Haunting Memoirs

I looked myself in the mirror, but I couldn’t see myself because the kerosene lamp burnt dimly in the huge room. I could only see my silhouette—or I thought it was mine. Then I said to myself: This is what poverty does to people; it makes you lose your identity and character, because to most of those who “have”, you are nothing but a shadow passing by—something of absolutely no consequence.

Suddenly the kettle started rattling on the gas stove as the water rapidly boiled in it. I was thus roused from my musing. I hurried and switched off the stove. Then I made myself a cup of coffee, in my favourite mug, the one I had just bought a few days ago. It was its super-size that attracted me to it; it could carry just enough coffee to warm me up every freezing morning in this dreadful winter season.

It was about 0530hours and it was still dark. Mist still enveloped the mountains near our house. Rocks protruded on some parts of the mountains and their haziness in the dark and misty morning made them look like a scary monster ready to devour anyone that dared walked in that direction. I slowly sipped the coffee in deep thought. Here I was, before the crack of dawn, getting ready to go to work, work that I didn’t enjoy, being matter-of-fact. Why was I even doing it? These numbers and numbers, and numbers that I punched all day at Corporate Services International (CSI) were not my thing. Everybody knew that I was an artist. A writer. And that was what I believed I was born to do.

Ah, anyway, I told myself that it was just a ‘passing gig’. Eventually I’ll get my work published and become a professional writer, I nursed my hopes. ‘Oh! Look at the time,’ I exclaimed, as I rose to my feet hurriedly. I was running late. My musing had taken all the time and I had hardly drunk half of my coffee. Oh my God, that nagging pain-in-the-arse supervisor of mine will skin me alive today. If he had it his way, he would do that literally. That bugger. I had worked there for only two weeks but he had already lambasted me innumerable times, for something I don’t really recall. It was probably nothing.

The repulsive part about these attacks was that he always spits on you when he speaks, because most of his front teeth, as my colleagues and I would say, needed to be called into order. They were just a careless cluster that overcrowded his mouth, and affected his fluency and diction. Notwithstanding that, he boasted a British accent that he made sure to flaunt to everyone that cared to listen to him as he churned out the trash that he mostly did.

After brushing my teeth, I grabbed my laptop backpack and headed for the bus stop. I dreaded every minute I spent at that place, but you know what they say “A man’s got to do what he has to do”.

To be continued....