An Ode to Bathroom Sinkholes and Scalding Afternoon Sun by Natasha W. Muhanji

Published in Qwani 01

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It is hot outside. The Nairobi heat has been becoming worse over the last few years. It is way too hot to sit outside and silently gaze at the sky as I used to a few years back. The sun is scalding and the atmosphere feels like sloth itself crushing against my head like that one Pixar lamp, telling me to stay put so it might place its whole weight over my body just like a weighted blanket.

I feel tired.

On afternoons in this city, the air is often very heavy. I am never sure whether it is the heat or the general air of hopelessness in these parts. I think of how many artists have grown old in this city of ours. How many artists, just like me, have resorted to other careers simply because being an artist is ‘never enough’ as many put it? I still paint either way.

The urge to paint often strikes me when the world around me is moving in extremes. It is either a really slow day or a day that is moving way too fast for my nerves to keep up. I often want to savor the process of painting a detailed background for a larger concept–crafted beautifully enough to make a viewer stare intently at the image, willing themselves to catch each and every hidden detail. Other times I want to paint with fast-paced music that makes me feel like I am steadily on the brink of insanity, like a mad artist, splashing my canvas with vigor and swimming in my paint, creating something so beautifully grotesque.

I am not entirely sure which of the days today is if I am completely honest. I have not drawn my curtains the whole week and my bed is a mess. The day is uncomfortably slow and I am not sure about painting, I have not painted for months.

I have been too exhausted to wash my face this week. As I wash my hands at the sink, I notice a slight rash between my brows and suddenly I am a fourteen-year-old girl again, ready to go to school but I drag my feet against the ground, wearing down the soles of my shoes and internally hearing my mother chastise me from her desk at work. Do you know how expensive those shoes are?

I am a teenage girl once more, staring at my reflection and averting my eyes from those staring back at me through the glass mirror. I always found myself looking back though, facing the dread at my appearance head-on. Looking at the dry patches of skin and rash on my cheeks and forehead. Just as I did then, I look at the glass surface of the mirror now, meeting the eyes of a tired but slightly older girl and simply staring. Once more, I am so tired. I need to wash my face but I am so tired.

Reaching for my purple soap dish feels like such a tedious task but I breathe in and turn towards the shower, standing on my toes and grabbing it from the bathroom windowsill where it rests. I breathe out, what was so hard about that for the past few days huh?

I splash some water against my face and I open the soap dish, the dry bar of soap stares at me from its resting spot. I take it out and hold it against my palm, holding it under the still-running water and rubbing it between my hands. As it lathers, I place it on the sink and rub my face with my hands, going in circles around my eyes and on the bridge of my nose. I rub continuously all around my whole face, from my chin down to my neck. My face covered with soap looks like a white mask, I stop rubbing and I stare at my eyes, my other features have mostly been obscured by the soap but my eyes are not. They look eerie, with the dark spot on my sclera seeming more prominent this way. I used to feel embarrassed about it when I was younger. I wanted eyes with no blemish and I thought of bleaching the eye freckle away. I know I would have tried it if I did not hate the smell of Jik so much.

I cut that string of thoughts as I feel the soap drying up on my face, making my skin slightly taut. I place the bar under the running water and blow any remaining bubbles off its surface. I put it back in the soap dish, covering it with its lid. I then cup my hands under the sink and bend, splashing my face with the clear water that collects between my hands and carefully washing the soap off my neck. While bent over, I remember that I did not pick up my face towel on the rack and I sigh. I raise my head and feel uncomfortable as a lone droplet runs from my neck, past the collar of my shirt and down my back like a trickle of sweat. I pick the face towel from the rack and wipe the water off my face and neck.

I now wash the soap off the face towel and close the faucet, tightening it to prevent a leak, and watch the last droplet slowly find its way through the rusted bathroom sinkhole. A thought begins, I think of how I want to journey like that final drop that has just fallen into the rusted sinkhole, down the pipes and out onto the vast drainage system. I think of the freedom, the cohesion with a larger network of water droplets, perhaps making my way to the seas or sinking into the ground, to be dragged out of my cocoon by the strong arms of heat against the earth’s surface, thrust into the air as vapor and to slowly join the clouds in the sky. I think too of how I could listen to the tales of other droplets that I hold hands with as clouds, our final destination being the ground once more, accompanied by blasting thunder and even hail. What a powerful existence drops of water have.

I chuckle at my train of thought, perhaps I should be a writer instead of a painter. I sigh again and hang up my face towel to dry.

The feeling is slight but I recognize a small increase in my heartbeat as I stand back in front of the mirror. Excitement perhaps?

I need to buy some new tubes of paint. I think of how I should buy myself some new colors–a cool grey, bright blue and purple, perhaps a dark purple just like the one my soap dish is in. I grab the soap dish and put my bar of soap next to the faucet, wiping the plastic surface down with tissue and going back into my room with it. I place it in my tote bag next to my phone and place my earphones, charger, and the case of my glasses in as well. I get dressed quickly and lock the door as I head out, my vision clearer with my glasses on.

Is this impulsivity?

I get off the Double M and cross the road at Kencom, walking past Citywalk and towards where book vendors have laid out their various magazines and books on the street across from Pronto restaurant. I look at the people walking on the streets and at the shop attendants. Town is hell but a pretty nice place to build inspiration. I often view everybody as a walking painting to be created, a story to be described with vivid colors, and the minuscule details of their own mosaics being brought out by specific significant objects laid in the backgrounds of their individual paintings. We are all made of different experiences and of different backgrounds after all.

I walk past Sarova Stanley and look at the valet standing outside the hotel. I think of how he has a story that can be painted out or written down as well. I have always been astounded by the bright contrast between this hotel and the streets of the CBD. I think of this again as I trudge past the hotel and down the street, finally arriving at my destination.

A couple of the Text Book Centre employees know me by name and I exchange pleasantries with the ones that notice me as I head towards the shelf with paints. I take my soap dish out of my bag and hold it out in front of me, looking for a similar color. Finding difficulty, I notice a familiar attendant and ask for assistance. He comes to help me but I do not fail to notice the humor in his eyes. This is not the first time I am doing this, after all; carrying household objects with me to look for similar shades. He helps me get a similar color and I pick up the rest of the paints, satisfied even as I grab a sketchbook from one of the shelves. I pay for my things and walk out into a bustling Kenyatta avenue again, an evident spring in my step. It was definitely excitement. The scalding Nairobi sun is now setting and I observe the people I walk past, the majority of them look tired.

I get to Ambassadeaur and within minutes I am out of town once more. As we go past the City Stadium roundabout, my nose perks up at a familiar scent. I feel the urge to look around at the passengers I am seated next to. I try to recall a memory associated with the scent coming from within the car so that perhaps I might know whose perfume it is. I am trying to remember but I cannot, instead, I notice that my earlier lethargy is a thing of the distant past now. I am not as tired as I was while washing my hands. It seems all I needed to do was wash my face. How comical.

As I shut my eyes and feel myself fall asleep on the matatu seat with my new paints in my bag, I think of how I shall paint a sink with a leaking faucet this time.

To communicate more with the writer, find them on:

Email: bibliophilicmistress@gmail.com

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Photo by Reyhan