Dear Jessica: The Year That Was 2016

​Dear Jessica,

It starts out like a candle flame; the yellow glow steady, eerily  beautiful and full of warmth.  Then along the way, gusts of wind blow by and the yellow glimmer turns into a raging bush fire in the savanna, consuming every single thing standing on its path. The warmth transforms into scorching heat;  the beauty turns into terror.  I couldn’t find a better way to describe 2016. 
In its dawn it was that boy that whispered gentle words into your ears. That girl that wrapped her arms around you at midnight,    her embrace making you forget all your troubles.  It was that new love that thawed your heart and promised to free you from the oppression of bad affections dealt with in the past.  It was that lovely Tropical scent of apricot, mango and coconut shampoo that clung to your body eons after your warm shower.  You were happy and content.  What could go wrong?  

Well,  you shouldn’t have questioned the universe, you shouldn’t have counted those chick’s just yet  because that boy’s whispers became nothing but silent echoes.  That girl broke your thawed heart, leaving it worse than she found it.

See,  2016 knew you loved lilies,  but because it was a narcissistic bastard, it went ahead and decayed them first before handing them to you.  And before you could recover from the shock of such vileness,  it went right ahead and threw the decomposing mess smack in your face.  

You promised yourdelf that you wouldn’t cry, the you would never let the asshole break you.  But then blow after blow,  you got repeatedly hit in the places that hurt most.  You grew tired and gave into the pain. Sometimes it’s better to surrender than to resist.  It’s not cowardice.  
And so you drowned your soul in the liquor; allowed your being to drift in the incense of the holy shrub; inhale,  exhale.  Anything to see you through until the next dawn.  

Amidst all the hurt and a shattered spirit,  here you are,   typing on a broken phone,  still breathing.  

And for that,  we shall eat Viazi Karai and Ukwaju today in celebration.  We’ll hope the next one will be kinder,  and if it won’t be,  at least the thick skin we grew this year will muffle the pain. 

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