It always starts with violins and I open my eyes thinking it is heaven; just the alarm set
to Vivaldi’s Spring Allegro I
I walk out grumpy looking like I’ve dressed
for Whitehall. My day is set, red, amber, go.
The morning dawns in traffic jam,
so this is my rock n’ roll beginning
Car stereo and I sing along, loud on amplifier and vocal chord,
and every other car stares this way
but Mick Jagger/John Lennon/Bono doesn’t really care
My desk routine:
e-mail, news, twitter, diary, checklist,
phone calls, an exchange of legal jargons.
Snail mail comes in: paper work, paper work
I am changing the world.
A lady from upstairs says the stubble makes me sexy,
the pay-offs of laziness and I-can’t-be-bothered-on-a Wednesday
plug the iPod into my ears to shut out annoying questions
the mind swirls round winds of restlessness
complete papers, review proposals, escape for coffee,
alarm goes off: time to pop some pills.
10 am: a meeting where people talk to themselves, about
things they’ve been talking to themselves about for some time,
so I scribble down the lyrics to We Will Rock You
More work, and I begin to feel like the inside of a pressure cooker.
It is lunch time. My hormones are bothering me.
But I have a deadline.
On a good day, a healthy meal from wifey. Mostly something to make my bulging stomach bigger.
Then I daydream of people I want to be: Naipaul, Rushdie, Mahfouz, Carol Ann Duffy, even the Budha
only they live in Nairobi and speak fluent Swahili.
The afternoon I am always sleepy. Letters to write. Dear Prudence. Backspace/Delete. It
is actually to the Minister. I log onto a blog and discuss, passionately, the brotherhood of man. It’s what I do.
Another meeting. Someone is discussing a topic I have more knowledge on than she does.
I have such a big head. But I am knowledgeable, see? So I stare at her face instead. (She got Bette Davis eyes)
We shake hands. Exchange cards. So professional. Damn stubble.
I go to Facebook, and post comments on everyone’s status
Flavia is great…but Abdul is greater.
The HR manager has disapproved my leave application. I write a nasty
e-mail back. It is expected. Niceties are not my forte.
More phone calls, more jargons. Should have chosen something else ab initio.
Evening comes almost as if someone was chasing the day away.
The road to home is softer and acoustic. Dire Straits, Eva Cassidy, maybe some soul.
Toto and I agree about something, I bless the rains down in Africa. More cars stop and stare.
Bob Dylan doesn’t care.
The remains are stuffed with revision, books uncompleted, papers to proofread, DVDs, migraines.
It always feels like I have tons of things still undone, and fear that I will fall asleep
in the kitchen, or god forbid, on the toilet seat.
I go upstairs and try to do something big. I call mum.
I want to watch the news, or start on another book, but there are these words that have been bothering me.
So I turn on the laptop, and write them down.