Hymns In The Kitchen

Some people have friends in their age mates, others prefer friends younger than them. I find my comfortable sitting among people who double my age. My mother’s age mates or older.
With these, I have to sit through their nostalgic episodes, but I get to peek into their younger lives and compare it with mine. So no big harm. One of them is a lady whom we’ll call Mrs.Lawi. She tells me a story of when she got married and was taken to her mother-in-laws- homestead. The mother in law had an annoying habit of singing aloud whenever. Since they shared a kitchen, there was no room fro communication.
When she was pregnant and couldn’t move around much, the mother- in - law would sing sneering songs about the importance of hard work, like the capable wife mentioned in the Sayings that King Lemuel* was given by his mother, chapter 31.Sometimes creating a repetitive song from the entire chapter, emphasizing on the praise that’s given to a wife that wakes up before dawn to feed her family.
Once I shared a room with a similarly tuned person. She would sing so loudly I’d have no place to say- please pass the cat’s bowl. Had they been songs I like, like a tune from Peter Kigia or the Ngangara boy’s band,I wouldn’t have minded since I’d be singing along or listening.
Cucu hums when she feels like singing, mother too, mama[uncle}hums a vroom vroom hum like that of a tractor.
Yesterday I went to have my hair braided.I hate salons. One reason way they won’t leave you to your thoughts but keep pouring stories you don’ wan’ hear to the top of your skull.
Many times they are too occupied in their narrations they mess up your hair. I have had to shave off my head clean twice after several visits to salons.
So I never liked salons,not only for their overpriced services but but for the staff who seem to be,just waiting for an ear. You’d think with the number of clients that frequent them the story reservoir would be well drained after a short while.
If I really have to have my hair made ,I look for someone who’ll do it at home, coz then I can place one of those serious looking hard covered Marketing Essentials text books on my laps and stare at it. It may work, most times it doesn’t so I still listen to sob stories.
That is why for a long time, two years, I have maintained a curly afro which I sometimes funga with a scarf. But I broke the pattern, and regretted it not less than seventy times. Ten times for every hour I sat listening to my braider’s tales of woe.She then began to sing very loudly about the doom that will befall all who cause others worry.I gritted my teethb for thirty minutes or so. She continued. Then I tapped her on her wrist and asked her to please postpone her singing until I was gone.-aaa,kwani hutaki ni praise?- she answered,offended.She didn’t stop singing ,but hence forth I could feel every braid she fixed, the skin raising two inches off the head , two inches of pain, for I dared speak.
I was really pissed, considering the amount of cash I was putting into her pocket.
These braids had better stay in place for a long long time. Maybe then I’ll have made up my mind to lea dreads.

Ray Ray

I love the cartoon:The Life and Time Of Juniper Lee.The main character is Juniper,but her younger brother Ray Ray just knocks me out.'Specially when he says something like{that,is ,so cool.Juniper,yo' job rooooocks!can I come?OOOOh!can I ,can I?}




:

Two monsters to Monroe{the dog}:Check out the talking dog,his name is Ramon.

Tiny Tangerines

One of cucu’s neighbors owns a magnificent house that calls back to mind the colonial era. It’s wooden with white washed flow windows, a stone staircase on one end, and needle –swish swish leaf trees{I donno what they are called} growing to the roof. It was in this compound I first saw a cream colored rose. Climbers cover the two cement coated tanks and a violet bougainvillea is en mass . To go along with British home-style, a small gate leads to a fruit tree garden. Oranges, grapes, plums, strawberries, tangerines, malimau, guavas, figs, apples/fruits plus half a dozen others whose names I don’t know to date don the half acre or so.
There was daughter in university when I was but a five year old and she would have me any time of the day. On my part, would find any excuse to go visiting after school. Cucu encouraged the idea, since, the young lady would teach me some manners, and read to me. Mama, uncle didn’t it one bit.-Ucio muururiko wiigiriire niugutiga -that kind of aimless going about has to stop. He’d say after laying the cane on me proper. Then he’d add-na hiyo ni kionjo-that’s just a taste of what could happen.
Especially one evening I returned with my nails painted red. I received an adequate beating and wasn’t to go visiting anymore, ever, which I came to learn was grounding

The lady, let’s call her Doris for now, would give me treats and when we went all to collect fruit, I climbed the trees and picked what my eyes preferred. Back in the house, I’d choose what to take with me.
I remember one day after I’d made my selection; Nancy’s brother was around swallowing some pills of some sort. I was staring at him caught by the different faces he made as he swallowed the tabs. Then he’d say”huuuum”, and I took in every detail so that I could narrate to my best friend {Irungu}and we’d laugh.Why did you give her those?
He asked Doris, referring to the tangerines I held in a plastic bowl in my hands.- That’s what she wanted-She smiled at him. He looked at me and smiled. He then picked two medium sized tangerines from the bowl on the table and threw them into mine. I didn’t really understand what the big deal was. Tiny tangerines, the size of pums were easy to carry, sweeter and faster to peal then pop into the mouth like shwu! I liked those.

little Girl

He tripped and fell,
No strength left,
To raise himself up,
flat on the ground he lay.

A lil` girl skipped by,
A big smile plastered on.
Bent down an inch,
Patted the old man’s shoulder.

Stretching out her lil` hand,
Her eyes spelt out trust,
She took his hand,
And lifted him up.
2004

Wambui Muguruki

My uncle’s son, Munyeki was a rascal growing up. I remember one time cucu{my gran} was cleaning his feet and he kept stumping his free foot in the basin every five seconds, splashing cucu all over with muddy water. Cucu was scolding him telling him-Munyeki ningukurumia, I’ll give you a beating, Munyeki.
He had just come from muururiko,visiting neighbors.
I was cooking.
He threw me a glance and smiled. Then he started to sing:
Cucu witu nimuuru na ni mwega,
aciarire Wambui muguruki,
athuragia,nyumba,ikainaina.
.{Our grandmother is good and bad,
she gave birth to crazy Wambui,
who farts until the house trembles}
So cucu was like ignoring his song completely, saying nothing.
He increased the volume and me,out of embarrassment,{he had began to make farting sounds-pipi and ndurururu} asked him-who taught you that bad song?
He paused and said-didn’t I hear you and Irungu{my other cousin}Singing?
Cringe!
While all along I had been pretending to be a perfect lady in cucu’s eyes.

Plain Matatu

One day I was leading a normal, hurried life of the middle class. Enjoying the little good things in life; like a pimped matatu to carry me home .The next, I wake up and the color has gone out of everything. I saw dark blues, earth browns and navy.

Earlier on, as I waited for my favorite matatu to come in the morning, I’d keep myself busy reading and admiring the art that was the matatus:firi,juju,soledad.

T he work of creative minds, with their mobile canvas that is the matatu’s exterior. It took my mind off the troubles that a middle class human citizen faces, both real and imagined.

Well, it is a well known truth that the only triple colored means of public transport is the 2M,City Hopper,Eldoret Express and others. Matatus cannot be buses. Matatus are not just what takes you there.

It’s the experience. The joy of traveling in a matatu is to reach your destination feeling –like another girl-or boy, or person-To quote the words of a popular musician, who’s name and picture and lyrics we all knew from the matatus.

“They look like gates.” My friend told me the other day, clicked and headed off to the railway station to squeeze in the train.

‘How can you get into a matatu who’s name you donno?’Is many people’s worry.

The middle class don’t have much in terms of choice. In the market, the buy what is displayed. They do whichever jobs comes by, and they eat whatever bread the kiosk owner stocks .
Being able to choose the matatu you want to travel in was the least choice one had.
Now, you get into whatever stops at the stage.It is like getting into a hearse. Like those buses that transport those who break the law.
The worry is that soon we might get used to these. The insipidness of it all may start to seem like the normal. Our visions will even start fading into soft pinks ,light greens and creams. Then even our dreams at night will be in black and white. A colorless sort of life, which will drain even our strength ,if the person who suggested that matatus be of single color doesn’t please rethink the idea.



 

Has.2006

You’d never hurt me, I know baby.
Though I hurt you as deep as hurting can go,
It was not with pleasure know this,
Even though with flourish the letters curved.
I thought of it long and hard,
But with blankness my mind rewarded,
For my heart sep’rate you it didn’t,
Even where afar you sojourned,
Left this soul forlorn.
It was never intentional my beloved,
But seasons bring along plains of possibilities,
What if ?How about? Should I?
And trying such a common deed.

Comparing you was the last weapon.
When excuses and half delivered reasons failed.
‘Ona ndiramenya nita atia,’ said I
‘You know I have moved on’, I explained.
‘This is not working’, I stammered.
Then I pulled and grabbed for conviction,
For even I was not convinced.

Even with five stable reasons,
I wanted out, I wanted an end,
To all that was you and me,
I wanted to be lonesome again.
The timed meetings,
The unsure groping,
The blank eye contact
That were-oh so dear to me.

I loved you for you speech,
The way your words caressed,
You standing aloof, your eyes…
But baby you took that back.
You voice I missed, yourself I didn’t see.
I missed you, my heart ached.
I thought, maybe this was bad timing.
You didn’t see this did you?
I wrote you read, I talked you listened.
Deep inside I searched, looking for reason;
The reason for you.
To take my mind on a break.
Then you floated away
I thought you died, I grieved.
I thought you shifted ,I blocked my heart.
I thought you got broke, I wished I had cash.

Then you called, and brightly said you missed me.
Another long silence followed,
And I knew this was the end.
Acquaintance would rhyme better.
I told you - let’s part,
You said you had been ill.

Baby, if I said my heart,
If I said my heart is a new age cave,
Would you understand?
Would you believe if I said,
I am of one wet season?
My person is easily swayed, beaten and frightened?
That I don’t mean to hurt ,I hate to cause pain?
That I cause it more than I can account for?
That I stretch out gestures, that I fear.
That I’d rather escape before hurt come in?

This person I am doubts,
Is unwilling to trust,
Wary of positive gesture,
And is hardly ever sure?
Would you believe me if I said,
That I suffer verbally; even though this time,
This time baby, I really was sure.
26th July 2006

Bei Fifty

When I was growing up, fashion was hardly any bit of a

problem. What, when a piece of leso across my body was

enough covering. That, or simply shorts. Little girls

can get away without much covering above their waists.

Later on I’d come to be introduced to skin tights.

Hand- me downs from my rich cousins from the suburbs.

Then, kariobangi was actually spacious enough to

qualify for the suburb surname. My fashion sense

wasn’t any good then,and neither has it improved

now.Even with close interaction with suburbian folk in

my day today events like college. Perhaps I don’t see

or notice or care. But I think I care, a little. If I

didn’t I would still be shopping in places where the

minute you step out of the mat in town in your new

outfit you feel like you just stepped into a school.

Kenya uniform. I go else where; where I can get it

cheap and unique.

Back to childhood. So mother did have a fashion

sense,one that made her fit me into the most

interesting stitched items. Like these dresses I had

to wear. Orange and red material with lace on any

place that could take a trimming.The fabric that

these dresses were cut from must have been invented

for coffee pickers ,or coal factory workers.Coarse and

heavy.Almost denim.With the same texture both

sides.These you couldn’t wear with no underwear. I

wore a T-shirt and and shorts .The dresses were

alright, to look at. It was the underpants I didn’t

enjoy. Cut from the same matching fabric. With elastic

that could have cut through your mid-length. My older

brother called them mathuruari{big pants}.When we

were left together he’d tell me to use the pants to

scrub my body, especially by dark knees. The worst

turn off was that when I wore these underpants to

school, if I removed my pullover, people would see

orange peeping from the holes on the sides of my

school dress which had permanently absent belts.

There came; however, a solution to this worry came

when an aunt who sold ladies’ pants started bringing

me some cotton ones with –the-day-of-the-week printed

on them.These were neatly trimmed and had an elastic

that fit. Small in size. Actually the smallest in her

bunch. She told them these were called-tu-insides. Not

far from what mother referred to pants. To her they

were underclothes. ‘And it didn’t really matter what

color, size or fabric they were as long as one was

wearing some and keeping them on in the presence of

boys-and can you go and collect that mattress from

behind the house, it’s beginning to drizzle!’ Mother

wasn’t so much of a time waster especially if the

dinner was yet to be started and father had not

brought home the flour. So, mathuruari. I’ve seen

them, you’ve seen them. They come in large sizes,

bright colors and very trivial fabric. You see them

along the streets. Pilling up high on a hawker’s table

with the trader screaming bei fifty. There’s always a

crowd of female customers. Stretching a pair this way

and that way, trying to determine-will this fit? For

pants sake! They only come in two sizes. Free size,

I’m told, and extra large. This, I say is a betrayal

to fashion. A lack of manners too. From the several

people I’ve spoken to, I found out that many would

rather spend money on what can be seen. Nice clothes,

make up, jewellery. Lingerie is a French word for a

clean bathroom; many will inform you. These eyes sores

I call mathuruari have found a place in our society

and they are here to stay. No wonder the panty lines

even under jeans, the big flab of cream under pant

showing behind every three hipsters. It’s a disgrace.

Being so outwardly fashionable yet bei fifty is

sticking out of you? A nice comfortable, cotton or

silk pant is not worth a plot of land in Juja. It

could be worth two of your usual ones but what is the

use of filling your drawers with bei fiftys that could

embarrass you if you fainted and had to have your

clothes loosened? Yet you can afford it? Pant

shops/parlours are beautiful places to shop in with

pleasant staff, and you don’t have to worry that your

neighbour might be passing by and see you purchasing a

bei fifty. Good pants last and they don’t give you

bulk under your outer garments. What about thongs,

which are sold at the same price with our bei fifty?

That is for you ladies to decide. Of course after a

serious discussion with your purse. I used to sit at

the back in my lecture hall, but I moved. Shifted to

the front and nothing will make me go back. I got

heartbroken by all the suburbian folk who earlier on

intimidated me by their outward glitter. Until I saw

bei fifty peeping out from under their sprayed, waist

less jeans. Oh the shame. The absolute shame.
April-2006



 

I’ll Go Sleep Over This -Lucas

Lucas fingered the half gold half silver band in his pocket. He pressed the replay button on his CD player, back to song number five. It was the third time he was playing the song.

Over and over the voice had gone on- Baby, baby, baby

When all your love is gone

Who will save me

From all I'm up against out in this world

Maybe, maybe, maybe

You'll find something

That's enough to keep you

But if the bright lights don't receive you

You should turn yourself around

And come on home



……..he didn’t hear the voice. Just the drums, the guitar ,the bass guitar. Nothing else just clung crash dum dum din dum crash!



It was ironical since when he peered deep down, it was he that wanted to go away. To distance himself from the familiar.From sherry. His old fears had returned to give him sleepless nights.Slowly he had been pulling away. Zipping himself in that pod Sherry had pulled him from.Shut himself into a world of his own and reduced to peeping out at life from the pages of his journal. Pity.

That now he found better company with his thoughts on page than with people, with Sherry was not suprising.

With sherry he learnt to be frank and honest. Like he had been on the pages. With Sherry there had been no need to write his thoughts down to understand them, he simply stammered them out to the line smiling Sherry.

The song ended, and soleeeya ----began to play. He didn’t know what it meant. Sherry had mixed the CD for him-to help him loosen up-she had said, and labeled it-Lucas loosening up-with a black marker.

Soleeya aa,soleeeeya, the song continued

Lucas took out his A4 size journal and sat himself more comfortably on the floor, to write his thoughts…..



 

W e All End Up In a Hole

So goes the sound track to a movie I watched sometime, about a retired golfer teaching young children the way to play golf like a pro. Have you heard of the disappointed lone golfer? He once asked his caddy:



‘Well, caddy,how do you like my game?’



The caddy replies, ‘very good sir, but personally I prefer golf.



You must agree when I say that Golf in Kenya has been somehow veiled with a prestigious mystery which many have not yet been able to penetrate. It’s a game of the rich, many will say. Others claim it’s a game for the old and retired .Well, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. At least for the most part of it. In fact. Golf, like any other game can be played by people of all ages. Forget what we see on Television, real young people as young as Standard five. Those who play in the junior category.



In Nairobi alone, there is a total of ten golf clubs. Those are the Private establishments like Muthaiga golf club, Vetlab, Windsor golf and country club, Sigona ,among others. Then there are those open to the public such as the Jockey Club, Ruiru and Ndumberi.



One requires to be a member of the particular club before he can be allowed on the course. Otherwise, you can only play as a guest, invited by an existing member. There is however an opening for those who show great interest. Training is given on the practice range. A lesson goes for about a thousand shillings per hour. This; however varies from club to club. After several lessons. One acquires what is called a handicap. That is the paradoxical term for being able to play .The handicaps range from 0-28.It is then that you can be allowed on the course. The course is well maintained and allowing anyone bearing a club to have free rein would spoil the grass no doubt.



In the private clubs, a green fee is requested per round. It ranges from about Ksh.3000 to ksh.4000.A full round goes for four hours at most .If you are a member of the club, it is deducted from your membership account, but for a non-member, one pays as he plays.



In the public courses though, the green fee could be as low as ksh.500, but again one must consider quality.



The golf balls can be bought at the golf clubs, or in Sports houses. The cheapest could go for 100bob.One can hire the golf clubs, but it doesn’t hurt to have some of your own if not to play with to display in your antique items section in the sitting room.



To become a member of a golf club take a process. One is introduced by an active member of the same. The candidate is scrutinized for about six months, and then a reply of acceptance or rejection is given. This is done to ensure only people of high integrity are selected. One could have all the money but be rejected for his reputation.



Golf is a splendid way to spend your leisure. First it is played in almost pristine surroundings; it doesn’t need you to burn a lot of calories. It’s step by step. No hurry. There is complete silence during the game as a rule,



It must be noted though, that golf is a high status game. It is where players on the fast moving world come to share the brain bowl.


One cannot invest in golf, financially, but maybe the benefit of calm mornings and weekends is worth the money.





 

My Secret Love

Two years ago I met a guy in the internet. He liked motorbikes, I was into them. He loved music, I love music. He knew a lot of things, you know, I was totally impressed, and I fell in love.
I sat down and composed a poem, a rhyming poem for once.
He was not meant to see it, or read it .It was for me.
He saw it, he read it, and said-that’s what you didn’t want me to see?That you have a way with words? I get a red face every time I remember. ’Coz see,he wasn’t supposed to know I had a thing for him.
I found the poem among my scribbly notes yesterday .Here it goes.

My Secret Love

To dwell with you in our abode,
Your heart and mind to forever hold,
Will be my joy fulfilled,
My sullen heart healed.

You are like the moon,
On the clear evening sky,
Calm like a cloudless afternoon,
Gallant is your every turn.

I’ll whisper my heart’s secrets,
Share every hidden thought,
‘coz I don’t expect no regrets,
For long in a haze I’ve been caught.

Shedding off every worry ,
And warming my heart,
Towards you I come in a hurry,
Where your open arms are at..

Receive my love,
Feel my skin on you,
Breath the air I breath,
And touch my lips once more.

Pour Ned-28th October 2004

Talking Point

There is a lady I know. She knows I love to read, so she promised me some books and magazines.-You can come by next week on Monday and select some old books I have been holding onto so long. Then help me put the rest in order-She said. That Monday came and went

She said she would tell me when else I could go by.

See ,she’s quiet like, not much of a talker . I am the same in crowds, and I attract quiet people. We meet regularly and we normally, as you would expect don’t have much to talk about, but at least we always have something to look forward to, a talking point. -We really need to arrange when we can do the selection-tutapanga kuzipanga, she says.

Reminds me of a favorite boss I once worked for. His trade mark phrase was-we’ll make arrangements-When there were important decisions to make he’d calmly say-we’ll make arrangements-and go on to play whichever computer game he was playing.

Sometimes the head office would call ,requiring me to take some document or cable to them; my boss would say-we’ll make arrangements-then go out to check on an irritated client, who may have called the previous day to complain, and probably been told-we’ll make arrangements for a technician to come and assist you-

We used powder milk for our office tea. If I asked for money to re-stock the office kitchen ,he’d say-we’ll make arrangements. Yeah, he even made arrangements even when it was a week after payday and our cheques were not yet signed.

That doesn’t mean he was a bad boss, noo, he was a sport. Told me many stories. When he saw an article I wrote published in a paper, he was very excited-I’ll pay you for this, this is a great effort-I didn’t see the pay. He probably realized that the article was only a start, and I was actually writing a weekly column. He would later tell me-Make arrangements to type your stories elsewhere, I don’t won’t to see ‘Warped Life’, my column, again-

I don’t remember him much now, but I remember his fingers. Long ,soft and cold. And dark. I never touched them any time, he was Islam so we never shook hands. But there’s a way you can tell just by looking. Like when he stretched his palm out like one borrowing something, they’d tremble and tend to fall backwards as if being pulled by gravity. My standard eight class teacher had the same. I observed the fingers several times when he lined my own palms for a beating.Tue 17th Oct 06



 

Wag

 
Jina la kejeli ‘wag’ lilipewa kijana mmoja tulikuwa tunasoma na yeye shule ya Msingi.Jina lenyewe likawa lamfaa kabisa.Kijana huyu aliketi karibu nami tulipokuwa darasa la nane.Tulikuwa marafiki sana.Wag aliweza kuchekeshwa na mambo ambayo wengi wanaweza kupita tu bila kutilia maanani sana.Kama wakati wadudu walioitwa Nairobi fly walipoivamia shelu yetu.Lo!Hizo zilikuwa siku za shaka.Mvua ya – el nino –ilikuwa ikinyesha wakati wadudu wale walipojitokeza.Walifanana na bendera ya inchi ya Kenya kwa rangi zao za kijani,nyeusi na nyekundu,walijaa kila kona ya shule.Si kwa nyasi,kuta,juu vizingitini,vitandani,kote.

Ikawa kana kwamba wakamwagwa na adui.Wanafunzi walijawa na hofu .Huyu mdudu alikuwa na umajimaji uliomtoka mwilini,na uliposhikana na ngozi ya mwanaadamu uliichoma ikawa mfano wa aliyemwagiwa maji moto.Baadaye ngozi ingeanza kuchanika na kuanguka.Nyuma ikiacha ngozi ngumu nyeusi na uchungu mwingi.Wasichana wa darasa letu walipatwa na huyu mdudu.Ilibidi waketi mchana kutwa kwenye bweni,huku wapangusa machozi. Kuyaacha yatiririkie juu ya vidonda vilivyo achwa nyusoni zao kungekuwa kama kujinyonga kwa kamba.Uchungu wa kifo.
Bweni ilikuwa kama wadi ya wagonjwa.Wavulana kadhaa walipatwa pia lakini walijikaza kufika darasani.Wag alikuwa na shida sana.Shida ya kujaribu kujizuia kuangua kicheko-wanakaa kama wamejifunga maski nyeusi-alininong’onezea.Nakumbuka tulicheka.
Hadi ile siku Nairobi fly Mmoja jasiri alitembelea pua la wag.Chali alivimba pua na macho ikafikiana.Halafu akawa abadilika rangi kama kinyonga.Wag hakukanyanga darasani kwa muda.Aibu labda,lakini ngozi yake ilipochanika na kuanguka,hakubaki na weusi,badala yake alibadilika akawa mzungu.
Sikucheka.
Wag alijicheka akakosa pumzi.

Mwalimu wa Kiingereza alipenda kuuliza maana ya majina tofauti..Jioni moja wakati nwa prep tulikuwa tunafanya marudio ya mtihani wa kejeli-mock-
Wag akajibu swali,kueleza maana ya white collar jobs.Mojawapo ya aina zingine za kazi zilizokuwa zimetajwa katika mpangilio wa majibu ya kuchagua ilikuwa-blue collar jobs.Niliinua mkono kuelezea maana.Nikasema ni zile kazi nje ya ofisi.Waweza kuamini mwalimu alipandwa na hasira karibu anitukane?
‘Najua nyinyi wawili mnapenda mchezo sana!Wewe wag huo ulaghai wako utakoma leo!’Alidhani tulikuwa tunamchezea tu,kwa sababu tulikaa pamoja na mara nyingi tuliambiana majibu.Baada ya kufunza kidogo alisema tukamngojee kwa ofisi.
Kwa kumsihi sana nilifaulu kumshawishi kuwa wag hakuhusika kamwe na jibu langu,na kuwa niliamini elezo langu lilikuwa shwari.
Alituamini.
Nafikiri san asana ni kwa vile wag alikuwa amenyamaza kimya hata tabasamu halimtoki.
Siku hizi nimekuja kujua kuwa kunazo blue collar jobs,na hata pink collar.Pengine katika darasa la nane,silabasi haikuruhusu kujua aina zingine,mwanafunzi wa 8-4-4 asichanganyikiwe.
18-10-06

Lake Camp

The sun had long gone down.
The shadows had ceased
The moon ,big, orange and bright,
Was slowly climbing up.

The game of five had slowed.
And eventually thinned, only two remained.
The moon shone on the dampening grass-
Its light reflected on the metallic swings.

The ball rolled consistently between them.
Histories were revealed, confidances elected,
Similarities identified, agreed.
To and fro the ball rolled.


Short interesting moon shadows,
Faint murmuring of the sea beyond,
Excited chatting of the kitchen staff….
The two only heard the others voice.

The ball ceased to roll
Awkwardness threatened the calm
‘I guess supper is ready’, said he.
‘We better be going’, said she.

It has been thirty six months,
Since the camp by the lake.
She as met many fellows,
He has been to three more camps.

Today they met, at the bus stop.
She gave a dimpled smile,
He spoke to her again, ever so tenderly.
36 months so long ago, seemed like yesterday

He has grown up so much,
She has experienced a lot,
Still the same he is.
Unnoticed change in her to him.

Yet the worlds separate them it has.
Presented alternatives for the other.
But the unspoken pull, the flame,
Shall not just be ignored.

Should the months double,
This time it could blow away the flame.
Could these months be reduced?
If only for the sake of two hearts.

Stay well my secret love.
Remember me o fair lady.
My source of inspiration.
Don’t be so long this time.

For even if philosophy tries hard,
To change my preposition,
And if your heart should grow cold,
You shall remain the light in my eyes.

21st Feb 2006




 

My Moran

His voice, a thousand feathers on a river.
His kisses, a hundred pink rose petals;
Falling into still waters.
His embrace, a waterfall’s wings.

His caresses, cause me to shiver,
His fingers make me tremble,
His touch, soft like any can be.
His swagger could put a soldier
To a contest.

That deep voice filters into my ears,
Like music.
Those earnest eyes see through me,
Meet my heart,
Give my legs a flee flow,
As I succumb to his arms.

He is my night, my prince
I’m his queen
His heart is mine, mine his
We belong together

Rain

It's the first day of November and it's raining and raining.I love rain.Makes me want to sing all the -rain - songs I know.Kiss the Rain,It's like rain,on your wedding day.....
What I don't like is what it brings with it.Mud,slugs,jam,yeah.
See,going to school on rainy days is like being a player in the survivor series.I pass through a very muddy market called Mtindwa,and true to it's name,you can spend the day there,wading in the water.If you are wearing loose shoes,well,you will leave them right there in the sticky mud.The water(maria) climbs a few inches from you ankles and by the time you get to the other side you are quite a sight.I go all the way to the 'otherside ' of Nairobi,where all roads and paths are concrete and unmuddy.Makes me want to turn back the minute I get there when I look at my classmates and some have gone ahead to wear white canvas shoes and they are all white white.My umbrella broke,this morning,and my boots might not survive this season.It is very unacceptable-the fact that I have to buy an umbrella each rainy season.Don't say serves me right for being cheap,every one knows umbrellas shouldn' go for more than One hundred shillings[mia moja].Maybe I should buy a rain coat instead.

I'll Go Sleep Over This

Sherry
‘Hmh! Lets see where else you’ll find someone who’ll over look your obvious shortcomings! Let’s see. When you find him, come show him to me!’ He snorted and stepped off in a huff, dripping with righteous indignation.
‘Lucas, please wait,’ Sherry pleaded, descending the wooden steps that groaned with each foot put down. Lucas continued to walk, head bent, shoulders braced with arms ending in tight fists on each side of his body, unmoving despite the hasty stride.
Sherry reached the small wooden gate crisscrossed with barbed wire and opened it.It closed with a bang but continued to swing incessantly, until she reached out and pushed it going in then pulled the latch in place.
Knowing Lucas so well,he was not going to stop or even look back. Once his mind was made up, there was no turning back. She craned her neck and could see his frame disappearing to the end of the street. Obstinate as they come.
Many times she had wondered to herself where all that unwavering steadfastness came from, and if it was necessary.Much of it didn’t make sense to her anyway.
But boy didn’t she love this man, and he knew that. Her heart was complete towards him. He loved her for that, since he had been in quite a number of unsuccessful relationships, and her the same. They had at last found each other, and they knew that they would last a long long time.
She loved this man who had just walked away, left her in the middle of a sentence, and she wasn’t sure if he would come back this time.She bit her fingers in uncertainty and wondered if she had just kicked herself in the face.
It was no use suffering alone was it ? He had to know. Otherwise she would be lying to him and she wouldn’t want to do that. Rather she seem out of mind than continue in something which would hurt them both .
He had always known what she wanted in life. He agreed with it by word, but every time she tried to take a step towards it, somehow, it would be pushed aside, ahead.
Sherry realized that her years were not going backwards. As a matter of truth they were moving at fast forward, and she needed to do something towards her goal. Soon. Before they made any plans together or even started to live together and then her decisions would have to go through her husband’s desk for approval.
It was then that she had suggested a slight separation. To help her think her plans through. She even knew exactly how they would go about it.
‘I’ll go upcountry stay with my great aunt a while, two months utmost. Meanwhile brother can stay here look after this place. I will e-mail you every week.’ She had explained.
It had not turned out nice and easy like she had anticipated, with offers to help her pack and even drive her there.
Should she follow him? Should she call him and say it was only a suggestion and she hadn’t even given it much thought? Maybe she could tell him it was just a crazy idea that had found its way into her mind when she wasn’t looking? Blame it on the malaria that was fast approaching and affecting her emotions ? Hmm, now she wasn’t even sure if she had been serious about the separation……

Waiting For September

Berryl was simply put,beautifull. Her soft puffed up cheeks that gave way the two even dimples on both sides and her fluttering eye lashes that were as black as blackjack contrasting beautifully with her very light skin. Her eye brows curved towards the ends, shinning out as if by a beautician’s hand. Pink lips and hair that curled round her head like a wet mop. She kept it short. She dressed in short bright skirts in yellow and cream, and changed her blouse twice a day.
Nyaguthii was the friend she chose for herself. The chosen one was the complete opposite with regard to looks. Dark with bushy eye brows which made one imagine a strange animal peeping out form a hole in the ground. She had long fingers that seemed to move by themselves and the tiny long dark legs that peeped from the flowered dresses were in no way athletic. They could be seen dangling from a rope swing or from a branch in the hours that farmers water their nursery beds. She lived in a house that her grand father built when he married her young, sixteen year old grand mother in `46, dead seven years now.
It was a wooden house with an earthen floor and a roof covered with planks and shingles. Overlooking the Aberdare Ranges. Over the roof, a recent addition had sprouted adding to the interesting design of the entire house.
It looked like an extra chimney but it really was an observatory. From here the entire village was in view. There was no furniture if we over look the rope that Nyaguthii later hang from the roof and tied a piece of wood to its lower end forming a –legs-astride- swing. She positioned it in such a way that it hang in between the two openings on opposite sides of the room. When she swung from the rope, the trip mid-air sent her outside through the two large windows like a very heavy station bell. A risky affair that shoveled out a bark peeling scream from Nyaguthii’s mother who kept the house before she collapsed in a heap, only to wake up and collapse again, when she first saw the lanky girl mid-air. The grandfather saw no danger.
‘In fact it our time, we swung from branch to branch in that forest. One time I dropped right into Honi river, my behind had never been colder.’
He had said laughing, to the very ashen face of his shocked daughter.Nyaguthii lived with her maternal grandfather and her mother.
Berry lived with both her parents and three brothers. One brother already studying an Insurance course in Uganda . Both her parents were insurance brokers. When she finished her schooling , it was planned that she would take a course a long the same lines, to get into the family business and help out a bit.
‘I never want to do that. I’d rather be a model and never have to worry about fires and accidents. Just be photographed in short skirts. Perhaps even get my picture painted.’ Berryl had confided in her friend
‘I could paint your picture, or even draw you.’
‘No you can’t!’
‘Why not. I know how to draw perfectly fine.’
‘Not like that, Berry drew closer and cupped her palms around Nyaguthii’s right ear whispering, ‘when one is drawn they don’t wear any clothes.’
‘What!’ Nyaguthii was appalled.
‘Don’t be so naïve.’
They didn’t raise the topic again. Berryl envied her friend’s spontaneity and guile. She seemed to be always up to something. Yet nothing too serious to cause reprove from her grandfather or her mother. Nyaguthii’s mother was the perfect lady. Smiling, short unhurried steps, never one to run. She made beautiful home stitched dresses and scarves, had beautiful porcelain kitchen things that even her own insurance parents wouldn’t know where to buy.
Nyaguthi mother, known as Rebs, short for Rebecca was an artist. She tailored and sold clothes, wove baskets, crafted mats and wall hangings, and yet had time to keep up with her daughter’s active life and the ‘teenage’ grandfather.
Berryl’s mother wouldn’t sew back a button on. Her father was always studying the classified or watching the financial channel.
The girls shared most of their secrets, yet it never occurred to t hem that they were so different. In college, Nyaguthii changed her name and took to using her first name Elika, spelt Eryka. Berry was sent away to Uganda as the pattern went; three years of Insurance Education.
Eryka wondered had her friend gone soft in the head??
Eryka was involved in her fashion design diploma that she was studying at the polytechnic. She did promotion sales for a cosmetic company during her free time.
Berryl came for her holidays glowing in the face and having lost a few kilos. She looked like the model she had always wished to be. She and Erika spent a few days together, talking of the old times.
“We should keep in torch you know.’Berryl said to Eryka.
‘Yeah I thought so too.’
‘Don’t worry, I wont get foolish with time and be incapable of conversation. I’ve just been a bit silent. High school sort of took up whataever little there was of me. I still get the shivers.’
‘Was it that bad?’
‘I hated being there and being picked on by those stupid girls. Incase you don’t realize, I look like some stupid curly haired/headed Italian.’
‘Tell them your father is’
‘Then what do I do with my surname?’
Eryka had set up a clothe’s shop along with Rebs. Rebska Designs. The residents were excited about having their clothes carry a stitched Rebska label.
Berryl’s father had long left her mother, and rumors had it that the real father to the girl had resurfaced and wanted to publiclly marry the mother of his child. The whole issue caused a stir in the neighbour hood. Adultery was bad enough. Now this? Another marriage. Those who read their bibles said it was against the order of the new testament.
In August Eryka received a letter from Berryl along with pictures of the latter in a cat walks, modeling, and the proud announcement -I made it! I never studied no stupid Insurance Theory, never!’
She was coming home the following month to let her parents know of her life in Uganda. Eryka wondered which parents she meant.
**********************************************************
The scream came from Eryka. The one person who never ever got any rush of adrenaline even when her mother became pregnant after twenty three years. In the observatory, hanging from that old rope swing that had brought of a glee to the two girls years before, hang Berry. She had hanged herself. When Eryka regained consciousness, she read the note that Berry left.
First I am not sorry for this. All my life I never really understood what my purpose was. Five months ago I posed for the years 9th month edition cover photo for Glare Magazine. The photographer was experienced and you’ll see, it came out beautifully. You will get a copy if not, ask my biological father.He must have several. I had no idea he was my father. Until I came back. I was so excited that I’d break the news to my parents with the magazine issue as proof of my good work. You know, I cant believe any of his I’m better of dead. Don’t miss me much I wish you had drawn me instead. Bye
Both fathers attended the funeral. On 5th September. Copies of Glare East Africa September issue were distributed.