It is morning again, the light hurts my eyes as I try to open them, is she still asleep? . . . no . . . I can hear her whistling. . . then humming,

I feel peace flood my heart, a euphoric dam bursting with joy . . . that fine clear, happy tune, welcomes a great, intimate Sunday morning. She enjoys making breakfast on relaxed, quiet mornings, she says its therapeutic.

The scents from the spices, the crackling of the onions in the frying pan, the heady, sweet slightly pungent scent of fried garlic, the fresh, sharp scent of the herbs and zest of the fresh lemon and orange shavings. . . breakfast smells soo good. . . I can smell the sharp, inviting scent of spiced tea, the ndumas’ boiling, are those fried eggs I smell? . . . no, that’s the French toast she loves to make, I smile, she went all out. What day is this anyway? Haha. . . I laugh at myself. . . the week has been rough, exhausting, I welcome a weekend of hearty breakfast and some sleep. . . why won’t she stop the whistling? . . . probably my cue to go join her.
I throw off the sheet and sit on bed, whoa! I’m overwhelmed by extreme dizziness, why I’m I feeling so tired? . . . my stomach hurts so much I’m nauseous . . . My head starts to swim. . . ‘Andrew, Andrew. . .’ I can hear her soft voice calling, it’s starting to fade. . . the last rain cloud after a rare outpouring of rain in a dessert,. . . her voice starts to sound rough, angry . . . distorted. . . why can’t I see her? I try and grab on to my bed-post, my hands catch nothing but the bare air, my arms start to flail uncontrollably around me, I’m trying to latch on to something for support . . . What’s happening to me! It gets darker around the frame of my vision, blurred shapes are moving around me, the harsh sounds of frustration and panic grow louder. . . that’s not her voice though, its someone else’s, there’s some commotion. . . the darkness takes over completely and that extreme panic at lose of control is replaced by a sudden burst of euphoric peace again, . . . I smile. . .

My eyes are struggling to open. . . they are glued shut. . . I make another valiant effort. . . it’s a battle between my will and my eyes now, I will them to open, . . . the effort is exhausting, I’ve run 7KMs trying to get them to open, where I’m I? I hear voices, one similar to the gruff one from earlier and another softer one. . . my sister? What is she doing here? I haven’t seen her in years, this is great! Asali will be so happy. . .where is Asali? And why can’t I clearly hear my sister? I call out to her, but no sound is forthcoming. Why do both the voices sound so somber?
‘How long has he been like this. . . ?’ the gruff voice asks,
‘He’s been in and out since the Service.’ The soft one answers.

The gruff voice continues. . . ‘He was severely dehydrated. . . that should explain the hallucinations. . .’
The soft voice continues, ‘he’s been smiling a lot, telling me I’m burning the onions. . . ?’
‘yes yes!’ the gruff voice harshly continues, ‘sensory hallucinations’ ‘the drip should fix that, he’s body needs hydration and nutrients,. . . are you still giving him the Tricyclic injections?`
`every now and then when he asks for them`
Releasing his breath suddenly

‘you should follow the prescription!!’. . . ‘and he should be getting better. . . ‘he finishes off more softly. . . ‘he should be getting better. . .’

The voices start to fade and an awful horrifying memory bursts through my consciousness,

the young student interrupting my lecture with a note, . . . then I start to view the memory from an aerial angle, I see myself walk into the staff wing. . . the Dean meeting me at the foot of the flight of stairs, leading to her mezzanine office, how she held out her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, the words, the ensuing commotion, running into the hospital. . . the shock after hearing the doctor’s words. . . the quiet from disbelief and denial. . . lastly the discombobulating, out of body conversations with everyone after,

‘It was so sudden Andrew, we were laughing, she turned to cross the road. . .’

‘That driver . . . he lost control. . .’ words, words, many words. . . And tears, I tasted salt in every hug, . . . I didn’t want people to leave. . . I didn’t want them to stay either.

I had to give her a fitting send off, this sense of purpose came with euphoria and adrenaline that lasted the week, after her burial . . . all strength abandoned me. . .

Here I am, with a body wanting to sweat off its memories, fighting to go on. . .

I can’t see her but I hear her, I feel her presence. . . It’s my only source of warmth.

By Ruth Mgendi

I have an appreciation for words, the power words have to uplift, build, create, without words we would not be able to convey intent or meaning to each other.

I am also a legal researcher, lover of comics, art, color, stories, adventure and beauty. Above all I appreciate and respect life, the body, the mind and the soul.
I seek a higher connectivity and understanding of the co-existence between these three parts of life and hope to share this journey with any other learner.
I hope this forum will be interactive, positive and above all I hope it adds value in some way to those that read and interact.

Hope Nyambura is my attempt at a pen name, so. . . indulge my pink and golden bubble :-)

Thank you!

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