Pain

The Day I didn’t Want to Talk To Anyone

The Bimbia Slave Site Captured with my LG G4

I’m scared of the direction my life has been headed in the past couple of months. I dropped out from my graduate programme. I took my first real job working with a small (but impressive) team where we’re singlehandedly sculpting the cultural landscape of the country — the potential is huge.

My poetry collection sits in this same computer unpublished. I haven’t posted anything on the internet in weeks.

Oh, and I got dumped. I could tell you about how painful it was. Or what I wish I hadn’t said or done. Or the lessons I learned or how much I would miss her. Truth is, up until recently, I thought I had ‘survived’ this. I hadn’t. I may not. In fact, given my propensity towards extreme emotional engagement without building the initial required foundation upon which most long term relationships are built, I woke up a few mornings later and sobbed.

I cry when I watch emotive movies or read texts with similar properties. I cried when I received a surprise birthday cake for the first time with my name on it.

I still consider myself cold and unemotional. I’ve trained myself to not express surprise, fear or elation unexpectedly. Dealing with subtle forms of rejection in secondary school and during my first years in the Uni gave me that skill.

That morning, I sat up and prepared to head to work, I don’t remember the exact sequence of events that led to my sobs, but I felt a deep sense of loss, like my reason for existing had been stolen. I could not find words to describe what my mind didn’t comprehend. As I struggled to make sense of it, I muttered to myself in hope that words would soothe the excruciating feeling that boiled in my abdomen. It made no sense. Yet, the tears flowed. They were hot. Enough to make me stop. Enough to let off a little of the pressure from within. I’d never cried over a breakup before.

Great. One more item off my bucket list.

I washed my face and wore the adequate thespian features. Then I left home.

Because that wasn’t the day I couldn’t talk to anyone.


Last month, someone on twitter interviewed me for her dissertation. She said she’d come across my writing on the web and her work focused on black writers living on the continent. Another amazing writer said I was quite a talent. I felt important. This is not to say that I have a bad case of low self-esteem.

Because I do have a mild case of it.

I don’t think I am particularly handsome. It is for this reason that I feel very nervous in front of anyone’s camera.

I don’t think I am a good writer. I sometimes fear that I may die and never accomplish my dreams. Of course, you will tell me it is probably a legitimate fear that everyone has. Honey, I get you, but I am not everyone.

I am me. I’m scared.

I feel like a fraud. I try hard to hide it behind jokes, and smart talk ( boy, do I steal from books). Which is why it takes me a long time to trust anyone to open up and really get them to enter my world.

(Fun fact, you ( yes you reading this) probably know more about me from reading me on the internet that most people in my immediate surroundings. That’s how much of me I am able to hide from everyone around me)

On the other side of this deep fear of disappointing my inner self, I also have a sense of things I can do that no one else could. I play with words in ways that never seizes to amaze people around me. I speak two languages and I ( sort of sing). I am also sort of funny — when I’m not depressed.

As you can see.

I am very much in touch with the things I don’t like: I find it hard to do work that is algorithmic. I thrive with creative tasks. However, I have recently observed that even heuristic tasks if given constraints, offset my juices and literally- believe me when I tell you- render me totally incapable of making coherent sentences.

Yesterday, during a workshop, I had to create a story from a theme I absolutely hated. I think my brain died for the next half of the session. My ideas mortified instantaneously.

But, it wasn’t because I was scared of dying alone, unfulfilled and without dreams that I decided not to talk to anyone. I was because I had had enough and I was exhausted. For the first time in months, I’d reached the trough of my mild depression and I decided I didn’t want to do anything. Except this.


When I woke up that morning, everything was the same; the car horns through my window, the sun’s sly smile pouring through. My eyelids were heavy, but my stomach too.

“I could read a few pages before I go up there”, I thought to myself as I grabbed the Samsung tablet on the table.

A journey to the loo wiped the thoughts of another dive at the warm covers. It was my special moment with myself. While I did my business, I flipped to my ebook app, ‘Born Standing Up’ was open.

As much as I’d never paid attention to Steve Martin’s work as an entertainer, I noticed that his writing gave me insights into his life that would never leave me. I quietly continued my not so challenging multitasking ordeal.

8.15am

I knew because my phone alarm started ringing as soon as I got into the room. Steve was saying something about Nina Lawrence and her change of name. But I knew I couldn’t afford another sluggish read.

8.30am.

Fifteen minutes couldn’t have gone this fast. I knew something wasn’t right that morning the moment I started freezing during my workout. I wasn’t unlike the rushing antelopes away from forest fire deep in the country. Or the birds leaving the island before the volcano.

Even when I took the cab, my head moved with difficulty. My smile felt plastic. I could hear my voice. Even I didn’t believe my destination when I told the driver.

In a sudden rush, I wrote an email to my best friend in over 11 years. The network was shitty but I was grateful for Gmail’s HTML version . I told her what I was going to do. I know what I wrote in the email, but I couldn’t believe I was going to do it. When my phone rang and I saw my superior calling, I silenced the device and turned the screen face down.

I wasn’t in control anymore. That was when he told me what we were going to do that afternoon.
End of part one.


Tchassa Kamga lives in Buea, Cameroon. This part of the country hasn’t had internet in over two months. So, he’s had to travel a long distance to post this. He’s learning the intricacies of curating events and documenting them at the fine dining restaurant and cultural hub- IYA Buea. He has three episodes on his podcast . He also takes blatant pictures on Instagram.

He co-writes with C. Befoune on this publication — Self-ish . Their goal is to share the lessons they’ve learnt from multiple sources in the domains of Self-improvement, Content Creation and Human Relationships.

You can easily get him on Twitter.

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I remember her touch.

As well as her kind gaze and warm smile.
They way she gleamed and held her head high.
She left her hand in mine.
Confident that the world wouldn’t mind.
Especially, when we went out to dine.

Fortunately, that time is now behind.

I remember my nickname.
She’d laugh at my sneer, knowing I’d go insane.
She’d pick on me when no one looked,
Only to make that face I’d hate to imitate.
Our kiss? She’d initiate.
Long, tender, nuzzle free meal I’d gleefully partake.

Alas, that time is in my wake.

I remember our goodbyes.
Her sad scream and dark eyes.
Long texts and fake fights.
The stakes were high.
I still hear echoes of her curses in the middle of the night.

The black hole in my soul, sucking, had never seemed so bright.

Broken

Old respite, I bid thee farewell.
I’m gone. To a place I do not know well.

I broke my branch before I flew.
I’m not going back to the place we knew.

My old friend, I bid thee farewell.
Do not think my actions aren’t swell.

Caution :you may not recognize me.
I’m broken. In pain. And I bleed.

A pain I’ll need.

Give up?

1.16 a.m.
Screen, blank. Stare. Tears. Blink, twice. Home, silent. Headphones, blaring.
You should sleep.
Maybe.
You should lie down and continue tomorrow.

Maybe.

What’s the point working on a piece only you see everyday?
No one might enjoy it. In fact, you could be hated for it.
There is a chance it will be nothing like the picture in your mind.
This is not the first time you’ve felt deleted from history. Probably won’t be the last.

“I’d better be deleted than not to have existed”.

So, you sit up. Crank up the volume . Type.
No one got rich lazy. Plus, I am at the prime of my life.
My future self would never forgive me if I gave up now.
I won’t.
I can’t.

We can’t give up now.

In Another Life

There couldn’t have been a wronger time for us to have met.
There couldn’t be a larger distance between us.

Expectations. Obligations. Reputations.

In another life, I’d be a teacher, and you’d be a student.
We’d fall in love after school and get married after class.

In another life, you’d be the doctor, and I the patient.
I’d bask in your wisdom and cherish your care.

In a parallel universe, the stars align for us.
The angels sing when we kiss.
Your voice softens my face, your touch slows my beat, your smell reminds me of why I am alive.
I live you and you for me.
Like in the movies, you own me.
I trust you.
In another life, I am the one.

But in this life, I am me and you are you.

Boh, You’ll be fine

[ I wrote this for you. But I thought of all the others like us who feel this way sometimes. I hope you don’t mind that I posted it here.
I know you you won’t mind :)]

Life’s short boh.
I’m sure you’ve lost more than one person you really cared about.
Someone you’ll never see again.
You have an obligation to make that love worth it.
You have a duty, as the one left, to live a happy life.
A joyful life. A meaningful life.

You are going to have troubles. Shit storms. Hate.
You’re going to feel fucked.
A lot of the time, you’ll wonder whether this life is worth the trouble.

“All di suffer na for wheti sef”?

Those are the times when you need to forget about the who- you.
Forget about the when- now.
About the what-life.
And think about the why-the why.

Why are you here? Why were you born? Why are you alive?

To suffer? To hate?
To love? To create?
To be angry? To stay sad?
To destroy? To build?
To support? To enable?
Why did He let you see today?

Why aren’t you dead?

In you darkest moments, when you’ve disappointed everyone. When your eyes swell with sorrow. When your head bows in shame. When your alarm rings. When you get the rejection email. When she says no. When he cheats.

When you think to yourself: Lord, why is this happening to me?
The answer is in the question.
It is happening because it IS happening.

Because.

Your existence is bigger than you can comprehend.
The sacrifice for your salvation is larger than your puny mind can mingle with.
You are bigger than you think.
Don’t let the petty roadblocks of this stream called “life” derail you my friend.

Get up. Smile. See how far you’ve come.

If you could do anything in the world? What would it be?
Guess what? Your existence is a miracle. The air you breathe is another chance. Your heartbeat is hope for a better future.

Every pain is a reminder of the joy of peace.
Every tear is a collection of the price of freedom from all kinds of slavery.
Boh, you don’t have time to regret.
There’s this gift the Lord sent to us all. I’d like to have piece of it too.
It’s the gift of “you”.
Thank you for being you.
Go. Be. Live.

I love you boh. You’re a gift. I’m here.

Liquid Demons #ShortFiction

She wept.
My shoulder drenched.
The mucus coagulating.
Slowly. Freely.

Like an exorcist I patted.
Granting the demons freedom.
Her shoulders buoyant with fury.
Boiling. Truly.

My sister who never cried.
The one who scorned weakness.
Turned to me, me…the family weakling.
What could this mean?

At that instant, it meant everything.
That her heart was as weak as mine.
That our souls were threaded by more than blood.
The currency of pretense, dismissed.
And respect, born.

She sobbed for minutes.
Hours. It didn’t matter.
I didn’t care.
We didn’t bother.

She cursed and hit me.
She let the demons on me.
“Thank you for trusting me”, my heart screamed.
Thank you for letting me.

Mother questioned the strange noises.
The guttural muffling.
My lie made no sense.
My honor depended on it.

Mother couldn’t bring my door down.
Martha stopped hitting.
My shirt was torn in many places.
But on her heart…worse bruises.

She rose from my arms.
Towered. Regal.
The demons…gone.
Or so I thought.

“This time, I’m done. Come, let’s pay that idiot a visit.

Sorry


Sorry.
What is the essence of an apology?
Who apologises?
Me for saying,doing or even inferring something hurtful?
Or you for failing to understand my point of view and thus getting hurt by them.
Why should anyone need to apologise?
Why should anyone hurt?
Why should anyone get hurt?
How does one hurt?
Why do I feel this pain?