Friday, March 23, 2007

3am II


SOMETHING HAPPENED (BEFORE APRIL)

Try this on for size. Try this on for size.

I hear you in my head.

Try this on for size. And let it ride.

How many times have I done this?

I have never done this before.

But for you, I would never have done this. Now I’m. Unashamed, no regrets, no looking back. I’m doing this and I know, I know what I know I know. Like…

There’s a certain sadness at the heart of you that I could never understand. I would see you laughing and joking, all happiness it seemed, but in between the punchline and the next joke, while the table rocked, heads thrown back, graceful hands shielding noses that were about to run from the Coke going the wrong way, you seemed to be so far away from us, your face slightly turned, a suffering Madonna in profile, and I was watching you, wondering, where are you, where have you gone? That look again. Who causes this? Why am I the only one who seems to see it?

Then you were back. Maybe it’s because I could never understand your breed. I’m not built that way. I could never be on stage laughing, the life of the party while my heart was breaking. I remember one evening when you were home with me. A Thursday evening when you came over without warning me, and surprising me home early that day, leaving the office at about 3pm, and you had found me on the floor, papers spilled all around the living room, Jimi Hendrix in the Sunshine of Your Love connecting all those terrible confessions that began everywhere and led nowhere. What was the use? He said Jim Morrison was going to be there. And you said, standing in my doorway, “I have come to hold your hand in the twilight.”

A week of electricity and the evening you came over was the evening the electricity was switched off that evening so we lit a candle, put it on top of my sideboard, and sat on the stairs in my doorway, watching the night coming, sipping my bitter, you breathing, “How many times must I tell you? There’s no story to tell! Really am alright. I know you don’t believe me. But I’m. You should have been my brother. I love you. Only you know, in my heart it’s raining. Write us another ending, Iwaya, write us another ending. This one is too painful. I want a laughing ending. Call Mataachi over. I love you!”

I never held you more delicately than I did that evening. My God, I loved you! That evening in my mind was imprinted, forever you. I know how you spasm when I touch the edge of your sixth rib going to your back, I know in my hand how the flat bone at the end of your spine begins to curve, I have never held a smoother elbow than your elbows resting like warm freshly laid eggs in my palms, I still shiver when a breeze rustles the leaves because that is how your neck feels resting against mine in an embrace and I know why it was so hard for him to let you go, a tingly alive restless bosom so fragile in my hold, I wanted to smash you up in an orgasm of squeezing and tender hold. I knew how he felt. I have never known a heart that gives and gives, like yours did that evening, and I turn around laying the table, the last melanin plate on the table, you’re on the floor, looking up, giving more, your face a cup of wonder. What are we doing?

Lord, I’ll never be able to listen to Hendrix again without thinking of you! How do you go on loving and loving so much inspite of your pain, tell me please, because I need to know. I was never good at forgiving and forgetting and already you’re talking of moving on. I’m the penitent now. Your name is a prayer on my lips and I’m wishing you the best. I shouldn’t be doing this. Thank God in my world nothing is so simple.

You said, “The problem with you, Iwaya, is that you care, and you’re trying to teach yourself not to care. Do you think that will work? You want some sort of Chet Baker, Charlie Parker story in Uganda?” I was like, “Fuck you!” and you said, “I’m afraid that can’t be arranged.” We looked at each other then, glasses on the table, forks on the plates, and we knew. We knew. It should have been you. It should have been me. We knew.

Baby.

Like a series in Kyekyo! the electricity suddenly came back lighting the room brightly like some torture chamber and there was no escape from the charge. You’re the one and I’m the one. You’re the one…and I’m the one…oh God, this can’t be happening, now. I’ve got everything already so sorted out! I want to be like Scofield, on the run. It’s happening again.

Remember the rule, Iwaya, remember the rule, never date a writer, never hang out too much with writing folks. Never. Remember the rule, Iwaya…

Fuck the rule!

Oh hell, here I come!

But before that, tell us, which one of us are you going to blame? Tell us…

Iwaya, Mataachi, Maurien, or Maalvolio?

You have a thing for M’s don’t ‘cha?

What?

I don’t care! It’s got to be her. It’s her. Oh Lord, what am I doing? She was in my house. She is my house. Oh Lord…

“If you had seen that smile, you would have been speechless…”

I did see the smile.

What am I doing?

The name’s changed now. It used to be called Beer Point and now it’s called Spot Pub, in Kireka.

These hits don’t make it anymore.

Inktus, this is the part where you should read carefully…

Sam and Ronnie were there (we all still miss you, Eddie, we still miss you), and yet all I could think of was…

Her.

Twelve o’clock, it’s midnight, we’re in a taxi, it’s Spear House in the night, and Ronnie’s got to get out and I don’t notice. He’s staying in Nakawa for the night before he goes back and he came 300 miles to see me, it’s only her…

I know the name of her perfume. I know the name of her favourite clothes designer. I know the names of each of her course units and when she goes to class for each of them. Fuck it all, I know the names of each of her ‘babies’ (the cuddly dolls at the head of her bed) and who gave her each one, I know the history of her entire utensil collection and who lent her 100 shillings to make the Old Taxi Park buy possible. I know all that and more. I know all that.

On the night she bought those cups and set of sugar table spoons…there was no electricity in the Old Taxi Park Area. You came out of your taxi and out of that taxi, looking down in the Old Taxi Park, you said, “I thought I had landed into an Arabian Night’s Dream. There were so many tiny candles waving in translucent buveera, the Old Taxi Park was magical! It’s a sight I can never forget! Coming down those stairs.”

I never told her.

It was then that I fell in love with her.

Before her, I had seen that vision so many times. No, not a vision. This is real life happening. On every night when I leave office late, which is nearly every day of my life. So now even when you’re not here, I think of you. I think of you, going home. I miss you. I love you.

I need my fifth job to be able to sleep.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this anymore…

April 02nd, April 08th, April 17th, April 26th, September 19th…

I can’t do this…

SERIOUSLY: Wishing on a Star…Jay-Z/ Nkoye Okwegomba…Philly Bongeley Lutaaya

13 comments:

joshi said...

There are many times ive had the sockies to this blog and I dont know wat to say..

scotchbiscuits said...

soulful and with a twinge of mystery. I was holding my breath in some places. playing a guessing game in others.and lingering at this page for a while soaking up the magic!
she is lucky.
and yes, love is sweetly inconvinient. drat. now i will shut up,coz I cant even spell.

Dennis Matanda said...

Iwaya, for the record, this is a good story. The beginning, for me, is just the best part. I have my eye on you. I do.

Cheri said...

My Jesus, this just made it to my File for "to-read-over-and-over-again" blogs.

I wasn't able to blink there for about 10 minutes. I too dunno wat to say. Call her up and say those exact words to her.

Also Iwaya, this file is almost full of yo stuff.

The 27th Comrade said...

I don't know why you still shock me. As in, why? Of course, for the very same reason Mario Vargas-Llosa still shocks me. If it's such purely true quality, you can never really get over it - or get used to it. Because we are not built for thrilling reads. They must thrill us whenever they happen.

ROLEX MAKER said...

someone told me that writing, the kind sticks, is a cult. i was shocked. i believe. this kind of writing can be dangerous. its addictive. its the kind we worship. its dangerous. it could mint u billions.

remember the rule, never date a writer. yeah. never date a writer!

Savage-No, I didn't quit said...

gwe, you are on a roll.

ish said...

1. the story, i am piecing it together. careful now, i might get ir published before you get the chance to...

2. i missed my favorite TV show to read this.

3. you make me wanna have a man to smack and tell "why can't you be this passionate? falla!"

4. and then you make the rest of me wanna just sigh, wipe away the tears, and write of love... refer to number 1.

Cheri said...

Lol Ish.... I love your number 3 point!!

Cracker

Minzo said...

Beautiful Iwaya- like most of the people posting on here, it left me quite speechless.
On an unrelated note, you didn't fully explain why you intend to skip all the future BHH events? I intend to gatecrash one of them in the future and it would be a pity if you were not there....

countryboy said...

i bow my head!

leos child said...

who ever the girl is send me her number and address and then sit back and relax because i will make sure i deposit her at your doorstep by force in a mixture of karamojong and dhl style.deep stuff here too deep oba it was for me i over felt the piece.

Sam said...

This has given me an idea. Thank you for this. Its like I was there and I understood.