nilichoandika

Forgiven: Nuru

February 3rd, 2019

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.

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Forgiven: Baraka

January 31st, 2019

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.

Mike Ko/ Unsplash
Forgiven: Salama

January 30th, 2019

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?

Steve Johnson made this/ Unsplash
Confessions

January 26th, 2019

“What would you do if I die? I wonder…like would you tell everyone you and I were close? What would you say if they asked ‘how close?’…I hate this…”

I look at everything in the room but you.

You have been here for two days, red watery eyes, blocked nose, a pounding headache, a certain loss of flavour but even then you still ask me the questions I would rather not be asked.

“Hey, I am sorry…my ears are buzzing, can you get me some painkillers, like strong stuff! No, get me a drink…kuna CM hapo kwa jikoni…karibu na gas…please”

“You cannot mix your medication with alcohol. Yaani homa tu na unakufa!”

“Hey, please…I know you love seeing me like this, but truth is, you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“You are not going anywhere, especially if you adhere to your doctor’s instructions, sit up, I got you some Dawa from Java.”

“You should marry Java, you breathe, eat, sleep and drink a Coffee House. It’s no wonder you haven’t made anything of our situation.”

“Sit up!”

“Now, don’t be harsh Love. I’ll have the Dawa and I promise I won’t ask you stupid questions, but really…you know what, my old man, Baba Phillip used to smoke before and after every meal. He’d joke that he had to heat up his system before and after a meal, so one time he went to the hospital and never came back. I was in class three I think, but Mom never cried, sometimes, I wonder if she ever did miss the old man.”

Ali Yahya/ Unsplash

“You are not your Father.”

“Well, I spent all my life running away from him only to realize that I could not outrun what I already was, so, you never know…but look, if anything ever happened to me, would you cry?”

“Did you take some truth portion?”

“You always make me laugh…it’s hard being around me, but if you ever write about me, tell them how handsome and moody I am, who knows, someone might want to cast me in a movie and I can be famous.”

“Like you’d care…”

“If it’d make you say ‘yes’ then I would…give me that Dawa. You can go home, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll stay here and look at you…you never know, one day maybe just one day you’ll figure me out.”

“I already did Love, it’s you who is yet to give herself room to bloom…”
Vision

January 24th, 2019

Juan Manuel Merino/Unsplash.com

You caught my eye,

I know I was looking for something vibrant; a red rose, a pink one, or maybe just a snapshot of enough coffee to make my day.

But then I scrolled down and you caught my eye…not as subtle as it felt, but more like a full grasp, like “hey you!”

So here I am thinking of all the things to say,

Something that could maybe get people to sway,

Or have the readers stay,

But it doesn’t change the fact that you caught my eye.

A vision to behold.
In the Quiet

January 18th, 2019

My biggest mistake is my inability to keep my innermost thoughts to myself. Sometimes, it is adding one spoon of sugar to my coffee instead of just sticking to two spoons.

So when I told Grumpy, “I like it when you don’t talk to me,” it was meant to fizzle out in the thick air of silence that he’d created, but the thing about words and intent is that they never align.

It’s like shaving your head in winter.

He looked at me, straightened his trousers, took his car keys and left.

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My greatest strength lies in my child-like ability to bounce back from a few disappointments. My threshold is three disappointments a week.

So when it felt like I could not breathe for two days and when nothing seemed to ease me out of the web of worry I had weaved around myself, I resorted to prayer, but even that did not seem to help. I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. I tried but choked on my tears, silenced a scream and for hours…the beating of my heart threatened to wear me out.

I have never known such fear…and that’s when Grumpy called.

It was not his call I was expecting.

At such a time…but I answered it nonetheless…

“Hey, I know I am hogging the line when you want to hear from her. She’s fine. God’s got this and even if he doesn’t, he’s sent a great team to see to it that she makes it out alive.”

So, I held onto my breath…paced up and down in the dark, and sometime at half past five in the morning when it was too hot to pace and I was lying on the cold cement floor, I got a text from her.

It was not enough and it was until I heard her voice that finally…the beating of my heart reminded me of the sheer calm after overcoming a storm and it was there, in the quiet that I knew love is my only strength and on the opposite side, across the street, lies worry…and she’s a crazy catalyst.
Shards of Glass

January 10th, 2019

We love Thursdays.

You and I.

It’s the one day we can say brings out the truth in us. I love Mondays but even saying this in your presence is exorcism.

“I know everything about you,” you say. I tilt my head so I can take in your demeanor.

My Mother says that you can tell a lot about a man by the way he sits when no one is watching. So, I gaze into your eyes-but see nothing but pools of brown, so I look at your chains, you call it financial freedom, but that ID Tag you wear to work is what binds you to a shred of honor.

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“Tell me everything.”

“No, that would be too easy, besides I am just a Banker, it’s you who is the Writer. You throw around some words and they make up a person.”

“You know so little.”

“I know everything, trust me, like…listen, let me make you a cup of tea.”

I wince, but you do not see me re-arrange my face because you have gone so far into the kitchen to notice. These one-bedroom apartments. There is nowhere to run.

“We are like shards of glass, don’t you think so?” you ask, I am standing by the door, my right foot already in my shoe. I look up and see you walking towards me, “See, this is exactly what I mean. Where are you going to?”

“Um…well, I’m just going to the shop across the road to buy bread.”

“I have bread.”

“Really? Um…what brand?”

“I don’t know, it’s bread, white bread and there is also some brown bread but I think it’s lasted more than a month. So, you can take off that shoe and come sit with me. Let me tell you everything.”

“Look…”

“I am done looking. I am listening and right now, I know you will come up with an excuse not to stay because I am making tea, but I said tea when I meant coffee. So, yes, I am making you coffee- black, right?”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Good question but you are asking the wrong person, maybe we could ask you, sneaking out of someone’s house because they offer to make you tea which you don’t like, and instead of declining the offer like a normal person you try sneaking out.”

“That is the longest sentence you have ever uttered, do you know that?”

“You talk a lot when you are trying to get yourself out of a situation.”

“Thank you Mr. Revelation.”

“You are welcome Miss Salty.”

“Shut up.”

“How long are we going to dance around each other, it’s 2019 for crying out loud and the sooner we make this-and I am pointing at you and I repeatedly, the better for the heavens. I’ll stick to my world of numbers and allow you passage into the world of words. I promise to forget this as often as I can, but seriously, how long will we be at this?”
A Reader’s Life: Things I do not want to hear in 2019

January 8th, 2019

There is no greater joy than losing and finding yourself within the pages of a book. However, life’s tough for any reader both offline and online and I’m setting the record straight on some comments/remarks/questions that I sincerely do not want to hear this year.

Oh, so you read that?

Yes, I read it. I will continue reading it and do me a favor, keep your nose in your book/phone/online profile and let me enjoy my reading time.

How do you manage to read so many books? Where do you get the time?

I can bend time, so instead of 24 hours, I get double that just to read, have you tried it?

Why would you review a book?

One, given the advent of social media, a review is currency gold for any author. I should know this because I have written a few books and it helps having someone say “your book was recommended by so and so,” and they go ahead and buy it.

Two, every book is an experience and instead of posting a #selfie I would not mind telling you about this world I traveled to.

Three, if I love a book, I’m not going to keep quiet about it.

You ask for free books to read?

Yes! I do. There’s this site called Netgalley. I signed up simply to read books by authors who are trying to navigate the web and get the attention of readers who are lured in by millions of other things.

So, yes…if I am intrigued by the blurb, author, or sometimes the cover of a book, I’ll request to read it, preserve the content, respect the author’s copyright and read a review.

Romance, seriously?

Have you read any romance novel of late? I can recommend a gallery of them if you do mind. I understand that the plot is predictable and you are guaranteed a happily ever after conclusion or sometimes it’s delayed until you’ve read three or four books of a series, but romance is interesting.

Well, you should read more African books

“The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go.” – Dr. Seuss

I am African and my reading has been largely influenced by masterpieces like Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Grace Ogot, Azenath Bole Odaga, Okot pBitek, Chinua Achebe and so with this, I have no qualms save for it not being the only goal or genre aspect that I have to adhere to.

If I’m intrigued by it, I’ll read it.

For how else would I know that most books written by Irish authors make me both nostalgic and melancholic? Or how delicious British humor is, or how in-depth Caribbean writers can get.

Those are some of the comments I really hope I never get to hear again this year but all in all, have an awesome year, and I hope you read a book or books.
Call Me Sunday

January 6th, 2019

Call Me Sunday when you come undone.

You are the sweet taste of a lazy morning, a yearning for that service, communion of sorts…I squeeze you in words, wring you in thoughts, and pound you in feelings.

I am not the pestle but rather the mortar that creates room for pounding.

Happy is a state, you say.

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Call Me Sunday when you come undone.

“You know…of all the people I have met in my life, you remind me of a spark, I smoke. Yes, one of my guilty pleasures but it’s you that I inhale, exhale and sometimes it is you that I light up and put out.”

“So, I am cancerous, is that it?”

“Oh, for a Writer you don’t get words!”

“Really?”

“Come here…Call Me Sunday, Love. I need forever even if it comes wrapped in a second, a month, a year, a week, a breath…I do not care for much, just this…”

Call Me Sunday when you come undone, for every word, every thought comes to me and when I lay my head down, it’s my beating heart that reminds me of how far I let forever go.
Books for Aurora

January 3rd, 2019

Nothing beats going through a family library, a collection of books that made an impact on a loved one so much so that they preserved them for years. I shared a set of books I’d set aside in 2015 under “Books for my daughter.” I’ve read many more titles since then especially ebooks.
So, whenever I come across books that move me, I keep them safe, set them aside for my daughter.

I hope she loves reading and does not limit her words to one genre but reads as many books and as diverse authors as possible.
I hope that she comes across a book, looks at it with awe, and asks questions about the book. For, if she asks “how did you come across this book?” I’ll have an answer and a story to accompany it.
And dear heavens, if she is not a book lover, spare me the heartbreak and whatever you do, do not turn me into her enemy when I try to make her read.