My Story
Talking From The Dead!!!
“Why am I not yet dead? Nkt! God, but I gave you permission to let me die last night?” Waking up and the first thing you think about is when you will die. “Is it sooner than tomorrow or later than the day after tomorrow?” Those are the questions that come in to my mind every morning I open my eyes.
I only tried to emulate what our musicians and the actors do in their music and movies respectively because that is what all my friends were doing. It was fashion and who was I to be left behind? I curse the media and my unsound mind friends but what counts is that my life is already ruined.
It is late at night; the so much cherished slumber land is like a million miles away from my bed. There are so many things that have invaded my head. I am alive but I feel like in the next minute I will be gone. I get out of bed and perform one of my favorite hobbies – light a cigarette, take big puffs and lie to myself that, that is the highway to slumber land.
My lungs are wearing out, my teeth are getting blunt not mentioning the color change and above all, my whole being is rotting from inside but am not aware of this so I continue with my activities. Prior to smoking, I had chewed like a goat the so called… err … gomba/mogoka the Khat. The name depends with where you come from. An inevitable consequence – sleep has been drained from my eyes, and my jaws are aching but I am not concerned definitely because I don’t know that I am dying inside. The former and the latter have brought cancer to my lungs and lips respectively, but because I don’t know that they are the causative agents, I can’t do without them yet I am very dead inside.
Twenty minutes after smoking, the rift between me and sleep has widened. I have a memory lapse of about 160 GB gone to waste. I can’t even remember what I did twenty minutes ago … but I need to sleep, what do I do? I disorient my bed again, remembered I had kept at the corner of it my bottle of the famous local gin, Chang’aa (Ethanol). It seems I only had the memory to remind me where I had kept the architect of my death. I sit on the stool next to my bed and take big gulps as I think I am in ecstasy, yet I am increasing the depth of my grave by a foot adding to the three I dug earlier. I stagger back to my bed, I have welcomed liver cirrhosis.
Talk of women; I had them like pea nuts.
“Mti Kubwa will do the trick. Read little and pass highly. You will understand why birds fly!” someone told me and with immediate effect, I got it (Indian Hemp/Bhang) into my menu not knowing that I had another seven years of confusion and hyper activeness to my already dying soul.
I remember well that it was just nine minutes of pleasure and trial and now it is an entire life of pain as I have no friends anymore and everybody around me has concluded that I have a PHD (Permanent Health Disaster) in life because I also own the toughest killer disease, HIV/Aids. I won’t let you go through this too because it only started by just watching, then ‘trying to imitate’ and now…
Truly, not everything that count is counted and not everything that is counted counts. I can not count how many times I heard about the effects of my practices but what counts now is that at least I heard and someone tried to warn me but due to my best friend, Ignorance’s decision and my other friend, procrastination, whom to me were my ‘guardian angels’, I am now succumbed to death.
It might sound nonsense to you but just get the sense from it.
(Feel like there is something you too need to share with the world, I mean to have your story published here, just send it to vice.international@yahoo.com)
