OMWANA THE BIPOLAR FLOWER
Every guy wanted to make acquaintance with her, however, she was the typical dictionary definition of "independent" She was society's feminist always taking her stance and sharing her views on myriads of topics especially those about affirmative action and how men's goods compared to female were sold at half the price; even a can of deodorant, which comprises similar ingredients for both men and women, however, sold at different prices. Perhaps you did not know that.
"Imperialism!" Omwana had insisted.
This is a man's world after all. Screw patriarchy! She kinda loathed men as does any other radical feminist, however, she had had a few expeditions here and there with some busy-bodies when her feminist panache had decided to go on a fun-filled holiday perhaps to Mexico or Greece.
Kingsley was the name of her first love, perhaps this was the relationship that had exacerbated her being introduced with great panache, into society's rancorous world of feminism. The man was a bona fide narcissist; he loved nobody but his reflection. He would look at himself in the mirror like a man whose mind had slowly degenerated such that he only found the content in playing with mud. Utter foolishness she swore.
She later left the ignoramus narc for a bona fide, church-going, hallelujah chanting, scripture-reading Pentecostal radical Christian. However, his name; Parsaimai, seemed to contradict this statement. I mean, no offense, but how is a so-called born-again Christian named Parsaimai? His name alone should have been a warning sign for the pot-loving feminist; Omwana, who nevertheless, fell head over heels for this tall Maasai young fellow. A dazzle with wonder, a flicker with curiosity, a gleam with delight, a glow with love, a sparkle with mirth with gold lanky hair and intrusive ocean blue languid eyes. He was handsome, not the conventional kind, I mean he was handsome in a way that would make him stand out in a crowd. Omwana loved the way he talked too much, this showed how he must have found her presence comforting. Above his frame, was his Greek god statue. He was not extremely muscular, with 8-pack abs nor 16 cm biceps but he always stood out in a crowd by the way he aristocratically carried himself out. Oh, and he wore braces at his age, nevertheless, he made it work which always puzzled Omwana.
How did they fall out? Well, it is only her and his Fiancé who know. To cut the long story short, Omwana had one major rule; she at no cost would countenance sharing a man with someone else, she never came second to anyone else, it was either her or the high road. She nevertheless, wishes Parsaimai and his tramp all the best.
Omwana wears a fatalistic expression as she inhales a puff of exotic marijuana; on the vast Mykonos shoreline, this, she does as she glances at the looming ocean; with its waves rising and falling like a horse on a ghoulish carousel; lost in the fanciful world of beautiful things, with belligerent thoughts beating against her cerebrum like mighty waves thrusting against the colossal rocks by the shore with the weight of their force eventually turning them into the sand.
Once again, her life was flashing before her for the umpteen time in the day. Yes. Her life flashes before her twenty times a day, other things like this happen to her too.
Out of the blues, she can feel the grip of slightly calloused hands around her waist. She reckons the familiar Bvlgari's 'Man in black' scent, accompanied by a tint of testosterone; her favorite combination. It is her husband; Matthew. Yes, as I explained earlier, Omwana saw herself as Miss independence, and so does every self-proclaimed feminist before they get caught up in the frenzy of love. She, nonetheless, did not have to explain herself; judging from the surreptitious glances she had received during her previous feminist coven just after she had tied the knot with Matthew; her newfound love. She did not mind being a feminist pariah, for the sake of marrying a man. Even though he was nothing compared to Parsaimai's beauty, he had some sense of hidden authority in him that spiked a passion within Omwana making the woman in doubt disappear. Not to forget; he was a filthy rich half-Kisii half-Caucasian, knitted to an exorbitant amount of dynasty wealth, without making a show of it.
"I wondered how I ended up marrying her. I do not quite comprehend her miens. My mother still pesters me, imploring me to leave her for some trophy daddy's girl. Still, I feel as though as each moment passes, I have to ameliorate an undoable aspect within me to fit into her standards. Every time, there is something within me that makes her grouchy. One moment, the thought of me makes her nauseated while the other, I feel as though I was but a haggard child but now a liberated man within her embrace.
I have mixed feelings for her; Spite mixed with Passion.
Omwana! Omwana! I do not understand you. I am yet to get accustomed to your histrionics. One minute you are hot the next you are ice cold almost within a millisecond, quite literally. I sometimes have to guess whether you will embrace me as you approach or shove bitter words down my ego, leaving me beyond repair.
I vividly call that particular day. Friday the 13th it was. Our first-ever banquet in our newly acquired Runda asset. One minute I see you all chatty and smiling with the guests, whom we did not like, only for me to later find you all covered up in our tatty bed chambers after having excused yourself briefly for a phone call, mid-hosting.
And that is not the tip of the iceberg. Do you recall recently while we were watching a movie, all cuddled up on the sofa, enjoying each others' company while petting our Labrador retriever before you suddenly, noticed that my breath was malodorous halfway through the movie and then disappeared for two days, coming back as if nothing had initially happened?
Tell me Omwana; about the battle in your mind."
Omwana did not know that she was bipolar. Her grandmother had it too, however, those were the Neanderthal days, when mental health could not make the headline. She distinctively remembers one visit to her granny's.
It was a calm and serene afternoon, such that the sun evaporated the moisture out of the ocean while the wind hung the condensed moisture on the shimmering scarves of the air; such that the view was livid and unsubstantial.
They were busy preparing late lunch, around 3 pm by the Eastern shores of the Indian Ocean in Mtwapa; which was her ancestral home. Her grandmother was busy cooking, all smiles as she entertained her and her cousins with inspiring folktales before she suddenly stood up and left for the house with the rice still steaming in the pot.
I never understood granny's emotional lability. I recall that day, we had presumptuously assumed that perhaps age was finally getting a hold of her. I later found her on the couch, enjoying another episode of the first season of "Judge Judy". As if she did not leave us perplexed and rooted to the ground mid-way through her gripping story.
Indeed, the apple does not fall too far from the tree. Only this time, the apple fell one generation later. I Omwana am Bipolar. I was diagnosed two months ago and prescribed medication to go with it. To be honest, it has been a rocky journey with ups and downs. I consider myself lucky to have discovered it early. Furthermore, I have a partner, Matthew, who understands me and has stood me in great stead with my scrimmage against Bipolar.
I look at Omwana with different eyes now; far from pity to be clear, but with eyes of respect. I love to see people staying strong in the fight. Those are true warriors. The odyssey through marriage and having a partner with Bipolar has not been a bed of roses, however, I would not change that for anything.
Omwana has now undergone a metamorphosis. She was once in the doldrums with life throwing her twists and turns but now, she writes and talks about Bipolar disorder, especially in females.
Bipolar disorder is a mental illness associated with a multitude of episodes ranging from manic highs to depressive lows. There are two types of Bipolar disorder: Bipolar I and Bipolar II. The former comprises a series of manic episodes with extreme increases in energy, while the latter consists of Major Depressive Episodes. Not to forget Cyclothymic disorder; a milder form of Bipolar characterized by hypomania and frequent depressive episodes.
Speaking out about Bipolar can be rather daunting, however, for Omwana, this was an audacious move in spreading awareness.
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Deus salvet omnes homines qui cum bipolar pugnant
So inspiring and very informative.A reality in itself
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