It’s like I’m slowly killing myself. I’m trying so hard at the back of the shelf, it kind of seems the same everyday. I have been writing journals. Journals that will never see the light. I don’t know what is wrong or right anymore. I cannot state that I have a romantic life. I really can’t remember when was the last time I went to a date or had someone who would make me feel the butterflies and jitters within my body.Everyone has been dying. I don’t mean a physical death, but mentally or emotionally connection, they just seem to drop off like flies. So I keep on trying so hard to maintain the few meaningful relationships I have.
I want to make them proud before they are gone. But I’m at a point I think I have to call for help. I have always smoked Embassy lights. My scent consists of cigarettes and Lavender cherries. And as I am recording this voicenote to you I’m both happy and furious at the same time as I smoke. In some way it reminds me of you. When we were having those road trips to Kampala and Kigali. I liked how you were carefree. How you’d wake up one morning and say, “let’s take that early morning bus to Dar-es-alaam or Kigali. You have that Yellow fever certificate and your passport ready, right?”
And just like that we’d make plans and jump on to the next bus available. You’d look vulnerable and outlandish in that pose you always had whenever you’d look out of the window and let your thoughts wander all over. I also loved how you’d cook a storm and invite the god of thunder chachishaing the whole house with the sweet aroma of spices and whatever herbs you’d put in the pot.
But lately I can’t help anyone. I’m at that stage whereby it’s safe to say I need help but I would rather not accept it. To be honest, caring has never been developed into my character since we last parted ways. I miss home, I freaking miss my family. I’m just tired of being so lonely.
I have been spending more than I earn, numerous trips, plenty of flights, chasing that money and making investments in the most insane of places. Drinking all the time to forget I’m not her in all those whacky relationships I have been in. I’ll kiss random guys and blame it on the liquor the next morning and pretend that nothing happened the previous night. In all truth, I don’t know much about me.
I’m still ashamed of whom I used to be. All those after-party videos, so I try too hard too fit in. But I always miss the mark to fit in. Maybe sending you this email at 2a.m in the morning will help me to find peace and the serenity I need in this life. I need someone to help me, I really don’t care who it is, or anything. All I know is that I’m sick of being lonely. What keeps me sane currently is that memory of that house we stayed in during that vacation – it was full of smoke and spices. I miss how you’d crash that cigarette filter in that glass ashtray of your with your fingers. All I know for now is I need help, like that cigarette held between your fingers.
Perhaps I’m only 4-5 seconds of wilding and going back to a relapse.
P.S: To Purchase a copy of my two published books, you can do it in two ways:
1:Visiting my bookstore https://maktaba.amwadeghu.co.ke/ and purchase 88,000 Acres of Bad Shit, or, Boonies and add them to the shopping cart and paying via PayPal or Visa.
2: You can also purchase through a Buy goods and services till number 5338319 Name: AM then get a copy of the book via your email or phone number. The email in use currently is firstname.lastname@example.org