Its past midnight. On a normal night, I would be clobbering my fourth episode of nightly slumber. Perhaps I would be somewhere in a far lost world. A slumber land of sort, entertaining one of my classical dreams. And since its December, I am almost certain that in my dreams I probably would be playing black Santa Claus in a stuffy mall somewhere in downtown Nairobi.
Next to me would most certainly be this freshly minted damsel promoting one of those imported Middle East herbal soaps. You know those soaps that promises you a new kidney, liver and a special wallalo smell.
Her face will be smeared by this fake, plastic smile that obviously says she would rather be drinking her sixth can of Quarana in a tavern tucked along Thika Road than attempt to convince Negroes to take a bath twice a day.
She would momentarily insult me by her stares. You know those stares that teachers reserve for retarded students. But since I am Santa Claus, I would simply slap her politely with one of those looks that says Quarana is for losers. Losers who are yet to discover herbal tea, scientifically brewed at Dr. Mugo wa Kabate’s workshop in Karatina.
I am one of those peeps who sleeps like a baby Panda. I love me my sleep. I would sleep through a storm or an election rigging. My modern day fear is sleeping through a tender award. Sleep to me is a divine inheritance. Birthright of some sort.
I orthodoxically do my 8 hours every night bila apologies. And in case I miss even a minute of my beloved 8 hours, you guessed right, I will have to compensate the following day. Sleep to me is akin to a business transaction. The record books have to balance. Debts have to be paid, and if possible with interest.
So, I am not sure what happened to my sleep today. This never happens hivi hivi, save for one of those days when my employer insists we have to do those compulsory HIV tests when we are renewing our medical cover. Aki si some people are demons. I know one of my colleagues who literally losses kedo 7kgs in one night coz of those, hashtag – HIV manenos.
Anyway, today is different. Very different. I am not sure where my nightly allocation of sleep has gone. Perhaps it has taken a midnight walk to the woods, or up in the mountains. Or maybe the caretaker who allocates sleep to me is on strike with them doctors. I am not sure.
Or maybe my sleep donated itself to a night watchman somewhere. Heheh! You got to love how some of this chaps sleep, while they are suppose to watch our Japanese imported juggernauts and crass middle class apartments.
I hate tossing in bed like a heartbroken politician who just lost an election or a jilted lover who just discovered she is not the only bean in her man’s githeri. Tossing in bed has never been my earthly inheritance. To me, its a sign of either weakness or a deeper spiritual problem. Its for sissies who would rather toss and toss in bed, than wake up and chew a book, or watch a repeat of Duck Dynasty on History Channel. Or simply fire up their laptops and stare at people’s profile photos on FB.
Its amazing how much you can learn about life by simply starring at profile photos on FB. Profile pics to me always have a life of their own. They have their own personality. They tell a tale. A tale of hardship, happiness or a statement about one’s values, childhood troubles and future aspirations.
Some profile pics hit you hard with a revelation about the past, you actually stop and go like, huh! you mean she had an abortion in second year. Of course, you can tell by carefully analysing her body language and teary eyes that betray her guilt.
Anyways, so, today is one of those nights that sleep decided to pull a Trump on me. Too bad, I have no eggs to fry, or anything to throw into the pressure cooker – as a way of getting back at my noisy neighbor.
There is no sweet revenge to a noisy neighbor than to hit up that pressure cooker at 2am, and just leave it to irritatingly churn those shhhh! shhhh! noise while your always-playing-loud-annoying-mugithi songs neighbor tries desperately to catch an iota of sleep. I tell you, whoever invented those pressure cookers deserve a jacuzzi installed in his/her mansion in paradise.
As I juggle through my random thoughts (read people’s profile pics), I saw her photo on my wall. Emphasis here is my wall. Meaning I didn’t go all Russian spying on her wall. The gods brought her to my wall. And since I am the acting Santa Claus for the night, I did the only Christian thing anyone will do in December – I was led by the internet to her wall. I then accidentally clicked on that monster of the chat button, and wallah I found myself in her FB online chat thingy.
Well, this is that part where I am religiously required to do the disclaimer confession. Views expressed in this chat are neither mine nor my ancestors.
So, all this years I have been going to bed at 9pm and waking up at 7am like a good Christian, unknown to me, they are souls that always do a graveyard shift on FB chat. She seems to be the MCA or Women Rep., or more of the Queen Bee of the chat. “Welcome to our world. Glad you could join us,” she typed so fast, even before I could catch my breath. She sounded like the headmistress of chat room demons. I cringed, but not too serious to be scarced away.
I was in a new world where souls are allowed to be freaky, wild and carefree. I was curious to know what goes on when the Sun goes to sleep and the moon and the stars wakes up. I was intrigued how mere mortal souls could chat with strangers online, and reveal so much about themselves, including hawking pictures of their body parts.
Wallah!! Hallo, internet. I was flabbergasted. So, like a good old Christian man raised by my heaven-bound, devil nonsense, Scripture-spitting fundamentalist protestant mother, I stuck around.
I have never chatted at 1am with a stranger on FB. So, I didn’t know the rules. Hell yeah, I didn’t even know what to say, save that we have been FB friends since those days of the Roman Empire. Occasionally, she would like my photo, or drop me on an annual basis one of those boring happy birthday nonsense. No sooner had I typed thank you, than had she gone all sensual on me.
Wow! come slowly, the village naiveness in me wanted to blurt, but then I remembered it was 1am, and most likely the gods of internet, including that Zuckerberg chap who own one tisho was way asleep.
Let’s just say for the next one hour, I discovered a different world of the internet, where wicked souls, or in my case chaps who hate tossing in bed – lurk around in pure darkeness seeking whom to devour.
I am not the type to easily judge, but me thinks if you are always online at ungodly hours looking for love, affection and attention, or entertaining cheap talk from any stranger who “accidentally” clicks on your profile, then perhaps you need to see either a Psychiatrist or a Priest. Or better still, you simply need to get a life.
Image Credit: gizmodo.co.au