Groans.
Octopizzo’s album, Jungle Fever, had just reached that sweet spot where he keeps shouting, Aziz! Masterful production on that album. The melodies, the cadence, the beat, the heavy Dholuo influence — one of my favourite albums from 2020 for sure. But my love for it, and my, shower-time with the T-man, bathroom-studio-tiny-shower-head concerts are always interrupted by one thing: the shoulder blade. Now, I am 6-foot, at least according to most ladies who can’t differentiate between how tall you are once you tower over them and have a glorious view of their cute foreheads. Shiny mostly, some with struggling strands of ‘baby’ hair scampering about like bacteria on a microscope stage. Did you know they use toothbrushes to comb them out? I know. It’s crazy how hard they work for something we notice in passing. But, I know it’s all for you love don’t chop my head off.
I digress. My shoulder-blade has been the cause of much misery during my shower sessions. Due to my height, it does get a bit, how to say, difficult, when I have to scrub that area down thoroughly after an arduous day of sitting behind my desk. And it always happens at the peak moments. Like last week, it happened right before Nyashinski could start that line, Mi ndio chieth kwa hii choo itisha Harpic! Can you believe it? The ‘A’ in shoulder bl‘A’de must stand for…! You got it. Life was much simpler when Nakumatt Lifestyle was in operation. They used to sell these Sisal body scrubs that looked like budget baguettes from Githurai 44, but, they did get to the shoulder blades really good. At some point I believe everyone in the fam was using them. Such gems they were. A tall man could finally sort his back out.
But with the advent of the pandemic, I had to stop buying it from Mutiso who got his directly from their family home farm in Kathonzweni. Whether there was truth to his words I shall never know, but isn’t the curse of the human conditioning the capacity to trust? It was mostly because I have been holed up in the crib since March, doing everything online. Which of course, has done wonders for my back. Aside from that, after my Mom repeating the worst case scenario enough times — that Mutiso arguably just picks them from hanging lines as they’re pretty small — a break seemed in order. Holding a wet face towel on opposite cornered ends whilst your hands are slippery from soap is an extreme sport. Trying to scrub your back with rhythmic diagonal strokes — extremer (sic). This time round I cracked a couple of my knuckles on the shower arm, right before Khaligraph Jones goes berserk on his Mi Siogopi feature. It is time for desperate measures.
Anyone who has a back as tall as mine will tell you that issa struggle. Tears every day. Every day! EVERY DAY! (Deontay Wilder reference go brrr!) Not being able to hit that sweet spot and grant it the attention it desires leaves you feeling hollow, void, empty. Like when you stare at the abyss, and it stares back, and you realize you might never make it back, due to the neglect on your back. It’s, it’s enough to make a grown man cry. In light of the past 3 days having been hell, in terms of accessing my back for a scrub, I have resorted as earlier stated, to desperate measures. I thought that necessity would be the mother of invention, but 20-foot sisal rope really does shed fibre when it is wet. Not sustainable. Almost blocked my drain once. The only reservations I have about this solution; is the price I have to pay to obtain it. Plus, it involves another human being and those are flaky, tumultuous and quite frankly, expensive. But the situation is more depressing and urgent than watching Manchester United every week. Thanos! Flow your spirit through me. The hardest choices require the strongest wills.
Sigh.
How do I get a girlfriend?
