My parents were secondary school teachers. My father taught Biology and Agriculture but his love shone more in football because the first thing he ever taught me was neither Biology nor Agriculture but the reason why a football team had eleven players.
My mother taught English Literature and Christian Religious Education, but we all knew Jesus was like that green brooch she wore to church, she called upon him when she wanted to but when it came to a beating or a tongue lashing, Jesus, just like Father took a backseat often raising the newspaper so high you’d forget there was a person hidden behind those leaves.
We were at the table. Mom had prepared my favorite dish, ugali and omena, for supper. My sister was eager to share the events of the day starting with the unnecessary fact that I had lost the pencil given to me by Mom that morning.
Lowering my head did not help for if there were two things Mom hated was one wearing your shame on your face and two, not answering a question that she asked you not to answer.
It always came in bouts of ‘don’t talk back at me,’ and in a span of three seconds she would demand ‘don’t you have anything to say for yourself?’
My sister, two years older but never wiser than me had perfected the art of silence when Mom confronted her. She would keep her lips tightly shut for days until Mom would beg her to talk by buying her patco.
I, on the other hand, would let my tears do the talking and when it got too much for her, the sniffing and the blowing of the nose would make her send me to my room without supper or a treat.
Killing Trees is a short story I submitted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize. You can read the full story: Killing Trees
I lost my mind over the need to wrap up this book so much so that I did not write a word of it for three months. It’s the most frustrated I’ve been and I have the distinct feeling that anyone who’s read my previous publications would definitely want to throw this in my face, but I’m here for that…I think, it’s time for another kind of high, another kind of story telling that doesn’t drain me as much as the need for the perfection of this book did.
So, hello world, my latest story, Sifuna, is available in a few stores. Get the links here: (https://books2read.com/u/b5xlqp)
If you rounded up all the cowards in the world, Baoya would be their leader. However, Baoya was his father’s son, and his father was Lamaana. To the people who knew the history of democracy in Kenya, Lamaana was a name that was etched in history books. There was a street in the capital city named after the valiant and humble leader. To say that Baoya was a coward is to insult the memory of Lamaana, but, sometimes if not all times, the truth has to be given room to announce its presence.
Baoya walked into his office at noon holding the daily newspaper in his hand. He had called in earlier to cancel two meetings. Akinyi, his beautiful wife, had already gone to work. She had prepared the children for school before leaving for work like she always did. He was hanging his coat by the door when his secretary walked in with a tray. “Good morning Baoya, how are you doing today?”
“I am fine, thank you. Do we have any updates on the stock from Nairobi?”
“Mr. Patel called to inform us that he had already sent his team. They should be at our warehouse by two this afternoon. He apologized for the inconvenience stating that there was some kind of holdup at Naivasha at the checkpoint.”
“Patel is the greatest liar of all time. What kind of inconvenience does he mean, especially at a checkpoint and more so of a truck transporting household items?”
“I don’t know. Look, I have brought you some tea and bread. There is a meeting that you have to attend at four today so don’t miss out.”
“I’m sorry about this morning. We could not get sleep last night. A group of boys came to our house and they were chanting slogans in support of Laghai. I had to sneak my wife and the kids out of the compound and check them into a hotel for the night.”
“Can I say something?”
“I have never prevented you from speaking your mind Dorothy.”
“You should not trust everything you hear from Sifuna. I know we are childhood friends. Trust me; I am grateful that you gave me a job when no one else was willing to. I also know that you cannot trust a man who starts speaking before unbuttoning his coat when he sits.”
“Are you saying that you do not trust him based on how he dresses?”
“I am saying that is one of the reasons why I do not trust him. Look, you are a businessman. You have been a pillar for your community for over five years. You never thought of taking up a political position.”
“It was all before the government was devolved.”
“I know and devolution is a great way of spreading national resources to the forty seven counties. I do not see how you would choose to be despised by people all in the name of vying for a position.”
“I am willing to try. I do not know what the outcome would be but sometimes when I think of how hard I work to ensure that the scholarship beneficiaries are in school, I wonder just how much more I can take.”
“You will need millions to campaign. When you campaign there is a likelihood that you could either win or lose. If you win then you have access to a salary and more networking opportunities within the government. The way I see it, these networking opportunities will either come with demands for kickbacks or not, so you either get forty percent of what you need or become blacklisted among the politicians as a morally upright person. Once you are blacklisted the plans for the demise of your political career begin. It is not worth all the stress Baoya, trust me, you are better off leading as you’ve always been doing.”
“They are pushing me into something that I never wanted to relive Dorothy. Yes, I know that Sifuna is not to be trusted because of all that’s happening to me, the greatest concern was who leaked my identity to News Channel. Akinyi told me that she felt it was Sifuna. I also thought so at first but then he weaved his way out of that question with his silver tongue.”
“If you ever wondered where the serpent in the Garden of Eden slithered to, I’d say he took another form and perched on Sifuna.”
So, here’s the deal, today’s my birthday. It’s also International Women’s Day. So, here’s more power to women.
I thought of settling down this Sunday, getting my thoughts together and writing this post but there’s no way that’s happening because I am working over the weekend and come midnight, this day’s gone! So, yeah, turning older is quite the treat and this year, I am miles away from my family so it means no Java treats! I’m simple like that[coffee+ cake]
But here’s one little thing about birthdays that irks me; “hbd.”
I have a feeling that social media has made us lazy- I miss the days of birthday cards and greeting cards and stuff like that because you do not want to know the number of times I rolled my eyes upon seeing “hbd” or worse off “HBD” on my Facebook timeline! Seriously, take half a minute and at least type “Happy birthday,” put in some work please! It’s just one day and then I’ll not ask for anything else, just type in the words…like your smartphone could prompt the words for you too, why not put it to use?
I whined about this last year, but my whining this year goes to show that not all my friends read my blog, because they’d have gotten the memo.
It’s been an interesting work/ relaxing day for me. All I wanted was to sit down, eat fish and listen to Emma Jalamo. Since moving to Mbita, I’ve become fond of the Tourist Hotel that’s a five-minute walk from where I stay and it’s got a lovely view of the Lake and amazing staff, so I thought why not spend my birthday there and just relax?
Here’s my look of “please get my fish ready asap!”
And here’s what I was served…and you know the eagerness that comes with wanting something? Well, let’s just say that I did finish the fish but not the chips 😦 because you know I had to get another cup of coffee at sunset!
Fish+Chips 🙂
I am learning that I don’t always have to be right and it’s more about understanding the other person in that particular context. On top of this, I am dealing with falling short of this lesson because I’m often wondering just what next?
It’s difficult not wanting to say “I told you so,” but all in all, I am glad that I’ve come this far and still working on my writing so that’s something.
So, I am at the office and it seems like Fridays here are the laid back work days and I’m the opposite. Monday is my favorite day of the week and Friday is the day I dread the most because people switch into weekend mood Thursday after lunch and that means very little gets done.
So, I was seated and a guy I’ve known for a while, sends me a text “Hi, look I am sorry,” and in typical Pisces fashion, I do not respond, not even when he calls or texts again and at this point I am losing my sanity because I am using my phone as a hotspot and every time he calls he interferes with the internet connection! Were we always like this? No. What did he do? Or rather what led to this?
It’s a Friday y’all, sit down, grab a drink (non-alcoholic if you’re at work) sit back and read on.
We’ve been friends for close to a year and he’d often call in to check up on work, my writing and generally how I was doing. So, he decides (this is some time back) to invite me over to his place via text “hey, come have supper at my place.” I answer “yes” because he’s making supper and that means I get to eat and not have to do dishes. He’s made supper and I eat up and then, I’m like, “I’ve got to go.”
He fidgets and says “why should you go? Why don’t you stay over? It’s late.”
I answer “No, I’ll get an Uber and go back home. Thanks for supper.” At this point he’s frustrated and decides to say how he’s got a soft spot for me and has always hoped that we’d be more than friends and I nod as he talks and then put my bag down and sit directly opposite him. I pull out my phone, check out any available cabs around his place and then put the phone down. A guy walks in, says hello, bumps fists with him and walks to another part of his house.
I ask, “who is he?”
“He’s my friend. We stay in this place with him and my bro.”
“How many rooms are here?”
“Two bedrooms and they share the other room. I’ve got my own room and all.” So I tell him I’d like to use the bathroom. He shows me where it is and while there I see Pink lotion, remnants of combed weave on a hairbrush that’s lying in the sink. There is a string running across the top of the bathroom tied to the shower that displays not one but three female panties and I smile.
When I return, he’s locked the door and says “so are you spending the night?”
I look at him and say “No, I’ll get an Uber.”
He shakes his head and says “look, I’m being vulnerable here and telling you how I feel and you are not doing anything to at least listen or open up to me.” I ask him to sit down and make sure that my pen is in my hand, in case he tries something- I could John Wick him! At this point I am scared and also angry and I realize that I am on the verge of losing my cool when he tries to kiss me. So, I push him and tell him, “You want a one night stand. You want someone to sleep with and wake up having had as many rounds as you wish and then go back to seeking something else.”
“No, I love you.”
“No, you love the idea of getting with me and it’s temporary, but here’s the thing, I can choose to let you treat me like that or I can walk away and let you continue searching for some quick lay. I’ll get an Uber and go home and you will not call, text or even try this on me.”
“Hey, but you ate what I made you?”
“Yes, if you are charging for that, I’ll pay you standard hotel rates, how much for the meal?”
“No, look…listen…”
“Good night.” I remember rushing to the door and walking out (thank heavens I was in Ngomas and all I had to do was slip in my feet and start walking). I stepped out of his place at 10pm, walked to the nearest mall, had late night coffee as I waited for an Uber and then got home. What made me remember this encounter is the fact that as I told a couple of my friends about it, the guys laughed and said “that guy had the worst night of his life” and then added that “the end justified the means.”
At that point, I could not utter much because I simmer. Yes, my anger is slow to rise to the surface but what I felt was like I had little value, for how much does good conversation cost? How much does committing to knowing a person cost? How much does it cost to emotionally invest in connecting with someone? And aren’t I worth that?
Situational ethics or situation ethics takes into account the particular context of an act when evaluating it ethically, rather than judging it according to absolutemoral standards.
It’s been over three months since the incident and he did keep off until he started sending streams of texts apologizing. Do you remember me telling you that I simmer? Yes, and here’s the other thing, I do not forgive easily. It’s my burden and often it seems like it should weigh me down, but it doesn’t because I write people off. Here’s the deal; he was a friend, he showed me what he thinks of me and I’m done. He’ll make better friends, he could certainly do without me- and I’m hoping he does.
I’ve learned that people never forget how you make them feel and I most certainly read up on Situational Ethics on Campus to know that there’s some crazy stuff right there….
Kinky Friedman, a songwriter, once said “Find what you love and let it kill you,” but the world attributed it not to him but to Charles Bukwoski and ever since then…generations have come to believe those nine words as gold from Bukwoski.
Ieva Vizule/Unsplash.com
You say I come undone when the world sleeps,
You do not believe what I say but rather, you’ll wait to read what I post on my blog and sometimes, mull over it for days before you finally ask me about it.
I write, you read in between the lines.
Oh, you sweet pain…you are like a hot shower in summer,
Like being stopped by a traffic policeman the day you changed purses and your license is in the other brown bag in your room.
It’s like the persistent facebook message from that guy who is constantly saying “hi” or “hello” for a whole month.
So, I sit back and let you soak in the sun of your enlightenment.
You look at me and smile and then you ask “who is he?”
We both know that you are right, but suddenly the beating of my heart wants my mouth to stay shut, but the fluttering on my stomach won’t allow the butterflies to stay still. I sip my juice, look at the lake, swing my right leg, anything but look at you.
“He must be something.”
I want to speak but my words fail me and so you cover my hand with yours. “I would be the happiest man alive if you finally said ‘yes’ but I do not want your pity. If you choose me, I want it to be because you really want to…and maybe some day we can laugh about this and tell our kids how long it took us…”
“Hey…can you see that ferry over there?” I ask.
“You would make a great Mom. You love to read, write…and I see how you are with babies, remember the time when my niece couldn’t stop crying and you walked up and held her and just like that, that siren became silent. My sister could have married you that day.”
“The ferry is coming back this way…it’s almost six.”
You nod and then drink up what’s left of my juice. It’s the one thing I cannot resist about you. How well you know what to finish up and what to leave unto me.
“I hope he lets you be.” You say and pull me into another one of those hugs that remind me of the little things I miss about home. As we walk towards the docking station, your grip tightens and I let you…because for once I am smitten, and he’s unaware of my infatuation or should I call it interest, but this little spark cannot dim until I know where I stand with him.
If he’s not then this little spark of mine will dim and maybe, just maybe I’ll finally find the courage to let you see, what it is about you that scares me so much I’d rather run into you than away from you.
So, if Kinky Friedman is right, then maybe…just like my way with words, we’ll finally find our way to each other.
Our people say that you should not curse the land you walk upon.
They are right. They are wrong. They have no say on where you step on, but I heard about her. For every time I blink, I imagine what she would look like, her laughter, her touch, her hair…her teeth, her footsteps.
When they are not watching, I walk down to the river, sit on the big rock by the bank, talk to the water, ask it to bring her voice my way.
She was a rare beauty.
She was a lovely soul.
She had the moon in her eyes, the sun in her smile and the wind in her walk.
I listen and send my pleas to the river, how the water flows…miles and miles away, taking our stories, hopes, dreams, fears and pain down a path unknown to us. Where does the river end her journey? I once asked and Father told me to go and ask the river, it might give me an answer to my question.
How do you live your life as a shadow? I’ll tell you…you take a breath when the world is asleep, look not into people’s eyes but stare at the steps they leave behind when they walk away from you…and finally, you visit the river every day asking her to bring back to life the sister you never met.
For like the stars, she shines brightly but is so far away that if she were to come closer…then maybe, just maybe, you would take a breath when the world is wide awake, and finally they’ll get to see you.
Our people utter proverbs when the truth is heavy on their tongues.
How easy it is to roll out lies, like someone casting groundnuts into their mouth, one goes in, then another, and another…and in between pauses, words are uttered, but no breath taken. These people could turn into ashes and I would walk over them sizzling hot and grey.
They say I drink.
You see the women scrunch up their noses whenever I approach them on the road. One path for the drunkard, another for the righteous gossip. The one who wags their tongue faster than their breath for it’s better to talk about your neighbor’s woes than it is to lend a helping hand.
I dream of ashes.
I dream in grey.
My Salama…my beautiful piece of the moon, cast away…bloated, pale and never to smile or call me “Baba.” Oh, these ashes call my name…‘Baraka!’ they taunt and chant and whisper in the dark and I drown them with the one thing that works.
Mnazi.
Oh, this is the best gift these ashes ever made…they act like people, demand to be treated like gods but are ashes, piles of grey…oh how my feet yearn to trample on them simply to behold my Salama.
Our people say that the forgiven are free.
Our people forget about the ones who cannot forget.
They say that memories weigh us down like sacks of maize on our backs. Salama went to the river to fetch water but of those whom she walked past, greeted, fetched water with…no one can tell me how it is that the same river swallowed her up without them seeing.
Forgiven?
Who is to be forgiven when everyone here says they never saw or heard her cries? How is it that the river, this river before me…brown, raging but always still…how could it swallow up my moon while the sun was shining?
I dream of ashes but most of the time alI I see is grey smoke…I have lost her eyes, smile, smell…the seasons come and go but nothing remains of her. Every season takes away bits of my Salama, now I have her voice but even holding onto that does not stop me from seeing grey smoke.
Our people say that whatever weighs you down is what you hold on.
They have been through many seasons, our people, but still their words have never moved their sons and daughters into living. For how could they have known that war, deceit, time and self would build a bridge so vast that even their sons and daughters would never behold each other?
I wonder what they’d say if they knew what happened with Salama.
For there are tales of sorrow and those of sheer evil and Salama’s is one that tops what the devil would claim as his masterpiece. It is told when the world is silent, when the leopards come out to hunt and the hyenas stay close by…laughing, awaiting a tasty meal.
Salama was born when the time was right.
Her skin was coal, her eyes, the moon and her touch, a soft whisper of the evening wind. Wherever she went, eyes widened, glances turned into stares and those who knew her have never answered one question…why, why it happened to her and most of all, who did it?
So, when I look back, I see her in strokes of color, splashes of blue, sparks and splotches of orange…a spark that died too soon and when I finally come to know of the woman she might have been…I think of forgiveness…our people say that they forgiven are the lucky ones, the ones who understand rebirth…in Salama’s case, I wonder, who are the forgiven?
nilichoandika 