DISSECTING THE CRUSH

NUCREATIVE

Helen Lang'atDissecting the Crush  OR “Ella from Nairobi Diaries Would get This”

When I was happy, he appeared. Such an unfair thing to do.
His gaze held me at once, somewhere in Westlands. I fell. Trapped in his clutches in under two seconds. One. Two.
And then I wrestled away from him, quickly. Swirling, formless on a cloud of smoke and drowned in drink. He was inaccessible. Admirable. God. From a distance.

I was happy again until I felt Him for the second time. Standing alone as before: deja vu except this actually happened in the same lifetime. Lightning does strike twice. This time his gaze was an iron vice. I was subdued. Let me tell you about this man.

Happiness is always temporary. Even temporal. But he plotted this particular descent into madness. How can you be a vessel that is only filled by a man’s gaze and then emptied the moment it leaves you? A constant state of extremes, I am filled then I am empty. He is blissfully unaware of this power.

There was a time we drank wine. He lay spread on my bed – not one care in the world. He owned everything I owned. He owned my air, he owned the shift of a dress that I wore. He owned the compact powder on my dresser, and the ceiling above our heads. He spoke to me and owned me, he filled me. He reached out to me and I gave him my hand.

It was his, after all.

He said nothing, and I too fell quiet. All the tinkering and nonsense – my theatre of self assured – (my attempt to fill him) had ended… He filled me, my God.

There was a time he left me. How can someones departure be so destructive? There was meaning and then there was dissonance.

“You’re not okay.”

There was a time he was ashamed of me. That night, I couldn’t have been made more empty. I was dry, And the cracks appeared on Ngong Road. When the cracks came, he knew just what to do. The God of the Old Testament. At once so benevolent and jealous – the life and times of the temperamental immortal. How To Create then Destroy 101.

“You don’t want to see that side of me.”

I sat on the grass and began to take root. His back towards me, disappearing into the darkness. Vines climbed up my side and covered my face, plunging into my open mouth. I was suffocating. My roots received no nourishment from the ground beneath me. The earth engulfed me, only amplifying a deepening sense of imprisonment. It was Stockholm syndrome – my warder wasn’t happy.

“But I do.”

I wanted to see the side of you that was the side of me that could shake my blind worship. I wanted to hate you.

There was a time he fucked up. Immediately I drew myself up. I set up the scaffolding and made myself tall. Something else nourished me, filled the deep fissures. A loathing. God fucked up. They stop being God – they’re cast down into hell like the rest of us. I sat in hell with him for a time – but he was still sex.

I am still his possession.

There was a time I was God. At home he kissed the back of my neck. Even when he carried me in the crook of his arm like a newborn – taken by the rapture of pure desire.

He knew I was desire itself. In Nairobi his lips met mine. The man bowed between my spread legs. How did it feel for him to need me so deeply? He drank from me and I nourished him. Patience, boy. Go slow. You might choke.

I am unhinged. What better agony is there. I continue to need, tending carefully the desire to feed this ravenous thirst. Parched.

Within this fugue state I question my identity. I look for who I am within the scope of Him. What was before, I’m not certain. Every word spoke is heard. More sustenance. And the Lord sayeth…

Put it in a book. My Holy Book of Whatsapp messages that I refer to from time to time. Revelations Chapter 1 vs 1:

“Where you at? Come thru’.”

Finding losing meaning, reading and re-reading. Deathly blows wielded by silence, the continuity and vastness of eternity – the universe – swaddled within the word ‘typing...’

This modern love goes unrequited. My beautiful boy. My God, he fills me.

Helen Lang'at
Helen Lang'at
Writer | | + posts

My predicament is that I'm rubbish at everything else. I'm a clumsy, somewhat boring orator; but the sentences I put together in my mind in the shower at 2 a.m. are quite something. (Or totally shit, I can never recall). I'm in a constant state of l'esprit de l'escalier, and will certainly die if I don't write it away.

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