32 Days of Christmas: Day 22
My dear Chep,
Without helpers like Santa, I write my own letters, and I write without malice. I learned long ago how to hate my enemies, but I have never loved one before. It has been over a year since I last wrote to you or spoke your name aloud. Much has changed; much has stayed the same. To call life a roller coaster would be an understatement. The highs have been mild, the lows sunk deep into the pits.
It’s been so long that people started thinking we got back together, and I would smile at their ignorance. I have grown fatter since you last saw me; again, some assume it is because we reunited and that I am living my best life with you somewhere in a muddy hut in Karachuonyo. They do not know you are in some unheard-of village in Uasin Gishu, eating hot roasted maize with some n*gga. At least, to the best of my knowledge.
It is almost funny how people still think I am delusional. That I scar myself every time I write to you, or even hint at you. They do not know that you are one of those people so valuable and rare that one wishes to hide them from the evil lurking on the face of the earth, and yet also longs to expose them and brag about them to the world.
I know you still love alcohol, and that this festive season finds you at the bottom of Jack Daniel’s bottles. I wish I could share with you this sip of cold water I am drinking as I look out at the historic Got Alila overlooking my home. That’s right, I do not drink soda anymore. I know you thought I would never overcome this small pleasure of mine, but as of today it has been exactly sixty days since I last relapsed into my frivolities. The higher that number climbs the more afraid I become, because I know it would take just one sip to undo months of effort. Or one word from you for me to find an excuse to drink again.
I cannot yet say I have conquered the addiction, but it is a bold step. This is the longest I have gone in my two decades of existence without the sugar rush, and it is one of the things I am most proud of this year.
Lady Santa visited me the other day. She brought me an early Christmas present: this season’s Liverpool third kit—a beautiful jersey. She has promised me a book early next year, and I cannot wait. She loves me dearly, more than that tall, dark what’s-his-name you replaced me with will ever love you.
Sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t get bitter or mean.
It is a beautiful time of year, and I do not want to ruin it for either of us.
I watched ‘YOU’ a few years back. Barely finished it, but I suppose I picked up a few stalking skills along the way. That is how I saw your latest Instagram post. You look prettier and healthier, your skin smoother. I am genuinely glad your acne went away. Perhaps the street saying is true, they glow differently when you part ways. I am also glad you still read my pieces; at least it keeps this thin, invisible line of communication between us intact.
Anyway, I will not take much of your time. You need to go party, I know. I probably do too. This is not the season for failed romances or grudges. Johnny Junior wuod nyasega is coming to Koru Country Club on Christmas Eve. I wish I could take you, so we could dance to the elegant rumba tunes of Nyasakwa and Rading’ under the cold night sky. But it’s alright, life happens.
I am not very good with words face to face, but since you never noticed, I have said the little I wanted to in this letter.
Write to me soon. Tell me how it is on the other side.
✍🏽Reagan.