There are days, then there are DAYS. Those days when even your coffee needs a coffee, and your masseuse needs a massage. This week was one of those.
I’m nursing a terrible hot-tea burn on my thigh. It’s hard to sleep, and even harder to wear clothes! The things we take for granted! Venezuela is struggling with having two presidents; Maraga is struggling with his sloth of a judiciary and I’m struggling with wearing clothes! But I’m definitely doing better than Venezuela.
It’s way past midnight. I’m the only soul that’s awake in my house, my office hours start at 10 PM. I’m in the guest bedroom, which used to be the baby’s room but the fan in here is undecided; it rotates like a footballer’s warming up session: Sprint, stop, sprint, stop.
I’m getting hungrier by the minute. Every word I write seems to get an ounce of glucose out of me. This article ought to be sweeter than Ezekiel’s scroll. The curtain is pink and peach, with images of Mickey Mouse smiling at me. I forgot to remove it when I switched the babies’ room. It reminds me of ice-cream which is not helping with my glucose situation.
Today I felt like a horrible mom.
And this is not because I let my one and a half year old pick pop-corns from the floor and eat – which I have done. Albendazole is only fifty shillings, why should I lose my sanity and ear drums because of fifty shillings? Eat away, Miss. T, we will de-worm later.
This is also not because I dozed off in the middle of Miss. Z’s incessant interrogation.
There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask, “What if I fall?”
Oh, but my darling,
What if you fly?
What’s the worst that can happen?
I’m in a Uber, on my way to the airport. It’s a Taxify cab, but since all toothpastes are Colgate and all washing powders are Omo, it’s an Uber Taxify. The driver, Mr. Man, is a brawny guy, he has thigh muscles that make me want to sing, “All things taut and beautiful the Lord God made them all”.