Apart from being a wannabe writer, I’m also a wanna be spoken word poet. Often, normal writing takes forever to convey how I feel at a particular moment, and the only way that would make sense for me to express how I feel is to just let the words roll with a rhythm more smoother than any R & B bump ‘n grind tune could ever do. This is one I wrote a couple months ago:
I suffer from hyperhidrosis.
It is the body’s overactive ability to cool itself down and I wish I was cool. And I wish it was cool to have it but an approximate 3% of the population suffers from it.
And that makes me uncool.
Like breathing, sweating is essential to human survival, but you won’t feel embarrass for breathing too much.
So I sweat too much. And I know shame too well.
It is a friendly homeless dude on the corner with “I need money for food for my family. God bless”, written on a cardboard, but what he really needs is another shot of brandy and a joint to save him from yesterday’s horror. Remember to not hate yourself so much cardboard man and don’t forget there’s life after survival.
This hyperhidrosis sounds smart but it’s just a flirty foreign word that tells me I can’t hold your hand for too long. And that’s a problem to me because I wanna hold your hand.
I wanna hold onto it for as long as I possibly can, and even some more. The way a religious person holds onto his faith, fully aware that his grip fails him from time to time. The same way my hands lose grip of yours when it sweat too much. The same way Mother Theresa wiped the dirt from the lepers in Calcutta but could not remove their sins.
I wish my sweat could turn to blood so people can understand that pain is real; that dying is beautiful; that Jesus felt it too and equals it to love.
I like showing the world that love has finally found me and by holding your hand I’m throwing ice cold water in the faces of my enemies, who for some reason has mistaken me for an emotionless robot covered in flesh and charisma.
My hands get sweaty far too often.
My hands get sweaty when it’s too hot and my veins blow out of my arms, forming river lines of blood across my entire body.
Children like touching it and think I’m strong.
The truth is I’m not, but I like the idea of it.
But I do get days when I feel fearless and powerful, and on those days I believe my veins are the roots of a young oak that has lived a hundred-and-one stories even at his tender age.
So come take shadow under my branches and I’ll knit you a purple blanket that fits you perfectly, the way your hand fits in mine, on those cold and rainy days when you find it romantic if I watch the food channel with you.
My hands get sweaty when I think about my first day of school when everything was new and fresh except the peanut butter and jam sandwiches in my lunchbox.
They were stale.
I cried when mom left me at school cos I’d much rather watch her hanging up laundry in the backyard, singing “Amazing Grace” off-key, than find new friends to play Cops and Robbers in cars made out of bricks.
I’ve often wondered what’s so amazing about grace if you can’t even sing it properly.
But I had to go to school.
I had to go learn and discover that although brick cars are fuel efficient, they can’t get you from A to Z.
I wish they had told me the point of life is not really to get from A to Z but to live stories out of each vowel and consonant in-between.
Most of the times my hands get sweaty when I think too much; and when I think too much I sweat even more, and I know I’m not alone.
You are not alone.
There are millions of us.
We’re all moving through unknown spaces; walking around with labels filled with lies, struggling to be loved and to be known when we’ve already been loved and known, from a story so simple, it started in a Garden.
A Garden filled with so much beauty and splendor Adam was banished from it; forced to work the very ground he was taken from; calloused hands and sweating brows.
This thing of beauty is both roses and thorns; pain and pleasure; Life and Death.
I wonder if my hands were sweaty when I pulled that trigger. I wonder if you saw me. I wonder did our eyes shook hands and walked away nodding. I pray to God I don’t meet you one day, in heaven or hell.
My hope for you became a stone.
I’ll throw it at your dirty windows so you can see for a change.
Maybe Jesus will paint your spirit blue, like the sky I looked up to for answers when the black smoke gathered from the burning tyres you threw in the house.
I started believing in God again the day you died, and I drank to that; Three Ships Whiskey in front of a New Apostolic Church felt like communion.
To this day I’m a firm believer in grace and your death was the life of it, so thank you to death and his friends. Cos by the looks of it, sweaty hands are untreatable but controllable. Neither of which qualities exists in death.
And now, when I look in the mirror and my hands get sweaty, I’m telling myself, “You have come a loooooong way but its time you lose sight of the valley.
So be nervous.
Walk with your hands drenched with sweat and your heart filled with risk; gamble with your demons but go all in. For we are all but a breath.
You’ve got one gun; one bullet; one target, two sweating palms to hold it and a whole lot of forgiveness.
I hope to God you don’t miss.
I hope to God you live.
I hope to God you learn how to live for a living.