Finding Home

Finding Home

I have spent two days thinking of an opening line for this blog post, and clearly, I suck at this. Because something within me kept saying; Just write. Whoever wants to, will read.

So here I am, staring at this blank page and wondering, what is the point? What is the point in writing this? What is the point in writing? What is the point in striving to put up a blog post every Thursday? What is the point of existence? What is the point of this life? What is the F****ng point in life?

Two weeks ago, a colleague at work asked, “Why do you put up a blog every Thursday? Where do you draw inspiration from?"

My quick response, like response to stimuli, was uncoerced. Oh, I like consistency. People will ask if I don’t put it out. I am growing my portfolio. I spent money on that domain, it gotta be active. Super bullshit you feed to the people you laugh with at the office, because that is where your relationship ends; behind those doors.

But in my alone time, time when I am struggling to find the meaning of life, I asked myself the same question, and the logic answer I got was, ‘I write because I need to breathe. I write because it is the only way I get to take a break from myself. Otherwise, I die; a slow, painful death.”

So here we are, in the second month, and I am begging myself to put this out, even when the edges of my soul are cringing at the reality. Even when a larger part of me wishes to disappear from the face of earth, and reappear elsewhere. Where there is no pain. No anger. No fatigue. No pressure. No pretence. Just calm, peace and silence.

Three days ago, a friend of mine asked: Do you feel excited about new years? Are you in particular excited about 2020?

I said yes. Why? He Asked. Because there are projects I have been working on, and hopefully, this is the year the world gets to know of them. I reply, then quickly change the subject because in reality, I know that even if the projects come to life, my heart will still be far away from peace.

Why? I honestly do not know. I wake up each day, my heart craving for something I am yet to discover. It doesn’t beat hard, or fast. But there is something else that lies in between its normal beats. Something that silently whispers to me, that I should get away. But again, where to?

My anger has lately been triggered by the smallest of things. Abrupt weather changes. Children playing. Over speeding matatus. Banging of doors.

I say smallest of things because in another life, these very things would go unnoticed.

Why? Because they are normalcy. It is normal for children to play. Normal for matatus to over speed. Normal for doors to bang because sometimes, the wind finds pleasure in just that.

Normalcy. Normalcy. I think normalcy is putting me to anger because maybe, just maybe, I have lost touch with it.

But then, also, I just think I am tired.

I have been working under too much pressure since October, sometimes hanging at the edge of uncertainty, because of a lot of things I have not yet found the strength to talk about.

I have been too busy trying to find myself, chasing dreams, passions, relevance, and all those things that may or may not bring happiness to my soul. I have tried too hard that I think maybe, just maybe, I have lost myself in the process.

I say I might be tired because I do not even cry even more, yet crying has always been my go-to option when I want solace, or peace, or both. I do not cry; I just get angry and it explodes to my face, and in one or two instances, I have banged my head against the wall. Ouch.

I am tired because I am silently screaming for breathing space, even though my screams seem to hit walls, and come back as deafening echoes, or as weird people devilishly staring right past my tired eyes.

I am tired because people’s questions about me continue to bore me to death.

People who keep asking how I am. And I keep telling them to read my damn book. But do they? No, they don’t. Even when I offer it for free. Why? Because maybe, they too are tired of being troubled by things that do not concern them, or they do not have the strength to handle pain. Or they do not just read.

So the next time they ask how I am, I struggle to not punch them in the face, so I just leave them on read, even when they continue to ask, “Why are you not texting me back?”

But come to think of it, in the quest of my happiness and healing, I would never want to scar the very people who are there for me. That is why I choose who to speak to. Who to lay out my heart to. Who to hold my hand. Who to cuddle me. Who to hold me when I want to cry. Who to cover my face when I am too ashamed.

Why? Because no one deserves to get hurt while trying to heal you. No one deserves to carry baggage on your behalf, even if they continue to tell you it is what they want. Trust me, deep down, they do not. And even if they do, it is up to you to realise that they do not deserve it.

Which is why I ask people if they are in the right mental state before I can vent out to them. They mostly say yes, but during the few times when they say they are not, I want to pull them close for a hug and tell them to breathe, but I know I am also not in the right space to do so.

So what do we do? We stay there, breathing in silence, crying in darkness, waiting for dawn to break.

And when dawn breaks, I pray that someday, I find a safe space within myself. A place I can run to whenever it gets hard. I place I can strip naked without being judged. A place I can cry it all out, without soaking someone else’s shoulders. A place I can call mine, because it harbors my darkest secrets, but still gives me the strength to go on.

A place I can always use to take a break from myself, whenever my writing fails to do so.

Why? Because recently, my anger and disappointment has slowly metastated into hate and resentment, and it is leaving my body, and hurting the people closest to me. Those I hold close to my heart. Those who hold me in silence, and remind me of home.

People who, when I ask ‘what is the point?’, they look at me and say, ‘You are the point.’ Then, my heart is miraculously cured.

So, I am taking little steps towards finding the peace within me. Which sounds quite a long shot, but when it comes, I hope it brings the happiness, peace and silence I so much crave for. I hope it brings me home.

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Lemme add another question to your FAQ; why do you always make ME cry Eunniah? It's rhetoric. But I do hope you find not only a home but one that feels like it. Sending you love and hugs.

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Scholar V. Akinyi

I've been reading this, and my mind kept p telling me 'people like us'
You're raw. You're authentic, and you keep looking for what's in-between your subsequent heart beats. I'll be here for when you find it.

About not burdening people, never seen words so truer.... They do not deserve it.

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Meet Eunniah Mbabazi
Eunniah Mbabazi is an Electrical and Electronic Engineer with a deep passion for books and literature. She has authored Breaking Down (a collection of short stories), If My Bones Could Speak (a poetry collection), The Unbirthed Souls (a collection of short stories), and My Heart Sings, Sometimes (a poetry collection). She has also co-authored Kas Kazi (a novel) and When a Stranger Called (an anthology of short stories).

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