You Eat What You Kill

Asians have dragons and us Africans, well we have lions. They are the ultimate symbol of masculinity across the whole continent. Peerlessly graceful when they hunt, magnificent when they bathe in the sunset of the savannah, bravery and power enshrined in one being. My old man  (he’s Maasai you see.) loved to regale me with stories of his grandfather killing lions in the wilds, initiation he said it was, in order to be a properly titled man, eligible to steal wives and everything ( I have 5 grandmas, but that’s a story for another day

 Unfortunately, I’m not built like my lion killing, wife stealing ancestors, but if nothing else I like to think I inherited their pride. “You eat what you kill,” a wise man said to me not too long ago. I’m 21 you see, so those words struck something in me, especially seeing as I’ve mainly been eating what my parents have been killing (working for?) while killing time myself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a completely useless rice bug, I try, same as everyone else my age I suppose but is it ever enough?

I’m whining, I know, but it’s my job to make you feel my emotions right? And love and sorrow are so out of vogue right now. Let me introduce you to a new state of being, listlessness. If listlessness had a taste it would be soda that’s been left uncapped for 3 hours, it tastes like ghost piss now but you can still vaguely remember that it used to be sweet. You know the feeling, it’s Limbo, floating between wanting to get everything done and being too tired to scratch an itch.  It’s like writer’s block, but for everything else.

I’m tempted to blame it on something in the air, what with oil literally being priced like liquid gold now, fresh out of a pandemic (that I still think was a zombie movie in the making), there’s a war going on that is giving us all compassion fatigue, and the cherry on top of our lovely apple pie of horror movie scenes that is 2022, four months in, its election season. Sometimes I feel like everyone should just cut themselves some slack, but see the wise man (same one) said something that very conveniently turned my nice loophole argument into utter nonsense, “An African Man cries at 4: 00 in the morning and is off to work at 5:00.” Of course, because we believe in substantive equality here, you ladies don’t get to sleep in either. 

And thus I sit, sipping tea, wallowing, trying to cry so I can get it over with but my tear ducts forgot how to work somewhere in between public high school and growing up. Maybe one day I’ll sit down and thank myself for not stopping (or maybe I’ll just have gotten Stockholm syndrome for continuous listlessness who knows.) until then, I guess I’ll just have to move forward, one kill at a time.

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