Author: A. M. K

Our Group
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Our Group

A. M. KLeave a comment

“Be careful who you tell your dreams.” T.D Jakes

When people were picking groups, I too wanted to be chosen. Children are very strict when it comes to forming groups. It is like a personality CV. Your CV can be dumped in the bin if you are a second born and not a last one.

“You are not in our group!”

That was a phrase in primary school not uncommon on the school playground especially at break time and it was and still is one of the most difficult to metabolize. I was part of a group. One of the girls had declared me her best friend. I don’t remember when that had happened, but she had crowned me and I accepted. She was beautiful and grown up and intelligent. As a rule she never said anything about her father and sometimes she stared out into space so deeply for so long that even if you called her name and shook her, she did not stop re-living some distant memory. In a way, she was never really part of the group. She was too grown up for groups.

The other girls in our group were one, tall, thin and light brown- a creative with her hands. She made me many presents and had once sent me a note asking me to be her best friend but I was already taken. You could not have two best friends. It was sacrilege. If you dared, you would lose both. People always asked, Who is your best friend? You would say, C. And then they would find C and ask her the same question. If the answers did not match, you would wish it was home time. The jury would be on to you. They would tell A that she wasn’t your best friend. A would cry and the next morning, you would be replaced. There was always someone waiting on the side lines.

The other girl in our group was tall and big with round white glowing eyes. She always tucked in her P.E shorts too high which made her stomach stick out. She also put vaseline all over her face until it shone in the morning sun. Once she put so much vaseline that she even covered her socks with it. Her socks were always pulled up over her knees. Her stories were strange- about demons convulsing in the garden at her home and about her drinking jerricans of water when she got sick.

We could not speak to the girls in the other groups. Some groups were two-corded, others five but our arch rivals were a group of five. If you so much as smiled at each other when you picked the same book during library time on Thursdays, the other members of your group would hold you in suspicion.

Foreigners did not count- either as members or non members. They always left anyway. Nyandeng left, extremely tall- she stood out, the way she jumped up when we played and left her dress swinging or tied it to up her thighs. Jugdip, whose brothers and sisters all had names which ended in ‘dip’ also left. We were enamoured by Jugdip’s hair. It was shiny, long and always plaited in a three strand braid and it had an ‘Indian smell’ (in children’s language. In adult language, it was probably coconut oil) It looked like a rope. One day we had pleaded with her to un-plait it but she refused. I think she knew that she would be in trouble. Her mother never smiled at us when she found us with her at pick up time. Sometimes she run away from us to meet her mother before her mother had barely come through the gate. She must have gone to another school made for people with the same hair.

Close knit groups continued through High School. We didn’t call them groups and the criteria was a little more complicated. We definitely did not out rightly tell anyone not to be part of ‘our group’ but it was always clear who was in or who wasn’t. It was clear when you woke up to book a bathing space in the early morning and you didn’t wake them up. It was clear if you went for break or lunch without them. It was clear if you left for evening prep without checking if they were ready to leave. And if you never called them to take photos with you when Student the photographer came, then you surely were not friends. Sometimes being part of the same photo could even make you friends- so, being invited for one was important in letting you know where you stood.

Finally when University came, the final place before graduating to adulthood, it proved true- the adage- out of mind. Many friendships are ‘situationships’– not many of them survive the distance, not many of them survive not being in the same vicinity or in the same school or not seeing each other every day.

Today, I was listening to a preaching from T.D Jakes on Castbox as I have been for the past few days. He was talking about friendship. What he said, spoke to that searching, searching for a long term connection in a relationship which was only seasonal, looking for meaning in a place where there is none, looking for confidants among ‘constituents’ and ‘comrades’. Confidants (in my own analogy), being the people who take care of you, wipe the blood off your mouth, give you a drink of water before you go back into the boxing ring that life can sometimes be. Constituents, being the people who stand for what you stand for- winning. The comrades, being the people with whom you share a common enemy- your opponent. You can be certain that when someone else represents what you represented for your constituents at the time or when your common enemy has been overcome, your constituents and comrades will leave you.

From that message and another message I read on Facebook written by someone who was starting to understand Rejection, I gathered that, sometimes you no longer fit because you are not supposed to fit. It is like looking for depth in a basin. Let go.

Sensitive.
Story

Sensitive.

A. M. K2 Comments

“We cannot be more sensitive to pleasure without being more sensitive to pain”

She picked up on energy very easily. She could sense that something was seething underneath a curt statement- anger on a pot boiling. She could sense when there was a wide un-navigable space between her and the person seated next to her. She could sense when there was a truth not being told.

Like on the evening she met the man who might have been her brother. She sensed that he would rather not be associated with her and her boyfriend- that he thought that their social status in his social group was not good for his hierarchy.

Like when the person who had drowned herself in the intricate details of her day was having her own. She could sense that she was not allowed in and that she was not just a guest but a spectator when she should have been part of the inside folk.

Like when she entered her workplace when the renovations had just been completed and there was a tug of war in the atmosphere, a tangible restlessness – it was then she understood what comfort there had always been – for the divide between him and his people- that the workplace should always come first and his entitled wife and children should not meddle in their affairs.

Like when her neighbour had asked,

“How come you lost your weight so easily?”

And the look on her face when she looked at her baby and said, “Ohhh, he is so cute.”

She could sense her apartment-neighbour’s sadness and irritation reeking on her clothes. She could sense when her sadness and irritation turned into a deep dislike- and she could tell that it was because she was not ‘the other woman’, she was not a housewife, she was still loved and still, ‘thin’. And she could feel it in her brief smile and how she would have rather have not said ‘Good morning’ and when she prolonged her conversation on the phone just so that they would not get out of their cars at the same time.

She could sense, in the way a colleague behaved, that he had probably been bullied in school, that he asserted his masculinity by touching, teasing or flirting with all the women he met- that he objectified women in order to subdue them and reduce them to one thing so that he would feel a little more substantial.

She could sense many things- some of them more hurtful than others.

She had been a road trip with ‘the girls’ and had been on a group chat with them- but it had been on her bridal shower when she had realised that their bond was as loose as could be tied.

It was a How Do You Know The Bride to break the ice question and one of the girls had said, “I don’t really know her, you know. She doesn’t really let anyone in.” It was very honest for a public gathering- Wine usually does that.

The other girl had said, “I know her through her boyfriend. He and I were good friends in University… And he always talked about her.” It was true. They had been good friends, she and him but never she and the bride.

And when her wedding launch was held, the disdain in the comments that went around was palpable even though she heard none of them.

“Why didn’t they just wait like the rest of us, until they can afford it? Why do they have to get married now?”

And even though it would be one meeting and there would be no ceaseless bulk-sent reminders- the silence of ‘the girls’ chat had been loud and clear. She could sense that a conversation was being had, but it was being had elsewhere. No excuses were written, just a,

Best Wishes!

When the wedding numbers were being cut, she remembered only the two girls she had gone to High School with, sitting through the queasy gathering, staying put till the end and giving what they could in spite of the staggering auctioning of grand sums.

She had felt the vibe of the crowd at the launch and there were not many Best Wishes!

Some had come to see whether things would work out- some were on their phones- supposedly picking criminals out of police cells on a Saturday night- asking how it had all turned out.

One girl, was annoyed that it was her, it just had to be her, floating around like a stainless princess- seen, picked, chosen and now committed to.

Only a few- very few were there to stand by their guy and make certain that everything that they had something to do about, would work out.

And then suddenly, she had not been able to breathe. She did not understand that she was having a panic attack and that sometimes, a panic attack came from breathing in toxic fumes from the environment.

It happened that not only could she sense a vibration, she absorbed them too. She inhaled them. Sometimes, if someone shouted on top of their voice, she shouted. Sometimes she said it through her words, she wrote – fiercely. Sometimes she left with the baby and her husband, a cesarean scar and a spinal headache in the middle of the night. Sometimes she threw glass. Sometimes she combusted into a stream of tears. Sometimes, she had a panic attack and could not breathe.

The nature of her friendships- she had been told- she was too honest to have many friends. Not everyone was looking for depth.

But she too understood why. Someone had offered herself to be a friend and she had pushed her away. The offer had been from a kind of girl she had thought she would be -pristine. A girl who had jumped every hurdle she had not managed to jump. And so she created a gap and mounted a criticism of her- having once had the same aspirations.

So she too knew, that friendships are a reflection of who we are and who we let in, is a reflection of what we think of ourselves.

Friendships are sometimes, the people we can surround ourselves with, without judgement.

In High School, she had been called Miss goody goody by two girls who had labelled themselves the rebellious ones. She was also called The church girl and mummy’s girl. Phylum mummy’s girl it was. It was the creativity of young children with the help of Senior 3 Biology. She was called mean- mean to boys- in Primary school by the self proclaimed cool girl of the class.

She had tried to not be mean but she never let anyone off the hook when break time ended and the teachers came back from their meeting

All the names remained on the blackboard.

Noisemakers Idlers Loiterers

A schoolmate had once told her, “We hated you! You were that prefect.” It had been 15 years since primary school but she could sense that the ‘hate’ in that statement was a little too vivid.

She had tried to blend in, to be a little less stern, a little less serious, a little more the same as others as she grew older. But she had still not been the kind of girl to have many friends.

Quote by Allan Watts.

Photo by Allec Gomes on Unsplash