Knee jerk to complaints

One upon a time, like two years ago, I was queen of pessimism, a grumbler, a serial complainer. Three years ago I was suicidal, extremely, the type that thinks of knives and pills first thing in the morning with the temptation to raise an index finger to the skies.The type that sought existential books to read and books to tell her everything is nothing and life is empty ,selah ?

Recently watched Nabeel Quereshi talk about how Muslims react with a knee jerk reaction whenever they hear the words “God is a father and He has a son” because they have to recite the very opposite daily. That father- child relationship we have with God is peculiar to Christianity. How does this relate to my grumbling and complaining? The knee jerk. That’s exactly how i react now to complaints, to the ones that want to even spring up from me. Maybe because I know the cloud of toxicity that it forms, the deadly fumes that suck the life out of you and I know that there is a better way and that way works. The way called “praise and thanksgiving”. That’s why anytime i hear a complaint, i mentally do a fast positive correct because I don’t want to be caught in its net anymore. That’s why i am a bit impatient with people who give reasons for their aggression because life happened to them . I understand but at the same time i want to scream “be positive, everything is under control when you have God” and that is why I am writing this as a reminder. Develop a knee jerk reaction to a complaining tongue .



Whoever you are,I hope you can handle it when I just begin to ramble and tell you I want to eat a 1807 porridge in London, that I want to talk about Catherine and you would not ask me which of them, because you see I do not know. I hope you will listen when I tell you about buses and red lights and snow on the ground and me reciting pushkin and how much I don’t like Christmas. Maybe we would watch home alone and replay the hit my head with the bucket scene over and over again or maybe we would not, because honestly it’s a sad story on crack, whatever that means. But I know what that means and anyway i have changed my mind because it reminds me too much about my childhood.

I would tell you I love hot nights, with cockroaches and rambo. I don’t really but my memories are special, whether or not i suffered through them and i would tell you I like drinking malt, and hey look at the star, it reminds me of protectors on windows. Mr bean . I miss my mum.

I would tell you of old cars and burials and firewood and smoke and dancing women all in a trance and you’ll hold my hands, my fingers in yours and we would cry together and laugh because i like to do that and you woudnt think it strange.

And maybe i would rub powder all over my face and neck and hold a hand fan, the old Nigerian type, the one we gave in Ghana must go bags to the Russian man. Hilarious. Maybe his granddaughter threw them away. I would also tell you about floods and how many times we had to repair our car and about Snakes in key holes and about printers and school bells and just tell me it is fine because…i hope you don’t snore