“What’s your name?” I enquire.
A fine stream breaks from the edge of his cap tracing its way along the contours of his face before disappearing into the back of his neck. For some profound reason, the question catches him off-guard. He scratches his brow searchingly.
“Why do you ask?” he retorts after a brief but seemingly thorough self-interrogation.
“Its good manners,” I reply before taking another sip from my water bottle.
“No need. You won’t remember it anyway.”
A part of me concurs. In the effervescence of our fleeting lives, memory is a treasured commodity.
Some things we can’t afford to remember. Like the landlord’s middle name. (Unless of course, M-PESA)
And some we just don’t want to. Like the one-night-stand that ended with a trip to the gyna.
Still, there are some memories (perhaps too many) that are better off forgotten. We owe it to ourselves not to remember those. And should we forget to forget them, time dutifully does the job for us.
Yet we hold on to our dearest memories with valiant passion. Beyond turbulent times and temporary triumphs, they are immovable landmarks that define how we view ourselves and the world around us.
In the end, we can only trust that when time calls, we can always remember what we need to. Because, in Umau’s words, “a donkey never forgets the river”.
Welcome to my journal.