I am either, at the very last, becoming all soapy and emotional about stuff that never used to concern me not so long ago, or the girl that my grandmother raised, along time ago, is finally coming to the surface, slow paced, but she still is.
Suddenly, the sun happens to have come out and my garden flowers are in bloom. Everything has some bright colour to it; the boys are cuter and all the girls have bigger hips than I (yes. it’s a very good thing). My boring life seems so filled up with activity and my normally slow mind can do with a break, every once in while now. Without exaggerating this feeling that’s started to overwhelm me, I feel more real, more in touch with my surroundings and myself. I have started to notice the little things in life, to appreciate the people behind a great movie or stage performance, I am now aware of how much I have taken for granted the people who love me. I have started to realise that the idea of growing up, of having fun is not racing through your young life, sampling on this, shoplifting that and spending the following day, going on to whoever cares about how ‘badass’ you were.
Probably, this is what growing up is like. Maybe when people start on their journey into maturity their focus, subconsciously, switches to the things that matter most, the aspects of life that are actually essential to their lives. I have, on a number of occasions now, caught myself with a lump in my throat or teary eyed at a well documented horrific story broadcast on Al Jazzera or actually touched by that poor old woman whose only idea of ‘a better place’ is 6ft. lower into the red earth. It should be little wonder that last Friday I caught myself starting to put my hands together in applause for that story in Monitor that Moses Serugo had written about saxophonist Isaiah Katumwa. And yesterday, I had a lump in my throat while reading a piece of Glenna Gordon’s titled ‘Why I write.’ With these two pieces I certainly realized why I want to write, why I have always wanted to write. It is really magical how so connected to a person – a stranger- you feel, when you read their stories. It is in their choice of words, the voice that runs through, the emphasis on some statements and down play on others; some times you can swear you know these people. And most times you do know them a point more than the people who have lived with them, the people who should know them.
It almost feels wonderful that am getting over my obsession with Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, the entire Hollywood brat pack and can instead focus on how much I miss Whitney Houston. The beautiful, talented, ready-to-fill-up-my soul Whitney Houston.