MIRROR.

It was nothing remarkable, just a skillfully made piece of glass with a passable application of optics, a physics principle. Perhaps if I were to describe it in a slightly more animated and graceful way, it would be a shimmering, lifeless, brittle oasis that mirrored existence. It was nothing; it shouldn't have been anything. Therefore, it seemed completely pointless and absurd to me that I was standing in front of it like a nude artist, fixated on that location in my room's corner, gazing intently into it while attempting to make sense of the fact that I could see very little to none of my reflection. My anxiety was not assuaged by anything, not even the thick lenses of my chromatic glasses. I tried to take them off. Perhaps when you're sad and broken, you unlock the special abilities of Bartimaeus and see more clearly. In any case, it did not help much aside from introducing streams of tears down my face, rolling and falling freely without resistance—linear motion free-fall—another principle of physics that I was at least understanding. Its angle of inclination was fine. Its wall support was steady. The stacks of concrete and reinforced pillars holding my room together boasted sound structural integrity. The only thing falling apart here was me. The only structures breaking down were my emotions. Mirrors serve as reflections of the truths we wish to believe, but mine, ugly and unwanted as they were, stared back at me—not through my supposedly beautiful image, but through the realization that I was staring at heartbreak, pain, and bottomlessness. In this city, you encounter many of God's most magnificently crafted masculine creations. The dark as you do the light ones, the short as you do the tall ones, the mannered as you do the mannerless, and slowly but surely, those whose Cupid’s arrows land on not as the chosen ones but the marked ones, the ones with a red asterisk who will make you stare at the mirror but miss your reflection despite having sharp visual acuity, the ones who compel you to lay bare on your bedroom floor like a breathing cadaver. The ones who make you weep in your poorly lit room while the dark new moon slyly mocks you through the corner of your window curtains from above.

QUARTET.

Seasons have cycled through; they invariably do. The other day, in the gentle beauty of autumn, a girl used the renewed canvas to splash paints of life back to her chakra. The previous day was summertime, and on a solitary date, a girl ventured to update her beauty blog while leaving her skin sun-kissed, making love with the earth's energy. Once the springtime zephyrs began to whistle, a girl sang peaceful tunes back into her life, completing an orchestra with the wind. Sometimes it is a girl facing the entire force of the universe, adorned with her favourite skincare products, lipsticks, and customized jewellery. On others, it is her alone time with the magic of her nurturing fingers pruning her vase flowers, parting the chapters of her current favourite novel, navigating through her knowledge of the right and left-hand grip rules to bloom her garden, or scribbling her most gut-wrenching poems. And on the days that a girl steps outside, it is the indispensable bonds of her platonic friendships with her other girls, if any, that soar her through the day, equivalent to an angel and its diurnal wings. That is the condemnation of a broken heart; the heartbreak is not your business, but you pay for the healing. The only currency you have is a set of recurrent, subrogating habits, predicated on curation, over and over again, until a girl finds the perfect combination to solve her own life's complicated Rubix cube.

Today, in the bleak midwinter, a new season dawns, cloaked in winter's chill and quiet cascades. Today, miles away from her first broken mirror that exposed her first broken pieces, is a girl with her new mirror, a rematch. This time, I don't feel lost like a clueless pirate navigating the Caspian Sea for the first time without the guidance of a cartographer. Rather than merely staring at a blank space, this time I am seeing what I am looking at in the mirror. I am perusing the mirror from corner to corner, admiring the new sheen of my flawless skin. I am dissecting, pixel by pixel, the beautiful pictures of this mature girl that my eyes are currently feasting on. My pretty reflection highlights all the carefully curated and impeccable proportions of pixie dust beauty that paint scintillating joy on my face—yes, a girl messed around and learned how to do her makeup. She is smiling, she is happy again, and she is giving the mirror a lickback show that has been long overdue. This time, the moon at the corner of my window’s curtain is bright and is a salient crescent whose bow shape feels like it is smiling at me in approval, unlike the last time. It has turned the tide and overturned my life. A girl now wields the power to evoke and reverse the hidden emotions of the solar system. A girl has recovered. Her quartet is complete. What a difference four years can make!

ART.

Art. Paper, canvas, palette, podium, film, instruments, cassette, pen, and paper again. Beyond forgery. devoid of deception. impervious to imitation. The very intangible and immaterial nature of it renders it exempt from physical possession or theft. The might of the hand that creates it is beyond finite quantification. Its very essence finds home in the thoughts it stimulates, the feelings it arouses, and the all-encompassing experience it produces. These elements are everlasting; they transcend physical borders and can only be analogous to energy. You can conceive it, maybe create it, but you cannot destroy it. With art, one can only pay homage to the owner by quoting their ideas.

“I finished crying in the instant that you left.”

“And I banished every memory of you and I had ever made.”

“I just have to admit that it's all coming back to me.”

“It's so hard to believe, but it's all coming back to me.”

“It was dead long ago but it's all coming back to me.”

“It's so hard to resist, and it's all coming back to me.”

As I slip out of my shower robes and into a dazzling sleeveless dress, one that could tempt the devil again with its lack of concealment, I feel compelled to pay homage to Celine Dion's work. Her lyrics are the only lines of art echoing in my mind at this moment. Sometimes, I wish Hell had a phone because I miss the dead version of myself that is resurfacing in my consciousness, whispering that this idea is welcome. You see, among all the masculine creations of God that still exist in that city, you also come across those who offer you the most profound, unforgettable, irreversible, and unrepeatable love of your life. In the fabric of life, their love is the special string that connects warmth, passion, and softness into the tapestry of your existence. Their wholesome friendship is the eternal granule of molten lava in the earth's crust that burns desire and belief into your being. Granted, no matter how fast you try to escape it, you only seem to accelerate, much like the sensation of running in dreams—moving without moving. Genuinely falling in love for the first time is akin to making a pact with the devil. I may have changed into a completely different woman over four years, but for some reason, this dark, five-foot-eleven bug who used to have me completely smitten but now refuses to die always manages to find me. Even worse, it seems like the impedances I have chosen to provide resistance won't be effective on him anytime soon. Black pairs nicely with a nude shade of gray, so I retrieve my tote bag from the closet, stuff my pouch and book inside, sling it casually on my left shoulder then click my heels as I leave my room to rendezvous with him.

“Mirror on the wall; here we are again. Through my highs and lows, you've been my only friend…”

“Show me how to fight for now, and I'll tell you, baby, it was easy coming’ back here to you once I figured it out; you were right here all along. It's like you're my mirror, oh oh…“

Of all the lies, art is the most beautiful. So, I will conclude with art, just as I began. When a girl returns to her room after a night of confronting the days of future past, we will see if she pays homage to the artsy mirror of Justin Timberlake or Bruno Mars.

RUN.

Pahóm.

The crisp air at my well-chosen coffee table transports me back to my heyday in high school literature classes. My sophisticated accent, the ideal fusion of English and Kenyan, has mostly resulted in hate mail for me. Most said I was being arrogant, that I was pretending, that I was being contemptuous, or something else entirely. Still, it never stopped me from analyzing literature, and I say this because I cannot help but think of Leo Tolstoy's portrayal of Pahóm as an overly ambitious, borderline greedy character who was constantly running to where the land was. In the end, he died in Bashkir, but really, how much land does man need? Pahóm ultimately needed only 6 feet underground, but what about me? 4,000 miles? 5,000? Maybe 6,000 miles; I don't know the exact distance from here to GMT+3, where Kenya is, but that is how far I am from everything now, especially from him. You could say that I am just travelling abroad to pursue my biochemist ambitions, but the thought of escaping his presence sounds like too coincidental an ethos to consider, and it is still too strong an excuse to give up. Whether my modus operandi is delusion or realism, that would be your call to make. He had called-all along. Perhaps trying to reconnect with me, or perhaps just trying to know where I currently was, or maybe both. I couldn't tell because I never picked up. I alternated between blocking calls and setting my iPhone to 'Do Not Disturb' at different times. I am aware that he was there for me on most days when I had fits of yapping, ranting, screaming, or complaining. I am aware that regardless of the time of day, the gravity of the circumstances, the environment, or the weight of my transgressions, he selflessly provided me with verbal cadence. Even though I was pretending to be sick, I know he followed my orders for breakfast—which were barked and almost demanding—to the letter and brought it to my room as soon as he noticed my missed call. I know he rarely failed to turn up to where I was, regardless of how short the notice sounded over the phone. I acknowledge that long voice notes of him being open and vulnerable have been lying around in my inbox for over a year, sadly collecting dust due to my ignorance. This is a flagrant betrayal and contempt for his innocent emotional intelligence. He seldom turned down my calls, as far as I know. I am aware that I am currently acting indulgently in the opposite way, which has made me infamous and incredibly ungrateful. I know it does not matter, but it is difficult to tell if I genuinely do not care or if I am just hiding behind my decadence and pretentious expertise from having studied patterns and probabilities. In any case, Jean Johnson's inventive comment, "I am the victim in today's story and will not delve in the hurt I have caused, but more so that which I have endured," seems to justify it in my opinion. Besides, voicing an incomplete good to a stray ear may act as a jinx to its finality. I can't tell him where I am, so it is easier to ignore his calls, put up a wall, and make him toil till he finds no oxygen in his resurging investigative flame—stories, more stories. God forbid that a girl falls in love with a forbidden boy and is consumed by him forever. 

JELLY.

I had always camped on the belief that it is virtually impossible to find healing in the same environment that tore you apart. So, even before I took to the air to a separate continent, I had already created infinitesimal separation from him while still at home. Though it did not feel entirely genuine, at least it was a step up from riding the illusion of progress. Still, I would always feel stuck in the same place, running circles around it whenever I saw the restaurant where we had dinner at midnight and then ran barefoot through the streets, or encountered one of our mutual acquaintances in the alleys, or passed by the same grass fields where we had jumped into the puddles while making out in the rain or experienced painful flashbacks every time I saw the bench where we had our first kiss. Every little nook, cranny, and secret place from the previous day was a terrifying thought for my mental health. I had to leave. I felt like a locus of a point from a fixed point.

With that mathematical reference to the locus of a circle, I am quickly reminded of my zenith status in math classes. I have now, twice, flaunted my prowess as a performer in high school; perhaps the braggadocious allegations are ones that maybe, just maybe, might have carried substance, but not to him when we first met at the Bay Area during a math contest. He was unfazed, almost unapproachable, but with an inviting demeanour. Nothing—not my allegations, not my beauty, not my accent— deterred him from his game. As he straightened the collar of his sparkling white shirt, approached me, sat down, and locked his eyes with me, a fiery gaze in place, then smiled, showing off his flawless teeth, capped off by this raging aura of him flexing his vocal cords by talking to me alone. I smirked, a little embarrassed, because I remembered that it was at that very moment that it all began - when my insides went awry, and I realized I had met my next best mistake - when my feet turned to jelly.

Here I am at this moment. Scratch that, here we are, because as I sip my tea, I watch him from a distance through the glass of the GoCoffee coffee shop logo. He arrived at the meeting on time, just as he always has and always will, you punctual, attractive bastard. Even though I have this hot coffee in my hand, why am I suddenly getting hotter? Why do you do this to me? Once more, there he goes, with his perfect frame and stride. Once again, he moves in that manner with deliberate strides. His burgundy leather shoes clink, creating a rhythmic echo that keeps me in a state of perfect balance, much like how he always knew when to be Superman and when to be Clark Kent.

Oh, my dearest contriver, you have always had a smart engineering head above your shoulders and another promising one below your loin. I wonder if you have perfected your skills with the latter; you promised me something unforgettable once you overcame your virgin problems, remember? Please excuse my distracted thoughts, sir. I should be paying attention to your other head, the brilliant one that has always had a sharp mind between the ears. I wonder what smart ideas you conjured up this time that helped you locate me. Did you web-scan my status images and social media posts? You have been mostly moral and kind, so I would not convict you of that; that would be too intrusive of you. Did you decrypt my IP address? I am not certain. Your technocrat brain wouldn't be too far off of it, sir, and that's why I didn't pick up your calls, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt on this one. Did you manifest? Did you see me in your dreams? Did you summon the spirit guides? Who did you ask, you fearless man?

Still, I am a little thrilled that you did, and it makes me feel good to see you again. That's right, walk straight to your favourite girl in blue, for she has been waiting for you. When he finally arrives, he smiles as usual, and as if he had never been gentle enough, he pulls my chair, shakes my hand, and smooches my cheeks. I could not tell if it was because he was still wearing the House of Leather scent I had introduced him to or the fact that he was carrying a pack of cards, given how much our poker games had bonded us. Either way, I knew I was in trouble. All over again, my feet felt like jelly.

VERDICT.

But it does not take long for me to be reminded of his transgressions against the unwritten rule that you should not be drawn to someone’s light and then dim it, just as you should not eat cucumbers from a women's prison. And so I fetch my excitement from the highest ceiling of the highest cloud and bring it back down to earth. I have to prove that I have not been boiling beans with a candle, that I have enjoyed moving on without him, and that, having stepped down from the podium of my life, he now has to line up and take a seat with the others if he chooses to come back. I put all the acts that I spent hours honing in front of my mirror in preparation for this moment into full effect. You would think that this would interfere with his processing, but he seems to be anticipating everything. It is as if he retained all the lines from my script, updated or not. My goodness! I detest the fact that, strangely, he still understands me better than anyone else ever has. No, though—how could I forget? After all those years, how could I just... give him a pass?

Telling stories is like being a cosmic architect, weaving words into constellations that construct entire universes within the minds of those who dare to listen. And in my head, I told all the stories, lessons, abominations, and the never-again that I had lectured myself. The time had come to prove that I had paid attention. How could I do myself such a rude disservice after spending so many hours? Had I suddenly forgotten how I usually went to bed with teary eyes and a heavy-laden heart, wondering if maybe I was the problem? If I was simply unlucky, If I was not enough, How dare I discard the foul reality that he always had the opportunity to permanently make me his, but when fate gave him the luxurious privilege to choose, I always fell behind the other girls? How could I push away the lustful thought that was taking over my head when I reasoned that maybe giving him the most soul-stirring copulation would make him want to be with me? How could I overlook the jealousy and psychotic tendencies that consumed me like a malignant tumour that I could not rid myself of? In my right mind, why would I forget his cruel words that sent me straight to the depths of suffering or his inconsistent behaviour that constantly sent my feelings on an unhealthful roller coaster? Why would it be in any way conceivable that I blind myself to the punishment I endured for simply falling in love? What effrontery! How certain was he, in his cute mzungu form, that I had not discovered the new boy I was fascinated by? Heck, what big balls had caused him to believe that I was not in a happy relationship by now?

His eyes and perfect hair confuse me a little bit, but by the time we are both seated across from each other, I have managed to deliver this little speech to myself internally. Whether it is a moving delivery akin to the one by Malcolm X or an irrelevant one comparable to a phony goat addressing a pride of lions, we are about to find out. I just know that I am prepared to face him.

“Hi ma'am,” says he. "I appreciate you agreeing to see me again. How are you?"

I answer politely, obviously raising my guard to give him the impression that he would need to pull out more tricks from his bag this time rather than just adding a dash of elegant demeanour. This I say, even though hearing his voice again does unspeakable things to me. I never regretted not picking up his calls for 4 years like I did at that moment.

He goes on, "You once asked me a question when we were chatting on Snapchat. You inquired as to whether I ever miss other people. I never had the chance to reply, but at this point, I can confirm that, contrary to what you may have suggested, my life is not a piece of wood. I miss people, and I have missed you every day of my life. To be honest, I have not always been the ideal person in your life, and our relationship has not always been that way either. I have come to terms with the fact that I have used up all of the opportunities God has given me to try my hand at true love—especially the opportunity to love and be with you completely—but I still hope to try my hand at true friendship. Although it took me a very long time to realize this, a series of events have led me to the conclusion that I have never had and probably never will, have a friend like you. I would be distraught if I permanently lost you or that friendship. It has been 4 years, and something tells me that for how time has reconstructed itself and allowed us to learn and grow separately, we can, if you will, start again on a clean slate like it should have always been when we first met at that contest. What say you?"

I took another sip of my coffee to calm the butterflies in my stomach that had started to fly again. Not that the phony goat gave my speech, mind you, but following this, a girl had a duty to honour the mirror in her room, and it seemed more and more likely that she would be honouring Justin Timberlake.

I clear my throat and deliver my verdict: “Hi, Boba…”