For some reason I am scared, that your blue shirts and sweaters will turn green, that your white and blue caps will turn into green berets. I am scared that your short round batons will stick in your arms but your colleagues will carry a long gun by their hips. I am scared that your big, dusty leather boots, will turn into tiny, shiny black shoes.
For some reason, I am scared that your high handedness will turn into arrogance. That your tiny scope of looking at things will grow even smaller. That you will not want to listen to me, that you won’t even want to reason when I request that we reason, that you will want me to stoop low to your level where reasoning is a star in the sky, which no parachute, air balloon or plane car reach and we all know no rocket or space craft exists in your world.
For some reason, I am scared that the judge in you won’t be as sober as the one I referred to in my primary school compositions. That maybe the night before we meet, one of your boiz will have taken you out for a round or two. That when we talk all you will be thinking of is how to nurse a hangover and not how to soberly make a judgment. That just like the Keters of this world to you I will be a ‘matapaka’, and you work will be to ‘eff’ innocent Kenyans like me, or maybe not so innocent anymore.
For some reason I am scared, that maybe it all makes sense. That I deserve nothing but the fear I feel inside. That I deserve all that will happen after, that I should have thought about it when I put my right foot on the gas, when the speedometer read KMs that were unimaginable. That this may be the turning point for the future I am meant to live in.
For some reason I am scared, that my love for stripped shirts may be taken a notch higher. That it may move to a forced love for stripped pants as well. That my not liking for caps might actually die at this point when I am forced to wear one at all times. That the shape of my head that doesn’t allow for a bald shave might actually have to ‘come out of the closet’
For some reason I am scared, that the beast I see in Becca might be the reason I meet the beasts that think other hommes might be beauties. That shower time may not be as pleasant as it has always been. That I may have to literally watch my back and develop glue for bars of soaps to ensure they never drop to the floor. That my hate for beans won’t matter anymore when I anticipate for the weevil infested meal every lunch and dinner time.
For some reason I am scared, that in as much as mum had no official ‘time out’ strategy, ‘ulimwengu’ is out to show me what it means to stand at the corner. That I may have to experience what it means to start over again after six months when I try to compose my own version of Safarina’s freedom song.
For some reason, I am scared, that I may have to look hard for a synonym when I start my own music label because … Konvict music (Insert Akon’s voice) is taken already. Aha!
PS: This is just for laughs