I have a slightly swollen forehead from running into walls when I was young. I ran into walls, and broke things; a glass, a glass jug, a plate, my hand (when I was learning to walk). I was always running. Rushing to the next errand; take this to the kitchen, take this to the living room, bring that plate back to the kitchen, get salt from the shop. I was in a race against myself, attempting to beat my personal bests with each errand. How fast can I move through the corridors? I thought to myself. Perhaps a ‘vruuuum’ sounds was always playing in my head. A lot happens in a young boy’s mind.

One of my most travelled route in my childhood home was between the living room and the kitchen. The main door was directly adjacent to an entrance to the main corridor. This is the entrance that led to all other rooms. On the left was a wall with a cabinet that housed many things; a TV, VCR player, vikombe za wageni (exclusively), medicine, sugar, flour, rice, an old sufuria, envelopes, scissors, a bottle of wine my dad bought but never opened, a blender that no one used, a DVD player, and many other things. There was space for everything and it never filled up. It occupied a big chunk of the wall, leaving a space on both sides. Each side had a seat, leaving a small space at the corridor entrance. It was enough space for everyone to pass through, but not for over speeding at corners (my speciality at the time).

The kitchen was to the right, coming from the living room. It was at this corner that God and I were co-creating the shape of my forehead. I crashed many  times running through this corner. It was such a regular occurrence that my father begun calling me kifaru (rhino). I don’t know if this was because I was running without checking where I was going (allegedly😒) or my inability to take corners (is it true that rhinos cannot take corners?). Maybe it was both. Regardless, a lot of accidents were witnessed here. Occasionally, I went down with a few victims; a plate, a jug, my small toe, but almost always my forehead. It was the household black-spot.

Hitting my forehead was painful, but the massage after, on the swollen part, was unbearable. Before Kaluma became the mainstay pain balm, there was Rob. Rob was in a small, red and blue striped metal, round container. Like a shoe polish container, but very small. Rob was ever present in our home; for swollen body parts and common cold (another speciality I possessed). Rob did the heavy lifting to ensure I kept a normal forehead. It did its best against my insatiable need for speed.

Since my alleged spirit animal at the time was a rhino, my dad got me a rhino soapstone sculpture (from a curio shop I assume). It was a gift from one of his travels to the coast. By this time, the rhino had become a running joke in the family. I suppose it had become a part of my identity; part joke, part reprimand, and a blurring line towards taunting. I laughed at the joke, but felt degraded for running blindly. Yet I couldn’t stop running. The sculpture felt special; personalized. It was the only non-functional gift I received from my dad growing up. It was not clothing, shoes or a toy. It just was. Something to hold and look at. A souvenir. I was immediately attached. I am sentimental, so I have kept it to date.

In his early years, Kifaru (yes, I am humanizing it), lived in safe, sheltered spaces at home; a carton, drawer, in between clothes. He graduated to open spaces when I moved out; a shelf, a desk, a window. Visible places where I could keep an eye on him, and where he could cure my nostalgia. I kept him in locations where he could become a conversation starter. A center piece of sorts. Like how people keep photos of their kids on their desks. But life has not been great for Kifaru in recent years. I have been struggling to find a place for him in my house. I find myself relegating him to dark corners where he collects dust. About 2 years ago, Kifaru fell. He broke a leg, scratched an ear and the tip of his horn. He now stands on three legs, with visible scars. I was surprised he survived the fall. He is fragile. At one point, I felt like I was stringing him along. Like I was overstaying in a relationship that had run its course.  I resolved to let Kifaru go, take him to the mountains and reunite him with this rock relatives. But I didn’t. I am still in this limping relationship with him. We do not see eye to eye most days, but once in a while I stop by his lonely corner, look at him and wonder why I still keep him.