The world is digitizing, quickly – and recent surveys have shown that Malawi has the highest data costs in the world – $27.41 per GB at PAYG rate. Join the #ReduceDataCost #AffordableData campaign, and share your experiences on how the high data charges have affected you personally, or professionally.
Read this in my voice.
This is me deciding to not overthink this, and just write. To believe in myself, and my ability to weave words into sensible somethings and just go with it. This is me being a writer because writers write, and they write pretty damn well, and I am a pretty amazing writer, and this is great. The words are writing themselves. The story is telling itself. Great.
I just wish my story would tell itself – my story: the story of me. I wish it went in a straight line, from the day I was conceived under that tree at Nkhotakota Secondary School, to the day I kissed a girl for the first time, and thought I was in love; to the time I “passed number 1”, but didn’t feel like I had accomplished much. I wish my story were ruler-straight, from the first time I gave a speech to a silent crowd, to the time I ran as my classmates laughed at me, to the last time I made strangers in an audience cry.
I wish I could retrace my steps, and not have to zigzag around the parts I have forgotten, or changed. I wish there weren’t blurry parts, and shady parts, and parts as black as my hair used to be before I decided I needed a personality change. Lol.
I want to tell my story in the simplest of terms, to make up for how complicated it has been. I think I want to make it simple, because I secretly wish I were simple . . . so that simple-minded people could get me . . . because they tend to have more fun, I hear.
I don’t want to be “too much”, or “heavy” or “a lot.” Maybe that’s why I have spent a lot of the time I’ve been alive trying to lose the body I live in. But don’t misunderstand; I want to carry weight – I just keep being bombarded with depictions of less being more when it comes to bodies and if social media is to be believed, even sense.
I am stuck now and wondering what I wanted to say. Was I going to tell you how as the first child born to a single mother, I sometimes wished things were different because I was having to be strong a lot, and I just wanted to play? Did I want to share the story, in excruciating detail, of a girl who bled red, and wept because she didn’t want to inherit the curse of womanhood?
Maybe this was going to be a recollection of every love story I have danced through, sometimes only in my mind. and other times in real life, with real boys whose touch did a lot of things to me (and sometimes nothing at all, but next to faking orgasms is faking giggles).
I think this is the first step to telling you everything. I think if I carry on like this, I will eventually get to the part where I planned my wedding to the letter, even knew the exact number of people I’d invite on each side, and how much it would cost. I will have gotten past the part where I watched the man my mother loved beat her black and blue, and she said sometimes love will do that to you, and I almost accepted that one day that would be me, wearing her open-toed shoe.
She beat me with that shoe once, and I almost ran away from home, because I could not understand how one could hurt something they loved. But I cheated, so I guess understanding on that front eventually came. I eventually came.
I will tell you everything – as long as I can remember it. Sometimes I forget important things like who I am, and where I parked my car, and it’s okay. I think I will always end up finding myself, and finding my way.
There are sexual experiences I don’t fully remember, from when I was a child, and I eventually found out they were wrong, but when you’re growing up, they don’t really tell you much about wrong and right, do they? If I ever have a child, I hope to tell them things. So they can tell me, too. But I hope I don’t because I’m still growing myself, and I don’t think children should raise other children.
I’ll tell you so much, you’ll say I’m over-sharing, but I won’t close the windows, because maybe you’ll see yourself in me, and then we can be okay together, and this will be our story. Maybe we will be okay. Maybe you will tell me your story, and I can project it for you. Maybe you’re shy? I’m shy, too. Maybe you’re the only person who’s read this far, and maybe you won’t read the next thing I write. Maybe I won’t write anything else. I hope I will, because this has been, in a small, and yet significant way, freeing. I should do this more. I think I will. For me. Maybe for you, too. But mostly for me.