Sincerely Speaking {Dispatch No. 1}
Fatigue weighs heavy on the mind as November waltzes in through time. Nearly a whole year gone, the only people who work hard in the final two months of the year are those who must to survive and workaholics. Grisha agreed to the poetry night only because it was probably the right thing to do. Who knows up from down as the world comes to an end?
Sat on the monstera-dominated balcony patio, the broke artist watched the smoke waft from a cigarette nestled between the luscious lips of an audience member and her mind melded with that fog. It was November, and last December, and 2007, and every other time Grisha had wanted something she knew she shouldn’t have. The savior complex had convinced her to do yet another benefit show she couldn’t afford. Or was that the martyr complex? The poet shook the haze from between her eyes. Going over the evening’s program again, she settled back into the hum of activity, chairs dragging, steel, porcelain, and glass being set in place.
Out of the corner of Grisha’s eye, an ornate bunch of locs bounced by. A friend, a good friend, came to mind, bringing warmth like dawn after the chill twilight. Sally, the name popped up. Laughter was the sound and hugs that last longer that 20 seconds were the felt sense. Finally, for something worth getting up out of her seat, Grisha left the hot goss about people and places foreign to her to say hi to someone closer to home.
One thing about Nairobi is it feels like everyone and their mother has locs these days. Not that Grisha would complain, but as she got closer to Sally, she began to wonder if they were wearing heels and shoulder pads. The usual hills and plateaus were cliff faces and mountain summits. Come to think of it, the usual handles of spectacles that adorned the back of their ears were strangely absent. But then again, who in Nairobi over the age of 21 doesn’t need glasses, yet abandons them when they attend events? Grisha’s own pair sat lonely in their case in her tote bag.
Time paused for Grisha’s deliberation of the next move. Option A: Listen to the urgent stirring of uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. Do a swift, albeit awkward U-turn and head back to her seat. Maybe go over the pieces that she would be performing that night. Option B: Ignore the uneasiness because it was probably Sally. Go over, say hi, laugh about the anticipated mixup. Make a memory while finding a friendly face to anchor to through the show. Okay, okay, Grisha breathed back into the flow of seconds and minutes. Plan B it was.
Before she set foot in the room where could-be-Sally was, it was less than 10 feet across. As soon as her platform leather boot touched the wooden floor, distance yawned. And with each step, space-time fluctuated. One step made it 10 centimeters. Another stretched it 10,000 more. Leaning her face around the curve to catch Sally’s face, recognition and the lack thereof clashed. It wasn’t Grisha’s Sally. Yet, thanks to the far reach of social media, this Sally wasn’t a stranger either.
Stranger or not, the lean morphed into a pivot and Grisha skedaddled back from whence she had come. Plan C.
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English