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It’s 7.39 AM as I begin to write this on my phone. I’m seated outside; on the balcony, atop a disused hamper – therein, it chokes with a pile of sullied apparel.

I’m an early-ish cat, I innately can’t sleep past 6.30 AM. Sleep is obliterated from under my eyes by the youthful morning, that’s why I’m out at this time, partly. The thing is: i bear a penchance for the cold morning breeze, I relish the subtle wintry air crashing against my face, now that I’m writing it down it sounds peculiar.

From within some trees – rare sightings here, furtive birds chirp and sing gracefully, harmoniously coordinating a song I can’t find the words to describe, you know, bird jargon – shrilling, cooing and pecking (something you’re not doing ho-ho).

It reminds me of my countryside, the birds that is, not the pecking. Down the precincts of South Nyanza and it’s rolling hills. Where everyone is related to everyone and folk who held you for a second when you were two get affronted when you don’t recognize them.

Supposedly, it denotes erosion of ones roots and all that jazz. I find it a little bit juvenile, the fussiness of my people. Over there, we rise to the tenuous throb of life, the weak pulse of the countryside; birds and morning dew on grass with the day slowly aging as we wait to take breakfast – at 1PM.

I digress.

Headphones are plugged to my eyes, crooning serene South African RnB music, it’s only apt you listen to subtle music at this time. Mornings have a reflective mien, a slight edge over a starry night. Mornings are deep and pensive, well and cold.

Yonder, a behemoth church peeks amongst a few trees and apartments, loftier than a 6 floor building abutting it. I can’t fathom the pain those tenants go through on Sundays when the church services culminate. No one revers silence here, privacy too is just as foreign. It’s open season on Sundays – a battle of church stereos; the louder the better, a disconcerting power balance, or rather a power trip.

There’s a taller building that overlooks ours, garish and conspicuous; in green and red paint, which, perhaps won’t make sense lest I tell you that it bears a Spanish name, eminently embossed.

On its third floor on the middle balcony, a bloke stands peering into the vacancies with a burning spliff in his hands ( I know). No one smokes cigarettes anymore, it is not the 1960’s – where virtually every teenager had a few drags to their name. Cigarettes are dwindling out, their existence threatened by arguably their more organic clandestine cousin.

I have not much to say, i just wanted to let you in on what I was seeing. Ever so slowly the sun exerts to peek through the obscuring, now clearing clouds. It is 8.10 AM as this blabbering tapers out, I have a daunting hefty workload I have to submit by midnight. At this point, allow me to recede and catch my train; figuratively of course, this is not the 1960’s.



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