Two years ago, I sat in a concert hall in Grenay, northern France, while the mayor of the town used our performance as a backdrop for his political speech. According to him, our orchestra was ‘a fine example of how the youth of today were the people who would break down barriers and share their qualities regardless of nationality’. (A lie, he would have seen, had he witnessed the xenophobia of a number of our group, walking through the streets that morning.) The slogans dominating one end of the market place, displayed that the Communiste Municipal Party were playing for the votes in that town.
I read the graffiti on the wall. In big, bold letters, scrawled a foot high, it said “APNI MARZI KARDHI!” I didn’t understand. Next to it, written in white correction fluid, the words, “THE POOR CAN TAKE NO MORE: RESIGN”. My conscience was jolted and I took a pen from my pocket and wrote, “The cure is an elixir in a small glass bottle, but only god knows where it is”. There were other words on the wall. “Hold me tight. Don’t let go.” “You don’t own me. I have rights too.” “Fahari wawili wanapo pigana nyasi ndizo ziumiazo.” “If you treat me like shit, you’ll have to live with the stench.” “I love…” and “Sal was ere B4 U”.
The words expressed people’s thoughts. I left and returned a week later, but now the words were gone, lost beneath another layer of cream emulsion. There was a single, new message.
“PRIVATE PROPERTY”
It is when you feel down that you really realise that the friends you have are worth more than anyone else in the world. It should be obvious that the friends you have are worth more than the ones you don’t. I was so, so down one evening; I had hurt someone in a desperate attempt to become anonymous and to be someone that I’m not. Someone who was arrogant and carefree. Someone who could blame someone else for his own mistakes.
I had become anonymous, for the other person ignored me, but she despised me too. And no matter how I had denied my guilt at the time, now I felt as guilty as sin. I spent hours cursing myself, wishing that I could slip away and become truly invisible. Wishing that they would forget me and lose their recognition; truly invisible.
In the end, I found the courage to phone a friend, just needing someone to talk to. And that friend listened, advised, told me to pull myself together and that I had no right to waste the talents I held, by running off. Fifteen minutes on the phone transformed my misery into understanding. Fifteen minutes later, after I tapped the four digits into the phone, I realised what good friends I have. As for the mistake I made, I just have to accept I make these. A friend told me that.
I don’t deserve you, but I want you.
I’ve done nothing for you, but I want you.
I’ve done nothing for the world,
But I want the world.
I’ve taken all my life and I’ve never given back.
I don’t deserve you, but I want you.
I’ve had everything I wanted
And I threw most of it away
I wasted many years
I threw it all away.
I don’t deserve my friends, but I love them.
They give and give to me.
What do I give to them?
Stories about my sorry life?
My sorry life?
I was given everything I wanted
But I threw most of it away.
Look at me and listen.
Listen what I say.
I want to change everything.
I hate what I see.
Me.
I hate what I see. I want to change me.
I want to hold you. Not for me.
For you.
I never give. Now I want to give.
Hold me.
I wanted to hate her because she made me feel like nothing. I wanted to make her feel small because she made me feel small. I wanted to hurt her because she hurt me. I thought of a hundred ways to hate.
Now I am reduced to a mad, psychotic idiot, crying, lying down in a cold police cell. Now I am reduced to nothing, but a man capable of only hating. I am small and weak today, but I felt powerful and strong yesterday, when I held that gun in my hands. I shot the world down. Because the world shot me down. Or did I just imagine that? Was I really alone? Was there really no one there? Now there is no one there. I could think of one hundred ways to love, but it’s too late now.
The war was over, but the scars remained. Pushed together, the people lived in compounds scattered across the vast landscape. It was better like this; not much better, but better than the urban squalor that faced the returning refugees. The compounds were a sanctory from the ever threatening outside world: The minefield hell holes. The pitted landscape filled with cluster bombs. The poisoned lakes. And the dead land. The dead land that was good for nothing any more. Poisoned for a million years; a graveyard of a once fertile land. The compounds offered saftey.
I offend my friends in what I say
I offend my friends in what I write
But they never tell me,
But I know.
I offend them because I write too much
I offend them because I pour my anger out
I write everything down
Like the Blues
Only it’s more like purple,
Because my anger is red.
I offend them,
But they don’t say.
Too personal, they think
I shouldn’t read it out, they think.
It offends them, but they never say.
I am not one of you because I cannot find my feet.
I want to stand proud, but I’m too quick to admit defeat.
I want to be just like you; you’re so self-assured,
Thinking about my own life, I can tell you, I just get bored.
I hate my selfish, self-centred ways.
I hate them, but I cannot change them.
That is what I am.
Love is the most important thing in my life,
But I haven’t got a clue.
I’m lost and crying.
Dying.
Now I’m lying.
I want love and I want to give away love,
And they say love isn’t love til you give it away.
But what I want is more than that. How do you say?
I guess it doesn’t matter how you say it.
I’m bored of being alone.
I hate my empty heart.
I can hate myself more than the world can,
But it’s the world that makes me hate myself.
They ignore me; I hate myself. I wish I’d never spoken.
They laugh at me; I hate myself. That stupid, stupid book.
I find myself on my own; I hate myself.
I brought this on myself.
You are so, so confident. I feel like death.
You have so much to say. I feel like a brick.
I am not one of you because I feel so empty.
I’m sitting in the dark. I feel like nothing.
Rejection hurts me. It makes me hate myself.
I am not one of you, because I cannot find my feet.
I looked him in the eye and he said no. Good. I needed that. I asked him why and he just smiled and winked his eye. That wasn’t an answer. I wanted an answer, not a smile and a wink. I turned around and saw a hole in reality. A huge gap. A gap where there was nothing. Just. Nothing.
There was a reason, but it was pink. And as anyone knows, a reason that is a colour helps nobody. It means nothing. The reason was pink and my life was purple, so if the floor stayed green and the door blue I was sure that everything was insane. Drink. Eat. Die.
Smile.
I turned back to the man. “Why?” I asked. He winked again and nodded his head towards the hole. Then he said, “Minty fresh” and left me. What did that mean? Life is like a Polo mint? Insane.
I stepped into the hole and now everything was nothing and nothing was everything. Everything had become the gap and the gap had become everything. It was yellow and my mind was mellow. Inside, the rain. Outside, the pain.
I drank the coffee. The coffee was me. It screwed the world, but who cares? It would be my brother who’d say, “Wake up and smell the coffee.” But what he’d mean is something quite different: Get a life. Pull yourself together.
That’s what he’d mean.
If he ever came home.
Now smell the coffee. Smooth aroma. Taste it. Drink it. Live it. In debt. Cash crop. Poverty. Death.
In this other reality; through the gap, there was a man. A tall African, farming man. But he wasn’t farming when I saw him. His face was buried deep in his hands and he was sobbing empty tears. “Your actions are illegal.” I heard. I heard a voice behind me, shouting. Yelling. Shouting at the man.
Coffee. Debt. Death.
I couldn’t stand it there, so I stepped back into the other reality. Reality. Hole. Gap. Whatever. I stepped back into the place where I was comfortable. The man was there again, as though he had never left. It seemed too familiar. Like I’d done this before. It seemed too familiar. Like I’d done this. I looked him in the eye and he said no. I was kind of expecting that. Somehow. I asked him why and he just smiled at me and winked.
I shouted at him.
I screamed.
Balled.
“Don’t wink. Don’t smile. What’s going on?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” he replied, as though he hadn’t heard me the last three hundred times, when the hole became everything and everything, nothing.
“Kenya, right?” he said, almost like a robot, “Debts, yeah? Coffee plantations. Grow coffee. Sell coffee. Man, right? Hungry, lives, sleeps. Food to live. Land to grow food. Need land. No land. Only coffee land. Eat. Drink. Man chops down coffee bush to grow food, while debts cut down man to grow profit. Illegal to chop down bushes to use the land for food production. Income from coffee pays back debts.”
“Does it?” I asked.
“I doubt it.” he said. “Come with me,” he said, “I’ll buy you a coffee.”
Naive. That’s me. Naive to the point that I didn’t expect rumours and gossip at University. Naive to the point that I believed that there would be a certain air of openness and accepting. Naive to hope that I would not be ostracised. Quite naive.
I admit, I bring a lot of this upon myself, but only up to a point. If I want to be silent from time to time, that’s my business. If I decide to give people things, that’s my business too; it doesn’t mean anything.
Yet, however naive I may be, I sense a certain naivety in others. A misinterpretation of gestures. A smile means “Hi, I’m happy,” not “Why, you’re mighty fine!”
Dedicated conversation to one person means, “I’m interested in what you have to say,” not “I can’t wait to jump into bed with you.”
But now, apparently, just looking at someone means that you want to go out with them.
Naive? What’s on your mind?
What I say
What I do.
They say don’t put yourself down.
Do I put myself down?
I’m just stating a fact.
I’m just making a statement.
They don’t really know me.
They think what they see
Is what they get.
But it isn’t.
I don’t know me very well
But I know me better than they do
And I don’t like what I see.
They say don’t put yourself down
So they want to see the real me.
But then they would hate me
Selfish me.
I hate like anybody else.
I love and I admire,
But my mind is twisted
And broken in two.
I always think of me.
Me. Me. Me.
I’m not putting myself down.
I’m just stating a fact.
I’m bored of the arrogant bastard
With the verbal diarrhoea.
(A friend’s words, not mine,
But I agree)
He says a lot, all the time.
He says a lot,
But it sounds like shit to me.
He is happy to offend you,
If you’re out of the room.
And smile or nod if you’re there.
Sometimes he’ll even show his disapproval to your face
If the time is right. (Very often, it seems, to me)
He’s happy to offend;
Make you feel two foot tall.
Trouble is, what he says,
He’s probably right.
Well, he said so.
The man behind the bar said he could tell what any man was like
Just by looking at him.
Well he got me wrong.
He thinks I am nothing,
Just like you do.
He said he is never wrong.
Well, perhaps he’s right;
Based on your beliefs.
Like you think anyone who doesn’t drink beer
Is a loser.
Like you think that anyone who doesn’t speak up
Has nothing to say.
Like you think I’m nothing.
Get a life.
You say.
You mean,
Be like me.
You think anyone who’s not like you
Has no life.
Get a life,
You say.
Because you think I am nothing?
I am not nothing.
I couldn’t understand what he was talking about, but it sure sounded cool. I knew he had all my money in his future and that was red. Red like a London Bus. Did he understand me? I shouldn’t think so. Give me a pint of petrol I said. He didn’t understand that. Well why would he? He was from a different reality from the one I knew. Outside the sky was green. Inside it was pink. Smile and the whole world falls apart.
We passed her outside the station, but she didn’t recognise us. She didn’t even notice us. She was locked in a world some place else. Well forget you, we thought. Was it something I said? Probably. Saw her again. I knew what I wanted to say; just to check she was alright. She looked lost, but I said nothing. I did nothing. Me in my stupor.
None of your business. I was only asking. So? You didn’t look very happy. Do I have to smile all day long?
It would have ended there.
Probably.
I said nothing and I walked away. I think I messed up. Messed up big time, as they say. Who? I don’t know, but I’ve heard it said. Messed up with these people I’ve met. Getting too comfortable with them. Enjoying their company too much. Admiring them too much. Never admire. Admiration is bad.
So it seems.
I shouldn’t have said I thought one of them was cool, because now they think I’m a loser. Probably think I want more than friendship. The price you pay when you admit your respect. Let me have a blue tongue and gold lips. Let me be someone else. I could be anyone they wanted me to be, but they say, “stay as you are”. Well I will, but only if that means I get something out of it.
I suppose he has a point, but I’m still lost. I want to share my writing. I want to hide it too. I hate my book, and I love it. Did I do it all in the name of pity or is it just this song corrupting my views? Who cares? I feel like it’s all patronising. Have I read it too many times? Is it too familiar or what? It drives me crazy. What can I do?
Relax and let anyone read it? Perhaps that’s the only way to settle my mind. But I don’t want to lose people. I guess if they don’t like it, then they wouldn’t really like me anyway. No point in pretending. The sky’s not green anymore. Now it’s purple and I feel insecure. My mind plays tricks on me. Something plays tricks on my mind. Honesty. The truth.
But I don’t know what the truth is. And will I ever? Not the ways things are going, because I don’t have the guts to let anyone read my work. What will they think of me. It’s like a horror movie. That’s patronising. That’s offensive. That’s sad. That’s embarrassing. That’s a cliche.
A message under the door. How embarrassing. Why the hell did I leave my folder on the kitchen table and my depressed note, “everything I write is patronising”? It slipped my mind. Now my head is filled with guilt; like I’m using my friends as a counselling service. The reply: “empathy is not patronising”. I had to look empathy up in the dictionary. Well, what can I say?
Everything I write comes from experience. I cheat. My imagination is limited. I rearrange experiences. I stitch together what I know and I write it all down. Still feel lost. Still feel ill. I’ll let him read it first. He seems to know the world better than I do. And I trust him. If he doesn’t like it, he will tell me. Fine. Read it.
Peaches came from a can. They were put there by a man, in a factory down town. Flow like a song. Be cool. Medicine. Bother. Forgot. Wait one minute.
Sod it.
Listen to that thumping bass. I don’t want nothing. I mean, I want something. Yes, not nothing. I can be such a dog. And I try to justify everything I do. Oh hell. Why can’t I just relax and stop thinking? I’m boring and I’m a dog. Great. I’m sorted then.
Paranoia strikes me again.
Let me out.
My brain is squidgy. I’m going to have an omelette.
I couldn’t understand what he was talking about, but it sure sounded cool. I knew he had all my money in his future and that was red. Red like a London Bus. Did he understand me? I shouldn’t think so. Give me a pint of petrol I said. He didn’t understand that. Well why would he? He was from a different reality from the one I knew. Outside the sky was green. Inside it was pink. Smile and the whole world falls apart.
We passed her outside the station, but she didn’t recognise us. She didn’t even notice us. She was locked in a world some place else. Well forget you, we thought. Was it something I said? Probably. Saw her again. I knew what I wanted to say; just to check she was alright. She looked lost, but I said nothing. I did nothing. Me in my stupor.
None of your business. I was only asking. So? You didn’t look very happy. Do I have to smile all day long?
It would have ended there.
Probably.
I said nothing and I walked away. I think I messed up. Messed up big time, as they say. Who? I don’t know, but I’ve heard it said. Messed up with these people I’ve met. Getting too comfortable with them. Enjoying their company too much. Admiring them too much. Never admire. Admiration is bad.
So it seems.
I shouldn’t have said I thought one of them was cool, because now they think I’m a loser. Probably think I want more than friendship. The price you pay when you admit your respect. Let me have a blue tongue and gold lips. Let me be someone else. I could be anyone they wanted me to be, but they say, “stay as you are”. Well I will, but only if that means I get something out of it.
I suppose he has a point, but I’m still lost. I want to share my writing. I want to hide it too. I hate my book, and I love it. Did I do it all in the name of pity or is it just this song corrupting my views? Who cares? I feel like it’s all patronising. Have I read it too many times? Is it too familiar or what? It drives me crazy. What can I do?
Relax and let anyone read it? Perhaps that’s the only way to settle my mind. But I don’t want to lose people. I guess if they don’t like it, then they wouldn’t really like me anyway. No point in pretending. The sky’s not green anymore. Now it’s purple and I feel insecure. My mind plays tricks on me. Something plays tricks on my mind. Honesty. The truth.
But I don’t know what the truth is. And will I ever? Not the ways things are going, because I don’t have the guts to let anyone read my work. What will they think of me. It’s like a horror movie. That’s patronising. That’s offensive. That’s sad. That’s embarrassing. That’s a cliche.
A message under the door. How embarrassing. Why the hell did I leave my folder on the kitchen table and my depressed note, “everything I write is patronising”? It slipped my mind. Now my head is filled with guilt; like I’m using my friends as a counselling service. The reply: “empathy is not patronising”. I had to look empathy up in the dictionary. Well, what can I say?
Everything I write comes from experience. I cheat. My imagination is limited. I rearrange experiences. I stitch together what I know and I write it all down. Still feel lost. Still feel ill. I’ll let him read it first. He seems to know the world better than I do. And I trust him. If he doesn’t like it, he will tell me. Fine. Read it.
Peaches came from a can. They were put there by a man, in a factory down town. Flow like a song. Be cool. Medicine. Bother. Forgot. Wait one minute.
Sod it.
Listen to that thumping bass. I don’t want nothing. I mean, I want something. Yes, not nothing. I can be such a dog. And I try to justify everything I do. Oh hell. Why can’t I just relax and stop thinking? I’m boring and I’m a dog. Great. I’m sorted then.
Paranoia strikes me again.
Let me out.
My brain is squidgy. I’m going to have an omelette.
