Or, it is not easy coming up with this shit.
Not as easy as some people make it. Some people just look out of the window and a vibrant, wondrous world, bursting as it is with light and colour instantly inspires them to spin enchanting tales. About onions, for example. Other people get drunk and let their fingers tango over the keyboard and the result is yet another masterpiece. Some people just exist, like Cheri, Minty, et al.
I will not even try to make light of the magic that creates Iwaya.
But the thing is, these people make it look easy. It’s not easy for every one.
If I may be allowed a moment of navel gazing, and I surely may, it isn’t that easy coming up with a blog post three times a week. Of all the hornets buzzing in my head, which one, oh, which one, if captured and squeezed, will ooze out an amusing post of innard-juice?
You see what I mean? That is the kind of image I come up with by reflex. I can’t publish that sort of thing. I have to sort and sift and search and try to pick the choicest globule of hornet abdomen goo to offer.
And even then I do it tentatively. I approach you with nerves wracked, fingers trembling slightly, transmitting the vibration through the tray, filling the air with a rattling sound. There is a ring of sweat dampening my collar and my knees are jelly.
Because I am scared shitless that someone might think it is fake.
Like, maybe Sylvie Owori and Brenda Nanyonjo are having lunch with …umm… Edith Mutesi of Record TV at Café Pap and one of them decides to use the computer hotspot facility to google themselves. (I don’t know about Brenda, but I am sure Sylvia does, and Edith should do it often). Then they land on this blog.
And then they retch onto their tuna melt sammiches and retch again, in a projectile fashion this time, onto the cappuchino lattes mochas of the yuppie clique on the other table, because they have been so revolted by my sentence construction and how jagged and dischordant my pacing is and how my paragraphs are full of anachronisms, not to mention the tonal imbalances, that it makes them sick to the stomach.
What if one of them says: “Shit. This guy is like Sagara.”
But you know, devastating as that may be, there is a place I can go for comfort. Sniff.
It’s called Rev.
Kyokka all these marbles.