Category: Insight

My Day so far.

October 26th, 2015

So, hello I am seated in a restaurant in Homabay typing this post in between light and dark.
In between you say? Yes, when the lights go out and they come back in a span of five minutes, that’s what I call a flicker.
I traveled to Homabay County on Sunday for work related duties and it’s been a great joy working with the people here, and I also realized that I could travel for an hour on a motorcycle within the same division like it’s no big deal.
The man ferrying me was stopped by policemen near a stream by the road. The police woman asked him for her due.
She was a short beautiful lady with a sweet voice ( it’s true, I liked her voice) and she said, “Nipe ile uko nayo kama ya soda.” (Give me what you have even if it could buy a soda)
And the man carrying me insisted that he had none because he had to drop me and get his pay.
The police insisted, “Ni sawa nipe hata ya maji, hiyo tu uko nayo.” (It’s fine, but give me at least to buy water, just the little that you have)
He gave her forty shillings and she let us proceed.
After that I went to meet some senior officials and found myself in between them and someone who refused to obey their order, and I had to sit back and look at my finger nails. Have you ever been in a room where suited up men get angry in a flash?
Words were exchanged, insults and threats delivered but in the end the one who was junior had to submit to authority and I had clean fingernails.
But, when you have had a crazy day and you miss home what do you do?
Take a stroll and take pictures of the scenery and in Homabay it’s the Lake Victoria.
Can I take your order, please?

October 23rd, 2015

Ruth called Walter on Saturday morning at eight o’clock.
He was just stepping out of his bathroom when the call came in, and he answered it after two rings.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Walter, is this a bad time? How are you doing?”
“I’m good, and you?”
“I’m you could say okay, sorry for calling so early on a Sato, but I wanted to call you out of work you know just so your Supervisor does not get on your case or something, ama wait, are you at work?”
“Not really, something like that but ni sawa.”
“I could call later if that’s okay.”
“No, it’s not a problem, it’s good to hear from you. Your voice is even more lovely over the phone.”
“Awww,thanks! So what are you doing today?”
“Stuff, but it’s nothing serious, you?”
“Stuff, but it’s nothing serious too.”
“So, we are both doing some not so serious stuff, would you like to have lunch with me today?”
“Sure, that would be nice.”
“Cool, so how about we meet at Pizza Inn opposite Hilton at say one or what do you think?”
“Sounds okay, I’ll see you then.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, see you then.”
“Yes, see you.”
“Okay, and thanks for calling you made my Sato morning.”
“It’s also great to hear your voice, I mean, like it’s nice, yeah…okay, you can do your stuff now, okay, thanks, um…have a good day.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Me too.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Yeah, bye Walter.”
“Bye Ruth.”
“See you at one.”
“Yeah, see you at one.”
“Okay then, I’ve got to go now.”
“Sawa sawa.”
He looked at the phone after she hang up and smiled then threw it on the bed so he could get dressed. He had to meet Maureen in an hour to deliver the donuts and kaimati she had asked for. It was barely half past eight, and he had two hours to spare.
He changed into his green shirt and packed the pastries before leaving for Maureen’s place. He whistled as he stepped out with boxes filled with morning delicacies for his customers in Maureen’s estate an hour away from him.
He looked at his watch and thought of Ruth getting ready to meet him. He would make it to town for their date in good time because he knew there wasn’t much traffic, but even then he could stop shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he waited for a bus at the bus stop.
Memories in pictures

October 20th, 2015

I’ll tell you about what stumped me the most while I was home after a very long time.
First, it was the church.
The St. Peter’s Church where we used to attend the first service every Sunday morning during the Christmas holidays. We would sit on wooden benches or the floor depending on how full the church was and listen to Reverend Walter’s sermon.

The main entrance of the church

I also took pictures of the home like I knew it, but it’s been years since anything made it feel like home. The cow shed is gone, the passion fruit tree withered away and in place of the open entrance there’s a gate.
Fashion, Drama, Hangovers, Food and Grief at a Funeral.

October 19th, 2015

My great-grandmother was laid to rest this past Saturday, in what might have seemed more like a play or let’s say many acts in one scene. We left the house at eight with my sister and nephew and headed for the bus stop where we boarded “Nyangoye Senior.” It’s this big blue forty eight seater bus that plies that route. There was a big placard on the dashboard that read “Kisumu- Uyoma-Luanda/Ferry.”

Our destination was Uyoma, and “Kilo/Chianda,” to be precise.

We let my nephew pick the seats and just like the five year old adventurer in him, he chose the seats next to the driver. The bus took ten minutes at the stage then took off for the petrol station. A woman seated right behind me got into an argument with the driver and tout because the vehicle was taking too long to leave the stage. She kept telling them that she had a funeral to attend, and did not want to be late. The tout shouted back at her, “Was I the one who killed the one you are going to bury? If you wanted to arrive there early you should have traveled yesterday! You can get off and board another vehicle if you are in such a hurry.” It took another ten minutes as the attendants filled the tank and we moved to the next station because they needed some air for the wheels. I have never operated those, but if they work like bicycle pumps, then ours took forever to get done! I kept my eye on the pressure indicated in the machine but all I could see were numbers that did not resonate with me.

We took off and I leaned in my seat glad because the road was smooth. I even had this feeling that we’d be home by noon. But, I had gotten ahead of myself like I always do and forgotten that this was public transportation. They stopped wherever they could and passengers only alighted at the bus stop. It took us a while but we got home safe.

But, it was finally stepping on the ground and watching the bus drive away that I was reminded of where I was. I was home. I was finally at my Father’s home. I rarely visit home, but I knew every turn and how to get to my ancestral home and my feet led the way.

When we got home, we looked for our mom for we had bought some supplies for her: Juice and Ice Cold water mostly, yeah and a tab of yoghurt.

But as we made our way around the tents I could not help but wonder how much of a festivity funerals had become. I have only attended one funeral that sucked the life out of me and that was eighteen years ago when we laid our dad to rest. I remember choking on my grief and the worst part was looking at the homestead after he’d been buried. What was left standing were the chairs and tents, and it’s been just me, my mom and sister since then.

My great-grandmother was famous for one thing, she loved cigarettes. She would scold us for buying her sugar and forgetting to buy at least a cigarette for her. She’d lived long enough to see 86 grandchildren, 200 great grandchildren and 100 great great grandchildren. I remember her crying out to God to take her life the last time I saw her because her peers and siblings had died and left her.

But the highlight of the funeral to me was the people. You see all kinds of people at the funeral, it’s more like a market but strictly like a classroom. There are the people who sit quietly and follow the programme. They listen to the sermon, eulogies, testimonies and sing along to the hymns. They stand when they are told and sit when they should.

There are also the watchers. Yes, these are the people who come from nearby places and they just come to watch how many cars and people showed up for the funeral. In most cases, these include children who collect the water bottles in between seats and who chase the dogs away while they nibble on pieces of meat. They always have so much stories to tell of the family and the people who are bereaved, if only you’d listen to them.

There are the people from diaspora. I’ll split this category into two; the family and the entourage.

The family from diaspora are those who live in the cities and who make rare appearances. In other words they only come home when they have to, and you’ll walk around wondering where your cousin Henry went to- thinking you’ll see the skinny boy who could climb mango trees or outrun the neighbors whenever he stole mandazis from their tables or guavas from their farms. Instead you will see a tall, dark and well built man with a light skinned woman by his side and a kid hugging his right leg. He’ll tell you she’s his girlfriend and the kid is his son who has turned four. You’ll step back and shift your weight from one leg to the other and only manage to say, “long time! How’ve you been, lakini?”

Then there’s the entourage from diaspora, these are the friends of some of the family members who come home in cars. They are self sufficient holding their own Keringet Water bottles and wearing the best sunglasses that mask either their hangovers or their fabulosity! Pick one. They are the life of the party, and the villagers would look at them wondering, “magi to oya kanye?” (Where are these clowns from?) But, they don’t care, they take wonderful selfies with their Samsung Tablets and fill Instagram with #funeralthings #life #ochamanenos #friendsforlife. But, before you dismiss them, know that they drove for twelve hours and they kept sharing jokes and drinks and doing their best to cheer up their friend.

Then, my favorite are the women and the shoes. I am more of a tee-shirt and jeans kinda girl when it comes to a funeral, but most people now wear black.

I love my black and wear it to work or when I’m doing my favorite things: buying stationery, buying novels and hanging out at Java. Most people seem to wear it to funerals, but for me I do not like to mix my grief with discomfort especially given the crazy heat that’s experienced this side of the world.

Going back to what I was saying, you realize that people wear shoes and the old women are taking to doll shoes and leaving the Ngoma’s to the young and restless youth who flaunt their pouts for selfies. But as you notice these things, you cannot help but be reminded of how fickle life is, for what is there will be taken and you cannot help but wonder why your mind is making you feel such deep stuff and you suddenly say to yourself, “Where’s the food? I’m hungry.”

And…the story continues tomorrow
Matatu conversations: Subaru, Hair color and Stuff

October 15th, 2015

I went to the Immigration offices here in Kisumu again, to process my travel documents and I will admit that I have come to embrace the ‘whatever happens will happen’ way of life.
First, there was the lady demanding my Dad’s ID number and photocopy after I had clearly told her that he’s been dead for eighteen years!
“You have to submit that too, Madam, go home urudi nayo!”
I assembled my papers, took a few breaths and told her as politely as I could, “I cannot produce what I do not have. You know according to the Kenyan laws, if someone dies, his family or next of kin have to surrender his ID card and post mortem report in exchange for a death certificate. My Dad has been dead for eighteen years, it’s not like I would wake him up to get what you want, so will you take the death certificate instead?”
I had clearly caused a scene, because when I turned to leave even the security guard was giving me the ‘woiye! I’m sorry for your loss’ look.
So, I went to a supermarket and bought four apples. Yes, in the world of cost and apples, I believe that 105 is quite a lucky number, and I spend just that on apples.
After that, I walked into Super Cosmetics to buy some hair color. My inner stylist has been craving for some color since I’ve been rocking my natural afro, and I wanted something either wooden brown or just brown.
I got this instead:

I don’t know what Medium Warm Brown looks like but we’ll see in a few days, won’t we?
But the highlight of my day had to be a conversation I had with this cute girl in baby dreadlocks that I met in a 44. To my diaspora friends, 44 is a matatu route here in Kisumu. The touts usually, mention at least three stopovers: Stage, Kibuye, Russia, Kondele, Kenya-Re.
So, once in I started looking at the box thinking of how weird if not incredibly awesome I’d look when this girl takes the seat beside me and goes, “is that hair color?”
I said, “Yes, I just got it.”
“Ni color gani?”
“Brown.”
“Umebuy kwa muhindi, how much?”
“Nope, nimebuy Super Cosmetics , they just opened a shop hapa Kisumu, and I wanted color poa, you know Dark and Lovely is good but kila msee ako na spicy red hair, so I thought why not try this?”
“Imagine ungeenda kwa Muhindi, ungeiget at maybe 300, ama 400, juu his cheap, but hata mimi I used Subaru before na saa hizi shida ni zingine ukibuy zinabackfire, like haishiki, but hiyo ni poa.”
“Subaru?”
“Ehe! It’s a hair color product too, yaani ulizia tu, inaitwa Subaru.”
“Nitauliza next time basi, nashuka hapa, thanks.”
“Sawa, baadaye.”

I kept thinking okay, maybe to stop my mind from going in circles is there a hair color product called “Subaru,” or am I so hung up on the vehicles that my mind is not open to any other thing associating with the name “Subaru?”

Help a sister out!
What I’ve learned while writing a Series

October 14th, 2015
The first time I thought of writing The Currents Series, I was seated at Java in Kisumu with a friend. We had just ordered some mocha (I love an iced-mocha) and he was telling me about how frustrated he was with his parents especially his Dad for expecting so much of him. He had school, piano lessons and was also working part time for the family business, and it was taking a toll on him.

He said, “It’s like his business is some throne that I’m supposed to sit on whether I like it or not.”

And that’s when I thought of writing about a young prince who had to rise to power, and take after his Father whether he wanted to or not. I remember scribbling a text and saving it as a draft.

I did not think about it for the next three months.

Then one day, as I was in a matatu making my way from work, I heard these two women talk about a Nigerian movie where the Prince was forced to marry and abide by the customs but he chose not to and instead married a blind girl whom he truly loved. I remember thinking, that could be a great story line- but when I arrived home I was too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

I did not think much of the idea until the next Saturday morning when a friend asked me if I was still writing.

So, I started by writing bits and pieces of the story. I started with the names of the kingdoms and the characters. I went with Kiswahili because each name represented something, and as days went by I carried a notebook where I would write down scenes and phrases that came to mind. I sat down one weekend and typed it all.

When I was almost done, the lights went out and I had only saved half of the work. So, I resumed my typing the next evening.

I procrastinate, and I come up with many ideas while working on one- which often causes me to lose sight of what I am working on, so I had to set up an outline (thank you Stephen King but some discipline is needed!).

I had this structure that included a sequence of events that I had to follow while writing, and I stuck with it. The best part of finishing that first book came in on December 27, 2014.

I remember holding my books, touching the cover and reading it in print and thinking, “this is what it feels like.” I mean, it was my first book in the Series, I had done everything from designing the cover, selecting the font and simply putting it out there.

But no one told me how to market the book. How was I going to get people to read it?

So, when my friends and family members bought it and read it- they started demanding for the next book. I was not ready. I remember thinking, “now what!” but the book was needed and so I had to write and I have been since then.

So, what did I learn while writing a series:
1. Have an outline. Yes, there’s that whole Stephen King debate about plunging in- but it works for him, if you are writing and seriously considering publishing an outline is the best guide you’ll ever have. You need to focus on the plot and not lose track of the story line.
2. Readers do not love you if you leave them hanging at the end of every book. In my case, I have done so gently, but I still got complaints of major cliffhangers! Each book in the series needs to highlight a major aspect of your plot while advancing it, ensure that your reader moves along with you…maintain a steady pace.
3. Get an Editor. Yes, I did not have one for my first book and though it turned out well, it could have been excellent with an Editor. If you cannot afford one, look for your English Professor and ask him/her to read it, because you might not know the tiny mistakes that slip by while you write. An Editor is like a picky eater, they consume only what is necessary. You need to weed out unnecessary words and scenes in your book.
4. Overnight success is an illusion. Write. If you think you’ll make millions in less than a year, well, let’s just say that it depends on what you are writing, but you need patience.
5. Yes, and your friends and family may be great supporters of your work, but nothing keeps a book afloat more than word of mouth- or sharing buttons in sites! They should not just tell you they love the book. They should share the links on social networking sites, and write reviews to help spread the word.
This series was personal for me. I have written and submitted manuscripts to publishers before and never got any feedback. There was one time that a publisher called me to say that he wanted someone less “White” and more “African.” His words were “Your story is good, but the English is just not like our people, you know…we are looking for something more African.” I have written articles and I decided it was enough when I read my work under someone’s name. It hurt even more when I wrote three articles only to be paid for one under the guise of inadequate funds. I remember sitting at home and looking at the MPESA text on my phone and thinking, “I get paid this little for that much work?”

So, I have never submitted any of my works to any publishers here since then.

I am writing the final book in the series, and I am not yet a millionaire, but my journey has been worth that idea, the blackout, and the frustration of editing and revision. Though I am not so keen on writing another series, but I would most definitely write a romance novel…I love a good romance.
Lessons in Leadership

October 13th, 2015

I have been taking some Leadership lessons this past week.

These lessons are set to change the way young people view their role in their families, community and country. It started with seeking a mentor, and engaging in life lessons with the mentor. I sought a Professor who helped me especially with editing Wind and our journey has had its moments. So, towards the end of the first phase of this Leadership Programme, we were told to live by some principles. They were written in email and each person got a different principle that their mentor felt they needed to work on.

I am known to be impatient, well, not most of the times- but when I have to queue, or when someone keeps on talking about the same thing and most of all when someone uses the term “basically” thrice in a presentation.

So, it’s safe to say that I deserved this principle:

Don’t interrupt people; don’t dismiss their concerns easily and do not rush to give advice, while at it do not be quick to change the subject when you are either bored or restless. Allow people their moment.

So, I have this week to work on this and see how it goes, given the fact that I am visiting the Immigration Offices today, let’s just say that I can start working on this from tomorrow, right?
Beneath the pile of Grey

October 8th, 2015

There are some scenes, but for me it is mostly dialogues, that always put me in a state. Sometimes I read and ask, “where did that come from?”

Sometimes I read and nothing resonates within me, but with Wind there was a moment that made me stop and put the manuscript down and go about the house cleaning rooms I had already cleaned.

It is a conversation that takes place five harvests later between Wema (the royal guard) and Baraka (Princess Amani’s husband). Wema and Amani were in love but Amani was a Princess and she was already promised to Prince Baraka- their marriage being that one of allegiance.

Baraka tells Wema;

Sometimes when I look at her, I see it, like grey ashes that are a reminder of a fire that once raged, and sometimes when you blow on them, you see a spark, a bright orange spark that burns beneath the pile of grey, is it too much for you to be here? Would you will your tongue to tell me what is in your heart?

Wind is only seventy-five pages, but of all that is said and done in the book, this moment made something in me stop.

It is also the only bit of dialogue that was not edited out of the story, and it makes me wonder what would happen if Amani did leave her husband for the first man she loved?

I am writing.
Coffee at 4 A.M.

September 8th, 2015

I sprung out of bed at four in the morning.

I did not ask to be awake, but I was so pressed that my body jolted out of bed and rushed to the toilet.

But, there is something brutal about getting your feet on a cold cement floor that keeps the sleep bugs away at four. I walked into the kitchen and poured the warm water from the flask into a plastic cup. See, coffee cools real fast…especially the instant that I use, so I opted for a plastic cup because plastic is a poor conductor of heat.

I sat down on the living room floor and slowly sipped my coffee as I pretended to be awake.

I thought of writing something, but was too lazy to get up from that floor. All I remember about what happened is the feeling that I was losing my touch and maybe a few words could bring back whatever pizzazz I thought I had.

Some legendary thoughts, books, speeches, and events have taken place at four in the morning, but what was legendary in my case was the need to pee and stay still while drinking coffee until sleep caught up with me.
Water Runs Slow Through Flat Land by Cliff Jones

September 6th, 2015

How many characters would cost you your job on Twitter?

Better yet, have you ever wondered what kind of trouble an errant tweet would get you? Peter, a news Editor at NPL, discovered just how much in Cliff Jones’ book, Water Runs Slow Through Flat Land.

There’s a lot to like and laugh about in this fast paced book.

First, there’s the change in technology with the digital era advancing communication and changing who tells the story and how it’s told that’s smart and comical in how Peter looks at it. He is thirty nine years old and divorced, but he is also known for not holding his tongue or rolling it back in his mouth when he needs to which is quite funny and disastrous for an Editor.

Second, there’s the dramatic turn of events that start once he travels to Afghanistan in search of a story that brings to light this humane and reflective side of Peter that you cannot help but admire.

Without revealing too much, the dialogues are my favorite part of the book because they vary in length and each character has their own style of speech. Some you notice say too much, others say one or two words and it reminds you of the various tones and situations that influence the dialogues we have in reality.

However, I can only hope that this is not the last I’d read of Peter.

It’s only 294 pages, you can buy the book on: Amazon

Read more about it by visiting the blog