Coming home to Myself

I want to learn, that coming home to Myself, is not the Tusker stage after a Gor match. Or Ambassadeur at the time of the night, when men are drunk enough to deserve your body.

I want to learn that coming home to Myself is not a violent matter.

That it is a cup of Ketepa tea after a million cups of foreign tea. That it is a warm shower right before bed, after a journey from Yala to Nairobi. That it is sweatpants and a t-shirt and no bra and a couch and Tangy Tomato Krackles and a chick flick on Friday night. That it is free Wi-Fi, the keys to a dance studio, loud speakers, and my favorite playlist on Friday after my last class. That it is wheat flour and sugar and milk and lemons and drinking chocolate in the kitchen, and no hurry at all. That it is my room when my roommate goes on a late night date and I wait up. That it is Evernote and MoonReader  all night long. That it is Grey’s Anatomy and the voices in my head all day long. That it is untidy dreadlocks and white earphones and a naughty passage and a long weekend away from work. That it is an empty playground and a broken seesaw on a Sunday evening. That it is a walk through the school grounds, unafraid, and sniffing in Thika’s scent when I close my eyes. That it is Riddims in a matatu, and the impossible stillness within. That it is swinging my legs under my chair, even after grown-ups give me their look. That it is the first time I smile and walk away, instead of defend myself, when they say I did it. That it is window shopping along Moi Avenue, and seeing my reflection in the glass, and smiling privately because dang, I am beautiful. That it is seeing a message from you, and reading the “How are you?”, and calling Bullshit on your mindgame, and folding back into myself. That it is pencil and paper and playing TicTacToe against myself. That it is stepping into a space that once loved me, but then haunted me, and finding that it loves me once more.

I want to learn that coming home to Myself is not a violent matter.

Because of Truth

You will ask me why I always run.
I will say it is because of Truth.
You,you need me to peel off a part of my skin,
like elastoplast,
before you can paste yourself on my body.
But Truth,
he glues me and him together
like a handy cobbler,
uses the tears he cries when he laughs,
and the dryness of my tongue after I tell my stories.