Oops! My Thirties.

Day five of many…

You have left a couple of “Are you okay?” texts. You are worried but this is getting old. Fuck it, no? 

You are traveling. Again! You couldn’t stand the company so you are on your way to be alone. It is a cold night and you regret not packing a sweater. The guy seated next to you is a talker. God, why did you create those? You have your earphones on. You’re staring out the window at the darkness. 

Day eight of many…

Someone taps you on the shoulder and offers a bottle of water. You take it without looking, mutter “thank you,” and wedge it between yourself and the window. You are a young woman traveling alone – of course you will not drink it. Still, the thoughtfulness is noted.

Day nine of many…

Nairobi streets at 5 a.m. Cold, wild, alive. Drunk women wobble alongside drunk men. Freeze & Shine is in full effect. Some heels don’t survive the night; some outfits never stood a chance. Good old King Solomon would be proud. 

A girl stumbles into you near Odeon, perfume and cheap vodka clinging to her like a second skin. Her wig is tilted, mascara running, but her laugh rings out bright and defiant against the night. She steadies herself for a second on your arm. Then, she totters off again. She clutches her tiny handbag like it holds all the secrets of the world. A couple slouches in front of a pharmacy, too high to care. Whatever floats their boat.

Day ten of many…

Insomnia is a bitch. You’re wide awake at 2 a.m., not saving the president’s life, just awake. At 4:20, you come to, phone in hand (old habits).

The gate creaks open outside. You curse whomever is responsible; sleep is a fragile, hard-earned currency, and now you’re bankrupt.

Emails wait. Missed calls too. Social media notifications pile up, ignored. Somewhere below all that digital clutter: a reply from President Kingston. Finally. Three cryptic texts to your many “Are you okay?” messages. Alive, apparently.

Day twenty-something of many 

You have finally switched your phone back on, hopped back on the green app and resumed work. Today was supposed to mean something, supposed to be a good date.

Around 7 p.m. you’re eating, that tedious ritual humans repeat thrice a day. As you clear your plate, unease creeps in. Not hunger. Something heavier.

You scroll Facebook, “liking” random unlikeables. Deleting. Blocking. Protecting your peace like it’s gold.

Your headache sharpens towards 8 pm. You could go to a hospital but sleep trumps medical attention any day. You push a couple of pillows off the bed and onto the floor, ready to curl in. Your bladder interrupts. Nature remains unbothered, as always. 

Then it hits: shivers, a pounding heart, dizziness. Your head is spinning into a storm. Darkness glares like KPLC’s revenge, though the lights are very much on.

You sink to the floor, then get up, only to collapse again. Gravity wins so you crawl, because mama raised no quitter. Toilet conquered, but barely.

Back to bed? Almost. Your head just barely misses the headboard. Darkness again. “Ah Satan, not today,” you think as you try to pull the covers over your body. But Satan is no diplomat. And sickness knows no patience.

You claw for your phone. If you’re going to die, better dial someone. But who? Friends aren’t wholesale for you. You find one contact, thumb hovering over call… darkness.

You manage to fling a window open. You do not need air, but you want visibility. Just in case.

You are somewhere on the floor now, writhing your way outside. Keys by the bed, always. You try the door. One inch forward, two backwards. Eventually, you get the door open. It only takes at least four attempts. Math doesn’t matter when you can’t breathe. 

The cold hits you like a truck. You are in your skimpy bed clothes. You crawl back inside for something easier on the eyes- another exercise in futility. Eventually you give up and just grab the bathrobe that you find at the foot of the bed. You try to put it over your shoulders and fail so it just hangs weirdly somewhere. It’s okay. Doctors see people naked all the time. 

You try to lock the door behind you. The padlock is too heavy. Your hands are shaking way too much. You sink to the ground again as you struggle to pull the door. Darkness. You get up.  A robe half-draped. Padlock in one hand, phone in the other, you stumble toward Mama Nanii’s.

Darkness. Then, blurry light. Darkness again. Light, maybe? Finally, concrete. Her door. Thud. She hears you but fear keeps her from opening. She calls the caretaker. Panic, confusion. Later she tells you all this.

Mama Nanii picks your fallen phone, fingerprint unlocks, dials the first number. No answer. Repeatedly. Finally she scrolls to “Mum.” Because mothers always know. Even from miles away.

You’ll remember this day.
It was supposed to be different, supposed to hold laughter, celebration, memories. A good day.

But God laughs loudest when you plan.

P.S. 

1. I am but a storyteller. 

2. Really, keep swimming.