Get Well Soon

The echo of heels and dress and shoes,
fills the silence outside my room.

I will meet
the doctor tomorrow.

Today’s session will mend;
Aversion Therapy.

The ailment that stills my mother’s lips,
makes her wrest her eyes
when she sees us.

Her long fingers grasp your locks
as she heaves you out of my room and my memory —

The faint taste of cherry on my tongue.
It is the only thing that brings me comfort.

I sit in this chair with wires
cemented to my arms.
Now, there are jittery muscles and blisters.
Sit still!
You will be healed!

Image of a person's hands tied together with white fabric.
Photo by lil artsy on Pexels

Ingredients for Love: The Unspoken Language of My Grandma’s Kitchen

As years go by, I spend more and more time making memories in my grandma’s kitchen. It took me a long time to realize that food is how she shows her love. I’ve come to understand that the food we make together isn’t just something to eat; it’s also my grandma’s way of connecting with me and sharing her life story.

I went to Gramma’s old house a lot as a kid. I usually spent most of my time in the kitchen. Located in the heart of the home, there was always something interesting happening there. It didn’t matter where I was in the house; at least one of my senses always pointed toward the kitchen. It was a rarity for it not to seep the delectable scent of freshly baked brownies. Those were my favorite desserts growing up, so we made them almost every time I visited her house. I would help pour and mix the ingredients, then wait for the timer. Once I heard the oven beep, I knew it meant it was finally time to indulge in our treat.

From childhood to adulthood, my grandma instilled her cooking and baking skills in me. She’s had several kitchens throughout my life, but they’ve all served the same purpose. We’ve started using more recipes. Most of them come from the cookbook she’s had since she was a teenager. The pages are so delicate that I’m always afraid I’ll ruin them, though they’re already stained and yellow and ripped in multiple places. Those flaws just mean the book has been used extensively through the decades. When I come over, we look through it to determine which desserts to bring to life, such as her famous apple pie or butterscotch pudding. 

A person spreads flour on a countertop, tracing a heart in the center.
(Image courtesy of Yan Krukau via Pexels)

My grandma and I get to make whatever foods we want now, but her journey started rough. She grew up in a large family that didn’t have a lot of money. To keep her and her siblings fed, she found creative ways to work with limited ingredients. She often tells me stories of her childhood, like when she used her cooking superpowers to transform simple ingredients like bologna and flour into flavorful meals for her family that satisfied their stomachs and heated their hearts.

The more we cook and bake, the more I see examples of how her expression of love goes beyond simply preparing and eating the food. I get served the food and a portion of her legacy when I eat these dishes. Making recipes together is a way for her to pass down the helpings of her wisdom, pieces of her traditions, and slices of her family history.

In my grandma’s kitchen, I get to experience food’s real purpose. Each bite strengthens our bond even more. Gramma’s lessons, laughter, and love given to me in her kitchen are gifts I’ll always be thankful for.

I will keep cooking and baking, knowing that each recipe holds a piece of my grandma’s heart and that with them, her love will always be present. Our time together in the kitchen has taught me that food exists to be more than just eaten; it’s there to give us a taste of our past, nourish our present, and feed our future.

PawsUP and Hands Out for the “Untouchables”

“When 20 people showed up at our 0.3 acre property during the 2020 COVID lockdown, I thought it was the best thing that ever happened to us,” said founder Jay Lau as he recounted the start of his organization, PawsUp.

Jay Lau brings some strays home 

Hailing from Brunei, the tropical kingdom in South East Asia known for its oil wealth and small land area, Lau decided one day to run a shelter for strays. After living and working in Australia for 16 years, he came back to his hometown for Chinese New Year. Though stuck due to travel restrictions, this did not stop Jay from choosing basic kindness by bringing stray dogs home in an old Toyota Kijang (a popular four-wheel drive vehicle here). This was the beginning of PawsUp, a last resort and sanctuary for street hounds and abandoned felines. Just as people revile the homeless, they also view strays as untouchable. 

Pioneering animal welfare in Brunei

In a society that largely turns a blind eye to the plight of strays, the journey of PawsUp is a testament to the power of kindness and perseverance.

Lau now works as Chief Financial Officer for a large technology firm in Brunei. His organization’s foray into the world of animal welfare began when he noticed strays around his neighborhood.

Unlike in much of the Western world, where people can pay the city council or sheltersto pick up strays, our country of Brunei has no such system. On top of that, we don’t have a public shelter for abandoned pets either. Cultural beliefs like not wanting to spay or neuter cats or dogs also persist, swelling  the population of strays even more. 

The fate of these strays is so often a cruel one as many become the victims of poisoning. Our society is said to hate dogs due to misunderstood beliefs around the ritual impurity of dogs. This spills over into the mistreatment of street hounds. Lau makes sure acts of cruelty to animals submitted to him go viral on Instagram to raise awareness regarding the challenge of caring for strays. 

Instead of ignoring the issue like many others in the city, Lau says we should choose basic kindness. 

Fuelled by community support as well as compassion

Starting with just a handful of furry companions in makeshift shelters at five different properties he rented, Lau soon realized the enormity of the task at hand. The challenges were plenty – from financial constraints to societal resistance. Bruneian inhabitants, like those in many other urban centers around the world, harbor a deep-seated animosity toward strays. Yet Lau and his five-person team of full timers have persevered, fueled by the belief that every living being deserves compassion.

As the shelter grew and settled into three stable rented properties, so did the need for manpower. Juggling his demanding job as a financial officer with the responsibilities of running a stray shelter was no easy feat. Lau found himself stretched thin, facing the risk of burnout. It was at this crucial juncture that he sought a lifeline from an unexpected source – Brunei’s own national university.

The University of Brunei Darussalam graciously collaborates with PawsUp by sending two interns every month to help lighten the load of  its overstretched operation. Lau hopes this partnership will go on for at least five more years. 

Members of the public do not understand how the logistics of running a shelter work, Lau says. “Not only do our staff and volunteers cook until 4pm every day to feed our shelter’s animals, we also feed strays until we can spay and neuter them,” he adds. 

“People also text us frequently, asking us to relocate animals they find on the streets. There is also a demand for cheaper spay and neutering services. The latter problem being caused by either poverty or the taboo surrounding such an act,” Jay shares. 

The goal of PawsUp is clear–to continue the partnership with UBD University is one thing, but they also need funding and time. Most of the shelter’s operations come out of Lau’s pocket. He has personally racked up more than US$11000 in veterinary bills that have still to be paid. On top of this, he sees the need for a cheap spay and neutering service for low-income pet owners. Cats and dogs are very popular after all. 

He understands that sustainability is key to the shelter’s longevity and for preventing burnout among his full-time staff. The influx of interns from our national university not only eases the workload but also fosters a community of like-minded individuals dedicated to making a difference.

In a society that often overlooks the plight of strays, Jay Lau stands out as a champion of charity. His journey from a pandemic-grounded accountant to a stray shelter owner is a testament to the transformative power of kindness and good financial responsibility. Through the PawsUp community, he is not only saving lives but also nurturing the next generation of compassionate humans.

His message to others for the new year is for everyone to at least leave street animals alone. Leave them unharmed even if they are untouchable. Now that’s choosing kindness at the very least. 

Unconventional Tuesday

The morning of the first Tuesday of December, I was staying at my uncle’s house because, until the night before, we had had a very unstable week. 

Otherwise, I’m not someone who spends the night anywhere outside.

There was something about that morning that did not add up. 

I swear, the little ten-year-old me felt something was off about it but could not really make sense of it. Everything about that morning seemed yellow.

My uncle, his wife, my two cousins, and I were having breakfast at 7 am. Everyone was looking at me with a look of pity. I was sure everyone could sense that feeling. I’m not saying that there should be a reason for people to be nice to each other, but being “over-nice” is pretty recognizable, even for a ten-year-old kid.

My cousin and I took off for school at 7:30 am. (They were trying to make it a “normal day”). Nonetheless, I chose not to pay extra attention, as I had a French class that morning with Miss Nacera.

“Allez tout le monde prend sa place pour commencer la leçon!” (Come on, everyone take their place to start the lesson!)

It all began in French class

Let me tell you something. Miss Nacera wasn’t to be messed with. She had firm features and made it clear her purpose in life was to teach French. 

An hour later, I was back to being smart, nosy, and chaoting. I yelled answers without permission, talked to my classmates, and laughed. I was as wild as they get. 

Miss Nacera said, “Hichem! Viens ici! Tu fais beaucoup de bruit, t’es malade où quoi!” (Hichem! Come here! You’re making a lot of noise, you’re sick or what!) and slapped me in the face. 

Given the fact that I admired Miss Nacera, I did not take it personally. Indeed, I knew I was making too much noise. I went back to my seat with shy red cheeks and an embarrassed face. 

Not a minute later, my cousin got off of her chair, headed to the teacher, and whispered something in her ear. I saw that, but couldn’t guess what she told her. Miss Nacera’s face turned from furious to teary. 

What is going on?! I thought.

She came to me, took me to the back of the classroom, and hugged me so tight while sobbing and said: “Oh Mon Dieu, Hichem! J’suis vraiment désolée, je ne savais pas . . . .  J’suis très désolée mon fils!” (oh my god, Hichem! I’m really sorry, I didn’t know . . . . I’m very sorry, my son!)

All I could think of at that moment was, “Why is she hugging me? It was not the 1st nor the 20th slap.” For the next three minutes, she held me tight while repeating the same words and crying, and I was still wondering what was up with all this drama. It was just a slap, and it was my fault! 

She continued the class with a heavy heart and kept looking at me out of pity while I still could not make sense of the whole situation.

We took off again when the bell rang at 10:30 am and headed home for a lunch break to come back for afternoon classes.

On the way home, we did not speak a single word till we got to our neighborhood. We parted ways like we already knew we were not heading back to her house again. “See you at 12:45 pm,” I said, and she nodded her head without any response and left. 

Image of a man with his head in his arms.
(Image courtesy of Ryanniel Masucol on Pexels)

When everything became clear

I was six minutes away from my house. In those six minutes, I reflected on how weird today was

I remember it being a clear day in December. 

The last minute of getting to my doorstep involved taking a left turn and walking straight ahead for twenty meters. Then, taking another left, I could see my house, the one before the last one. So I did, I took the first left and walked those twenty meters, and then took a second left where I could see my house. And a green-painted box lying right next to it.

A green box, eight feet in length and three feet in width. 

In our culture, a box of that type and paint color lying outside has only one explanation. It was pretty clear, even for a ten-year-old kid, regardless of having seen it before or not.

As I took that last left and saw the box, a thousand thoughts drowned my mind simultaneously. Everything suddenly made perfect sense in the weird day I was having so far. 

At that very moment, I was experiencing two very complex sentiments at the same time: the joy of things adding up after being as blurry as they were and the pain of realizing what they actually meant.

As I got to my doorstep, I stared at the box all the way, even as I opened the door and walked inside. I took a turn and walked up seven stairs towards the final wooden door that led inside. I heard recognizable crying voices.

I knocked on the door, and someone opened it. I saw some thirty women inside our home, wiping away their tears with tissue paper. Each of them hugged me as I walked towards the big guest room, not knowing whether I should head there or not but following the path they were drawing for me by moving left and right. I headed towards the room that happens to be the one you see right when you open the main wooden door that I had just walked into, the one that I couldn’t see because of the crowd on the way. 

On my left was the main room where I saw my mom and my sister sitting on the floor in the middle of a circle of women surrounding them and petting their shoulders while they were crying their hearts out. 

As I kept walking forward, I finally reached the big guest room, and there he was, lying on another open wooden box with a white sheet covering his entire body except for his face.

I bent down on my knees to kiss him goodbye, as told by many of the women there, “Kiss him goodbye before they come to take him, Hichem, be careful not to tear on him, honey…” Not a single tear fell before, during, or after these scenes penetrated my mind. All I did was stare in every direction in shock.

“My father is dead? How? They said he’s getting better! I just saw him at the hospital last weekend! He gave me money to buy the pair of shoes that I kept talking about and told me to return the change when he came back this weekend. My mom lied? My brothers, too? My closest sister! He was dead this morning before school? My cousin knew before I did!”

This was the beginning of what came to be a lifetime struggle with post-traumatic stress disorder. Just like a craftsman creates a piece of art, these questions running through my mind were crafting a new unprecedented version of me, that was going to dictate different rules compared to the ones I knew so far. While the ten-year-old me had yet to discover it at that time, he knew that something different and very complex had just happened to him. However, he was still not able to make any sense of it yet… 

Image of a woman hugging a young boy sitting on her lap. The boy appears upset.
(Image courtesy of Jordan Whitt on Unsplash)

Whore Sonnets

An autobiography (of sorts) in five sonnets

See Me

A figure covered with a sheet.
(Image courtesy of Alice Shardan via Pexels)

A vision of seduction, a slim waist,
Her fit physique an invitation,
To explore the longings your heart craves,
Her energy is your new fixation.
She radiates playful, flirtatious vibes,
With her hypnotic soft blueish-green eyes,
She’s your new addiction, eager to please.
She can bring any man weak to his knees.
Invigorating, trying new places,
Indulging in steamy, intimate fun.
Covering all bases with her graces,
You know you are done before you’ve begun.
Spending time with this whore is a pleasure
A refreshing sweet life, a true treasure.

Feel Me

Hands forming a clay pot.
(Image courtesy of Antoni Shkraba via Pexels)

When I lay my head back to fantasize,
Your tongue gently lapping between my thighs,
With a steady fingering of my ass.
My luxuriant Grace, my Aphrodite!
All the maidens stand around the altar,
Caressing their breasts, tearing their garments.
Your tongue a holy hymn from a psalter;
Ecstasy! I pray to your performance!
I desire. I crave. You set me on fire.
If I had a cock I would live inside
Your warm, wet, eternally perfumed pyre.
My mango, my mystical honey guide!
On a silky white horse, ride me to Troy,
And fuck me, fuck me, like your little toy.

Hands and flowers floating in opaque water.
(Image courtesy of Monstera Production via Pexels)

Touch Me

Every other Sunday at three,
I go to see ancient Ethel.
I lift her frailty gingerly,
And place her in a bubble bath.
I clean her with a soapy glove,
Soft, slow circles across her skin,
Till I can feel her body move;
A mystic melody within.
I lay her down upon her bed,
And with fingertips, tongue and hair,
Massage her soul from toe to head.
Her intense moans, her spectral prayer.
Miss Ethel may not walk easily,
Still, her body seeks eternity.

Know Me

Murals of a woman’s face, with a bike leaning against one of the faces.
(Image courtesy of Maria Teneva via Unsplash)


My breasts started when I was eleven.
And, my period appeared the next year.
I wasn’t ready for maternal lessons,
I kept it a secret out of some fear.
Around then, I began masturbating
Life took on an erotic undertone.
New sensations were constantly waiting,
And I liked paying attention to them.
Sitting, I would squeeze my legs together;
It was a titillating thing to do.
Staying up late, playing with my nethers
Stirring myself into an edging stew.
My body was then my pleasure alone
Sacred, electrifying and of mine own.

Love Me

I would not be amazed if it turns out
You are now a happy mother of twins
Or the keeper of privy passe-partout,
Unlocking secrets to eternal springs.
Running a secret twenty-four-hour crew;
Or tied to monitors, vegetating;
In a condo above Park Avenue;
Going around the world, rollerblading.
Nothing about you would surprise me much.
You are, if nothing else, a survivor.
You always worked hard for your magic touch,
Directing yourself through the savoir-vivre.
The world is yours, you desire it to be,
Even though it offers no guarantee.

I’m not stunned by anything you might do
I’m so in love with the you that is you.

Apocalypse New

We walked quietly, my brother and I, our footfalls barely audible through the serried leaves, even to us. We were deep in the Kiamichi Mountains, seemingly away from civilization.  Better to be silent and safe, than sorry. We could already attest to that. 

When the power went out and the phones died, the world became maddeningly still. At least our world did — the quiet before the storm. Then panic sank in, and survival equaled every man for himself. 

We heard rumors of war, but no one really knew what was happening. People got tired of waiting. I expected foreign soldiers to drop from the sky or even zombies bleeding from their eyes to come wandering up. But no one came, except other restless, confused people passing through. Most students left for home after a few days without electricity, but I didn’t have enough gas to get to East Texas. My half-tank got me to my aunt’s house in southeast Oklahoma.  Sean was already there. 

It took months before anyone bothered us. It was the cattle they were after when they came. They would have eventually eaten us, too, had they been desperate enough. 

My brother and I were getting water from the creek. No well water without the electric pump. We hid and watched men hang my uncle in a tree, then rape my aunt before slicing her  throat. We didn’t stay.

“I hear something,” Sean whispered. We stopped moving and crouched low. He reached in his pocket for a fistful of bullets. He only had six left. The faint sound of beating and clanking made my heart jump. Woods don’t clank. I could tell by the look on his face the curiosity was getting him. Funny how the dangerous unknown became preferable to the discomforting void. 

“Only close enough to see,” I mouthed. He nodded as we crept closer to the sound, a now steady rhythm. Given our grungy state, we camouflaged into the scenery. We stood silent behind trees in the distance, listening and trying to make out the source. Children. Small children with golden skin and dark ringlets glistened in the sunlight, wearing only undies and rubber boots. 

A boy, maybe five years old, was beating a stick on a five-gallon bucket while a toddler knocked a pot lid on the porch railing. They were making music, so innocent. We watched and waited. Surely the adults would show up any second. 

Maybe an hour passed. No parents. Sean picked up a rock and chunked it as far in the distance as he could. Their little heads popped up in the direction of where it landed. The boy grabbed the toddler, who I now realized was a girl, and ran inside the house. 

I stepped forward, intent on following when Sean grabbed my shirt from behind. I turned to the steely barrel of what looked like a Benelli shotgun inches away from my cheek. My breath caught, and I instantly felt sweat beading on my forehead and neck. Sean stood still holding my shirt about two feet from the wielder. 

The owner was a boy about eight, if I had to guess, wearing only jeans, barefoot, with a  hardened freckled face. I was about to be shot by Opie Taylor, or maybe Huck Finn. Sean stepped closer to me, and farther away from the boy with his hands out at his shoulders,  indicating surrender. 

Sean’s rifle was on the ground several feet away. The boy said nothing but moved toward the gun, his eyes never leaving us. He bent down and tucked it under one arm, then motioned for us to walk toward the house. I couldn’t help but notice the leaves were still as we walked. Force of habit, I thought. 

“Brigg, bring me the zip-ties.” We stopped at the edge of the porch. “What do you want?”  His voice was cold. 

Sean said, “Nothing, we were just following the sound. We didn’t mean to trespass.” 

“Well now that you’re here, I can’t let you leave. We’ve been through this before, and it’s  not happening again.” What happened to this child to make him think it was dangerous to let us go? 

Sean and I looked at each other. I had no idea what to say or do. Sean spoke in a very  careful tone, “Of course you can, man. We won’t come back. We don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

He said nothing more. The younger boy returned with two plastic zip-ties and tethered us to the railing while the older brother held the gun on us. I noticed he had three fish hanging from his belt loop. 

We sat on the porch, arms bound, listening to the older one yell at Brigg and their sister about not going outside while he was gone. Little bits and pieces of his lecture revealed that the younger boy knew better than to make noise or play with the hatchet, both of which were done while the elder was catching dinner. After some time, he came out and faced us, having come to some conclusion. 

He looked at me with a questioning expression. “You are a girl. Do you think you could  help wash my sister?” 

Again, Sean and I looked at each other, confused. “Your sister needs help with a bath?” 

“Yes,” his shoulders slumped as he dropped the tough-guy façade. “I’m not sure how to do it, but I know she needs to be cleaned better. She’s getting a rash. If you help, I’ll let you  live.” He tightened back up. 

“Sure, I can help her.” I bet trying to bathe a baby girl was close to the top of the list of things a boy his age never wanted to have to do. 

They called him Bubba and the little girl Beau. After I bathed Beau while at gunpoint in the icy cold creek, and got her back up to the house, it took a little coaxing to convince Bubba to release Sean, too. He had to give up his bullets, but that was better than the alternative. And we had a fairly safe place to stay the night. It was the first time in weeks we didn’t sleep outside. 

When I woke up the sun was bright, and I could hear Sean talking on the porch. “Oh,  yeah, I can show you how to make snares. And Talia is pretty good at cooking over a fire.” 

I stepped out to find I was the last person up, and Sean seemed to be having a conference of sorts with the children. He smiled when he saw me. “Tal, you want to stay here awhile?  Bubba, here, has offered us a place through winter. We have a few weeks before it turns cold, but they have supplies… and a roof.” It was almost impossible not to like Sean; I wasn’t all that surprised he buttered up some kids so quickly. I nodded in agreement. No question about it. 

Apparently, Bubba was a boy scout, and was quite apt for his age. Sean and I grew up in the country and camped a lot, we were not completely useless either. It was a godsend to have other people to talk to, even if they were really young. And it was even more of a blessing to have something to do besides drift. 

I wanted to ask Bubba where his parents were, but I resisted, too afraid it would upset him. Wherever his parents had gone, they left behind, along with their able-bodied children,  plenty of canned goods, rice, beans, and sugar. They had soaps for laundry and baths, even shampoo. Still no toilet paper, but we did find some stale coffee. Oh, sweet bitter coffee. It felt almost normal again. 

Two days later, while we were all stacking firewood, Brigg asked Bubba if he was still  going to kill the “ones” in the shed. Sean’s face drained of color. I knew something wasn’t right.  “What’s in the shed, Bubba?” Sean had been in there several times already. Surely  he’d seen. 

Bubba took a deep breath before he spoke, “I caught two guys trying to steal Thor, our  goat, and I locked them in the storm shelter under the shed.” He looked apologetic. 

Brigg’s eyes went wide. “Bubba was awesome! You should have seen him. He sneak attacked ‘em, like a ninja!” 

“How long have they been down there,” I asked. 

“About a week, I think.”

“With no food, or water? Bubba, they might be dead!” 

Brigg piped up, clearly angry I was chastising his brother. “They deserved it! Those  turkeys scared Thor off!” 

Sean took control, “Bubba, let’s go check it out, you and me. Talia, take Beau and Brigg inside and stay there. You better give me my rifle back, just for a little while.” 

The two little ones and I played Hot Wheels while we waited. After a few minutes, Sean came back with a Bowie knife he thrust at me, handle first. “Keep this on you at all times, and be careful. Nobody goes anywhere alone.” 

“They weren’t there?” I could feel the panic rising in my chest. 

“No, and I’d imagine they are pretty pissed and pretty desperate right now, so I doubt  they just took off.” Oh shit. 

Several days passed and nothing happened. Sean and I took turns keeping watch at night.  I was putting on the kettle early, it was still dark out, when I caught a glimpse of movement through the trees. Was that a deer or something else? I grabbed my knife off the counter about to investigate, when I was yanked backwards by my ponytail. My head slammed into the counter with a force that made me see black for a moment. 

“Don’t you dare scream,” I heard a raspy voice. “I’ll bleed you right here.” He snatched the knife from my hand before I realized I was still holding it. He jerked me into the living room and pushed me to the couch. He sat beside me, turned so that his front was only inches away. I could see his face now, his eyes manic, a distant expression that told me he was way beyond thinking clearly. I was terrified. 

He put his finger to his lips, reminding me not to make a sound. Then he was on top of me with wild abandonment. I pushed and fought, frantic to get away. He held me still, with one hand fisted in my hair, the other jabbing the knife into the skin under my jawbone. His overbearing body pressed me in place. I could feel his excitement hard against my thigh, and smell his rancid breath and oily, dirt-clod hair. Please, no. God, no. 

Suddenly, there was a thwack. He went limp. A second passed before he gasped, then jumped off of me and turned around. A hatchet was stuck square between his shoulder blades,  his shirt was beginning to seep red. He seemed to forget I was there while he searched for the cause. 

Instinct kicked in, and I grabbed the hatchet handle. It did not dislodge right away, I had to give it another tug before it came out. As soon as I did, he spun back around, remembering my danger. I started swinging as hard as I could, despite him being too close for me to get a good hit.  Surely I could do some kind of damage. At least he was no longer after whoever stabbed the hatchet in him in the first place. 

I heard two deafening shots too close together to be from the same gun, and he fell on top of me, this time limp and lifeless. Beau began screaming from her bedroom. Seconds passed before I heard slight footsteps towards the kitchen. I waited, paralyzed with fear, trying to breathe under his enormous weight. 

It seemed like forever. Beau’s wails had worn down to miserable sobs. My mind raced,  and I was just working up a good dose of hysterics when I heard two more shots coming from outside. Moments later, two little bare feet appeared near where my face was squashed under a  huge shoulder. Brigg peeked at me through elbow and torso. 

“Talia, are you okay?” He sounded like a timid little angel. 

“I think so. Are you?” 

“Yes,” he said, adamantly nodding his head, eyes wide. 

“Brigg, can you see Sean? Is he okay?” 

“Okay, I’ll get him.” 

“Be a ninja,” I whispered. Please, Lord, don’t let them catch him! 

We buried the bodies as far away as we could push them in the wheelbarrow. I wanted to burn them, but it would have taken days and the smoke might have brought more unwanted company. I actually fantasized about beating and dismembering the monsters, as if I could torture their putrid souls from beyond the grave. The depth of my hatred startled me. 

Brigg had thrown the hatchet, after waking Sean and Bubba up when he heard someone outside his bedroom window. Sean and Bubba found the other man trying to wiggle in Beau’s window with a garden trowel in his hand. 

After they were buried, we went on as though nothing happened. We were not the least bit sorry they were dead… by our hands. 

The goat came back once it turned cold and there was nothing to eat in the woods. I was surprised to find that not only was the notorious goat not eaten by wild hogs, but Thor was a female and she could open and close doors. Of course, her milk was dried up after going so long without being milked. But at least the children had their pet back. 

The day the power came back on we were catching lightning bugs at dark. We heard a  slight bleep, then the dishwasher started like it had never missed a beat. It took a while for the realization to sink in. We all ran inside and stared at the mechanical wonder. Brigg went from room to room turning on lights. Beau’s face was bright with enthusiasm as she giggled and  

trailed behind him. Sean and Bub ran for the television. 

It took days for me to stop crying. I didn’t even understand if it was from happiness or trauma. It was like I was swimming underwater, holding my breath for almost a year; relief rolling over me again and again as my head finally reached the surface. Every time I turned on the hot water, watched the rebuilding on the news, or even looked at my brother and the children,  it was like the dam broke all over again. 

None of us would ever be the same. More than just our faith had been  shaken, our grip on humanity had eroded. The harsh reality lodged itself in my mind: our way of life was fickle and could once again be stripped away at any given moment.

Two Secrets

When you discover a secret, you have two options. 

I say “discover” because a secret is not made to be found out, except only by accident. 

I say “when” because most secrets are easy to discover, and your two options are measured upon a scale. 

The lowest end, the part with less weight, the easiest and most sane thing to do, would be to keep it as it is. To leave it be and walk the other way (much like your lecturers do when they discover your answers while walking around an exam room). The second option, and the one that will earn you pats on the back even as you feel like the shittiest person (because unless you are a rock, you will), is what you, as an arsehole, will do.

There were two secrets that ruled Newton’s life.

The first one was kept from him until he was old enough to handle it, though he doubts anyone can ever be old enough to hold the gravity of such a secret. 

He kept the second one because he did not know he was keeping it. He did not understand it even though it lived in him.

The second secret

“I’m bipolar,” he starts. “I recently got the diagnosis from a psychiatrist I have been seeing since February.”

Newton did not grow up with any information about his mother other than the fact that she was dead. “She passed away when I was a baby. That is all I was ever told whenever I asked my uncle.”

He doesn’t remember half his childhood, unlike you, who recalls nothing under the age of eight. “There are lapses of time, even very long periods of my life, sometimes, that I do not remember. I used to make fun of it in school. We would be in class waiting for the next lesson, and, when the teacher came in to start the lesson, I would not understand shit because I was basically not around when previous classes were taught. I mean, I sat in for the class, but I had no memory of it. My body, an empty shell, sat in the desk, but that was it.”

He didn’t really understand what was happening. The only explanation he could think of was that he was a slow learner. “I thought I lacked book smarts, but I remembered everything I studied half of the time. I just always said I was average.”

The first real episode he remembers was a party. “A friend from school was home alone since her parents had traveled. So she was throwing a party and invited everyone who could come. My uncle was never going to let me go. He never let me do anything, so I didn’t even bother asking for permission.” 

He snuck out.

“I told my uncle I wasn’t feeling well. Probably a stomach thing because a stomachache is easier to hide than a headache.” A stomachache can be pretended by holding onto your abdomen and doubling over, accompanied by just the right facial expression. “A lot of frowning makes you look like you are pooping, and a bit less than required makes parents think you are not really hurting.”

So he snuck out and went to the party. 

Only, he didn’t go. 

“Listen, to help you understand it, you will need to believe me. Most people don’t. I went to that party. I swear. I went there, and I met my friends, and we had an epic time. EPIC. I know that because I have memories of it happening. I still smell the alcohol from that night. I do.”

When he got to school on Monday, his friends were furious!

“Ah Newt, wewe ni mtu bure sana!” (Ah Newt, you are a very vain person!)

“Why sasa?” (Why now?) 

 “Why would you make us wait on you, and you don’t show?”

“Newton, man, I always thought you were a solid guy, my guy…”

“Newton, btw, mimi, I can’t even. I just can’t!”

“They were relentless. And I tried telling them that I did not understand what was going on, but, before I had the chance to, the bell rang. I was so confused.” They all settled down to class; his mind far from stillness. He wrote a note to his deskmate.

/Jay, kwani, what is going on? /

Deskmate opened the note and frowned at him. [Not as severe as Newton’s stomachache performance, but frowny enough to let him know they were in murky waters] Desk Mate handed him back a note

/Dude, you chezad us bana! /

/What did I do? /

/You didn’t show up, man. :(/

/What do you mean I didn’t show up? I came!/

Deskmate shook his head in disappointment.

“Turns out I never went to that party,” he finally says. “It’s a weird thing, being bipolar. I have episodes where I am irritable, and I don’t even know why. Sometimes I am manic, other times depressed; then there are long periods of time when nothing happens. Nothing. And I forget. It takes up to months! There was a time I went for seven full months. Then I had the worst depression in my life. I almost killed myself.”

The first secret

When he turned eighteen, his uncle sat him down because he was “old enough” and told him the first secret of his life. 

“My mother killed herself. They think it was postpartum depression that caused it; but my uncle said she was just like me. She could shift through moods similarly like she was flipping through a flimsy book.”

His mother, bless her heart, did all she could. She had met a man, fallen head over heels, and opened up to him about her mental condition. He said he would love her through it all. He still left. Newton’s uncle does not know when exactly. After he was born, his uncle had dropped by to see his nephew and found his sister in the worst state ever. “He said she looked like she had not slept for weeks. She was distressed. She told my uncle that my father walked out on her because she was too sad all the time.” Then, she asked his uncle to hold him for a minute while she took a shower. She walked into her bedroom and never walked out of that room.

He started making sense of everything he had been going through when he researched his mother’s condition. He studied everything on postpartum disorder, mental health, and, particularly, bipolar disorder. “There are so many types of bipolar disorder; some don’t even have scientific names yet to study or research. Each person reacts differently to it. The levels of hyperactivity (mania) and placidity (depression) are different in everyone. It’s all very complicated.”

His psychotherapist is heavensent. They began by unpacking all his unresolved feelings towards his mother. “I started seeing him a few months ago, and I talk to him every time I have an episode. He is amazing at helping me manage my episodes. I learned that I would forget things I did because I was physically there, but my mind was in an episode. That I could be perfectly calm on the outside but be fighting for my consciousness to be one with my body, and that by fighting it, I was sinking deeper into the episode. I am still learning. My therapist says I should learn to let go of everything, and that I should stop trying to act normal because I’m not.”

Newton had two secrets in his life. The one he hid from the world in his mind and the one his mother and uncle hid from him. 

Turns out, it was the same secret.

[May is Mental Health Awareness Month, and this week we are learning about Bipolar Disorder. I found a really helpful article by Dove International Mental Health Center here. You can read through it to learn more on the disorder, its symptoms, and what you can do to help someone in each of the extremes. Stay safe, alligators!]

My Virtual Interview in a Pakistani Ice Cream Parlor

I’ve been in the telecoms field for the last 20 years and writing for the last five. During my professional life, I have sat through multiple job interviews, all held in quiet office meeting rooms. Dressed professionally, having already researched the company, I maintained a good and attentive posture and was aware of my body language. I stayed focused on the interviewer and paid full attention to their questions and responses, striving to impress with my personality, tone, manners, and knowledge.

But this time, I had a very different experience. 

I live in Pakistan, and I had to give an interview for a remote content writing job in the USA. Due to the 11-hour time difference, the interview time was about 9.00 p.m. Pakistan Standard Time.

I was on my way to a mobile repair shop because that day my phone had suddenly stopped working. Luckily, I switched my Mobile SIM card to another mobile beforehand. I entered an ice cream parlor to grab a chair and a table for my interview and ordered a cup of pineapple-flavored ice cream while waiting for the call from the US interviewer. 

I observed that the parlor had a lot of people in it. I was surrounded by tables packed with people talking to each other, enjoying their favorite ice creams, fruit juice, and milkshake treats.

My interviewer was a lady. As she was on a video call, I noticed that she was a white woman, about 43 years of age, working as an editor in the organization. She was punctual and called me at exactly 9:00 p.m.

Luckily, I had headphones with me. I immediately attached them to my phone and then started my interview. We were still introducing ourselves to each other when a waiter arrived with my ice cream and put it down in front of me. In Pakistan, most people can’t speak and understand English except those who specifically study it, so the waiter looked at me with a puzzled expression and went away. 

Although I was trying my best to impress this woman with my writing expertise, I had to speak aloud and occasionally repeat my sentences due to a slow internet connection. As I continued to speak, I noticed that the people sitting around my table were staring at me. Some of them looked surprised, some were impressed, and some had mischievous smiles on their faces when they realized that I was talking to an attractive foreign woman.

The interviewer was detail-oriented and wanted me to explain my writing niche in depth. So I tried my best to make her believe that I was the best writer she could find on the planet, but it was not so easy. Meanwhile, my ice cream was melting before my eyes, and people around me were paying more attention to me than to their own ice cream. 

To be honest, at that moment, I decided to impress them even more by using complex and difficult English words, so I started using these words frequently to show off my command of English to those around me. In doing so, no doubt, I let my usual attention to tenses and other grammatical rules go out the window, something my interviewer would have definitely noticed.

My interview lasted around half an hour and was punctuated by some interesting and amusing moments. For instance, I was explaining the difference between Pakistani and US cultures when I told the interviewer that it’s really awkward in Pakistani society if a young man comes to a family home and tells a father directly that he’s the boyfriend of his daughter. 

Right then, when I looked around, the people in the vicinity were laughing at me. When I suggested that I could write an article on how to train children to protect themselves from sexual harassment, the folks around me stared.

I tried to convince the interviewer that I could write on multiple topics but that my niche is love and relationships. In doing so, I used romantic words like love, affair, and relationship numerous times. 

When I finished my interview, the person sitting next to my table came up to me and asked me with a smile, “Brother, were you speaking to your girlfriend?” 

I corrected him, explaining that she was my interviewer. 

But I don’t think he believed me. 

Her

“You are so talented and smart. The dexterity in your work is astonishing. You, my dear, are going to be a star.” These were my mother’s words to me as she held my face in her hands, her eyes glistening with the hopes and dreams she held for me.

As I gazed at a distant view, I reminisced on how life has shown me its ugly nature. I watched people who formed my universe slowly dissipate into nothingness, their backs turned to me as they left. As time passed, I forgot myself in the whirlwind of events that made up my life. 

A hard knock on the door helped me escape from my thoughts. 

“Miss, it’s time.”

“You can do this,” I said to myself, feeling nauseous with every breath. The weight on my heart increased and I could feel my palms get sweaty with each second. I wanted to run and not face the same reality I have been living in for the last six years. 

I slowly walked towards the stage and took my position in the background, attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible. I stood still and waited for my part. It finally came.

“Hmm,” I said. Yes, that was my part. That phrase which I worked until my tongue felt numb. I tried not to be too slow, fast, unnatural, or gruff. I needed to just be perfect.

“Cut!” the director screamed. “You there!” he said with a harsh tone I was all too familiar with. 

“Me?” I said while feeling the heat on my cheeks from embarrassment.

“No, me dummy,” he said sarcastically. He started walking towards me briskly causing me to take careless steps backwards and stumble. He towered over me as he spoke, “What was with that tone, why are you so stiff? There are millions of people who are desperate for what you have and that is the attitude you show?”

“Sorry sir, let me try again. I promise I will do better if…” 

My voice was shaky and my vision blurred from my tears.

“Enough! You are out.” 

With that, he walked back to his seat.

“But sir, I can…”

“Did I mince my words? Security, get her out of my sight!” He glared at me with so much hate I felt a shiver run down my back. “This is what I get for taking in has-beens.” 

***

They dragged me to the front of the building and pushed me out the front door. My attempt to break my fall caused me to bruise my wrists. My hands throbbed with pain and the heat of the summer stung my back. 

I raised my head to meet the bewildered stares, the nods, and eventually slow departures after getting a good look at  my pain. 

I slowly stood up and walked away into the crowd. I have had enough for one day. 

***

I sauntered around until I felt exhaustion in my bones. Then I went home. I did not want to lay on my bed reminiscing on a bad day.

I walked into my apartment, turned on the light, and stared at the dimly lit room. It was the size of a cubicle with just enough space for a bed and anything I could salvage when I left him.

I slumped into my bed, and stared at my pained wrists which had become purple and swollen. I smiled as sleep embraced me into its warmth.

***

The loud chatter from my neighbors woke me from my slumber. The memory of events of the day before came flooding in along with the pain. I felt hot tears fall freely from my cheeks. I cried for a while, but crying never helped me so I got ready for the day.

***

There was a feeling that came with auditions, the preparation for rejection, and the hope of acceptance. I sat at a coffee shop while going through my script. The coffee tasted as bland as colored water, making me regret every cent I spent on it. The street view, however, made it almost worth it.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

“Yes,” I said, without bothering to raise my head from my script.

“But I want to.”

“Look kid, skedaddle, okay?” I tore my eyes from my script only to be astounded by her blue eyes that resembled the ocean floor. She smiled at me, revealing a gap in her teeth and adorable dimples. I smiled back at her contagious smile. She was a dazzling young child with curls and freckled cheeks. However, I saw something odd: her smile did not reach her sad eyes.

“Fine, sit, but only till your parents come.”

“They are not coming.” She said as she looked through the window at a distant view that I could not see. “Mum is dead and Dad is busy.”

“I am so sorry.” 

I pitied her because her pain felt familiar, because she felt like I did.

“No biggie.” She shrugged her shoulders and glanced at my script. “You act?” she said, trying to change the subject. 

“Yes, but you cannot go around telling people what you just told me okay?” I needed to stop her from letting this big mean world know her story, that was the mistake I had made.

“I have never told anyone, just you. I like you.” She smiled again and winked at me. It was awkward but I liked it.

“Do you want a drink?” I asked her.

“Nope, the drinks here are horrible. Even water tastes bad.” I laughed, which was something I haven’t done in a long while.

 “What do you want then?” 

“Nothing.”

“Okay, so why did you come to a coffee shop?”

“I like the view.”

“Makes sense,” I said and continued to look through my script. 

“I have to go.” 

“Already?” I said.

“Yep, it’s almost time for my tutor to arrive. I am home-schooled.” I watched her as she stood up and left, still thrown off by this meeting. A girl who spoke to me like we had known each other for ages.

***

Weeks passed and I walked past that coffee shop every day hoping to meet her. I didn’t even get her name.

My audition went as it typically would, a failure. As I was about to walk past the shop’s window, my eyes caught a glimpse of a girl with familiar freckles. My lips curled into a smile as I entered.

The bell jingled and she turned and stared at me, her entire face beclouded with intense sadness, once visible only in her eyes.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, feeling concerned.

Her lips quivered. “Everyone leaves me,” she said quietly but loud enough to make my heart break. Her voice had lost its sonorous essence

“What do you mean?” I asked while leaning closer.

“Exactly what I said!” 

Her eyes welled up with tears and she started to wipe her cheeks frantically.

“What do you mean, did something happen at home?”

She looked at me intently until I started to feel uncomfortable under her gaze. I shifted in my seat. 

“You remind me of her.”

“Who?” I asked puzzled

“My mum,” she bowed her head and stared at her feet as she spoke. “She died a year ago and left me.” 

“I am so sorry.” I placed my hands on her chin, raising her face to meet mine. I finally understood her pain. My heart sank. This was a familiar feeling. The feeling of not being enough. It had dragged me down to its dark alleys for years and mocked my inability to leave.

“Darling, your mum never abandoned you, she…”

“Yes, she did!” she interjected abruptly. “She knew I needed her but she still left. And dad seems to be busy with everything else but me.” She broke into loud sobs. I realized people were staring at us.

“Please stop crying.” Her wails were heart-wrenching, and I needed to do something about it.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Susan.” she said as she sobbed.

“Well, mine is Stella. See both our names start with the same letter, isn’t that interesting?” She stopped crying and said, “I guess so.”

“Susan, where is your dad right now?”

“He is at home.” 

“Well let’s take you home.” 

“No, I don’t want to go back.” She stood defiantly.

“You have to because I have something very interesting to say to him.”

“You do?” Her eyes widened and glistened as she spoke. “Okay.”

I think she already had an idea of what I wanted to do.

***

We left and started a long walk to her house. “I thought you lived close by, Susan.”

“The goal was to be as far from home as possible every time I left.” 

***

Her house was bigger than I had anticipated, causing me to gawk at its enormous size. We walked past the security guard who eyed me from head to toe suspiciously. “Good day, Sir,” I said to him.

 He replied with a grunt.

“Be nice, she is my guest,” Susan said.

We walked into the majestic house, situated in the heart of an impressive garden.

The inside of the house was as elegant as the outside. The exquisite chandelier drew my attention, glistening as it illuminated the house. The Victorian-style interior seemed to be designed for royalty itself. I was in awe, but had to focus. I came here for a reason.

“Dad! Dad!” Susan ran upstairs, calling him. I paced back and forth, hoping to overcome the ruckus inside my head. I was unsettled, nervous butterflies in my stomach. This feeling took me seven years back. 

***

“What do you mean I should quit?” I asked, puzzled. 

“I’ve said what I’ve said and that’s that,” he said in a stoic manner.

“I will not quit my job because of your small-minded attitude.”  

He chuckled. I have never experienced such coldness from him. 

That was the beginning of my torture. Days turned into months and then years, and the pain stayed. He saw my growth as competition and did everything he could to pull me down. When he started acting out, I did not understand and thought he was just being fussy. Until he showed me his true colors. He ensured he soiled my name, spreading every horrible rumor he could think of. And everyone believed him because he was my husband. I left when I had enough but I was too late.

***

The thumping sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairway woke me from my daymare. Susan raced down the stairs, almost missing a step, and came to stand next to me. Her father wore a scowl on his face, with a look that judged my every breath. The air changed as he took the last step down and walked towards me. I started to rethink my actions but knew it was too late. 

“What is your business with my daughter?” I flinched at his thundering voice as it reverberated through the house.

I cleared my throat. “I know it is not my place to do so, but I need to tell you that you have been brutally unfair to Susan and she has a lot to say to you.” I looked towards Susan and gestured at her to come forward and speak your heart.

She stared at me frightened. I smiled at her hoping to encourage. She took a step towards him, “Dad I would like to say that I do not like how you are always busy and the fact that you are leaving me alone for such a long time.”

His look softened as he approached her. 

“Darling, I never intended to leave you. I just need to take care of a few things, and then we can spend more time together.”

“I don’t like that. If you are going anywhere, I am going too.”

He smiled at her. “Okay, I will be better.” 

She smiled and hugged him.

I was envious of their love. I wish I had what they had, but I felt satisfaction watching them. I nonetheless saw my mistake. I had failed to confront my pain, failed to refuse to be a victim, accepted mediocrity, and lost the star my mother saw. My head throbbed and I knew I had enough.

“Why are you crying?”

I was glad to see them together, it was something I wish I had when I needed it. I felt satisfaction to see that Susan was not alone nor abandoned.

I touched my cheeks and felt moisture. “Oh, I umm…”

“You don’t need to explain Miss….”

“Stella. That is my name.”

“Thank you for your kind actions.”

“I think it’s time for me to go.” I turned and started to walk away quickly.

“Wait!” 

I stopped.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Stella?”

Susan ran to me and held my hand. “Will I get to see you again?”

“Of course, darling, same place.” I touched her cheeks and smiled.

I walked out of that house as a different person. I had enough and I had to do for myself what no one else could do for me. 

Live.

I Am Just As Confused As You Are

You are not alone, I am just as confused as you are. 

My life hasn’t always been the way I wanted it to be. I hated business studies in my junior secondary school, but surprisingly, I had the highest score on the “termly assessment” test. I wanted to be a science student, but I got randomly selected for a commercial class and ended up loving it. As a student of commerce, I graduated as the best in my set. 

Discovering what I wanted to do with my life and career was even more challenging. 

At 16, I started blogging on blogger.com, and I got so good at it that I began editing the HTML of blogger templates. Later, I got bored, dropped blogging, and moved on to writing poetry and short stories. I had a lot of readers, wow — random people spoke about how they loved my writing — I stopped again. Because I was confused! I really didn’t know what I wanted to do. 

A chameleon amongst leaves.
(Image courtesy of Michael Held via Unsplash)

I transitioned back to tech and began learning to code and write programs. I started from the basics by mastering HTML and CSS. I stopped again! All this, while I was a student of insurance at Ahmadu Bello University in Nigeria. 

Funny enough, I never wanted to study insurance. I wanted to study accounting, but studying accounting was so competitive, I opted for the more guaranteed employment provider — Insurance. I didn’t want to spend an additional year at home and I knew that becoming an accountant only required that you have the knowledge and pass the professional exams.

My grades were good, so I picked up my finance ambition again and dusted it off. I started my journey into investment banking and landed in some internships. I was doing well, yet my interest drifted to product management. I took a course on digital product management. My interest remained, but that was it. Nothing more. I didn’t feel the need to chase a career in product management. I came back to finance.

While juggling my passion for finance with product management, I launched a podcast series on discovering Africa. Unfortunately, after the first two episodes, I stopped. My problem is that I prefer actions to idle thoughts, and I love learning from my failures. I really can’t remember how many times I have edited my LinkedIn profile to suit my dynamic ideas and ambitions.

I can’t say whether I was really confused or not – I was that confused! All I knew was that I wanted to make a difference. Yes, I am crazy. But trust me, I am not the only crazy dude out there. If being crazy is the only way to break out of my comfort zone, then I want to remain crazy.

Why did I write all this? There are thousands of other crazy intellectuals and creatives out there who have yet to discover their passion. They have been on an never-ending journey of discovering their passion, and finding their niche has become their passion. 

If there is one thing I have learned during my journey, it is that no one has it all figured out. It is okay to keep evaluating your potential. It is okay to keep trying new options and exploring new opportunities. The world is limitless to those who know no boundaries.