Jeremiah Kenzi

These Times Eternal

They dropped away from each other like two sacks of potatoes thrown off the back of a truck; heavy, inelegant, rough, lumpy and without the slightest hint of emotion. Panting heavily, sweat dripping from their exhausted bodies, they instinctively turned away from each other, back to back, each facing their side of the room.

She stared through glazed half-closed eyes at the swirly patterns on the wall-paper, torn with age and stained beyond recognition. Tracing a mental path through them, she smiled inwardly, a bitter smile that manifested itself as a vicious scowl that the semi darkness would never be able to hide completely. She had bought the wallpaper when they had first moved in together, and like most men, he had protested heavily at the very floral patterns.

“Can’t we have something with a little more… symmetry?”, he asked.

“Something lighter and less daring, not some psychedelic hellish nightmare spawned from an unimaginative artist sitting at her computer drawing patterns from templates and calling them art.”

She had smiled then, knowing his love for melodrama, and despite his earnest protests – and occasional threats to rip them off the wall or slit his wrists and write his protests in blood while dying a slow death in front of her – the wallpaper had stayed… and it was everywhere. An omnipresent reminder that his independence was no longer relevant.

The sticky hot sweat of their backs touching jarred her back to the present. Her breath was slowly becoming normal now, but his was still shaky, unsteady, coming out in small spasms. Read more…

Dearest Fiona

My dearest Fiona …

Amazing how the years pass us by. It seems like barely a week ago, you were running around the house butt-naked, food and spit dripping messily from your mouth… the happiest little girl in the world. I know, I know, you hate it when I talk like this. When I remind you of a time when you were my world, my everything… my entire existence. But how can I not, Fiona? How can deny myself these fleeting moments of of joy shimmering like ethereal gemstones in this dark emptiness?

The thing is, Fiona… it is all I have, those times. I hang on to those memories like…

Remember those documentary videos we used to watch? The ones I used to borrow from the British Council library? Hahaha. Oh man… Remember how it was the only library with family friendly movies in Kampala? Of course you remember. You hated them, yes? You asked, begged, pleaded with me to buy for you a copy of Aladdin because you adored Jasmine and wished you had a pet tiger…

I would give anything to hear you talk about Jas…

But remember that wildlife video with the spiders? Oh you hated it. And loved it. You would sit on my lap and clutch at my shirt in fear, and yet, not for a moment did you take your eyes of the screen. I still can’t believe that anything in black and white could be scary, but you were scared. And brave… so brave. Remember how the really big spiders would trap small animals in their webs high up in the trees? Remember how scared and helpless the animals looked because death was just…

Of course you remember… all you did was whisper “wun, wittle animal, wun.”

See, these memories are all I have, Fiona. I am trapped in them like the wittle animals trapped in the webs. Frightened… unable to escape the certain fate that lies ahead, and yet knowing that that the web is the only thing that keeps me from falling and losing myself in the void I see everytime I close my eyes. You, dearest Fiona are my joy… and my eternal regret.

Jackson asked me yesterday… you remember him, Jackson, right? The one I share a room with? Yes. The tall ugly one. Hahahaha. Yeah, he is one ugly motherfucker.

Jackson asked me if I knew what fear was. My answer? I punched him on the shoulder and said, “fuck off dude,  that’s bullshit,” and I walked off, came to my room and cried. Like a baby… because I know fear, baby girl. I know fear.

Fear is you.

Fear is when I close my eyes and see your body lying in the tall dusty bloodied grass, with everything scattered everywhere and the crowds gathering, whispering excitedly in their fucked up clinical analysis of the before and after. Fear is somehow ending up by your side and holding your tiny body in my lap, blinded by tears, seeing a world of crimson, green and fucking blue… oblivious to what I was later told was a deep life-threatening gash in my stomach. Fear is feeling your body go limp and feeling the fear solidify into an absolute feral panic that stopped me from breathing until all I could could was scream like an animal for what seemed like eternity and fear is being told that I got up and ran, cradling you, for five miles until they found me passed out in the middle of the road, lying on my side, still cradling you of so fucking close to me like it was going to make a fucking difference and fear is not remembering any of this but knowing that there is a raw fear of fear of fear of losing you that awaits me each time… I… close… my… eyes.

Fiona…

I couldn’t live with myself after that. They asked questions, every fucking person on this planet asked questions. The police, the judges, the investigators, mama, my friends, my enemies… they all asked questions. They asked me if I was sure. If I was confused about what happened. If maybe I wanted to see a doctor first. A fucking psychologist. Can you imagine? Me? I told them to fuck off. And I told them that what I said was the truth. And the truth, deep down, was that I just couldn’t live with myself anymore.

It’s been fifteen years now, Fiona. My final verdict came in today.

Guilty. I almost smiled in the courtroom.

I’m coming home, Fiona. We can watch those silly movies again, and this time, I’m buying you a copy of Aladdin, which of course, we’ll watch forever.

I wonder if they have color TV…

A life lived backwards

In the stillborn darkness, pursued relentlessly.

By quiet memories.

Fiercely poignant, echoing through halcyon days past. Surreal landscapes towering with sculptures of lives and loves barely recognizable. Questions searing the chaos of a disturbed mind, adding a violent turbulence that doesn’t ebb.

Or flow.

People and places and times elastic. Smiles and laughs that stretch for eternity and yet… are gone, in the blink of an eye. What is this place, that hauntingly calls out in pain and woe?

This is a sadness that has no end. This is a life lived backwards, filled with regret and longing for things past. And yet the now passes by.

Unnoticed.

Blurred by tears and mists of a time shrouded behind iron walls, built brick by brick, cemented with love and anger and joy and hate and frustrations and a million more emotions hidden behind shining hazel eyes.

Faint whispers of dreams lost to forgotten and yet unforgettable pleasures. Persistent sunsets that are achingly… achingly beautiful.

Quiet memories. Of people and places and times yearned for, and yet…

Forever gone.

Fragment. Chapter 1: “Old places and Old friends”

This is the second part of a series. It starts here.

——-

Jan 16th 2000, 2:30pm

The heat was unbearable, and the still dry air did nothing to cool things down. When the air moved, it did so in violent, dusty and hot dust-storms that stung the eyes and parched the throat.

It was the peak of the dry season. There hadn’t been a single drop of rain for months, and the dry cracked earth looked skywards in agony. The trees were devoid of leaves, the ones that had any were dry and brown. The dry thin grass occasionally sparked in the heat, starting off bushfires that ravaged the landscape, leaving charred  remains of animals and humans alike.

In fact, just infront of the clearing, a huge black spot gave clear warning of how important it was to stop the fire in time.

The clearing was roughly circular, with scattered paths leading from multiple points along the perimeter.

Right in the center was a shallow pit, with burnt logs jutting out at odd angles. The pit was filled with small twigs and ash from a thousand bonfires.

The bonfire was the night-time communal point of the Acholi homestead. Children and adults alike would sit around the blazing fire, first for a family meal, followed by a riotous time of joke-, riddle-, and story-telling, before the children slowly drifted off to sleep and the adults sat around to discuss more significant matters.

This particular bonfire hadn’t been lit in  months, for obvious reasons; no one lit bonfires anymore around these parts, and anyone foolish enough to light one…

Four huts were scattered almost symetrically around the clearing. The largest belonged to the head of the home, typically the eldest man, who lived there with his family, two others belonged to the younger siblings, one for the girls and another for the boys. The second largest belonged to the mother of the home and it also served as the kitchen. Sometimes the littlest children, her grand-children, would share this hut with her. Between the largest hut and the kitchen was an open bathroom, closed off with bamboo, papyrus and dry banana leaves. Read more…

Inferno, Chapter 1: “The Scent of Fear”

“Come.”

He pushed past the nervous little man with the owlish glasses who immediately cringed, staring at the floor. He reached for the door knob to the inner office and turned around, smiling. The receptionist, whose name he had never really bothered to find out, was staring at him, beady little eyes blazing with anger. She looked stunning in her two-piece suit, hair held back in a cute pony-tail. She always dressed professionally, he had noticed, with just the right touch of make-up and cheeks that blushed ever so slightly. Another time, another place, and she’d be on the cover of a magazine. Not Vanity Fair or GQ, she wasn’t all that. However, he had to admit, she was beautiful, but her eyes were … weird. Even when she wasn’t angry, her eyes told the world to fuck off.

She started walking briskly towards him.

“Sir! You must wait your turn. This gentleman…”

The door slammed in her face.

“Hello Doc.” His voice, rough and raspy, with an edge of steel.

The woman at the desk looked up from the dossier she was reading and sighed. He caught a glimpse of the little be-spectacled man’s picture on the topmost page and read the name. Henry Ojok. He filed away both name and face. Noticing his keen gaze, she quickly threw the file into a drawer and leaned back in her chair, swiveling slowly, back and forth, eyes riveted on him.

“James, it’s always good to see you, but your next session is not due for another three days. To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

“Quit the sarcastic bullshit, Sharon. You’re my doctor. I’m here because I don’t want to be here and you are less than pleased to see me. So let’s not fuck around.”

He sat down in the middle of the reclining couch, legs shoulder width apart, elbows on knees, brought his fingers together, resting his chin on the crest his hands made and fixed her with an icy gaze, lips tight, jaws clenched. Read more…

Fragment, Prologue – “A Lifetime Ago”

Oh shit!

The branch gave way beneath me… my eyes widened first in shock then fear and then damning resignation before my feet fell out and I plummeted towards the ground.

Clawing and grasping for anything that would stop my fall, I hurtled downwards. Jagged branches raked my face, tearing through my skin. I felt something gouge into my face, leaving a fiery trail of pain from my right cheek to my eye. Pain welled up in my throat and I thought I was going to pass out. Screaming in silence, I instinctively threw my hands to my face, but I knew it was too late. The agony was like nothing I had experienced before.

Still twisting and turning, trying to keep the pain and panic down, I continued falling, until suddenly, I hit my back hard against a large branch, and my entire body curled in pain, nerves screaming. The branch was large enough to break my fall momentarily. For a few seconds, I just hung there, willing myself to focus. I could feel something warm and sticky oozing into my right eye.

Shit.

I needed to stop my fall, dammit! I reached out in the murky darkness and felt my hand close around a branch.

Saved! Read more…