Dad, Life, Love, Prose

#MisimuZangu


I don’t know whether I was nominated for this. But seeing as Veon Ngugi tagged me in her post, I had the inkling that I should say something. I still felt that a lot about my personal life has been written down in poems but reading Ivan Irakoze’s post brought about the fact that there is only so much that we share in those rhyme schemes gets understood at the level we would love it to be.

#MisimuZangu is about sharing something personal. Sharing something about dreams. Sharing about ups and downs. So essentially sharing about life.

I am 29 and of course to some of the toddlers whom are part of this challenge. Not looking at you Ngartia J Bryan. 🙂 I might seem to have everything in order. I told a story to the members of the possibly defunct Sanaa Book Club and they were all insistent on the fact that I should share about that life. And maybe that would give someone going through the same some bit of hope or last push that they need.

In a nutshell because as brave as I have become since, I still do not like telling this story in its long form. In 2011, I was diagnosed clinically depressed. It was a shock to not only my family, my workmates but also my friends. Because if you’ve met me, you probably do know that rarely anything gets me down. Probably never did have anything till my dad passed away earlier this year. But the feelings about that are not something I am yet capable to write about. You can only bypass so many grammatical mistakes with another set of clear meniscus on your eyes.

The worst part about the depression was that it was caused by medicine. Medicine I had finally decided to take to cure the migraines I had lived with for the last 10 or so years. Migraines that had been the first reason why I had to start wearing spectacles. So the cure had brought up a side effect that you will never wish on your worst enemy. I remember that morning when I woke up and switched off my phone and said F my job, F what people think, F life! Because from a point where I had become unable to wash a cup or rinse a glass. I now could not get out of bed, nor turn in it. The effort was too much to my mental.

I’d like to tell so much about what happened between 2011 and before the treatment started working. But I can only remember so much. I still have blanks about the year. But I came to finally, having spent 600k, with no recollection of where or on what but a bank statement that proves I did make the withdrawals. Imagine an 8 month hangover or amnesia. And the worst part about it is I was well to the outside world. I won awards at work. Got the best of recommendations for my projects. But in the end I managed to turn that around. Healed, I am now here. That money is a thing of the past. I have love in my life, and a car, oh yes aptly nicknamed Lagertha. It is rare to be debt free. And neither am I. But I am here to tell all people who read this and those tagged too. There does come a better time. It is hard work but the struggle is beautiful.

The more current personal fear that follows me to date? It is that once you have been depressed. You fear being sad, you fear expressing sorrow. Because you are afraid that the sorrow might stay. Again. And that is how I missed the funeral of the uncle I am named after. Rest in Peace Daudi Kimemia. Yes that is my name. Mukabi is my father. R.I.P.

But we trudge on. About to hit the 3rd Floor, I can look back at my life and say I am ok with having lived it. Because it made me the person I am. And I love this person. My self love has enabled me to have a larger heart to love others.

I will leave you with one quote I wrote when I was 14 and started writing poetry. As this life smashes you against currents and rocks, as you wait for the tide to rise and lay you on higher ground.

“A wise man does not test the sharpness of his sword on butter”

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