Floodlight….

I can’t say I have been suffering from writer’s block. That’s too complex. I couldn’t just bring myself to write. Many days I sat at the laptop and nothing inspiring came out. It happens most of the time, especially when you earn a living writing. Although it’s mostly fulfilling, writing sometimes settles into a rut. It vaporizes and sublimes into an irking hopelessness. Word document becomes a metaphor of literary decapitation. And they work in seamless cohorts with the cursor. So I tried, many times to blog but came up with the short end of the stick.

But here is the thing. I have always wanted to write about suicide. I know, it’s morbid, but think of it artistically. I’m not talking about the aftermath; I’m talking about the preamble to the act. What goes on in the mind of someone just before they top themselves? What are their last thoughts before they step off the edge and hurtle into their waiting demise? If you were to bottle that final thought before they hit the tarmac – or the hood of a parked car- what would that last memory be? Do they change their minds midway? Do they see a hot girl while they whizz past the 6^th floor and think, “Crap, that’s the woman of my dreams, help!” Do they see someone who has always owed them money and curse? Do they close their eyes, or are they always keen to see their impending destiny.

Is it painful? Or rather what is more painful, arriving at the decision to kill yourself or the impact of your body on the cold tarmac? I obsessed over these. I wanted to bang 600 words about this morbidity. I’m sorry but it fascinated me, and not because I’m suicidal but because I’m certain it could make interesting reading. Hell, I would never kill myself; I’m too much of a coward. I was afraid that I would come across as a dysfunctional freak. Plus I was afraid the piece would actually end up inspiring a reader to take the plunge. Yeah, right.

I woke up at 2am this morning (this is why I was hesitant to blog in the first place, this smugness that people give a toss what time you wake up kinda vibe, but hang on, I’m onto something bigger than insomnia here) and I couldn’t get back to sleep. Thing with waking up at such ungodly hour is that it’s a bit depressive (and somewhat suicidal, I mean it’s the hour of the devil, no?) and so you are tempted to spoil someone’s sleep as well. The more the merrier kinda thing…or safety in numbers if you wish. I have a buddy called Erick, a total ass. Those are the kind of guys I love to call and when they pick I say something like, “Sorry man, meant to call Erica.” Then hung up.

But normally when I can’t sleep I do one of two things; one; I log onto Facebook and see insomniac updates on people’s profiles. Or two; I strip down to my bare ass, go out and run; something uninformed people like to call “night running”. I call it wind surfing. I’m kidding, the second thing I normally do is go watch some television. There is always a late night show on, or some repeat of Letterman (who rocks) or some pointless soapy drama series. This time I decided to write something for the blog because I hadn’t posted in days and I didn’t have the slightest clue of what I was going to write about and it had started depressing me a bit. So crept out of the bed, fumbled in darkness (not to wake up the missus, who get’s mighty pissed off when her sleep is interrupted) and crept out of the room. Here is the thing. My laptop was in my trunk, which meant I had to go out and fetch it. Like every guy, I sleep in this very old short that I won’t let go of, that and no shirt because it was a warm night. So what do I do? I go downstairs and let myself out of the house and pad to the car bare feet.

Now my landlord has installed this stupid light that detects movement and automatically comes on. It’s like a floodlight. The little sucker is so bright a surgeon can use it to conduct a heart bypass. So anyway, this silly light comes on, and I decide what the hell the whole world is asleep, who is gonna see me? I disarm the car alarm and flip open the trunk.

Then the alarm starts blaring. Loudly!

We are only two in the compound. My landlord’s (he’s a few years shy of 60yrs I suppose) bedroom window overlooks the parking lot. We

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have similar alarm systems on our cars. It’s 2am. You see where this story is going don’t you? I suppose at this point he sort of nudges his wife and tells her, “Mama Kiarie, go check who is trying to steal the car.” And my landlady (lovely lady) perhaps sleepily mumbles something like, “Hell no, it’s your car isn’t it, you go!” Then he says something like, “Come on Mama Kiarie, do this for me.” To which she snorts, “I have been doing something for you for many years before bedtime, maybe one day you will find it in you to do something for me for a change, David, mmm?” then rolls away from him and tries to go back to sleep. Ok, I’m just thinking this aloud.

Anyway, all this while I’m fumbling with the damned screeching car alarm, trying to stop it. You must understand how this looks, a black-ass guy like me stooped into the trunk of a wailing car at 2 bloody AM, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. Bare feet. Bare-chested. That’s the kind of thing that makes landlords raise your rent without notice.

Anyway I slam down the trunk, and somehow the alarm dies. But of course not the floodlight. As I turn to head back I hear my landlord’s voice, like a voice from heaven, “Everything okay down there Biko?” Of course I can’t see him because the damned floodlight is on my face, so I squint and try cover my eyes with the back of my hand to focus. “Yes, sir, everything is ok. Sorry to wake you up.” Then like a mad man I run back into the house. Ok, I didn’t run, I sort of did an Odipo swagger back to my house.

Of course there wasn’t much writing that could go on after this disturbing an highly improper