Welcome, yet again, to another one of my bimonthly posts. Thank you for your continued readership and your loyalty to this space. Today, in commemoration of this, my 20th post, I would like to share with you some of my deepest, personal beliefs.

I believe that more than half of this blog is nothing but colorless, self-serving bellyache, and the fact that you come here is a testament to the unending goodness of humanity. I believe that telling people I’m “five feet, six and a half inches tall” doesn’t do anything to help my case. I believe that the day I lost my innocence as a child is the day I watched the music video to Lady Gaga’s Alejandro. I believe that it’s mighty unfair that my surname, Mugo, doesn’t have any assigned meaning in its dialect – unlike the famed alcoholic, Kinyua, or the left-handed, Kimotho, or the infamously bald-headed, Kihara. I believe I may be wrong about that though. I believe that by believing you will not be the first person to die in your high-school class, you inevitably condemn one of your old friends to an early death. I believe that if you are a genuinely good, benevolent human being, you should want to die first.

I believe with all my heart that there is not a single woman in this world more beautiful, more enchanting, than Nazanin Boniadi. Deep down in my unfettered, obsessive mind, I believe that if I write about her enough, one day she might just find her way here and maybe even like a post or two. (After which I can die.)

I believe that not doing the story I was to do here today – a satire of the fall of man as told by the Bible where Adam is smart enough not to eat the apple offered by Eve and resultantly he gets to live a naked, happy, eternal life whilst Eve and the snake get punished – was a good call. I believe that sometimes walking away from stories that could ruin you is healthy. I believe that it is impossible to find an atheist in a falling airplane. I believe I know exactly what’s wrong with Kenyan television. I believe that my entire understanding of the distinction between good and evil was solely influenced by the old animated show, Samurai Jack. I believe that the wheel clamper I saw on City Hall Way once; a big, hulking man with grey, detached eyes who emerges at 7 am with his yellow city-council coat floating in the wind and that wrecked clamping thing in hand, looks like something out of The Punisher comics. I believe that someone should really look into making a movie – or at the least, a very described noir short story – about him and his wheel clamping trade.

I believe it’s bad luck to read your blog. I believe it’s even worse luck for your parents to read your blog. I believe that the blinking of the text cursor is a word-processor tool that was invented by MIT techies in the 70s to serve as an instrument of psychological warfare against writers. I believe that I will never get over Breaking Bad. I believe that I am slowly and insidiously turning into my dad. I believe with a comfortable certainty, that if I cut down on high-calorie foodstuffs and do exercises everyday, both calisthenics and cardio, I will lose enough weight and regain my fitness. I don’t believe with any amount of certainty, however, that I will achieve any contentment should I achieve this healthy feat. In business economics, they refer to this as “opportunity cost”.

I believe that the amount of time one spends thinking about the titles to give their pieces could be a reliable benchmark on whether or not one is a lousy writer.

I believe that my fear of rejection is surpassed by my fear of loneliness, which is surpassed by my fear of being forgotten, which is in turn surpassed by my fear of carbon II oxide poisoning, which is surpassed by my fear of black mambas, which is surpassed by my fear of death (an extrapolation of my fear of black mambas), which is surpassed by my fear of sleep-derived shuttle matatu drivers, which is surpassed by my fear of people whose eyes are normally such that the black part is entirely visible, which is surpassed by my fear of the character Hannibal Lecter as portrayed by Mads Mikkelsen, which is surpassed by my fear that one day my middle-aged wife of 20 years will want to join politics and put up her campaign poster on a billboard by the side of a well-accessed highway whose slogan will read “Mresh wa Nairobi” as a ploy to appeal to voters through sheng’ colloquialism, which – finally – is surpassed only by my fear of elevators.

I believe that if you’ve watched enough sitcoms in your life, you probably know where I stole this idea from. I believe, now, that this is the perfect resolve to dealing with the block. Writing a bunch of unconnected nothing. I believe that my deep-seated need to be the guy who people describe as “an alright guy” fuels my writing. And my fashion sense. I believe that if I had a beard, people would take me more seriously. I believe that Poussey shouldn’t have checked out like that. I believe that feminism and gender roles are the same side of two different coins. I believe, nay, I fear, greatly, that if I don’t get back to school now, I might start to experiment with music production and photography. I believe that the cure to chronic bouts of moodiness and mild depression is Outkast’s Hey Ya!

I believe that the number 8 is the least common, least disturbed, of all the ten decimal numerals. Here is my reasoning: 0 and 1 are the base of all computing. 2 represents the duplex nature of love while 3 represents a greedy sex life. 4 is a Beyoncé album. 5 is the perfect span of longevity for a good TV show. 6 makes up a third of the infamous mark of the beast. 7 is universally recognised as the luckiest, not to mention the most common, of all the decimal numerals. 9 represents incompletion, failed dreams and in a heightened cosmic sense, the final breath one takes before death. 8, however, if you think about it, represents nothing. 8 just is. 8 only sits there, between the peacockishness that is 7 and the alcoholic, anhedonism that is 9, just being. The only thing it maybe has is a painfully passive role in that one joke: “What did the number 0 say to the number 8? Nice belt.”

I believe that Christopher Nolan is the reborn spirit of an 18th century English philosopher. In fact, I believe that everyone is a reborn spirit of an ancient, long-dead being. Personally, I like to think I am an old alligator-snapping turtle that lived in the barren sea caves of Eastern Mongolia during the Qing times, swimming around for 75 years before a pelt-wearing caveman came along and picked me up by my carapace and made out of me a frothing stew. Finally, I believe with a rock-firm conviction that you should never meet your heroes. Ever. Love and revere them from afar.

And now, 36 beliefs down, I believe that’s enough of that. Thank you for reading.

Please be sure to join me again soon for another vain, 1200-word adventure into my idle psyche.


12 thoughts on “8

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