27

27. Number 27. Age 27. I had anticipated it would come with so much joy like the flood gates of a dam opening up to the gush of the water current. But no, it came with exactly the opposite feeling, with impair, with so much pain and with so much doubt. It seems one of the dementors in the Harry Potter novels came to me just when I was about to turn 27 and sapped away all the happiness in my soul like a honey bee sucks away nectar from a flower leaving it ‘sweetless’ and bare and hopeless. Leaving me sad, leaving me horrible, leaving me in doubt, doubt, doubt nothing but doubtful doubt. And at this moment, all I can do is pray and hope with only traces of hopeful hope, that the ripped off page of my passport will not haunt me like a ghost and chase me away from that airplane or chase me back to Douala on board a return “deportee” airplane. All the effort, all the strife, all the communication attempts to make it possible for weeks and months seems to have crumpled today in just a matter of seconds like a pack of cards. It took only a one second rip of a page from probably the most important tiny book in the world. And as you come, bitter 27, you come in pain just like number 26 came with fair Nephatiti who is so insane. I didn’t shed tears like the rain, but I did shed tears in a tiny trickle. Even though, the “Happy Birthdays” will come trickling down today on Facebook, on my phone as messages, on my phone as phone calls, they will never know the last two have been my most, “Unhappy Worstdays” bringing to mind Biggy Smalls lyrics, “Birthdays were the worst days…” And even though I told my bro minutes ago that maybe this writing thing is not for me, here am I, writing!