There is a part of me, I have desperately wanted to hide from the world.
As if the world, in a gaze so tormenting would lead me to the crucifix and kill me for this one thing. Coming of age has taught me that I should let “me be me”. In doing so , I breath voice into the weakest crevice of my regrets and sway away.
There is meaning in letting go.
It doesn’t stop there.
Because I will disapprove my own point.
I travelled home from the City and while at home; to lend myself a voice to the craving of my memories – I loved the smell of bushes.
The rants of men and women in their daily obsessions atop a soil that has made me.
The shouts of boda boda riders shoving you into their rides.
I love the smell of home, the prickly eyes of caring adults scrutinizing whether the city has not turned you into a goon. So over the last few days, I’ve been trying to reminisce the years that washed away my childhood. I would die to recollect all these memories into one pot of boldness and say that I would want to go back. And for so many weeks I have asked myself the big and small questions. Which game was my favorite? Which friend did we make most of these memories with? And if it would be possible, would I take a bullet for all them?
“I half closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I’d ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field and gradually get larger until I’d see…’ Kazuo Ishiguro
At first, I thought this was just the pain and exhaustion of leaving behind the comfort of teen hood and wallowing into the cold obsession of chasing dreams. I knew it was so close to pinning me to the wall, after all the things I’d gone through.
Yet so sad
I didn’t have a selfie, a portrait of myself through the hard times. The times that so much stood up in my mind. It’s only by walking along the dusty paths, the thickety bushes and the lone trails we left for hikes; that I easily reconnect with what had been so much my identity. In the background of which, were all these imaginations, hills at the sides, all emerging beneath the twigs of trees. Trees swaying downhill the gentle slopes of what we grew up calling the incredible Nyambene hills.
It is difficult to precisely say what about this town holds so much of my soul; that suffice to say the least, is not a distorted image of myself as the pictures of me and mine; celebrating Christmas, a birthday party or an education day ceremony.
It is then I realized the few that remained around held; so much luck in themselves – than those who left. Besides, relating with these recollections for almost every part of their daily lives, they will never let them go. It is by identifying with the blurry lines of nostalgia left – that I felt so much envy because they tightly grasped in their hearts; a special gift than I had – Memories.
“It never occurred to me that our lives, until then so closely interwoven, could unravel and separate over a thing like that. But the fact was, I suppose, there were powerful tides tugging us apart by then, and it only needed something like that to finish the task. If we’d understood that back then-who knows?-maybe we’d have kept a tighter hold of one another.” Kazuo Ishiguro (Never Let Me Go)
Looking inside the eyes of someone I knew ten years ago, I will look for the disapproval. I will dig deep into them, for the least to find something – be it a tale. That will help me remember. That will help my faults resonate into something that I can weave into a narrative.
This has become an indictment that I hardly can brush off; The seclusion from these very past; a past in the smoking playgrounds, the filth grime, the kissing meetings in the dark with girlfriends; the heartbreaks, the craving, the longing; the pressure from peers to out-leave our current situation – the weary form of personal delusion, self hate and discrimination.
And I haven’t taxed any amounts of pain than these; until I met sweethearts that didn’t remember me. I was sure somewhere beneath my past , in the winds of my childhood we had shared experiences that went beyond brotherhood.
The expression in their eyes bear no significance to what we had; Except for the Occasional warmth, everything else is dry. As if to signify would I run for some political office; they wouldn’t vote me in even for the memories alone; let alone for the name. Not all of use held on to these memories anyway
. It is even difficult to comprehend what took place in between the narrow escape from our childhood into adulthood.
“Because maybe, in a way, we didn’t leave it behind nearly as much as we might once have thought. Because somewhere underneath, a part of us stayed like that: fearful of the world around us, and no matter how much we despised ourselves for it–unable quite to let each other go.”
― Never Let Me Go)
Did he lose a loved one? Did she attain her dreams and gain admission into the privileged club of the few rich? Were they heartbroken? Looking back then, I realize we knew so little about life, about ourselves, about belonging but I had this prayer for all those years – that somewhere beneath their souls they had that same urge as me. Similar not just from the outside -but inside – we had gone through the same lunch breaks, afternoon preps, evening gossips, boyish football, teen hood flirtery ;
”that there are people out there, like Madame, who don’t hate you or wish you any harm, but who nevertheless shudder at the very thought of you – of how you were brought into this world and why – and who dread the idea of your hand brushing against theirs. The first time you glimpse yourself through the eyes of a person like that, it’s a cold moment. It’s like walking past a mirror you’ve walked past every day of your life, and suddenly it shows you something else, something troubling and strange.”
― Never Let Me Go)
Are these memories not worth the struggle?
Maybe as from early as ten, things were not so good. You struggled, and the memories are rather painful to hold on to. So you’re there, waiting till the pain goes away.
The bitterness of not having a satisfactory childhood as everyone – C’mon we went through the same long painful nights. We’ve all at certain points felt cold out in the sun. Chased in the midst of peace and lonely in a crowded gathering.
But si ni life ( It’s Life)
You needn’t to hold on to bitterness ; Do you even know when the pain will fade away? Perhaps you cant recognize the harm you’re doing to yourself – but it’s harm.
There is no life out there bigger than the one you’ve left behind – next time glimpse yourself through the eyes of your past – it’s a cold reality, a harsh one, especially knowing that you are yearning to hold on, never to let go but still, willing to hold back.
It’s as strange as that.
Photo Credits:Artsy Solomon , BrestonKenya , Daniel Edeke
A friend of mine gifted to me Kazuo Ishiguro’s ‘Book Never Let Me Go’
This book is the inspiration behind this post. In the coming days I will post a full review of Never Let Me Go, – but if need be; you could catch up with a brief description of the book here.
A tale that wounds down the most precious gift given to man – Memories. It is a narrative of deceptive simplicity, re – imagining what was left behind and if these very memories could turn into heart wrenching craving, obsessive reflection, or even a more sinister altercation – never letting go.
For an eBook of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Book ‘ Never Let Me Go’ – Comment below and I will Send it to you.
A hard copy of the book can be found here on my Social Media Listings; You are free to check the Price.