Written by Faith Oneya
You think you have laid the demons to rest. You have taken a month off, sitting idly in the house taking wine or vodka. You smile that morning as you go to work after your month off. Your tears meet your smile halfway. You take the matatu.Your hundred shilling note is in your hands. The makanga tries not to meet your eyes. He is half drunk already and has enough problems with both his sugar mummy and baby mama to care about one more hormonal woman. A dollop of a tear falls onto Kenyatta’s unflinching face. The makanga watches as the tear spreads, shrugs and gives you your change. You are now in the office. Regret will follow you to work. It will sit in your computer and stare blankly at you. Your colleague will then ask you: “Is that regret I see on your computer screen?” and you will say: “No, it is just work”. Regret will follow you to lunch and eat half your lunch. You will read a book late into the night just so you will sleep tired and not dream of regret. You will fall asleep over a glass of wine or vodka. Regret will fold itself into your duvet. They should tell you that regret will punch you in the stomach at about 6am, and your tears will be thick, hot and flowing. You will let them flow. Regret will follow you to the bathroom and blend in with the soap and toothpaste. You will lather regret into your washcloth. Regret will caress your skin-gently at first, then roughly, tearing through into your heart, pulling at its tendons. Your heart will break. Regret will blend itself with the eggs in the morning: how do you like your eggs? Regret will fix itself into your perfume, blend into your deodorant and spread its scent all over your body. Your hair too, will smell of regret. They should tell you the truth about regret.