Notes from the Underground
In response to Fyodor Dostoevsky
Dearest Dostoevsky,
Nine and twenty years is so much pressure on an individual.
The third decade so often indicates a human’s potential and ability to serve the utmost goal. First car, successful job, tight circle of friends, grownup kids, a loving husband, et cetera — these seem ecstatic amongst my peers.
On the contrary, like any other girl named Ivy, I had no plans nor showed any signs that I was achieving any. The most expensive thing in my possession was my room, which was filled with excess building material from the construction of my Stepmother’s house — and a couple of personal things I want to rid of my life.
Well, even so, I had no hands in building her new home; her children did. I find no pride in this, but I humbly console my bitterness that the house stands on my father’s land. A father always provides for his kids, and being an unmarried daughter enjoys this right as a grownup woman with no shame.
In the eyes of the public, the community, and sometimes members of my extended Family and friends — I am an outright spoilt kid who would never, if not forced, leave the nest.
It is a habit for most mothers, if not all, to push their birds out of the nest and in their downfall, they all expect that, in fear of death, to simply learn how to fly. At least, it was what my birth mother had cooped up for my forced success, but like any of my many blessings — which she felt were a curse — she simply left her paradise and settled in another nest.
Before I left, I had said my goodbyes. It was sad that Grandma Angela died, but I met all of them — all my maternal cousins and childhood friends. I would never make any more, I had realized. I was grateful that I met all of them and had been at my best when we lived together. For some, we took pictures. Others tried effortlessly to make new memories, but they weren’t as pleasant as those we had made as kids.
I needed to grow up. I needed to fly — but instead, I fled.
“Where there is growth, be patient, for great oaks from little acorns grow.”
Some flowers bloom just before midnight. Others at noon. Others very early in the morning but wilt much earlier. Maybe I bloomed quite early — or, in their opinion, I was yet to bloom. Very late.
Honestly, in rational speaking — what should a 29-year-old be doing to achieve self-actualization? Let us all agree on this.
My mother proved to her Family that I indeed was nuts. And like any other Ivy without ludicrous limits, my doom would be — as she had mentioned — a life without success or anything to be proud of. Just like my late uncle. May his soul rest in peace, Uncle Rampard.
Please do not ask me why he was named so, because the story might pop up that I am just like he, and as his name suggested, mine was a child full of stories. Grandma stories.
Mvua disagreed. She had studied me long enough — in the comfort of her home, reading books and occasionally emerging from the sea — mainly in the last quarter towards her birthday, ready to play. I was willing to play.
“Bipolar was not a condition, not multiple personal character disorder — a thing. It is something they create to get by.”
I knew they were talking about me.
“Don’t you think she should have invited you to her wedding?” my mother asked.
I wasn’t sure. I secretly got married and did not invite anyone to mine.
It hurt that she would say vile things — my mother — rather than, in my spoilt child’s ludicrous opinion, find beautiful things to think of my life. Positive words. At the very least, inspire me.
We work for our mothers and their better lives, but mine stripped me of this obligation. She deserved none of it, and had worst forgotten the many times I had made her proud. The mind, like any files and data, can fail. Disappeared memories.
I would never be the Ivy she wanted.
“Medicine helps,” Daktari said. “Healthy you is always better.”
Like any other spoilt little brat, I let her other offspring work for their mother’s dreams. Let them toil for the happiness of their mother. I would cast out myself from a nest that would torment me — weep and defile her dwellings like Lucifer — kill her, mourn her, and force my mind to forget her like an orphan.
Psalms 127: “He provides them in their sleep.”
I recited this while I cried, trying to remove her memories from my mind.
God must have known. My Stepmother — a dark, elderly but surprisingly strong woman with a soft spot for humans — took me in. My father holds no shame in the spoilt child I am.
Still, at nine and twenty, I want something that most humans detest.
I have always been this way — selfish, thickheaded, and self-righteous, with a mind only on what I intend to do. I do things with a perfectionist mind. I like to watch people’s amusement, admiration, and disbelief when I’m done with something — a task, an achievement, a character or virtue that would simply escape anyone’s imagination.
My Auntie Victorine decided that I must take her name as of twelve years of age. You, too, may not believe it is an Ivy thing that humans will not understand, except for the simple roles of any female in the East African community:
Be a good girl.
Virtuous woman.
Wife or mother.
In that order.
In this, I have tried and effortlessly failed.
I had stopped going to church to avoid the constant belief that this simple routine socialization was anything but in search of a husband. I pray, as promised, that I am baptized in the spirit rather than in water.
I am not looking to be a role model to any of the Family’s younger members either. I suppose they are warned not to be like Yvi in their secret talks. I could sense this from the way they would look at me sometimes.
Nevertheless, I would not flinch. With no shame, I would continue with my bad habits until I felt satisfied that I was desensitized.
It would bother them that I remained Yvi.
Not that marriage did not matter to me — I clearly had, at one point in my meaningless life, the intention of getting married. However, I had simply realized it was out of obligation to the greater society, rather than personal will. And so I had blown up, sometimes with a pinch of regret, these opportunities — uncountable times — and my tickling clock was finally hitting the fourth decade, yet still, I am in no hurry to get engaged to anyone.
The spirit of the unmarried rested upon me, and I had come to accept that with no shame.
Sometimes, I secretly smile in the dark, just before sleep, that I had achieved this uncalled-for freedom alone. The privilege of being unmarried at nine and twenty, spending my lazy days in my father’s house.
Humans have ceased pushing me. Just like marriage. They have finished calling me for pointless talks and stopped inviting me for their amusement. They have stopped courting my attention. They are no longer offering me excessive meals or career exposure.
It disgusts them that I could freely navigate my life through their intimate social courses without breaking a sweat and still choose my simple, not-so-pleasing-to-them lifestyle.
I like the simple countryside where I eat what I grow and make a stew of what I bred on the farm. I have no children to cater for. No bills and expenses to pay. No expectations to meet. No substantial friends to impress.
I mean — who would even marry me? Anyone that hasn’t experienced the YviX, I would say. And the moment, out of boredom, I would slowly expose him to the vile side of Yvi — and like any sensible man, so they like to think — he would disappear like the vanishing elephant.
Now that I’m grown, I secretly laugh about these scenarios.
Like any July that would finally die, I’m pretty uncertain what my fourth decade has for me. Quite anxious, I must say. But I have a grown belief — certainly with conviction — that I have achieved what I have always wanted, experienced all my desires, and lived the life I had wished for myself.
I, too, wanted to be a great writer. I just did not know how.
Still, the strange life I have experienced so far was a good start for a biography. More of a fiction writer whose imagination would someday be code that men would admire and women instil in their children — not of this generation, but decades after my death.
For oops, babies.
Yours Faithfully,
Atoto Atori