It's funny how memories tend to fade away when years pile up. Sometimes this makes me wonder if it is worth it living great memories only for them to fade away forever. Remember that utterly delicious meal that you had last year when you went for dinner with a friend? At the time, it was a sizzling meal, a wonderful time with your dear friend. But now if you try to remember that meal and what you laughed about during the meal, you can barely remember anything.
I have been to Rome, the former capital of the world only once. I stayed there for about two weeks and had memorable experiences. Sadly, I have to think long and hard to remember what exactly I did while there. At first, I stayed in an apartment block that I shared with Rouna, the shy, beautiful girl from Mauritius and a guy from Austria whose name or face I can’t even remember. There was also a fourth person, a lady whose name, face and nationality have totally escaped from my memory. It was in this house that we reached a deal with Rouna that although she was dating, we would allow nature to take its course. That night, I recreated our wedding so vividly in my mind that I dreamt about it. It was at All Sanits Cathedral in Nairobi. I was wearing a blue track suit. In my own wedding, because as I indignantly explained to Msonobari my brother, “where is it written that people have to wear suits and stuff in weddings?”
Rouna was one of those Mauritians who have some Indian, some Arabic and some African in them. Her chocolate complexion and wavy hair lived long in my heart long after we had parted ways. Oh, the memories we made with Rouna in Rome, Sicily and Imola. These memories may be faint but you know what, the beautiful thing about memories is that they never really go away. They only retreat to the sub-conscious where they lie in a coma until something or someone awakens them. Now that I am writing about this, trickles of Rome's memories are beginning to drop into my mind.
Gelato. Italian ice cream is utterly breathtaking. Almost daily, it took away the breath of Rounda and I. There were only seventy euros in my worn out brown wallet and I didn't always have the luxury of buying gelato, so I had to keep faking reasons why I couldn't buy it whenever we walked by an ice cream place. My most common excuse was that I had a stomach ache, which I blamed on Italian food.
“My stomach just doesn't like some Italian food,” I would say even though the truth was that I adored most Italian food.
I also remember how Rouna and I once sat cross-legged in front of a bearded guitarist who was playing the guitar so divinely, I held my breath for a few moments eager to gulp the entire melody that was pouring out of his guitar. His right hand would pluck it in a super-fast manner as his left hand massaged the chords even faster. The result was a stunning melody that angels must have been dancing to. Rouna, the only angel that I could see, would always gyrate to the tunes of that guitarist.
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