I woke up yesterday to the sound of light and laughter. Light and laughter. I smiled, deep smile my facial gutters seemed chiseled deep beyond where blood can spring. I didn't know what I was smiling at.
Whether the sunlight that filtered through, golden, like she strolled through King Solomon's mine—the sun that made me blink a couple of times. The sun that made me shy like a blooming girl on her first date she looked down the whole time except for glances she stole that allowed her to see nothing beyond where his beards connect. I didn't know what I was smiling at. Whether that, or the rich laughter of Munachi, the toddler in the next apartment. This toddler who exudes warmth like the orange sun; whose laughter is the sound of brooks and petite birds.Brushes. Kiwi polish. Brown shoes.I stepped outside. I saw Munachi, his small fingers barely wrapping the bars of the burglary proof he held firm to. He must be standing on the back rest of a sofa I thought. He giggled when he saw me. He repeated the words after his father, "Unku goo mawnin." My heart leaped for him like lizards on a sunny day, I called his name and gave him my choicest smile. He beamed. But like the irony that life is, this moment photographed in time for how picturesque it was, was truncated by the sound of a crying child. It was Mmesioma, the little girl in the apartment after Munachi's. Slender girl in a checkered gown, computer socks and rubber sandals, she walked into the corridor.Mmesioma won't stop crying, so I walked up to her, picked her up the floor onto my body, her head made to rest on my right shoulder as the hollow by my collar bone collected her tears. I lied to her. I told her beautiful girls don't cry. I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say. I just wanted her to stop crying. She did; as her mother stepped out seconds later to take her to school.These kids. They won't understand why I care about them. They won't understand why I show them love. At least not now. In the same way they won't understand why some days I use polish lavishly on my shoes and why on other days I'm buttoning my sleeves walking briskly out the gate. They won't understand soon that life is characterized by anxiety—some black smudge on a reality that is painted with poster colours. They won't understand that worry is constant like the rising sun, like day and night. They won't understand yet that being human is a deliberate choice, and they never may know that the whole time I've worked out a personalphilosophy of survival: to live life while living it.
From @emilo3