Desperate times calls for desperate measures, quote loosely used. Like sleeping in a stationary train in Mombasa because we could not travel to Nairobi due to insecurity reasons after the Kenyan General Elections. The Steward thought that rioters just before Voi would try remove the Railway tracks. Why anybody would want to do that is beyond me, but the again, haven't we seen looters getting away with Persian and Turkish carpets and microwaves from supermarkets even though they live in mud huts with cow-dunged floors and no electricity or solar power? Back to the train...I tried so hard to ignore mosquitoes till I couldn't take it anymore. I woke Lars up, and kicked him out of our cabin. It was his fault anyway, he had insisted on leaving the window open claiming it was too hot. Well, it was but anything was preferred, anything but the mosquitoes. Shutting all windows and the door, I declared war. Armed with a towel, I thwarted them, one by one, and watched triumphantly as they fell. All the was missing was a war cry and war paint. At this point, I suddenly have a mental picture of Jack and his army of choirboys in Lord of the Flies. Minutes later, (read 15 minutes less of an hour later), I was done... and victorious, just in time for breakfast anyway. As Lars counted each mosquito bite, with a twinge of pride in his voice, I cursed them. (Image courtesy of Diary of A Mosquito Abatement Man.) Now all you proudly black people out there know how it feels like to talk about mosquito bites that no one can see, only that endless itch to elaborate your agony, while our melanin-deprived brothers and sisters proudly display reddish bumps and get all the sympathy. Unfair I say!
A few more days of forced holiday made sure that our finances took the easiest way out. And final minute get-away-from-trouble decisions took care of the remaining coins. And that's the birth of this Blog.
Now that desperation (for cash) has hit, and hit very hard, have decided to turn back to my old flame - Writing. Writing and I have had a troubled relationship, one marred with infidelity and domestic violence. I'm ashamed to say, that my faithful estranged partner has been the victim. I stand culpable of all charges, and i have nothing to say in my defense. And if Writing ever asked for alimony, I would pay, non-begrudgingly, and maybe even offer to double the amount...As I write this, I'm all apologetic, teary even, at the neglect I have been giving my faithful partner and who has, despite all, stuck with me, always there, even when I was not aware. And I feel really bad that I now remember him (notice it is a he) in time of need, driven by my greed.
I'm reaching deep into my memory, to remember how it felt like to touch, to hold, to be engaged to Writing. How it felt, to run free, hand in hand, thought in thought, in sync with each other, joint at the hip...no, joint in mind. I'm exploring the possibilities of being re-united with my long lost love, my soul mate. It's a pity that I'm getting back to mend our relationship with an ulterior motive - the prospects of making money. It does settle my guilt conscious though knowing that Writing does not mind what I use him for, as long as it not libel or slander.... and plagiarism. In our relationship, those are our Trinity of Evil.