Letter to my dearest daughter. My love. My life. My Sophie. 

Collins Osanya

Daddy misses you. Sorry. I haven’t written to you for a lengthy while. I’m in a corner. A fix. I’m once again staggering along the edge of a whisky glass. I fear I might fall. I fear I might miss a step, trip and tumble down into the whisky. That sea of brown tingling and intoxicating brew. I fear. I fear that I’m drowning. Losing my grip. I fear I might be an alcoholic. 

Campus is okay kiddo. A lecturers’ strike is on. Quiet it is, empty as the bank of morals in Kenya. But okay it is. I haven’t found your mother. The ladies in my life are elusive. They are stars in a dark night. Illuminating. Beautiful, captivating. They brighten up the still empty night that my now life is. But I’m okay. I’m in the company of a 750 ml whisky bottle. Thirsting. Drinking. Thinking. Wondering in thoughtful wander.

As at now my fiery flower, elections are looming in this land. And peace is a dove that wanders in an ethnic air. Whether it’ll land and court the weaver bird of brotherhood we know not. Kenyans on twitter are firing arsenals of opinion, bullets of hate, rockets of sarcasm at each other from the comfort of their smart phones, airing their hard views on the unpoliced hanging-line that social media is. And I feel lost. 

Then the bloody politicians have flung the country at the dogs. The economy is being devoured. Folks have lost their jobs. The media, which I’m to join, is downsizing. Laying off workers. Casting former employees in a stage play of worry. Unemployment. Turmoil and squalor. Kenya is bleeding. The bandage that should patch up the wound is rotten. The conscience of Kenya’s future, which comprises of young university students like me is groping in the blackout of drug addiction, ignorance and carelessness. But your daddy will survive. 

I haven’t read a good book in ages. I haven’t gone to church in years. I haven’t kissed a lovely lady in months. I haven’t had a calm morning in weeks. I’m lonely. I feel left out. Side-lined. Like a Shakespearian novel that no longer attracts readership. And I ask myself, where is your mother? I ache for a pitched up argument on who calls me at midnight. I ache for a soft touch. I ache for an intimate moment that will bring you forth to this world. But your daddy will be okay.

I’m afraid I must go. I’m getting too tipsy to talk as a daddy. I’m sliding into sentimentality. And I want to hold your little hands. Kiss your little cheeks. And read you a Jack and The Bean Stalk story. I want to lift you up and toss you into the air. I want to hide you in my arms till sleep claims both of our wakefulness. But until I find your mother, let me sleep. Let me hope that the lecturers strike will end. And let me drink to the disappointing ladies in my life. Goodnight kiddo. See you soon. You are always in my mind Sophie. Kisses jelly bean. Daddy loves you.