32 Days of Christmas: Day 9
monday. again.
and i am late for work. again.
honey, i am late for work:
i cannot text you good morning quickly.
you will have to wake with the sun,
let it wrap you in its warm, unhurried rays,
a luxury i no longer remember.
if i do not hurry,
i will miss the garbage collection,
and endure another week with sour, swollen bags of trash guarding my backyard.
i am late for work:
if i do not hurry, the boss will hang me by the neck at the door,
as a cautionary ornament for all who enter,
as a reminder that tardiness is not tolerated,
least of all from interns.
if i do not hurry,
they will finish all the coffee and mandazis in the kitchenette,
those greedy capitalists, with their early-bird propaganda,
leaving me only crumbs and cold silence.
they will spill tea on my keyboard,
leaning in for the morning gossip that hovers over my empty desk,
and pretend not to notice.
if i do not hurry,
the elevator will brood on the ground floor,
counting its own breaths,
and then crawl upwards,
eight slow storeys of regret.
everything seems to move irritatingly slower when you're late.
if i do not hurry,
i’ll have to greet the annoying gateman,
and he will make a grand fuss about my lateness,
loud enough for his colleagues to hear.
i am just an intern, yet i am late for work.
no wife to kiss goodbye,
no children to ferry to school.
my mattress barely forgives my back,
yet it is the softest place i know all week.
if i do not hurry,
they will brand me a latecomer forever,
a title that clings longer than any achievement,
no matter how many dawns i conquer after this.
i am late for work:
matatu touts are especially loud in the morning.
their breath are a fierce sermon on the sins of this rat race,
or maybe is it that i am simply not a morning person?
i am not a night owl either;
i sleep like a child lost in the warm arms of my pillow,
imagining it is my love.
i don’t want to be late for work and meet the touts at their loudest.
each morning demands its poison:
touts or tardiness.
tardiness or touts.
everyone is rushing in the morning,
so i suppose i’d better rush too.
is there a more depressing sight than the nairobi monday commute in december?
a river of weary bodies,
each carrying their own private sigh.
why do i even need to be early for work?
i am here on a free.
a guest in the grind.
let me take my time,
Nyashinski said i’ll still be late anyway.
✍🏽Reagan.