Smoke signals into the void

A few minutes ago, while working out, I noticed something.
My locks jiggle now when I jump.
And I had to stop face the mirror while I jump, just to watch them move.

I got so ecstatic. Because we’ve come a long way.
There was a time they looked like tiny soggy spaghettis.
These ones have taught me self-esteem. Real, hard-earned self-esteem.
And God knows, I needed it.

I’ve never had a soulmate. Okay, I thought I had, but no Val, that wasn’t it.
But I’ve had a twin flame. My twin flame.

Ours was different.
Only me and him could understand it.
And to everyone who ever judged us, fuck you. With rage.

When I decided to get sisterlocks, he didn’t want it.
He laughed, “Aiy babe, tutakaa kama those matchy couples ‘my queen, my king’ nonsense.” He had dreads himself.
I laughed back.
I told him, “If I keep braiding, by 30 my hairline will only exist in memory.” He insisted I look good in my afro, and I told him he should take a walk in my shoe when I have the afro on, too hectic to maintain.

He argued. Then yielded.
He always did when it came to things I truly wanted. About me getting sisterlocks was was the only conversation where we had a long back and forth.

My twin flame was brilliantly weird. A genius.
Unfazed by material things, obsessed with computers and sneakers.
He hated Nairobi as much as I did, our plan was Watamu, to disappear and start over.

He adored my calmness. I adored his mystery.
And I’ll never forget him telling me,
“When I’m around you, nothing else makes sense. I just get so happy… and I don’t know how to feel about this because I want to learn to feel it on my own.”
I never knew what to say to that.

But then, life.
I went silent. Too long. I hate that I listened to outside noise.
When we reconnected, he said he understood why I pulled back.
That call lasted over an hour. At the end he whispered, “I hate that I need to go.”
And I smiled through tears.

Our chats? Always long. Like essays. He’s the only person who never made me feel “too much” for expressing myself.

But then July came.
He told me things were bad health-wise. That he’d written a dead man’s email.
If he didn’t make it… I’d get the message. I took a while before I processed that. When I did, it stung too much.

His words read like this  “I guess I got tired. I wrote a deadman’s switch program that if I stop checking in for 30 days it would assume am dead and send you an email with my goodbyes and everything.”

And then, our last fight. Huge. He disappeared.

Now, not a day passes without me wondering
Is he okay?
Is he angry?
Is he… (no, I can’t finish that thought).

So I pray. Every single day.


I need a sign. A smoke signal. Drum beats. Anything.
Something to unclench this jaw and ease the sickness of not knowing.

Hey, if you’re reading this… just let me know you’re well.
It’s unfair to leave me in this kind of worry.

And by the way, my 40-second plank doesn’t kill me anymore.
I’m moving the timer to one minute. Progress….

Author: Miss Injairu

This is my best kept muse. Have fun. View all posts by Miss Injairu