The Iteration

No Nut November came faster than Amazon Prime. Winter is comfortably here, and with it comes the numbing cold from the heights and crevices of Mount Caucus. With temperatures dipping to 4 degrees, I am losing sensation and feeling in all my regions, and nursing an icebox where my heart used to be. Even with all the layers of clothing I’m having to wrap around myself in day and night. Well, it’s mostly night and night now because whoever is saving the daylights is doing a bang on job! My moods are getting to be just as black and grim to match the city’s aesthetics, and my resting bitch face has grown a resting bitch face.

Now the gory rain and winds are my personal hell, my karma, I guess, from when I laughed way too hard at someone’s son’s atrocious haircut not too many moons ago. I am constantly looking like a mad hatter. My eyes keep welling up with pools of tears the second I step outside, with dripping unparalleled mucus at every raindrop’s whim to boot. I feel like I am continually in an embarrassingly low-budget Viola Davis biopic. These diabolical wind blasts are humbling at best and mortifyingly upending at worst. My gangster points are non-existent at this point. These dreadful winds will huff and puff and threaten to blow my five-foot-seven frame. And not just metaphorically speaking either. My braids will be flying haphazardly all in my mouth and my arms flailing about, having me looking like Michael Jackson in “Earth Song” video. What about my self-respect? What about my street credence? What about the Africans? My inner baddie has taken a tumble into a never-ending abyss *deep negro spiritual sigh*

Suffice to say, this weather has been kicking my equatorial butt hard. Harder than completing the one-legged yoga crow, for dramatic emphasis. I need a pick-me-up soon. Badly. Usually witnessing middle-aged white women in dreary sweaters be hailed down during my commute along Oxford Street, to be coerced to return some measly treats stolen from Tesco’s, and seeing their righteous indignation quickly melt away when said treats are covertly produced from deep underneath scarves the size of blankets, gives me the comforting cadence of a light sinister-ish chuckle. It’s become something I now look out for. But as routine and common as these incidents have become, I fear their fervour and charm are just not enough

I need the type of catharsis that will have me convulsing in happy tears, looking albeit demented, while not hidden in layers of bland clothing. Preferably at a tropical adults-only beach resort, sipping pina coladas with a slight Beyoncé breeze shuffling some braids around my face, with poise. Because this is slightly beyond reach for now, so if I randomly send you “wyd” messages at midnight, spare some mercy, beloved, and don’t let me go out sad, freezing out limb by limb. Shalom!

 

 

Read previous chapter here. 

 

 

 

Photo by Farah Akhter on Unsplash