FROM HELL WITH A FRESH ROSE

FROM HELL WITH A FRESH ROSE

We used to chat alot, I still remember the phone calls, the endless text messages, the Facebook pokes, likes and what have you.
I still remember how many times we went out, how many times we slept in, how many times we laughed at nothing and made vague promises to have it everlasting.
That was before it happened.

When I started to vomit in the morning and at any other time when I smelt anything aromatic or oduors or even for no particular reason at all, Onyango told me, "I don't want to see you anymore."
When I asked him, "why now?"
He replied coldly, "I don't know"
That was before I even lost my smashing figure, it was before my beautiful treetop legs started swelling like inflated hot air balloons,
it was before my flat tummy metamorphed into what they now call my contorted ugly belly.

When Onyango pulled a Judas Iscariot on me I thought to myself, maybe I will find solace elsewhere so I called my most trusted buddy -Kamau.
I tried to find solace in Kamau,
told him he was responsible for my sickness for he had been a culprit too, a sure tasting stick inside my molten honey pot but all he said to me was, "madam hiyo sahau."
I tried to tell him he might be responsible but all he said was, "madam wacha madharau"
And I stood there; startled and wondering, how did sweetheart, baby, honey pie and all those beautiful sweet nothing names he used to call me change into madam?
I am yet to know how.
And so I must deal with this alone,

I thought Onyango and Kamau had heart me but I can't help but remember Wafula now.
In fact, Wafula told me categorically to deal with my own shit in vernecular.
I will not tell you how vulgar and dirty it felt,
It was dirtier than my bushy V with pees, a fungul and a warts infection combined.

I reached out to my last resort, Musa my sweetest sweetheart, my gentle giant but he clawed at me like an agitated hungry tiger.
I am still nursing the open wounds he  left me while mourning the innocence of my defiled honey  pot.
Musa! Oh Musa!Musa offered me not his shoulder, instead, he added more insult to Wafula's injuries by calling me unprintable fluent coastal Swahili words that made me pity my own mother who has no idea what-so-ever what this whole business is about.
I still feel ashamed for my mother whenever I remember Musa.
The parts of both her and my anatomy that he called out are too gross to be mentioned.

Holy cow! How did I end up here? How did painful sweetness turn into this endless pain and strain that I now have to bear alone?
Here I am, all alone looking at the deadline fast approaching.
When I finally cross the finish line, when I stand on that podium to display my gold medal,
will it be Onyango's, Kamau's, Wafula's or Musa's face ingrained on the gold coin bedecking my slender beautiful neck on that podium?
I wish I knew.

The answers to that I know not and even if I did know now, the pain within is so intense that it leaves no space for any more thoughts of faces on gold coins when I finally stand on that podium as number one in this marathon I have had to run alone.
It is only hope and the unmatched strength of a woman that has made me keep on and oh, the promise of displaying my hard won gold medal on that podium.
I will stand tall on that podium and hold my medal.

I will do it even without them, they who messed up my innocence and stole wantonly from my precious honey pot.
Onyango, Kamau, Wafula, Musa and them all can go to hell for all I care.
I am a fighter, I have fought through sickness, I have fought through cravings, I have fought through back pains, I have fought through swellings, I have fought through infections, I have fought painful labour and complications, I have fought bad-mouthers, I have fought insults and myopic judgements to arrive here and now I chose not to share my moment of glory with anyone but my medal.

#themusingsofamadman
#camistare2018