… me there is no hope for rising again. At least the sun takes its time to lick the sweetness off tree tops and skyscrapers and busking skins and flowing tears. They sunk with a single strike like the bursts of fireworks. The jolly sway of tree branches won’t tease me into ease. The classical chant of the birds won’t rid me of the memories either.
It was on a beautiful morning. When we all had goals to achieve. When we all had dreams to chase. When we all had families to love. When we all had education to pursue. When we all had a future put in order. When we all had a God to worship. That ill-fated morning when the blood of the innocent comrades painted the floors of lecture halls red. That color that has since haunted my days, injected horror in my nights and placed my sanity on an edge.
It was on that nippy morning that the sound of gun shots mingled with screams of horror to bring forth pain, death, suffering, suicide, blame game and petrifying memories. It was in those crisp cold water, awakening my skin to yet another day of the chase, that I was cursed into the narrow dale of uncertainty. It was in the uncomfortable heat of that closet that I survived on rough smoothness of body lotion that I was reminded how fragile this life is, how savage a human being can be and how the light at the end of the tunnel can be switched off abruptly.
I harbor zero desires for vengeance. These memories tell me that the loss I uncured can never, in the face of the earth, be directly propositional to the gains I will get from it. I suffer from bluffer inflicted on myself in my shaken monologue. The tales of the memories of the shrill of the screams I heard that morning will be in my head tomorrow morning. The sight of the puddles of blood solidifying under my feet will be in my dreams tonight. The darkness of a future laid to rest will always get thicker. In this jaundiced memories, I languish.