I still see you in my dreams every
night. Whenever the weight of my
head is lowered against my bedbug –
infested pillow, it’s you I dream about.
I see you and I roaming the dimly
illumined pavements of streets and
cities I know nothing about, our hands
and fingers intertwined. I see you and
I staring blankly into each other’s
eyes, saying nothing. Just wearing
vague smiles; like the ones we wore
when you said, Yes. When you and I
agreed we would be together. Forever.
And ever.
I don’t know why I still dream about
you. I don’t know why I’m still living
on the waning hope that we will get
back together. Perhaps because I, even
after we had agreed to bring this vain
journey of pretentious love to a
grinding halt, refused to get rid of
your contacts and I still wake up to
your Whatsapp status updates,
irrelevant though they are to me.
Perhaps because I have since decided
to not involve my fucking self in any
other amorous relationship, for fear
that it might as well end the way it did
between us.
We were mosquitoes, you and I. You
were the female anophelese mosquito
and I was the male one. Baby, ask me
not about how I know this. It’s the
people who said so and they still do.
Because neither of us had any more
than one millimetre of flesh
encapsulating our inadequately
calcified bones. Because they needed a
microscope to be able to see your
buttocks whenever you came by,
skipping like you never gave a rat’s ass
about what was said in hushed tones
behind your back. Because you neither
heard nor cared when you walked by
and someone shouted;
That’s Kakuru’s mosquito.
That’s Kakuru’s mosquito, and
everyone laughed, and poor Kakuru
blushed like a slay pastor caught
fucking seven year old Christian.
Because, why would a sane human fall
for a random mosquito?
You are a witch. Or you aren’t fully
aware of yourself and the invisible
powers that be, but there’s something
about you that blinded me and made
me fall for you so helplessly, I ended
up inflicting deliberate pain unto
myself. No, you aren’t exactly that. A
witch? You are much more than just
that. Because you don’t delve deep into
anyone’s brain activity and alter it
with any such deadly chemicals as
Kibwa-nkurata. You just live, breathe
and go about your life and everyone
gets hyper-I-don’t-know-what. Me, you
got me hyperplastic.
I love(d) you, Mosquito. I swear that
I’d say that even at gunpoint, even if
that meant me being beheaded or – to
make matters worse – skinned or
buried alive. I love(d) you, Mosquito.
So much that I could give up anything
just to make you happy, just to see you
smile, just to please you. More often
than not, I told you this. I told you in
every message that came forth from
me, I told you with all cordial
sincerity, until the good old ‘I love you’
phrase became tasteless, until I began
sounding needy, until you decided I
was extremely desperate for your
attention.
I am not fine. You know this. I want
you even more than I need you. I want
you more than you’ll ever need me. I
hear your deep voice whenever a man
speaks to me and I turn hoping to
behold your face, only to be
disappointed. Because yours was just
as deep. I think of you every time I see
the tiny pillow that my head rests on
in the night. I remember you
whenever I see children who’re your
size. But like I said when we were
bidding each other farewell, like I said
again when we last talked, I will be
fine.
