I'm sitting at the threshold of my door facing the garden. I light up my cigarette and stare into the gray sky. I begin to think about the day. I took part in the study and faced the fear that I was born with: hospitals. I was sure I'd cry while admitting that I can't bear people jabbing me with their syringes. Oddly, I was okay with it. I imagined how I'd have been 75, in the hospitals waiting for death to come knocking on my door. I imagined if I could handle something 10 (or even 100) times more than the constant stinging and pain I was feeling at that moment. I was pleased to know that I can handle it. This was a good test. I'm braver than I give myself credit for.
I am half-way through my with my cig, now looking up at the antenna on my neighbor's roof thinking of how I missed God. I start off by apologizing for not talking to him for so long, then thank him for being there. I reminisce the times when I needed to have faith in a God to handle living in England alone. I remember the devastation of the first 3 months, the tears that refused to stop running down the sides of my cheeks all thorough September till the end of January. Thank you for having been there, for being a reason to believe in a decent recovery from utter loneliness.
I look at my cancer stick when it all hits me. I'm free of the hatred I had toward the one person I found so hard to forgive. I'm still stuck with this love thing. I want to come back to England for my doctoral programme. I'm not sure whether I can get that scholarship. I'm all alone. My bank balance has hit an all time low. He's coming down. I won't get a chance to see my mentor for atleast another year after day after tomorrow. I miss Bosco. I miss my friends from back home. I have the chance to work in my field here. She lost her husband. It was Dad's birthday and I missed it. How many more precious days and moments will I continue to miss? How many more am I gaining by missing those? I don't know who I am. I've an accent that changes as per my mood, I fall in love at inopportune times, I've stopped talking to God, I have no sense of money, I feel empty or confused most of the times and I can't understand what direction my career plan will take me to. I feel like I'm not a good person anymore.
I cry. Those tears that have been lingering in my eyes and did not want to dribble out finally found a way out. I'm not a good person. I wish I were a better student, daughter, friend..person. I've forgotten how to be a good person. I cry hoping that God will help me be a good person because I've forgotten the person I used to be. I don't understand this person I am anymore. I'm going through the mechanics of the day not realizing how time is passing me by and I'm not doing the things I want to do. I want to tell him that he can't send me emails lecturing me about how I should and should not feel. It's bad enough that he treats me like a child. But I let it go. I want to tell my father that he needs to tell me that ought to have faith in me. He can't always doubt my capabilities like this. I want to tell my tutor that she needs to tell me that I can do this. I want Time to change and be more conducive for us to fall in love again. I want to tell Lenu that I miss her so much at times that I cry for her company. I want to mumble my silly talk to my dog again. I want to tell my grandmom that I miss my grandfather so much that I see apparitions of him early in the morning. I want to tell my lecturer that life will be okay although she lost her husband. I want to tell myself to have courage and faith in myself. I want God to hug me and tell me that it's okay. I want to call the airline buggers and tell them that they can't expect me to pack 1 year's worth of my life in 20 kilos. I want to tell my uncle that he's been horrible to me but I understand now that he knew not what he was doing.
But I won't. I will smoke my cigarette and reach out for another. I'll simply fill my lungs and watch so many words drift away. I'll allow them to dilute themselves in the dying embers of my hushed thoughts. I'll thwart them. And how did I think I could be a good person if I can't even say what I want to say? How could I expect my eyes not to betray my anguish at the person I've become?
