HAD been years since I’d last visited my home back in Kenya.
Since I’d last felt the subtle warmth of the passionately fierce African sun against my skin. Since I’d frolicked amongst the tulips and ambrosia’s on my auntie Zahra’s vineyard and snuck a taste of the bittersweet wines without my parents knowing. Since I’d kissed the adorable wrinkled cheeks of my bibi (grandmother), thanking her for the perfect braids she’d knitted in my hair that summer afternoon so my curls didn’t fall over my face.
I miss the sombre scent of the coffee papa would brew in the early mornings and the gossip from my many aunties about every little secret in town. I miss the laughter of my cousins as mama taught us how to make ugali; I remember that day, the cornmeal wasn’t properly cooked, and it was inedible, but our entire family pretended as though it were the best thing they’d ever tasted.
Practice makes perfect, mama would always say, and I never forgot it.
I recall the nostalgic sounds of maize meal being sifted, our beaded sandals running up and down the corridors, the television in the living room’s scratchy signal, hushed folktales whispered by the crackling log fires, coffee beans being rolled along in barrels, the intoxicating scent encapsulating me.
These are the memories that define me, the stories that crafted my character.
Mama, papa, my little brother Jaadi and I left Nairobi for Jacksonville, Florida, when I was only ten years old. Papa got an incredible job offer there that paid much more than he was getting back home. We lived a comfortable life of church Sundays, long lazy June summers, and itchy private school uniforms in a world we couldn’t quite wrap our heads around. It just didn’t quite fit. Like my mother’s carefully woven kitenge around my slim new American waist, like my hair through the heat of a straightener. But our parents made sure we never forgot our roots. And like the branches on a tree, we may grow in different directions as a people, but our roots remain as one.
My parents have always been firm with me. There were never any ifs or but’s, nor room for any childish opinions. They made sure I knew right from wrong at a very young age, and even as I grew up and went to high school, they always kept a keen eye on me. While everyone else was out on the town looking for the next high– be it drugs, alcohol or their new celebrity obsession, I was alone in my room studying for a test that was months away. I know what you’re probably thinking, what a fucking prude, but I knew what I wanted and I was going to do everything in my power to make sure I got there.
The entirety of my adolescence I have been illusioned by an incessant need to escape. Actually, my dream has always been to escape, somewhere far away where no one knows my name, somewhere I can be a new person without worrying about the people who’ve known me before clinging to my past persona.
Jacksonville has never been for me. It’s always been temporary. I never planned to live there forever– if I did, I swear I’d lose my mind. Trust me, I can see it on my tombstone:
ARMANI OYANA NNANDI. A SISTER, A DAUGHTER.
CAUSE OF DEATH: SUBURBAN SUFFOCATION.
Let’s start with high school. For example, I went to Clearwater High, a private school for the children of the wealthy. Except for the fact that I was nothing of the sort, and I often felt like an imposter in my crested navy cardigan and pleated skirt. Therefore Clearwater high was my own personal brand of hell. All I did throughout high school was watch all the boys try to get with the girls and watch all the girls pretend to be friends with each other. Perhaps a part of me wanted to be pined over too, perhaps I wanted the girls to pretend to be friends with me too…but perhaps I’d die before I allowed myself to get sucked up by their pathetic high school charade.
My parents made sure I always had my eyes on the prize, my art.
I spent most of my time in the attic painting my dreams; it’s always been my thing– to paint dreamlike settings. I’ve always believed that reality is rather dull and suffocating, and sometimes, I just need to escape. Art has always been my escape. Through my art, I convey all the words I wish I could say and everything all of a sudden becomes possible with a paintbrush in my hand.
I am a phenomenal artist. There’s no point In denying it. Mama always told me to never let anything humble a woman. If you’ve got it– then you’ve got it, be proud of it. Don’t let society make you feel like you can’t be confident in your abilities just because they can’t do what you can. I’ve been entering art competitions and exhibits since I was twelve, so much so that it’s become a second nature to me. I quickly mastered the body language of the critics and what they often liked and disliked, It was the key to my success.
I’ve never had time to go to parties or go out with boys. My parents would never permit it anyways. They don’t believe that it’d be suitable for their teenage daughter to do such ‘inappropriate’ and ‘degrading’ things. They’d have a heart attack if I ever did so. Don’t misunderstand me, my parents are good people, they’re just really traditional.
I’d been working on one particular painting resembling a dream I’d had a few nights ago, one of a young girl frolicking in a field of ambrosias just like I did back home in Kenya. I’d entitled it ‘Lost Girl’ and entered it in the Carlisle exhibit in Orlando.
To my surprise, I won first place, and I won a scholarship to one of the most prestigious art academies in all of France; The Saint Katherine’s academy of the arts.
That’s where it all started– at Saint Katherine’s, that was when I began to see colour in my black and white world. That’s where everything changed; that’s where I changed.
I was no longer Armani Nnandi, the good girl.
I was the girl entangled in the beautiful chaos that was River Kennedy.
The Godly boy with the angel eyes.
The boy whose haunted memories contorted like ravenous vines around his throat, the boy whose secrets were tearing him apart from the inside out.
