To be felt

I hate that pain demands to be felt. Aggressively. I hate that it shows up as a memory. Of you watching her. Put on her lipgloss. The one that tastes like strawberries. Juicy. I am allowed to exaggerate. It’s my story. About pain. I hate that it shows up as a text message. One that you read countless times. Hoping to understand. The meaning. Hoping to find what you have been missing. Between the lines. The dots. The crosses. The language. Chirungu. I hate that it shows up in a picture. On this day. Two years ago. And you’re there staring at how dark and slim you used to look. You look at him. Your best friend. You wonder what kind of father and husband he would have been if he survived the crash.

I hate that it shows up in a beautiful sunset. Oh how we used to sit on istubhu behind the kitchen lokhulu. Avoiding the smoke as gogo started preparing supper. Whispering about that we better not get on her nerves as she seems moody. Menopause. We stare at the crimson sky. Mesmerized. By its beauty. Soft smiles exchanged. A toothless smile I will never see again. Because I am convinced that man is in hell. I don’t plan to end up there. Death. A mystery. I hate that pain shows up in new love. As holding back. As what ifs. As fear of the unknown. As I’ve seen this before. As I don’t want to feel that type of pain again. A history. In your present. Affecting your maybe. Your maybe you do get the fairytale ending. Happily ever after. Tomorrow.

I hate that pain shows up in the crack of my voice. As I try so hard to be a man. A man who shows emotion. A man who is not afraid to be human. But. That is considered as weakness. Maybe one day. I’ll return a stronger man. This land is still my home. RIP Riky. I hate that it shows up on a random Friday evening and you find yourself writing questions at midnight. Was that the last time you blew me a kiss? Was that the last time you gave me a hug? Was that the last time you picked up the phone to talk to me? Was that the last time you complained about early mornings on a Sunday? Was that the last time you texted, I miss you? I hate that it shows up in unanswered questions. I hate that it shows up as you unlearn not being kind to yourself. I hate that it shows up as you look so hard for light within and around you. I hate that pain demands to be felt. Intensely.