6th January the year of the coup, God breathed air into my lungs. Lungs that in turn sprung to life a small heart. Lungs that oxygenated a small heart that bravely jump-started the journey of a brave heart. A heart that learnt to love, laugh, hate and hurt. Hurt, with pain, pain from heart-aches. Heartbreaks that taught that same heart to choose, loose and part. Part of which led to party to drown away pain. Pain that cast a mould around me and made my heart cold with fears never to be told. A mould dolled up with a name. A name that I was given by my father. A name that I gave up, call me insane. A father that saw no need to be in my life any further. A father that I needed but he needed another life rather. A life that God gave me but also took away a life that I needed through my father. A father that only was after I solely faced my seventeen seasons never giving reasons to account for the abandoned years. Years that resonate a mother’s love in my ears. Ears that listen but don’t hear.

I became a teacher way before I was a student. I became a seeker whose ways were prudent. Prudence that required patience. Patience that I lost busy being all grown up rather than being a child. A child that went wild with ideas, all lies. Lies that dimmed my light but redeemed my plight. A light that flickered in my life but sparked those lungs to fight. Seeking insight where my right was when he left.

Tens of seasons later and that heart is still on a quest. A quest to rest, to be content, to rid off the contempt. So until my coup de gràce, these lungs will not hold their breath for the word of grace. These lungs will let me live and at the same time believe it is getting better. I do not have to make a call or write a letter. These lungs.

© george kinyua