AoNikki

Sitting at my dark little space, I look at people shouting in the pool, silhouettes twisting on the walls of the disco-light-lit room, and listen to the commotion - as if protected inside a vulnerable, invisible bubble. It's a strange feeling to witness the group (which I was told to be a part of) from a distance and be able to silently name their false sense of cohesion. An ant scurries on my left foot. Just five minutes ago, I also scurried away from the rows of white tables sandwiched between the heat of bodies swinging and the coldness of water in this windy night.

Ken and Helen share not only this corner with me, but also the intention to seek a space for some unrelated thoughts. Every word of their conversation about the situation in Zimbabwe comes and stays in my mind, despite my preference not to listen to or care about it. Sometimes I too question the reasons of my indifference for politics; and "because I know that I won't be able to do anything about it" - what I have been telling people - appears to be not much more than an excuse, although there is a long story behind it. In fact, I have come to understand that I am not capable of caring about everything; and choices have been unconsciously made. Thoughts are therefore kept, and words are muted at the tip of the tongue.

Real as everything before my eyes is, I feel no affinity with it and perceive no difference in emotions between seeing this and watching the party scenes in "white people's movies" that my childhood friends back in my hometown always looked up to and dreamed about. "Unreal" is the right word. But of course, nothing happening in this play yard is truly real.

The more I look at it, the more I'm sure that I don't belong there.