Baby.
The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live, a live thing, a story
Ursula K Le Guin
The arrival of a new born brings with it a special kind of excitement. The kind that makes your heart smile when the tot’s tiny fingers are grabbing onto your thumb. Ever felt how they squeeze on, like their life depends on it? If you are lucky, a thought will cross their minds and they’ll flash you a partial smile revealing toothless gums. There is something about such smiles; they smell of dependence and strongly reek of vulnerability in its purest forms.
The excitement is in not knowing the number of sleepless nights that await. Or not knowing the difference between Curamol and Panamol. Yet. It’s in thinking that a baby will always translate to bundles of joy. It is found in slaughtering a goat whose bleating has been incessant.
I hereby roll out invitations to a tea party celebration as we welcome a new baby into the house. We will name her Bortuber. Why Bortuber? So I’ll not use a lot of words anymore as I tell my sister that I failed to do the dishes because I was writing an article which is due on Tuesday. Instead, I will simply say, ” I was Bortubing.” That word sounds so polite. I’m sure she wont question me further next time she finds the sink throwing up and I use that word.
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Bortubing. I like that word. Bortubing. It’s almost like it doesnt want to leave your lips. See why I am excited? I named a baby. I hope she will always know that I love her. Like the sun knows it is morning. And as the moon knows you are yawning. I look forward to the time she will begin imprinting. She will be a stark reflection of me. When she is grown, I will look at her and marvel at the work of my hands. Then I will smile satisfactorily.
However, you ought to know that bortubing isn’t bortubing without you people who come here every Tuesday. (I know today is Friday. Pardon me, I had to ensure that the baby was all polished and cleaned up before you guys saw her). I haven’t stopped running my fingers through her hair. Or looking at her smile in her sleep.
Guys, I am rambling again.
My heart is wringing emotions.
I have been looking forward to this moment for a long time now. Take this as an elegy for this space that has kept morphing since day one. Opening us up to uncharted territories that sanction wilder imaginations. Forms of things unknown which are turned into shapes and emotions.
Here’s to us who’ve seen this space grow. Let’s toast to you who has been consistent enough to pull up a seat every week and listen to the rumblings of my heart. To you who thought some of it made sense. Pull out a permanent marker pen, write your name on a piece of paper and stick it on the chair you chose to sit on today, because we are here to stay now. As your host, I can only ask you to feel at home. To feel like you belong. Because you do.
Join me, in weaving an African tapestry and adorning it with all the beads it could carry. Accompany me as I attempt to paint pictures with words. All the while making efforts to fall in love with deadlines and how they take to the air. Let’s go bortubing, people. Allow me, to sentence you to a lifetime of hearing lame jokes that go like;
I will never date another apostrophe, the last one was too possessive.
They have only begun.
PS; (To avoid forcing her into saying that she remembers you from when she was young even when she does’t, subscribe to our mailing list. Hehe. We will respect and protect your privacy.)
Good one✨