Making it Work

I continue to read, learn, laugh and love. Poetry becomes a solace for me. Ginsberg and Muthoni intersect in an interesting way. Anyidoho and Williams speak a similar language, even if they are worlds apart. These odd connections happen everywhere. Everything seems related to everything else until all is a blur of grey.

It reminds me of the feeling I get after looking at one word again, and again, and again. Till the letters make less sense confusedthan the abstraction that is language.

Kenya confuses me.

I have looked at it until the names and faces have become blurred. Another corrupt politician in another corrupt deal. Another woman raped. Another person killed. Another name forgotten. It has become impossible to keep up with the happenings. It becomes impossible to protest, impossible to fixate ones anger and frustration.

The treadmill continues to move back and it is becoming harder and harder to lift my feet.

I ask a friend if this is planned. If the constant novelty of the wrongdoing in this country is designed. He replies, “of course it is.”

I go into a period of self-care. I watch hours and hours of the sing off and Phineas and Ferb. I insist on ignoring the politics and skip over that part where that group covers that horrible song. Yoghurt helps – yoghurt always helps.

Ahmed writes:

Diversity work is emotional work because in part it is work that has to be repeated, again and again. You encounter a brick wall.  Even when a new diversity policy is adopted somehow things stay in place; they keep their place.

Eventually, I begin to feel guilty about the self-care. I worry for those who do not have the reprieve of self-care. I watch a woman sell tomatoes while feeding her child – does she have time for self-care?

The jacarandas are out. Even with the world going to shit the jacarandas come out.

–          Aisha

I focus on the little things. A friend’s daughter puts a yellow bow on my head. I score a try in a barely significant rugbyPeanut - Little things game. The clouds form patterns that remind me of a different place. I find happiness in these moments.

But the grey still exists. The lady on the TV still speaks of scandals, deaths, deals, and broken lives. I try to focus on one wrong, one injustice, one anything – I fail. I try and understand how one does it. How does one Kenya successfully?

I read poetry.

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