Good love is “boring”

Kris Gage

Bad love is erratic

I just finished reading Samantha Irby’s “We Are Never Meeting In Real Life” (recommended, obvs), and in it she talks about her relationship by saying,

“I’m in love and it’s boring.”

Right on, sister.

Too often, we think love is supposed to be manic

People celebrate “losing themselves,” and “falling” for someone; they get tossed and turned like they have no say in the matter; they let themselves get pulled emotionally willy nilly and chalk it up as “passion.”

“Relationships take work,” we tell ourselves. But we’ve misconstrued what that “work” is supposed to mean.

“Boring” is better than “impassioned,” and while most great relationships have a blend of both, forced to choose, we should readily take the former.Consistently warm is far more hospitable than hot and cold for long-term emotional wellbeing.

Boring is beautiful

By “boring,” I mean stability, consistency, reliability. We can hang our hat on these…

View original post 807 more words


Finding the right church is like marrying the right husband. It is not a fair comparison but I can’t help seeing it as such. Church is the one place that is supposed to be a pillar for anyone who goes to one. It is where we empty our many problems and in return receive hope that all will be well; graces to keep us moving forward. Those in charge, either a pastor or priest have a responsibility of trying to ensure their sheep walk out of their church with something that will make them want to come back. All days are not the same. There are days they will have zero inspiration, zero jokes and they will be outright boring. And as the flock we understand that. We get it. And we give you a break. But when the leader continually bores and irritates the congregation, then they will find what they are seeking for somewhere else.

I was raised a seventh Day. Church was compulsory on Saturdays. My mother woke me and my five siblings as early as 6.00 to start preparing for church. It was assured that on the Sabbath we could have chapati for breakfast. It had become such a routine to a point of having our neighbours as guests those early mornings. Church began at 8.00 but for some reason we –children-never arrived earlier than 9.30. Our best arrival time was always 10.30 just before the preaching commenced. The service concluded between 1.00 and 2.00 depending on how much the preacher was inspired. We could rush home eat githeri-it was always githeri-and go back to church. If church happened to be miles away, then we could have to carry lunch. I don’t remember gaining any meaningful learning during the afternoon sessions but I remember we played a lot of ‘hide and seek’ and skipping of rope. We often went home very tired, sweaty and extremely dirty considering that we always wore our best clothes only on the Sabbath.

I went to a boarding school at a tender age of only ten years. I was in class four. It was a strict catholic school. I was introduced to mass. For the first time I went to church and in one hour’s time, the church was done. I remember asking my fellow pupils if they were certain church was over. Then another day, mass took 30 minutes. I was later to learn, it was compulsory to attend three masses in a week; on Wednesday and Saturday-for that 30 minutes-and on Sunday the one lasted for one hour. The priest in charge was Fr Lois. He was a missionary from Italy. We adored him. He had mastered the Kisii language and whenever we had the combined mass-this one always lasted for at least three hours-he could confidently lead in Kisii. I struggled to understand what he preached. His accent was horrible. Such masses I attended because I had to attend.

When I was lucky to join a catholic high school, I finally decided to convert to catholic without my parents’ knowledge. For my first catechism class, Sister Lenah who was the catechist asked me, “How comes you are not baptized?”

“My parents simply didn’t take me for infant baptism” I lied.

In the catholic church, it is rare to find a person who wasn’t baptized as an infant. Baptism takes place as early as one-day old-if the child is perceived to be in any danger. Perhaps it was my active participation in church that made me think I had confused and convinced her. Later, when I confessed to her of my deceit, she could tell me that she always knew I was never born catholic. I am yet to have the daunting conversation with my parents especially my mother about my conversion. But I thinks she knows, she either hopes I will go back to the Sabbath or is waiting to hear it from my own mouth. I jokingly like to tell my friends that I have to get married to a catholic man so that I can have an excuse as to why I converted.

The one thing that attracted me to the catholic church is its brevity. I am not known to be patient. I get bored easily when something stretches too much. I treasure my time. I liked that preaching took a maximum of thirty minutes-after thirty minutes I tend to be dreamy. I also liked the categorical sequence of various stages of mass. If I didn’t concentrate in one stage at least I am bound to walk out of church having gained something from another stage in mass. I loved that I could receive the body of Christ every day I attended mass.

You are probably wondering why have I given this long story about my church background. I recently moved to Mombasa and the two things I am yet to adopt to is the matatu transport system-story for a different day and church. I have gone to six different churches. Looking and searching for one that I can fit in. A church that doesn’t ask too much from me, gives me as much as I give it. Although it is allowed to give me more because that is its sole purpose.  A church that makes my Sundays, be Sundays. A church that I look forward to. A church that keeps time. When mass is scheduled for one hour, then one hour it is. I am okay with going to church on daily basis for one hour but not for three hours straight in a single day. I want a church that I can participate in various functions and join the lectors group. Is that too much to ask?

Take for example the church that is nearest to my residence. Mass is scheduled to take one hour and thirty minutes but the four times I have attended; mass has taken more than two hours. Two of these attendances I walked out before the final blessings. Announcements take thirty minutes to be read and the AOB are simply too much. Last Sunday the priest who celebrated mass saw it befit to announce that it was his birthday. He was a visiting priest and the host who was the co-celebrant had no idea it was his birthday. The host decided we have to sing to the priest and “tumpe mkono” to wish him happy birthday.

“Please don’t give him an empty hand” he said.

People actually stood to go and give the priest something. And I just had to walk out. I am not saying we can’t celebrate birthdays in church but there should be order in the way we do it. Maybe it is time to look outside the catholic church.



For the past three months I have been aware of your existence in my husband’s life. Your name is Adauna Itubany from Raimanya County.  I know the plot you live in. I am yet to find out your house number and you know what, it is a matter of time before I know.  I have come to your work place, pretending to inquire about your insurance options. I have watched you work.  I like the way you dress. Your style is impeccable and classy. I have imagined getting a similar red dress like the one you wore on Valentine’s Day for him. But I have neither the money to buy it nor the figure to fit into. I keep telling myself I will enroll in a gym to cut some weight. But every time when I am about to start, an emergency comes up that requires money. And the only money available is the one I am going to enroll for the gym. Last month, it was your lover-my husband that is- who needed the money to go and repair the car.

I know he picks you every morning to go to work and drops you in the evening. You have been enjoying the comfort of the seat that should be mine. The car is only six months old. I sacrificed a lot for him to be able to afford that car. I stopped asking for money to buy meat and resigned myself to enjoying vegetables. For the past one year; I haven’t bought myself a new cloth, we haven’t gone out on a proper date-like the ones he takes you , I haven’t bought my signature designer perfume, my daughter hasn’t seen an inside of a mall. . . .He told me we had to cut back on all the ‘luxuries’ we were enjoying to save for the car. As a supportive wife I always am, I obliged. The reality is , we now have the car but the ‘luxuries’ as he calls them aren’t back.

I have formed this man. I have nurtured him. I have seen him grow; physically, emotionally and economically. When we first met he had no real job. He was doing online writing jobs to survive. He slept hungry.  The body adapted to eating one meal a day and drinking water. He was a slender man. I often invited him to my place to eat. I secretly think he stayed with me-at least for the first months of our friendship before he realized he had fallen in love with me- because I readily provided him with free foods.  He lived in a single room with barely anything. He was ashamed of inviting friends to visit him. His self-esteem was affected the only way lack of money makes a man feel. He was convinced I could run away after visiting his house. I did think of leaving him after seeing and smelling the poverty that surrounded him. But I loved this man and I knew with a little help he was destined for greatness. I had faith in him. So I stood by him and helped him build is empire. Do you understand why I am telling you all these? I am not flossing. I am simply stating facts.

There are days when you call him, and he fails to pick the call or he picks it and tells you that he will call you later. I am always beside him. He doesn’t want you to know that he is married. I know you think he is the most eligible bachelor man you have ever met. That God has finally shone his light upon you.  But there is a part of me that thinks you know the truth or at least suspect.  Have you ever asked yourself why he has never invited you to his house? Do you ever wonder why he never picks your late night calls and instead calls you the following day when he is already at work?

In the beginning of the year, did he tell you about his relative who was hospitalized in Agha khan Hospital? Did he tell you it was a miscarriage? Do you know it were my sixth miscarriage since we got married? His family is engaging in all kinds of talk. Some people in the village are saying I have been be-witched-sometimes I agree with them even though I am a catholic whose faith teaches that there is no existence of witchcraft.  I want a boy child if only to please my in-laws and the society. Maybe the child will remove some of the shame I am carrying around.  I am not saying you are the cause of my miscarriage. But what your lover is doing with you did contribute to my miscarriage.


Please don’t label me a bitter woman-that could break me- though at this moment, I am. I am simply appealing to you woman to woman.  Will you tell him I called you? I hope you find the man who loves and respects you. I hold no bitterness towards you. You were innocent to fall for this married man. I hope I haven’t scared you by telling you that I know where you live. I mean no harm towards you. If I was a bad person, I would have already harmed you.  You are a woman; who wouldn’t want to be cheated on. You wouldn’t want to have a husband like him. I want to believe you subscribe to the notation, ‘treat your neighbours as could like them to treat you. Appeal to him to come back to me and his daughter. Tell him how he can be a better father and husband.

Someday, I would like us to be friends. To talk about this day I called you from nowhere sounding like a psycho woman.



My sister, Dee is the goddess of love. I say this because she is the one person in my entire life that I have known not to shy away from love. She will love and love and love and then love more. Her love flows freely and it is in abundance. While most of us love less after heartbreak, she tends to love more after one. How she puts herself out there again and again is something I am yet to fully comprehend. There is an interview where the duchess of Sussex, Meghan is being interviewed and she says, “My mother has always told me that whenever my heart gets broken, it opens up to more love. My sister subscribes to this thought.” If you are loved by her, you are a very lucky human being and at no given time will you doubt her love for you.

My sister will post the people she loves on a daily basis on her whats-app status-I only post them on their birthdays. She is not afraid to tell the entire universe how important you are in her life. She will declare her love for them anytime she gets an opportunity to. She will them she loves them after every phone conversation. She will proudly tell the rest of us-her sisters- the people she loves. She talks about them a lot. And late in the night when she is wishing them good night she ensures she writes them a message saying, I love you. I once told her she is too much so now days i only get to be sent the ‘I love you’ messages once a week. I actually miss receiving the messages but I can’t tell her that.

Last year was different. And she could later tell me, for the first time she was afraid to love. She suddenly stopped posting pictures of her boyfriend. They had dated for three years. He had introduced her to his parents. I had even met him-when I meet any of my sister’s boyfriends then it is serious. She stopped talking about him. Whenever I asked what the guy had done, I was only told, “he abused me”. This year, she is back in the game and I am happy for her. We have been joking how life has been boring without her love life to follow. I know she will love this one more than she loved the previous one. That is her style. She doesn’t know any other way. I believe she will certainly find the partner her heart desires.

Do you ever wish to find real love? Get someone that you insanely love and they love you back. Someone you never stop thinking about, don’t want to spend life without. Someone who completes your world, whom you care about deeply, who makes everyday a better day, who makes you want to be a better person, whom you could be willing to compromise some of the relationship standards you have set, whom you are willing to do craziest things in the name of love, whom you can make sacrifice for. . . . . . The kind of love Meghan and Harry share-I am obsessed with their love.

I asked my friend Eyevee if she wants real love and she said, “I at times want that, that kind of love. Then I realized love like that, I may never find it. It is very rare. So I have come to terms with it. And now I just want to focus on people who I love and people who love me and that love is enough. If I find a man, good. If I don’t, also good.”

We have become so afraid to put ourselves out there and love and be loved back. And that is hindering us from enjoying this massive gift that God has blessed human kind with. We are missing out and we are carrying the same attitude in everything we engage in, like businesses. Fear eats us like cancer eats the body. But if there is a small probability of getting that love, why not take it? One in every ten couples shares this kind of love. That gives you a probability of 10% of finding real love. Looking at the fruits of real love. The fruits your children will get to enjoy, the kind of life you will live when you get that person, they far much outweigh the risks and the fear and the doubt you are feeling now.

My first heart break, I thought I wasn’t going to survive. My ex was the first thing that I thought of when I woke up so was he the last just before I slept. He was in my dreams. It was terrible and it sucked some life out of me. It was the lowest point in my life at that age. I didn’t imagine something worse than that will ever happen to me. I cursed and promised myself not to love again. For two years, I turned my back on love. And when I stopped thinking about him it came as a shock. I was surprised that he was no longer in my dreams. One day, I saw him in church – I had changed my church after the break up-and realized I don’t feel the bitterness I felt when the relationship ended. I was okay going to him and saying hello.

I have since experienced worse pains in my life than my first break up, but I have always gotten through them. There are painful experiences that take more time to heal. And I still think about these experiences once in a while especially when I am lonely, but eventually the painful period ends. They become distant memories whose pain I can live with. I believe we can get over any form of heart break, then why are we so afraid to love?

I have been listening to, Love someone by Lucas graham. It has some beautiful truths. ‘All my life I thought it’d be hard to find the one till I found you. And I find it bittersweet cause you gave me something to lose. But when you love someone, you open up your heart. When you love someone, you make room. . . . .’

Enjoy the song and find that love   .



I am addicted to writing about love. I am a sucker for genuine love stories.  Whenever am having a writer’s block (I am saying this to make me feel like a writer), thinking about love will certainly make me want to write. I feed my brain and mind and body with love. There is an unexplainable feeling which surrounds and penetrates me whenever I listen to love stories. And my siblings have accused me of having a facial transformation when I am deeply engrossed in a romance novel.  There is a part of me that strongly believes is present with these characters as they share their love. That part feels like it has invested in the love and wants them to thrive. And when I listen to a group of friends narrate their love for one another and how long they have been together; I shed tears simply by listening to them. I am yet to fully define love because for me, its meaning keeps changing depending on whom I am with or talking about .So for the next few days I am going to write about love. Stories I have imagined and I have listened and I have experienced and other people have narrated to me. The love I have witnessed, given, experienced, wished for, and rejected. There will be a lot of love, castles I have built. How love has transformed me over the years. How I love.

I have always wanted to enjoy the thrill of an office romance. Especially an office setting that forbids relationship between a junior and a senior. But as I watch you trying to solve this computer error that has become a nuisance to me, it dawns on me how badly I want to enjoy this thrill with you. Don’t get me wrong, the feeling didn’t start today, I have secretly always admired you but I thought you weren’t my type. I want us to hide in the file room and kiss and pray that nobody catches us. Come up with silly excuses to work next to you. Brush my hands on you when nobody is watching. Ask for help even from the little tasks that I can handle just to have a scent of you. Be in the same night shift and do all the crazy things I have wanted to do with you in the file room. Once in a while, when you are in the night shift, give you company till morning. And the following day form excuses telling people why we worked together when it was supposed to be one person.  Fight the night before and go to the same office and pretend how everything is fine because nobody knows about us in the office and we want to keep it that way.

Spend nights talking on the phone till morning because I want you to be addicted to my voice.  I want to hear you tell me how our talks are therapeutic for you.  I could really love to hear you say that. Catch you staring at me. Communicate with our eyes when we are in a room or better yet come up with our own eye language whenever we are in a company of other people. Have your back and know with certainty you’ve got mine. Be your biggest fan as you are mine.

I want us to hold hands as we walk to the bus stop.  Hold hands as we wait for the bus to arrive. Hold hands in the bus. And when we are paying our bus fare ensure that the hands remain locked while we fumble with the other hand to look for cash. Alight the bus and walk home holding hands. I Know I love your touch. I want us to go out on dates especially beach dates and watch as the sun sets. I want to watch you focus and take those beautiful sunset pictures that you always capture with your small phone. Watching you doing your best to capture a good picture is always the highlight for my day. Maybe you will make me fall in love with photography.

When the time comes and our colleagues start asking if there is anything between us,-as much as we don’t want that time to come, it will come-we dismiss them. We tell them how we are the last people in the office to ever date each other. We give them alternatives of people we think, they think are our types whom we could rather date. We deny each other. And in the evening, on the comfort of my couch with a glass of wine, laugh on how gullible they are.  How accepting they are with our silly explanations and excuses.  Maybe A will not fall for our dubious explanation; she will wait to prove us wrong. She is a smart one.

And our sex life will be amazing because we have to have it at least twice a day. I hope your sex stamina will match mine because I know I will match yours whichever level it is. Walk in each other’s houses completely naked .See my fat legs and wobbly arms and sagging stomach and very black ass and still want me. Hold hands as we sleep. By now I am sure you understand how holding hands is important to me.  Wake up, with bad breath and the first thing we do is kiss. And since we can’t help it, have morning sex because we want each other’s scent imprinted on us the whole day. And when you are well dressed up ready to for work, kiss me goodbye. And if i nag you just a little bit-since men find it hard to say no to their women when they are asking for sex-have another round of sex and then watch you re-iron your shirt before you leave for work. I will be having this contented smile on my face. Maybe you will get late.  I want you to get late because of me and have zero regrets.

I want to be jealous when I see other ladies touching you. I want to be jealous when I see my colleagues flirting with you.  I want to fear losing you to them. I will try to say the L word because you believe I can’t say it with my massive pride. I want you to trust that I L you through my actions. I know you always say that I have set my standard too high and I can never be heartbroken but you are wrong. I am a lot of things. I am a soft tissue that is easily bruised. And I want you to bruise me if you can’t love me back.


Sometimes i will call and just hi

Sometimes i will send a blank text

Sometimes i will call to request for a very small thing which i could have gotten from someone else

Sometimes i will borrow a book that i know i won’t read.

Then i will text to return the book after a week and borrow another that maybe i will read

I do talk about you,

In my head and with myself, but most of the time  them

I will mention you in the conversations with family and friends

There is a certain humility of being a friend to someone so brilliant,so smart, so ingenious, as though he is the bridge to any other greater brilliance.

That is how it feels right now and most of the time.

It is as if this love i have for you transcends all my limits.

The dark may come, the city may fall, the sun may fail to rise but the brightness of this feeling will not dwindle




Whenever I go to a restaurant or I am boarding a bus and we are two, I always prefer sitting next to whomever I am with. I rarely take the opposite seat, unless I have to. If I enter a restaurant and the only seats available are those arranged in the opposite direction, I will either excuse myself and walk out or request the waiter if it is okay to move the seat next to my partner. I prefer that closeness to eye contact. With exception of my boss or potential investor. There is something that sits right with me when I am that close to someone. It just feels right. Like I can handle anything and everything that comes on my way. And it is easier to gossip that way especially in a matatu. You can discreetly lean in and listen to your partner commenting about the person who just entered without arousing the attention of the people seated around you.

More importantly, it really feels cozy.


The other day on my way to work there were two women who were chit chatting in the bus. The problem wasn’t the chatting but the way they talked loudly and they were farther from each other. One was seated at the seat just behind the driver and the other was seated at the conductor’s seat. They were conversing in their mother tongue so I could not exactly tell what the conversation about. It must have been either gossip or a tender finally given, because they just wouldn’t stop. Ten minutes into the conversation the other passengers were getting irritated. You know, that look you see on peoples’ faces and you know you are all thinking the same. To make matters worse one seat was left vacant and the other person had the option of joining her colleague but you know what she didn’t. Who does that!! One passenger who had had enough of them stood and walked to the front and gave them a piece of his mind.


Yesterday on my way to work the same thing happened. Two passengers I’d like to presume were neighbours, missed a seat and they chose to stand instead of waiting for the next matatu. Along the way one got a seat next to me. They were having this conversation that had not finished from their houses. They were loud.


I don’t know about you but it is so disconcerting when people make noise in the bus in the early morning. On a bloody Monday! Who does that? You just can’t wake up from your house and come make noise in the bus. I am calling it noise because that is just what it is. I keep asking myself how important the story is that it can’t wait to be told another time. Or maybe people talk to keep themselves awake and for that I have a working remedy, please take a cold shower before you get out the house. The loud music from the matatus is always enough to do the irritation and I just don’t want other noises. After listening to matatus’ music for some time now my ears have adopted to it and more often than not I take it as a lullaby because I find myself finishing my sleep in the bus. When my eardrum detects unfamiliar loud sounds in the early morning, it is pissed off.


For the sake of my sanity and am sure a few people in that bus I chose to give the standing ‘neighbour’ my seat. And I made sure to tell them to tone down their voices or else I will take back my seat.


I had a problem saying it aloud. I was afraid of what the future could hold after uttering those words. So,for quite sometime i lived in fear. You were the good thing in my life that i held onto for strength. I was hanging on by a thread.Since i couldn’t face the situation i avoided it. It was easier to keep living that way,in denial,in fear,in secret. I actually thought i could get used to my new life.

There is so much you can hide from before it catches up with you. Something changed on that day when i finally talked. The look on that beautiful face of yours wasn’t the same. Your eyes dilated. All of a sudden it was very quiet between us,but the air seemed alive,as though you had just screamed and the sound of your  dismay was still lingering in the room. At that very moment,i knew it will never be the same. You recovered very quickly but i had seen it.

I felt weak. Of all the people in my life, i needed you not to give me that look. And that was the problem, I needed you too much

It was painful,very painful. It hurt. It pierced. I didn’t know i was capable of feeling such immense pain. For days there was nothing that could take the pain away,there were nightmares severally and everyday when i woke up it was the first thing that was in my mind till one day it was the second. Feeling the pain made me realize i am still alive. All my senses are active. The pain fed me mortality in such small portions that made life seem valuable. The pain was a momentous step in my emotional education, and it will shape me forever. That is why i fell in love with my pain.




Often times when i lose my phone i get depressed for some time because i will really miss the good messages that had been sent to me. There are messages i get once in a while and i can’t help but re-read them till they become like a poem in my head. And if my younger sibling makes a mistake of deleting she could have a rough time explaining why she had my phone in the first place. I know they are just messages but something about them just sounds so sincere,so innocent,so profound ,so deep. I am sucker for sincerity.Our attraction is magnetic. I could be listening to a very boring lecture and i will keep wondering if this person knows they are people who write better messages than his notes.

One of the messages that i have grown to treasure is from this wonderful lady who always calls me her dear child. You see,she rarely texts because she says it isn’t her thing but once in a while she will surprise me with i text;”My dear child i hope all is  well with you.”Don’t get me wrong,but not even my dearest mother uses those words when she is addressing me. It always feels like we are schmoozing via text.It is very intimate.

Then there is this one who likes starting a message with,young girl!.It is one of the phrases i can’t really tell what it  means. What he exactly implies.I like the mystery that accompanies it.If  anyone calls me young girl,it is never the same.Actually i don’t allow anyone to call me that. It ought to be just him. Now when i lose my phone i miss such kind of messages. They are taken from me. The kind of feeling you get when one burns your only blanket.That is how i feel.Those messages are my warmth.Is there a way you can save messages in Google?If there is please,enlighten me.

But last week i discovered there is equally something very important if not more important than the messages. The clock  or rather the alarm.

I lost my phone and reaching home i discovered that i had forgotten my watch at work. I am supposed to be at the office by 6.30 a.m to allow those doing the cleaning to finish by 8:00 before the office is opened. On this particular day i arrive home at 10.00 p.m and of all the days the landlady decided this is the day  she would change the padlock without proper communication.

I am at the gate with no phone,it is dark and it is raining. Neither the landlady nor my neighbours can hear my relentless shouting. I am in a darned skirt so climbing the gate is out of the question. I result to throwing stones on the roof with the hope that they can at least hear that.

I like to brag that i am a morning person but am not so sure anymore. Apparently i can’t wake up without an alarm. In the middle of the night i woke up and i was so afraid that i had overslept.I rushed to my neighbour’s house to inquire what time it was. Shiro couldn’t believe that i was waking her up to ask about the time. She was so pissed when she told me it was 2:15 a.m. For fear of oversleeping if i go back to my bed,i decided to read those old newspapers that i use to light jiko.

I was at the office by 5:45 a.m. Who in their right mind arrives at work that early?Well,unless they are sleep walking or ….Needless to say the first thing i did when the shops were open is to buy an alarm clock.This is a plea to those people who take other peoples’ phones,please do it during the day not at night.So that they can at least buy a clock to help them wake up.



memory (brain diagram) from google

It was a Saturday afternoon.It was a hot day.It was the day i formed my first memory of you.What could follow is a sequence of such experiences that formed more memories.

But all the memories are not the same.Others are more profound than others. If i was asked to give a clear account of the event of that night it could be possibly  the easiest exam i can ever be given. That memory has stayed with me since. I remember every detail of that night.It was an emotional one and overtime i have acquired certain sentimental value for that night.It is something i have repeated many times in my head,rehearsed,mentally and i have became semanticized. So if i was to give an account of that night it could be the exact account with no bias.

One chilly evening i met my high school laboratory technician on my way home. He was limping so i inquired what happened to the leg. He said he had been involved in an accident as a result he had broken one of the hip bones. He mentioned the bone by its scientific name and for a minute i was blank. He was surprised when i told him i don’t particularly remember the specific names of the bones. You see, bones was the topic you read because you needed to pass Biology practicals and immediately after my exams there was no room in my brain to keep that memory.

The New York Times recently published an article entitled,’The Brain That Couldn’t Remember’.It was one of those articles that i read and couldn’t help but question if it is actually true as the writer had written. But then again it is science and i know very little when it comes to science. The patient,Henry after an operation could not remember anything including his own name. Every day he has to be taught what he was taught yesterday from scratch. Whenever his doctor came to check up on him,she also had to introduce herself each time.

We meet so many people who are woven into our life’s fabric. There are some who stay in our memories forever.We think about them everyday and most of the days they are the first thing we think about when we wake up. Some stay within our memories as long as they are needed and when the time comes.When we have no need for them we discard. But there are others we never seem to remember to preserve their memories.Each time we meet introductions have to be made.

I have developed a craving.To create one memory as we sit side by side in that well lit elegant sanctuary,I want that one more time. I want to be in that room where i can see you. I want to hear you shout just one more time.I want to see you roll those eyes. That is why i can never tire of such experiences because they create the memories.That is why i deliberately make those events happen.

We tend to treasure the memories we share with family,friends and colleagues.Landscapes change,people change but subtle experiences have a way of being cemented in us.It is seizes to be just about people you met,people you listened to ,people you annoyed,people you walked with,people you raised,people you gave money,people you worked with.It becomes about the intimacy developed,the genuine smiles exchanged,the hands held firmly with love,the books read together,the care given,the meals shared together,the long conversations and chats held to the late hours of night.It becomes about the connections.It becomes the memories.

The brain in its own way is beautiful,even if you alienated it from its origin,even if you didn’t know whom it belonged to.Even if you didn’t know its story. Because at the end of the day what really counts is the beautiful memories treasured in it.

It is worth remembering at least that!