Thinking outside the box? How do I begin, when all I know are boxes?
I remember when I was a little girl. Five years old, skinny save for a protruding belly, and naked at the riverside. Two more sullen kids were my companions. I still remember them: little Nyamoita with the eye pockets, and Junior with the missing teeth. Our mothers had washed us and left us to dry in the sun as they proceeded to wash clothes nearby. I remember the bar soap my mom used to wash me with: Its scent was so strong that it lingered on your body for the rest of the day. The breeze, I remember, had a life of its own back then. It explored, enticed and called. And the trees by the river: They were my favorite kind of green. They stood still, their whispers drowned out by the aggressive moving waters. My eyes would squint to gaze up: I would conclude that the sky was the only clean and neat thing. It was not packaged like everything else. The ants would crawl up my legs, and a fly would dance too close to my face. My tiny arms would swing occasionally: swatting and scratching. I would pluck the grass, braid it, discard it, and go for a fresh batch. On break, I would watch the slightly older kids swim in the river. They laughed, splashed, called out to each other, and teased the fast and deep waters. There was a longing in my eyes. I wanted to swim, and go with the flow, but my mom would not allow it: I was her little package all wrapped up in a fragile box.
Life must be a transition from one box to another. Your ancestors give you the first box: A combination of different genes from all generations to have ever walked this planet. How precious. A mother’s womb is the second box, and for some time its home. However, just as you are getting used to it, you get served an eviction note into a bigger box. You grow up in society’s boxes of labels, roles, stereotypes, belief systems, expectations, and wants. You learn to tick the ‘right’ boxes, and to choose people and things that tick the same boxes as you. By and by you get used to the boxes. So much so you cannot dismember them. The boxes consume you, and you become like fish in an aquarium.
There are moments when you come up of air. In these moments you get to see just how crazy it has gotten. You realize there are many boxes, and none are of you. You are stuck in a strange loop, and the comedy of it all is that there is no end to it other than a box. While we cannot get away from the boxes, we get the chance to give meaning to our boxes.
