There's an Entire Whole World Out There to Get Lost In, Are You Still Breathing?

Note: The above title has nothing to do with the below post. I came up with the title before I wrote the post and then after I wrote it and realized that the post didn't fit the title I just couldn't be bothered to come up with another one. You have been warned.

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I've lived in Kampala long enough that versions of myself haunt every corner of this city. They perpetually pass out in muddy ditches and make out with strangers. They haggle over taxi fares and purchase TV chicken, roadside sausages and titanic rolexes. They walk the long way home, hands shoved into pockets at 4 O'clock in the morning after a sweaty booty call and help elderly women collect their groceries after the bag that was holding them tears and spills boxes of cereal, kilos of sugar, packets of milk, bars of dettol, tubes of toothpaste and the such like all over the street.

I bump into these ghosts of Lloyd's past every where I go. I catch glimpses of them while sitting at restaurant tables and peering through taxi windows. They are a constant reminder of who I've been, where I've been & where I've come from. They are my sins, my triumphs and silly stories. They are unavoidable. I think I now understand why people up and move entire cities when they want to get away from their past; it's not only to get away from the people that populate their world, it's to get away from themselves. Every version of themselves.

Different parts of this city haunt me in different ways. Not only with various versions of myself but also the various people I was with and all the chemical reactions and electrical impulses attached to them. The phantom scent of peach body spray whenever I find myself along Ntinda-Kisaasi Road, the softness of lips kissed and the faint taste of Redd's Vodka whenever I walk through the entrance of Zone 7, the crunch of fist on the bridge of my nose whenever Kisimenti becomes the destination of choice. Pangs of heart break, bursts of joy, jolts of pain as well as an array of other sensations bombard me every minute of every day that I am outside the comfort my four walls. And even then, the walls are haunted too. It can be exhausting sometimes constantly having to keep the waves of the past at bay. Especially for someone who tries their best to keep their eyes on tomorrow.

'Learn from the past but don't linger on it.' I heard from someone somewhere, I forget who. But just how does someone do that when the past is everywhere they turn; peeping out from behind parked silver Rav-4's, lapping up spilled beer off of bar counter tops and perched precariously on top of headboards knocking rhythmically against bedroom wall?

If anybody out there knows, heck, please let me know.

Under The Skin

The other day I was sitting in a taxi, up front with the driver when a woman got in and sat down next to me. She was slight of frame, light of skin with relaxed hair pulled back into a pony tail. She wore red, large-framed glasses and an engagement ring on the middle finger of her left hand. A navy blue skirt, striped blouse and black suit jacket with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. She was severely burned from the elbow to the knuckles of her left arm, from wrist to knuckle of her right hand and from ear to ear and hairline to throat. I couldn't see what kind of shoes she was wearing. She greeted me as she got in and I nodded and greeted her back, shifting over slightly to give her a little more room. There was no timidity in her greeting, no shying away from drawing attention to herself. This surprised me. Why? Because even when I just have a pimple I try my best not to draw attention to it or myself, invariably doing so anyway with conspicuously stilted movements. Though to be fair, that says more about me than it does about her.

Now, although the burns were probably the last thing that I noticed about the woman in the seat next to me they were most definitely the thing that left the strongest impression. They set my mind in motion. Not in a morbidly curious kind of way but in a more searchingly introspective one. I found myself wondering about her. Who was this woman under all of that scar tissue? What was her name? Who were her parents? Where did she go to school? Where did she work? What kind of music did she listen to?  Did she watch 'Deception'?

What was her life beyond living with all those scars?

There was a moment when I let my mind dwell on the pain she must have endured. The flames that had licked at her face and arms and for all I know other parts of her body as well; melting her skin, disfiguring her for life.

Had she been beautiful? There was no way for me to know.

In an instant my mind conjured up the hospital bed, the painful rehabilitation, the hopelessness and horror she must have felt the first time she looked at herself in the mirror; the doctors telling her and her family that there was nothing else they could do. The alienation. The inferiority. The despondency. I didn't know her but I grieved for her.

And then I remembered the engagement ring. I looked down at it. Golden band, shiny stone perched on top. Did that happen before or after the accident? Either way though, that was one hell of a man. He had that hell or high water love. That for better or worse love. I didn't know him but I kind of envied him. I envied his strength, his dedication, his refusal to quit. I'm loath to admit it but a part of me hoped that the ring was just for show. That ring, on that finger, belonging to that woman threw my up to that point unquestionable dedication to my beloved into the harsh light of scrutiny. If, God forbid, something was to ever happen to her; stripping her of physical beauty, relegating her to crutches or wheel chair or hospital bed, would I have the the strength and fortitude to stand by her? Would I have that immovable, unshakable, invincible love that I swore both to her and myself that I would have for the rest of our days together?

I didn't know. I really didn't. I always thought I did but faced with 'Hell or high water' the way I was sitting in that taxi I just didn't know. And that's what scared me the most. It threw into question my entire notion of my perceived 'goodness'. Would I really still love her if she looked like the woman sitting next to me? It's easy to say yes from this side of things. My beloved is gorgeously and wondrously put together. But the truth is, I really don't know.

What's more, does any of us?