I still see you in my dreams every night. Whenever the weight of my head is lowered against my bedbug – infested pillow, it’s you I dream about. I see you and I roaming the dimly illumined pavements of streets and cities I know nothing about, our hands and fingers intertwined. I see you and I staring blankly into each other’s eyes, saying nothing. Just wearing vague smiles; like the ones we wore when you said, Yes. When you and I agreed we would be together. Forever. And ever.
I don’t know why I still dream about you. I don’t know why I’m still living on the waning hope that we will get back together. Perhaps because I, even after we had agreed to bring this vain journey of pretentious love to a grinding halt, refused to get rid of your contacts and I still wake up to your Whatsapp status updates, irrelevant though they are to me. Perhaps because I have since decided to not involve my fucking self in any other amorous relationship, for fear that it might as well end the way it did between us.
We were mosquitoes, you and I. You were the female anophelese mosquito and I was the male one. Baby, ask me not about how I know this. It’s the people who said so and they still do. Because neither of us had any more than one millimetre of flesh encapsulating our inadequately calcified bones. Because they needed a microscope to be able to see your buttocks whenever you came by, skipping like you never gave a rat’s ass about what was said in hushed tones behind your back. Because you neither heard nor cared when you walked by and someone shouted;
That’s Kakuru’s mosquito.
That’s Kakuru’s mosquito, and everyone laughed, and poor Kakuru blushed like a slay pastor caught fucking seven year old Christian. Because, why would a sane human fall for a random mosquito?
You are a witch. Or you aren’t fully aware of yourself and the invisible powers that be, but there’s something about you that blinded me and made me fall for you so helplessly, I ended up inflicting deliberate pain unto myself. No, you aren’t exactly that. A witch? You are much more than just that. Because you don’t delve deep into anyone’s brain activity and alter it with any such deadly chemicals as Kibwa-nkurata. You just live, breathe and go about your life and everyone gets hyper-I-don’t-know-what. Me, you got me hyperplastic.
I love(d) you, Mosquito. I swear that I’d say that even at gunpoint, even if that meant me being beheaded or – to make matters worse – skinned or buried alive. I love(d) you, Mosquito. So much that I could give up anything just to make you happy, just to see you smile, just to please you. More often than not, I told you this. I told you in every message that came forth from me, I told you with all cordial sincerity, until the good old ‘I love you’ phrase became tasteless, until I began sounding needy, until you decided I was extremely desperate for your attention.
I am not fine. You know this. I want you even more than I need you. I want you more than you’ll ever need me. I hear your deep voice whenever a man speaks to me and I turn hoping to behold your face, only to be disappointed. Because yours was just as deep. I think of you every time I see the tiny pillow that my head rests on in the night. I remember you whenever I see children who’re your size. But like I said when we were bidding each other farewell, like I said again when we last talked, I will be fine.