Change, or not (Part 1)

ChangeUnless we are talking about a better car, salary increment, new travelling class, a newborn (debatable), the word CHANGE is not sexy. I mean, not appealing.  I have no idea what pothead came up with the statement that change is a constant. Like k is a constant, you know that kind of shit.

Personally, I am not intrigued by change. I am not bothered by the same either. Yes, I adjust whenever needed to but unless we are talking big money, I am not the kind to be excited by the prospect of change. I am indifferent, mostly. I won’t sulk about change when it’s time to move; I move on pretty fast, again, especially when there is money involved. Hehe.

As  stated above, I am not allergic to change. As a matter of fact, I have changed and adjusted the recent past, I have done things I did not want to do because my landlord is not bae. I have walked away from bad people like the good person I am. Because of change. Change is most needed when it is least comfortable.

I have switched jobs, moved houses, ventured into new things but I strongly feel the greatest change I ever committed myself to, was being born. I mean, I was living the life. In case you were not born or can’t recollect your thoughts, no one can blame you. (May be they dropped you in the transition. It comes with the change package-the dropping).

Fortunately, I nostalgically recall my stay there. Way before change came: It was a cool and warm place, literally – conditions determined by how I wanted my environment vis-à-vis the external world. I’d have all three meals in time, with several snacking in between. My mother was not some slay queen who watched her weight all the time, or anytime really. She ate what babaa wanted. And I sure as hell wanted a lot of things. Other times she ate what she just wanted. I don’t remember asking for some tasteless, brown/white rocks in the name of minerals or cravings. But we shared that too. Isn’t that what love really is all about? Understanding each other and accommodating their differences lovingly?

Anyways, I spent all my time chilling. I still cannot believe how I could not even think about money then. Could be it is because I had a water-bed, in which I could float freely, with a cord that was not only used to bring me those much-needed nutrients, but also to restrain me from going to check out if there was any alcohol in her kidneys. (I envy ninjas whose mothers drink alcohol. While the unfair world is screaming 18 and Over, you are just laughing at their ignorance. Screw health implications. YOLO.)

If I was not sleeping, I’d be kicking the walls of my 800 ml shock proof water-bed, mostly just to feel my mother’s delight at the kick. I bet she knew she’d give birth to a ninja. I knew I’d be a ninja. Every time I kicked, however brutal it was on her, she’d smile like they do in movies and my old man would come and hold her protruding belly to feel me kick. I’d kick again, this time to tell that guy to keep his filthy hands off my mother. Other times I’d restrain myself until he removed his hand and kick again. She would call him back with a lot of excitement and I would stop kicking just to see his face. Most of the times he’d place his big hand and wait there like an idiot: with this pensive look like some expert in astronomy listening to some extraterrestrial waves using some broken equipment.  My mother and I loved these moments.

We had a connection. I would hear and feel  her heartbeat. Other times we’d even sync them. We shared everything. Her love was unconditional. Even in times I wore her out, she’d always vent it out to someone else, not Babaa. Mostly the guy with the filthy hands. And he took it like a man: just standing there, mouth agape hands lifted up in agonizing frustration and sometimes I could feel his desperation as he wondered ‘sasa nimefanya nini leo. Nimeleta mahindi choma, soda warm, maembe haijaiva, nmefungua dirisha na nkaambiwa nifunge tena, no colognes in this house, now we have sleeping positions, aaaarrgh. Kwani katakuwa Maraga haka kakitu kanazaliwa?’ And a bottle of beer would always calm him down. These are the moments I’d kick just to show him his only crime is he’s a ninja.

 This was my home. Change was not an option here. Why would I want to leave this for some unknown world out there where there was no enough love? Where people value money than life and a world full of hate, racism, tribalism and all isms that don’t know what it is to just chill and kick?  Not to mention I was not sure about the water-bed anymore. From all I knew, my mum got really tired whenever she slept. Partly it was because of me but why don’t they have water-beds for mothers too? It would be fun. I wish I could get her a waterbed too. One day, Mama…


9 Replies to “Change, or not (Part 1)”

  1. Wow!! You have the gift of the gab man! Keep at it ninja, solidly behind you.. I like this: “Change is most needed when it is least comfortable.” Awesome!

    ION, if you were not “The Wanderer”, you would be “The Ninja”.. Hehee!


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