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.
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.
....................
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.
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