Naivety World

I’ve wanted to talk about Nkirote from Nanyuki, at least that’s where I remember she was last living. But I never found ears worth the dump. Not that they weren’t good listeners but I felt burdened, and in most cases when her memories proped up, they came with emotions that would summon a side eye. I absolutely do not wish to be misunderstood. And I write this with all the cringe, if it will heal me.

Imagine a girl, shapely as ever, with the softest nappy hair possible and biscuit colored complexion, a big forehead and lips curved out by the gods themselves. She was also a year older than the rest of us which back in high school was a big deal, not so much now, I don’t think then that that was the reason she was detached from all of us. I see now that she had more reason and was mature in every approach while we were maybe too young to understand, for example to not giggle foolishly at people’s puberty problems.

Her hips didn’t lie. Her cute toes were romantic and the curios dancing pupils that probed everything into submission. She’s the physical symbol for the memes advising men to visit Rwanda first before cuffing.

Nkirote’s mother was Rwandese and she grew up in Rwanda with her father after her mom passed on during childbirth. She practically raised herself and her siblings from her second mother. She missed her mom everyday. She used to show me her pictures, every day, as if I hadn’t seen them the day before. She made me believe that you can love something you’ve never seen, never touched. Just pure genetic compulsion.
Which is true, because I fight with my sisters but I am genetically inclined, forced by biology to love and cherish them to death.

I don’t remember thinking this girl is pretty we should be friends. I didn’t see beauty as we see today, it didn’t click for me. Maybe my mind’s perception of shiny things bloomed late but the reason we bonded was her endless advices and secret tips that would obviously appeal to a growing teenager. There’s no question I had that she didn’t break down and answered.

She had told me that boys are yummy but they cause cavities, I found that important but couldn’t give a fuck back then because I was obsessed with virginity. She also told me to massage my titties with vaseline to give them a natural cleavage.

She didn’t lie by the way, my breasts just hate me. But it works.

Nkirote taught me to read thick voluminous novels and put down pacesetters and folklore. She said ‘Fanny if you ever want to travel and can’t afford to, get a book and travel in it’

So I learnt to look for what I craved for and not just read just because.
We shared crushes from Romantic fiction and fought about storylines.

We wrote short silly poems and stuck dried petals to our diaries. She said I felt like soft silk. I didn’t understand but it was good to hear.

She taught me to eat at dinners like a lady, to put my knife and fork to my left or something like that. Taught me to scare away creeps on Facebook, 2Go and Omegle. She told me stories about boys and made me crave for love that I deeply knew I might never find. Because she made these perfect string of words and scenic places. I also held her hands when she cried laughed about being a yoga enthusiast.

My core memory of her was sneaking out during night preps to lie on the grass in the field and watch the stars. “Always look out for the moon Fanny, it energizes you” she’d say.

Staring at the sky with her made me feel like I wasn’t there but far away, in the world, in the universe, giving who I am to something.

So, now I am at the beach sitting on sand under a rock shade trying to read this GOT series but every time I look up I see this calm ocean whose waves are strips of divided shades of turquoise, sending calm ripples to shore. It is past noon but my mind imagines a setting sun…not imagine, remembers. In this memory, a photo of Nkirote doing reverse splits on the sand pops up. ‘A yoga enthusiast’ I recall. Her shapely figure is forming a silhouette like vision against the dimming day light and the loose curls are hanging low on the shoulders.

I could write her letters, physical actual letters, that I know would melt her. But I don’t know where she is. Her exact location. I’m not about to go looking anyway.

If there was someone that would make it I knew it was her. If there was someone that would go on to global places as I shallowly thought, I was sure it was her. If there was someone who’d never settle….

She loved art as I did. The sketches of each other we made under the blanket in the dorm room are blurry in my mind. I then thought I’d maybe one day run into her or her name in one of these galleries.

I cherish the love she showed me. She was the friend that talked endlessly into the night while I just looked on. She was softer than I and easier and said to me “I love you” so many times but I was always too embarrassed to say it back. But she held on to me anyway.

A friendship I would die for.
She knew that but maybe she doesn’t want to be found.

One day I typed in, all possible names of hers I could remember, on Instagram, to look for her, and I saw a baby wrapped cutely in a white shawl. To the left of the screen were visibly chubby but familiar fingers.
That was the only picture on an inactive account.

I cherish this person and I have peace if we never meet again or if we don’t live the dreams we had in large scale.
But I’ll always remember. When I go on road trips to Nanyuki, the town will know whispers of her. And that what she gave me is greater than any dream or goal.