Dear Reader,
Yesterday I woke up at 4 am and later dropped Tamms off to school. Then I came back home at 8 am and did something that was completely out of my character; I got back in bed and managed to sleep!
I wasn’t born with the talent of taking naps. I could never take afternoon naps, no matter how dark the room is and how long I pretend I’m dead. I struggle with it. But I slept, four hours after waking up!
I went in so deep that I had embarrassing dreams that I can’t write about here because I have children who can read English. I woke up two hours later, disoriented, and displaced. And I still had sleep in me. I could feel it, curling inside like cigarette smoke in a dead room. I lay there thinking, where am I? Who am I? What the hell is going on? I couldn’t move. I lay on my back and listened to the gurgling stream that runs next to my apartment over the voices of the security guards next compound talking loudly in Luhya. I felt lazy and immobile. I felt like I had developed roots and I was growing in bed.
Eventually, after summoning a great deal of willpower, I stumbled out of bed and sat in the loo for another two minutes trying to read unsuccessfully. As I stumbled towards the kitchen a snarky voice said from the dining room, “Well, hello sunshine!” and laughed sarcastically. I ignored it. I made hibiscus tea with cloves, and lemon and added black maca and some sea moss, then I took it back to the bedroom and set it by the bedside table to catch my breath. I was still feeling drowsy. A little voice said, “It’s OK, Jackson, put your head on the pillow. It’s OK to be a baby.” So I said, OK, maybe for a little while. But just a little while. So I did that. And I started feeling really sleepy. Then I nodded off for 15 minutes. When I woke up it was still grey outside. I could hear the squeaking caws of what sounded like crows. How can God give an ostrich such animated feathers and then give a crow a caw? But then again, have you seen the nail on some people’s little fingers? It looks like a blood clot.
I propped myself on the headboard and stared out the window. I entertained foolish, ridiculous thoughts: is this how men who come from war feel? If you boil lemon in water, won’t all the Vitamin C die? Why does an Apple watch think you are washing your hands when changing a tyre? Then I remembered some guy I had interviewed a long time ago who had a baby with his new wife. Maybe I should text him, and see how he is doing.
He said he was thinking about texting me. (Right, I said.) He’s turning 50 in a few months but he hasn’t “processed it” because so much is happening in his life. It’s been a tough year, he told me. He had moved jobs, and the new job sucked pipe. “They made promises they haven’t delivered. So I will have to move again.” He also broke up with his mama momma and was about to start dating a much younger girl that he liked. Sort of. “She seems nice but it’s early days. I will give it two months, you know that’s when their true colours start coming out.” The hawks screeched outside. I sipped my tea and then took a long hot shower and tried to write. I couldn’t. My brain felt heavy. Each time I moved I felt it move in the opposite direction. I drove to a hardware store in Karen shopping center to shop for gumboots and a rake for the village.
I was immediately distracted and I stood before a wall of colourful tools. I could stare at tools the whole day: hammers, cordless drills (I love cordless drills), all manner of screwdrivers with handles in all colours, sanders, clamps, and pliers. I admired them all. I’m not the DIY kind of guy. I won’t attempt to replay a broken sink or iron box. That’s not my job. But I love and appreciate a good-looking tool. As I stood there a hand tapped me lightly on the shoulder. A friend of mine was standing there in a green dress and matching shoes. She said, “Are you looking to buy some tools? I didn’t take you for a handy kind of guy.”
I said, “I’m not. I just love tools.”
“What do you love about them?” I could tell she was yanking my chains.
“They do things,” I said.
“That they do.” She nodded at the logic.
“I love hammers,” I said. “Everybody needs a good hammer.”
She laughed.
“Don’t act like you have never looked at a hammer and thought, maybe I should buy that hammer.”
“No,” She laughed. “That has never happened to me.”
She was wasting my time. I was not going to stand there engaging someone who has no appreciation for a good hammer. I moved over to a different shelf and bought a pair of heavy-duty gumboots and a strong rake that can scratch all the guilt from your conscience.
At about 7 pm – two hours earlier than my bedtime – I had started thinking about sleeping. And when I finally slept, I dreamt of Ryan Gosling. He was trying to reverse his car outside my apartment and a tree was in the way. I had never seen that tree before. When I woke up this morning I was still quite tired.
I think I’m fatigued.
I have no taste for anything. I just want to laze in bed and read a book and listen to crows. So I’m going to take a two-week break here to recharge. Dream new dreams. Get some exercise in. Water my plants. Drink one whisky.
In the meantime, I will be able to sign books so grab a copy HERE.
Talk soon. I’m going to bed.
Please, don’t bang doors.