Letter to My Cat

by Paul Chuks

eniko kis

That evening the world seemed platonic, everything was perfect. The walls had no crack in them. The flowers were the blueprint from which others (in the physical world) were created, aged yet unwithered, the sky — a motif of blue that filmed my ancestors reading my poems amongst themselves in heaven. You snuck into my head and sat gently like God had sent you to keep my brain company. Although you were not privy to the biological implications of cohabiting with a brain in the same skull, you came as an honest messenger of God whose mission was to show me what Plato meant by the world of form. Or perhaps you were just obviating Jonah’s fate. That night I became a different person.

It was the first time the world made sense to me. Other evenings, I’d gaze vaguely at the ceiling, watch the lamp die, listen to the news about massacre or some politicians getting away with murder, clap my hands in killing mosquitoes, wonder why God didn’t answer the prayers of the crippled man whose wheelchair stayed beside me in church. That day, as soon as dusk set, you tapped me so I took note of your presence. My face coated a smile that represented the joy of a new friendship. I wobbled my head and my eyes became too celestial for the corporeal world — it saw things in twos and beyond the moon. My parents panicked. My mother bellowed for the pastor who came in his nightgown to pray for me. My father laid me on my bed and said, Do not step out of it, something has come over you, we have to deal with it. While the pastor prayed, you filtered his voice and showed me a cat running through a lit room in heaven and told me it was my spirit animal. You said it darted around like that when it asks some questions and received no reply. My face broke into a smile that covered all the acres of my cheeks — a smile that confused everyone else in the room, a smile that landed me in a psych ward. I loved the cat. I wondered if it had cleft palate like me, was white-furred and enjoyed its loneliness. I told the psychiatrist about it and he said it was white furred because God loved the color white. He was brief as if the angels in charge of creation had no intention of making him tall and his voice came out baritone, as though an amplifier was buried in his throat. He believed my story and asked my parents to get me a cat. While I was strapped to my bed, he quizzed my father about the history of schizophrenia in his family. Yes, my father said. My father fought in the second world war and came back a different man. He was diagnosed of it before he died, he continued. Is the name of the cat schizophrenia? I screamed and nobody responded.

At church the pastor shouted too loud into his microphone, I thought his noise would kill my cat. When he called me into his office for another round of deliverance, I cried thinking he would take my cat away from me. Die by fire, I command you. That spirit that is not of God, I command you, get out in Jesus name, he said multiple times, with vim, and his neck popping with veins, his entire face swimming in its own sweat. I watched grippingly as he demonstrated, as he prayed, as he spoke in tongues, as he sang — the lord that answereth by fire, let him be my God/the lord that answereth by fire, let him be my God…wondering if the spirit died by fire, I myself wouldn’t be consumed. After the prayer session, I walked home drawing gazes from people who had heard that I was in a psych ward some days ago and was being prayed for. The voice that sang the lord that answereth by fire, let him be my God, sounded in my head again. I jumped from sleep and stood up, paced my room and slowly muttered, the lord that answereth by fire, let him be my God. I heard echoes and soon dropped to the floor. I woke up in a psych ward again, with drip inserted in my vein and my head heavy, as though a planet sat on it. The lord that answereth by fire, let him be my God, I screamed into the ward and the psychiatrist finished off the song in his baritone voice. I rebuke you in Jesus name. Doctor what do we do, this is getting out of hand, my mother and other church members quipped in voice that shadowed a broken heart. Be my God, Be my God, I continued.

Years later, you leaped out of my head and fishtailed me like a pet, making people avoid me, thinking I was going insane talking to myself. You were tall like me, slim like me, light like me and had an afro like me. But you never went to school like me and when the students reported to my class- teacher for talking to myself, you disappeared when he flogged me. You did not take the white pills that I took after each meal with me. You did not take the injection with me. You did not pat me on the back when I was being scolded for breaking the mug, or using my left-hand again, or failing maths. But I loved you because you were me. You read books with me and loved the characters that I loved. You loved Ifemelu from Americanah, Landon from Angels and Demons, Hassan from Kite Runner. You liked Rihanna, Kendrick Lamar, as did I. You kept a record of those “friends” who reported me to the teacher and asked that I avoid them. You watched movies with me and loved the same actors as I did. You loved Django from Django Unchained, Harvey Specter from Suits, Ethan Hunt from Mission Impossible. You liked Frantz Fanon and hated Hegel. Here’s what you have missed about me and the world; Trump won the election again after having contested against America’s potential first female president in Kamala Harris. I do not believe in God anymore. Gaza is on fire. Sudan is at war. Messi won the world cup. You should have seen the match, ah! Suspense, emotions almost rocked me to the great beyond. I cried as he lifted the trophy. My sister got married, I still miss her spaghetti. I have two friends, Sadiq and Valerie. They will never report me to any authority. Rihanna has two kids. We could not accomplish our dreams of marrying her. Kendrick won the rap battle with Drake, Obama was right. My braids are now long– ancestors’ style and as usual, my mother does not like it.

As I write you from four years of normalcy, how are you? I love you, joy is coming.