Five Years Of Promise

Five years ago on this day, I sat before an ancient Pentium in one of those dusky cyber cafés that used to charge 1 bob per minute. Then only discovering the rudimentary workings of the internet, I was choosing to up the ante a little. Turned it up, I did; and down and up and….

For that’s the self-correcting nature of my cluelessness. You know just as much as you don’t know. As I trawled through the seemingly creepy backstage of activity of setting up this domain, I sought to expose my knowledge, my understanding and grow what I saw as only a nascent skill. In so doing, I was also inviting scrutiny. I was breaching out of the comforts of the friendly niceties that followed each successive Facebook note.

On that note, I reckon I should copy-paste one of those posts here; purely for comic relief. With all the xaxa’s and xema’s. Can’t wait to explain to my Mzansi people the idiocy behind that adolescent spelling disease, considering their pronunciations thereof.

But I digress.

In setting up this clueless space I exposed my thin underbelly and invited criticisms, not only of language but also ideals, principles and beliefs that I possess(ed) or contemplate.

I have loved it. LOVED IT! Regardless of my inconsistency, this avenue has always been there for me to be straight up and legit on issues that escape public discourse or that I think are viewed from too clouded positions. Bias, intransigence, ignorance, and other companions of the hideous Medusa into whose eyes a stare long will turn as into solid stone. I dare say, in retrospect, that this tool was no less than a sword in Perseus’ able hands, to swing, jab and swipe. If I would not chop off Medusa’s head then, by God, I would shave off a few strands of that petrifying hair. How’s that for a haircut?


Slay, Perseus, SLAY! 

Have I succeeded?

Five years is quite the time, but not enough time to obtain a definition for success. Is it not a moving target after all? If I succeeded at it and saw that I had made it, where then would the drive come from? Though sometimes all I want is to blurb, like in this early case.

I am not yet done here however.

As time flies by, I have seen my thought and persona develop. Criticisms levelled and praise earned. Some elements shrugged off and others lifted with a Herculean burden. And thus I apologise, to myself and any reader, consistent or otherwise.

I have made some background choices on this platform, most of which are not visible. And those are proof of the Herculean burden that I have carried with a stoop. No more.

I am lugging that thing off my shoulders, dragging it behind me as I walk up damn straight. Not letting it go, coz I might as well use it to knock out any misguided attempts at waylaying me in this life.

My thoughts may or may not be a little different from now on, but what is definite is that defeatist self-censorship counts for zilch.

Unfortunately, this has sounded full of angst rather than 5-year old happiness. No son, consider it the confession of muscle aches and pure thirst of a marathon runner (Kenyan of course) after just crossing that finish line. But only for so long.

Back to training, next marathon coming up.

Cluelessly yours,

M. M.



PS: Shout to one epic source of laughter, insight and craziness who graduated yesterday. Welcome to the tarmac, love!

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