Dream of Paradise

Its 2.30 am. Once again I am awake. Once again, I hate it. I made new year resolutions about this. Sat myself down one evening and told myself how much we were going to start spending more time with sleep. We shook on it. Me and I.

Insanity is…Except, this is not a choice. I am not doing this over and over again expecting different results. Wait. I am. I come to bed daily expecting to fall asleep. Given that this is a function that my body has to perform, I can hardly be expected to expect anything else, now can I? But those are not different results. They are the same results. So it might not be insanity after all.

Chances are that this post will not make sense. But then again, you do  not come here for the immense intellect I disperse.

I watch the sun rise, take the journey with it through the day and bid it farewell. It winks at me, just before it completely abandons East Africa for the US. I always think. There goes the sun. It got its visa. It doesn't have to go through cavity searches at airports. No one asked it if it intends to come back. Or how many dependents it has. It just ups, across, downs and goes. What if it never comes back? What if it finds a better life there? I look forward to its return. Well, not that anxiously. I like it when its around but hate that it comes to remind me that I have not slept a wink since it left and it expects me to just get up and be jolly along with it.

It was a very hot day today. Today I saw my very pregnant friend.  Her belly looked alien. And she kept scratching it. I asked,  Are you itchy or is it the baby. She said go away.  I kept staring. At her her distended belly. It was beautiful and ugly at the same time. Beautiful in the way it filled her out, making her look so ripe. Ugly in the way it just sat there. Like a huge boulder in the middle of the road when you are in a hurry. An obstruction. I did not tell her this. She would not understand. She would have thought the sun was getting to me.

I interacted with a street boy afterwards. Street young man actually. He was at the park watching my movie. I asked him what scene stood out to him. He told me the one where the little boy dies. I asked him why.  He said because he had no one to look out for him. But he knows that he is now happy, now free. The little boy he is talking about was a street boy who gets killed in the post election violence. I wondered if that boys death stood out for him because of the age of the boy, or because he identified with him. I joke around with him more. Asks him to say something for the camera. He asks if its going to be on TV. I say no. It's not entirely true. Neither is it a complete lie. I am not going to put him on national Tv. But he might end up on our online channels. I ask him what he is holding. He tells me its his ID.  To me, and to the rest of the world, it's a bottle half full of cobblers glue. I ask him to let me try it. He gives me a look. One that a parent would give his son if he ask to try a spliff. I understand not all parents would find that shocking. I am talking about a parent like the one in whose house I grew up in. The one I have never seen alcohol pass through his lips, or even a whiff of cigarette smoke. I insist. I try to take it. He kind of relinquishes his hold on it. My workmates, all of them who work for me scream my name. I don't know what they think. Actually, I know. I was going to try it. Was I? I don't know. I don't think so. I wanted to see if the young man would part with his ID. I know I wouldn't part with mine to a complete stranger with cameras and natural hair that has not seen a comb in months. Come to think of it. His hair looks like mine. Yet mine is artistic, a statement about my personality, my daring to be different and stand out. His? His is a street-boy who doesn't bother with grooming.  Reminds me of the stupid movie by whatshisface. The one where there is a line of clothing called Derelict. And the inspiration is are the homeless and street-dwellers. they are tattered, worn, dirt, smelly. Filthy is a word that comes close too. Yet when put on the runway, they are the shit, pun very intended.  I say goodbye to him.

I have a bed, a very big warm comfortable bed. Yet that has not guaranteed me sleep. I am sure that park we were at was his bedroom. I bet he is fast asleep. I bet he is dreaming of paradise. Cue in Paradise by Coldplay. I have wanted to sneak in that song somewhere in a blog post  since I heard it.

In the night, a stormy night
She close her eyes
In the night, a stormy night
Away she flies
And dream of para…paradise

It is not a stormy night. My eyes are not closed. I have flown nowhere. I love that song