My A, B, Cs and other words

My A, B, Cs and other words

I have a friend. Let’s call her A. A is the friend who follows you everywhere. She’s also the friend who doesn’t know how to shut up. If you’re wondering why I would use such a tone to describe a friend, it’s because I don’t even like her in the first place but she insists on us being friends. A also happens to be paranoid and because of that she introduced me to privileged problems. For example, on a random day you’ll find me contemplating whether to use Bolt or Uber. There are days when I can’t get myself to take a matatu because A has convinced me that might turn out to be a dangerous mission. What if nipitishwe stage, and now I have to start a new life somewhere far away from my dogs? What if my phone gets stolen? What if a random person in the matatu sees me and judges my outfit and hair? What if the makanga forgets to give me my change immediately? How am I supposed to ask for it? That’s just one experience of having A’s paranoia grow on me. Most days, we fight. Sometimes she wins, and I lose; sometimes I win, and she loses. In as much as I don’t like A, I feel like being optimistic today so thank you A, for giving me privileged problems like deciding whether to take Bolt or Uber. Here’s to you anxiety.

 B. How about we play a guessing game for this one? Guess the B word. Here’s a hint; you’re watching a movie and this guy and his girlfriend get into an argument. The girl gets so angry that she smashes his car, burns his clothes, and breaks his stuff. Such a psycho, right? But if you’re one of the “woke” ones, there’s another term for it. One that starts with a B followed by I then P. Bip….? If you guessed bipolar, tell your boss I said you shouldn’t show up to work tomorrow. It’s my gift to you for being a smart one. It’s been 3 years of navigating life living with Bipolar II Disorder and, honestly, I’m yet to smash someone’s car. People have given me reasons to do it, though, and I have to admit that sometimes I do it in my head. However, it has taught me that there are beautiful people out here. People who love you. People who accept you. People who support you. Just as you are. The bipolar term has taught me that situations or terms given by people don’t define you. I’ve heard them all. Delusional, crazy, overreacting, etc. But there’s a guy up there who already defines me, who gives me an identity, and I choose to live by what he defines me as. 


C for cramps. C for Covid. C for Chandler Moore. C gave us Miss Covid too, and if there was ever a “what the hell?” period in our lives, then she takes the trophy for it. Covid gave and took. For starters, it took my guka. The mention of it has tears welling up in my eyes already, so I’ll leave the sad at that. On the bright side, Covid gave too. It gave Covid babies and Covid marriages. I also happened to be on the receiving list, so I got a Covid relationship too. Do you want to know the best part? It gave me one with a man whose name also starts with the letter C. Of all the letters, C is doing the most here. Back to the relationship gist: So I knew this man, but I didn’t know him that well. We talked once in a while, but somehow I always ended up ghosting him. He didn’t mind a little ghosting, and I loved that he didn’t mind. One random Covid day, I got very emotionally hurt, and I decided to hit this guy up.  There’s something about hurting that makes you go back to familiar people or places. And so I did. I hit him up, and we talked that night, and he told me that “psychotic” bipolar girls like me were his type. I was embarrassed and sorry that I had ghosted him an uncountable number of times, but he told me he always waited for the day I’d go back to him. Guys, It was such a beautiful conversation, I cried that whole night.  As time went by, I found myself more and more interested in this man. Our conversations were so beautiful, and so was he. It’s been 2 years now, and it keeps on getting more beautiful. I do have my days, of course, but this man’s patience and forgiveness are unmatched. This man loves me and chooses me every day. This man is named Christ. Who did you think I was talking about? Charles? Girl, get up and look for this man too. I don’t mind sharing him. His love is big enough for all of us.

I’ve had it!

I’ve had it!

If it’s uni we’re talking about, count on me to scream out the word “TIRED!” I want to scream every 3 out of 5 days because school is hitting a different type of nerve. A few weeks into the new semester, you’re stuck with 6 papers, 489 CATS, 75 assignments, 678 group projects, and an assignment to come up with a Coronavirus cure-all due at 11:59 pm tomorrow.

The course I do has people assuming I’m good at math, but am I? I just don’t know anymore. The mere fact that they even started adding alphabets to math equations now has me questioning who even came up with math. How do we even know they’re right? Why are we adding alphabets to math equations? And the graphs? I guess I’m perfect at plotting those. Do you know that graph, Y=MX+C? I use it every day to plot the slope of my life, going downhill at a speed of 500 mistakes per hour.

Group projects. Okay, can someone take one for the team and tell lecturers that group work doesn’t bring unity and synergy among people, or whatever it is they hope to achieve? If I’m being honest, group work just teaches you how to deal with idiots. The only good thing about it is that it gives you patience. Patience and tolerance to deal with Carol, who never shows up for group discussions because she has to go make dinner for her boyfriend. I’m sorry to break it to you, Carol, but that man is not your soulmate. He doesn’t support your education, so honestly, he’s a no-no if you ask me.

There’s Kim, too, who never runs out of excuses for not showing up. Keep up the creativity, Kim. We don’t want you to run out of new excuses, do we? Ooh, and have you met Eric? He’s the character who never knows what’s going on in the group, but will hit you with “I’ll pay for the printing.” How generous of you, Eric. Printing is only 15 Kshs. The heavens applaud your generosity, you sweet angel from above.

It’s such characters that I want to bring before the Lord today. Dear God, they are your children. Just fix them because I want to do it on your behalf, but I don’t want to end up in jail.

Am I a fitness guru now?

Am I a fitness guru now?

It’s been 20 years of roaming purposelessly on this planet, but I may have actually found a calling. Apparently according to studies crying actually helps you lose weight and for me crying is a talent. A life skill. A hobby. A full time job. A vibe. A lifestyle.

I know for a fact that one of Adam’s sons must have given me a broken and defective rib, because how does a grown girl like me still have the unmatched crying skills of a 2-year-old baby? Maybe it’s the clay. Maybe the clay used to mold me didn’t dry well enough, and it’s still leaking; no wonder the unexplainable amount of tears I harbor in me. Yeah, I blame it on the ribs and clay. 
But thanks to scientists, I’m now a self-proclaimed fitness guru, and I’m considerate enough to help other poor characters out there. What if I open a fitness gym for crying? I’m yet to come up with a catchy name for it, but I do have a slogan, “Where everyone cries faster and keeps crying for longer.”

A gym where we cry when we’re tired. We cry when we’re frustrated and angry. We cry when we don’t understand math problems taught in class. Likewise, we cry when the degrees that we willingly chose take a turn for the worse. We cry because we put sad songs on purpose just to cry. 
We cry because of heartbreak. Has your crush slipped from second to sixth place on your Instagram stories? Does it seem like they’ve lost interest? Come cry with us. We cry because they haven’t replied to our text, and it’s been 6 minutes since we sent it. In this gym, we cry because we can’t find the right outfit even after changing 465 times; because hair and makeup won’t cooperate, and it’s Monday morning, and you’re late for class/work. We cry because we’re us.

I’ll even have special sessions for a special group of people. The single ones. The circus owners who keep dating clown after clown. The ones who are beginning to wonder whether they’re low-key involved in any paranormal activity because the amount of times they get ghosted is unexplainable.

Share this opportunity with a friend today you think would love it, and let’s feel those emotions. It’s going to be waterfalls and waterworks in there, I’m telling you.