nilichoandika

Shadow in the light

October 11th, 2017

There is a part of me that demands an audience. It is a dripping tap in an enclosed space. Each drop summons my conscience to utter words to an unavailable audience.

“It’s like running into a wall every second and I am tired. I will not call or remind him of what he needs to do for his son because I am tired.”

She sank back into the chair and reached out for my hand. I held her hand and waited because a dripping tap will not stop until you fasten it. Sometimes, it will give you the illusion that it has, only to drip again when unfastened.

“How much pain can a person take? Is there a limit to what one endures, where they say okay, no more pain and that’s it?”

I desire to tell her that she will feel the pain but it won’t be an everyday nightmare. She will take care of her son and he will get the best in life. She will also have to deal with unexpected invites from the son’s father because even the most irresponsible people do ask themselves “what if?”

“I changed my phone number because I want to start afresh. If my son ever wants to meet his father, then I will organize a meeting but that’s it.”

I nod and look at the little boy. He’s got his legs in the air and he is waving his hands and drooling as he smiles at me.

His father is a fool. He is one among many but who is to pull his ear and tell him that he is going to regret this? Who can beat some sense into him when he is out with his boys bragging about a son he has never laid eyes on. Or how he says that his baby mama is driving him insane and the guys nod in assent because they only have his version to go by.

It is the ultimate turnaround.

She smiles and wipes away her tears then reaches for the son and breastfeeds him. He is suckling with his feet up in the air. I need such flexibility in my life.

“I don’t know what the future holds but so help me God, my son won’t be a bailout. If he at some point gets his girlfriend pregnant, I will make him take responsibility and even go a step ahead and care for the girl because it is not easy. Sometimes I wonder did his dad really mean to marry me? How can you get your fiancee pregnant and then say ‘I’m out’ when she tells you that she is pregnant?”

There is a part of me that demands an audience and when I close my eyes I can name twenty single mothers I know. I can also name the fathers who spend their time and money on everything but their children and sometimes I too do wonder just how much pain a person can take.
On Writing

October 8th, 2017

I have been held captive for years in my writing. There is always this burning desire to achieve literary merit. I want to write a storm, to unravel a mystery using twenty six letters of an alphabet that I was taught for sixteen years. Fifty thousand words, a cover image, immense praise and mega sales of a bunch of twenty six letters.

I have been here long enough.

I do not hold a candle to Mandela but all these years have me coming back to the same place that torments me; constantly telling me that I am not good enough or African enough.

Isn’t it sad that humans struggle to be enough when they are more than enough?

Maybe I could relocate to another country, write about my experience there and then it’d be this African author in a foreign country, but I am too proud to attempt that. I’ll miss royco, trips to Kibuye market, matatu rides and being around people of the same skin color as me. I’d give a lot for great and fast internet connection, no pot-holes, concerts but then I’d miss out on never having to be the object of stares, and frankly speaking, Fanta Orange tastes awesome only in Kenya. I tried that and it back fired so I’ll build a fortress here and use the words I know, the lyrics that come close to my heart to keep these prison walls from closing in.

I am half in, half out.

Every time a story unravels in me, I return to this prison, these walls choke me into either misery or bliss depending on which path I choose. They close in and when I come up for air. A star is enough to send me back under, five stars, a mile high up.

I am half out today. I need to see the world beyond these walls that I’ve built for myself and in so doing, I’ll admit that I am a repeat offender because come dusk, I’ll be back within these walls wondering if my stories are African enough…and the best part is knowing that I am both the prisoner, the warden and the law…I only have to embrace one role.
Writing, reading and updates on this week

October 7th, 2017
I did not get a good night’s rest because I took my worries to bed. They got so comfortable that I found myself sitting on the cold floor listening to Sam Smith’s In the Lonely Hour album. How’s your week been? What did you learn, fret about or simply put enjoy this week? On writing: I am still working on Ushanga. I have got a few chapters and phrases to work on. On reading: I have read some awesome books and right now my attention is on Ice Homme (Book 3, Valdaar’s Fist Series) by Vance Pumphrey. I also tend to read two or more books at a time when I am faced with an intense work of fiction. Sometimes the kind of breather I take from such intensity comes from reading a romance novel or short story. I have covered a chapter or two into these three books, but it’s safe to say that I look forward to reading these three to the end.

Other updates:
1. I tried a detox plan this week and failed the first day by taking a cup of coffee.
2. It seems as though my kinky hair will be free from braids for another week. 🙂 I don’t know what I’d do without conditioner. I took to my friend’s advice, got an avocado and some natural yoghurt to make some treatment paste.
3. I ate the avocado.
4. I will use the yoghurt to make a chilli paste because today is bhajia Saturday!
5. Started out my Monday by visiting a close friend, babysitting and running back home to avoid clashing with demonstrators on the streets.
6. Received news from YALI stating that the program I was looking forward to had been postponed to June next year. I sank in my chair, reached out for some tea and just sat there wondering why of all that is good and evil, such a thing could come to pass!
7. It’s taking me a while to get better for I’d struck a nerve when I stepped on Bonnie’s bone and so I have days when I can walk with ease and those days when I have to set an ice pack on the sole of my foot for ten minutes and follow it up with pain killers.
Have a lovely weekend.
Books for Aurora

September 30th, 2017
I came across a post I’d published on April 28, 2014 on Jodie titled “A Girl’s Got to Dream, Right?’ I had bought over a 100 books that year and had my sister, Jackie, take this cheesy photo of me. PS: I still fit into those black shorts.

Back then I was so in love with 11 books that I believed if ever I had kids, they’d have to read them, and the eleven were:
And lastly…”A Father’s Portrait.”

It’s been three years and I’ve bought and read many more books that I have safely stored in my collection hoping that someday, I’ll have the chance to pick one and say “you should read this,” because who knows what would be popular then.

I’d probably shove my whole collection into her face but only time will tell. So, here goes something and I am glad that Sharon Maas is still on that list!
Clouds Cry

September 28th, 2017

I earned a PhD in heartbreak,

Give me a much needed break.

Look pretty, sit still, smile, care more than you should

I would, I mean is there anyone else who could?

Late nights, drunk texts, unprecedented gifts

Dinner, date nights, compliments, smiles, fits

I care more than I should,

If the roles were reversed you would.

This is not poetry,

This is not flow,

There’s no rhyme but there’s a reason,

I cannot fathom how or why,

but I finally believe clouds cry.
The Cookie Book Tag

September 27th, 2017
I came across this on The Finicky Cynic blog yesterday and it got me thinking of all the books I’ve read so I figured, why not share my experiences. I also read the posts by Melissa-The Bookish Wanderer and Nicole who created this tag last year. Thanks Nicole!

Chocolate Chip: A Classic Book That You Love or Really Enjoyed (interpret classic how you want, it can be a classic written 100 years ago or 20 years ago)

I grew up reading literary giants like Achebe, Grace Ogot, Asenath Bole Odaga and Ngugi wa Thiongo’ and this book is second in a trilogy that focuses on the changes that came with colonialism. I am still in awe of Ezeulu, the Chief priest of the god Ulu, who is the main character in this book and his struggle to remain relevant at a very trying time.

Thin Mints: A Fandom That You Really Want to ‘Join’ AND/OR a Hyped-Up Book You Want To Read (your source(s) of a book being hyped can be from anywhere)

A Court of Thorns and Roses Series by Sarah J Maas

I’ve seen so many reviews of this series on Instagram that I would love to read it.

Shortbread: An Author You Can’t Get Enough Of

Chimamanda Adichie

Samoas/ Caramel DeLites: An Emotional Rollercoaster (this cookie was hard … so any book that made you feel more than one emotion, strongly. The choice of emotions is up to you)

I still believe that if there’s a book you ought to read this year, this is it! It will break your heart, lift you up, dust you off, let you wobble a bit, break your heart, open your mind and all the while you’ll wonder just how much a person, more so, a child can take during conflict. I posted a review- here.

Oreos: A Book Whose Cover Was Better Than The Story OR Vice Versa, Where The Story Was Better Than Its Cover

If you love an epic adventure, then this book is right up your alley. I’m talking about a noble soldier, a sorcerer/caster, a dwarf, a thief and a priestess, what could go wrong? I loved the book, but the cover…not so much.

Tagalongs/ Peanut Butter Patties: A Book That Wasn’t What You Expected (good, bad, or just different, interpret how you wish)

I loved this book despite the negative reviews it received. Gabriel’s a chef who dreams of opening up his own restaurant but he struggles with actualizing his dream.

Snickerdoodles: A Book You May Never Stop Rereading/ Loving

Lizzy anyone?

Want to try this?

Here are the rules:
- In addition to linking back to the person who tagged you, it would be awesome if you link back to the original post.
- Pick a book that corresponds to the cookie’s ‘theme’.
- Have fun!
- Tag one to three people or leave it open to anyone who’d love to have fun with this tag! 🙂
Have you ever…

September 26th, 2017

Waited for a call?

There you are, seated on this plush leather couch, holding a GOTV remote in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. It’s only three in the afternoon but you know he’ll call, so you sit back, get your body heated up by tea as you raise your temper by watching a Nigerian film.

You have watched it six times, and no matter how ticked off you are by the desire for Africa Magic to show it over and over again as though each scene changes with every replay, you like it. In fact you love the upcoming fight scene between Nzanzi and Patience.

You take the last sip of tea and walk into the kitchen to wash one cup, because if it’s dirty it’s gotta be cleaned. It has nothing to do with the fact that you just cleaned that sink with disinfectant an hour ago.

It’s four o’clock. No calls, no text messages, no reminders so you activate your mobile data and scroll down the notifications on your facebook home page. You want to check in on him, see what he’s done or where he is, but a sane strand of pride reminds you of your heritage. Descendant of Cleopatra, daughter of the Nile, dark, bold and beautiful, daughters of the Lake reign, who are you to crave attention?

So, you switch to Instagram and check a few updates from GlobalGiving, JustJared, and slowly turn back to Pinterest in search of the latest Ankara and Kitenge designs.

It’s five and you deactivate your mobile data and sit back on that leather couch and think of a thousand ways to vent your frustration. He will call. He promised. You wait and then look around and you hold your friend, the blue crown ink pen you got at Choppies for thirty shillings, and you say “well, at least you are here, let’s make him suffer in a story.”

The pen nods.

Your hand glides over the paper, masterfully crafting a story with a sad painful beginning and ending for him. “We could stab him and watch him crawl towards help.”

“Too brutal darling, how about we ask him out and never show up?”

“Devil! We could as well unleash the cold war on him while we do that, like set our phone on airplane mode for three days. When he calls we can say we misplaced a charger or something and then simply give him the cold shoulder.”

“You are worse than the devil, but we both know you have his number engraved on your mind.”

“So what, I am good with numbers but, he does not know that, let’s begin the story by stabbing him in the morning.”

“Why stab him and why in the morning?”

“You don’t know anything do you?”

It’s six thirty when you look up and stop writing. There is only one notification from Safaricom “Tunukiwa bundles,” and you know he will not call.

You finally go into your room, take off the new black dress you had and change into your smurfs pajamas. You take off those leopard print heels and walk into the kitchen. When you reach out for the knife to dice onions; your phone rings. So, you keep dicing those onions and humming that “Mercy” tune by Shawn Mendes because a good cry never hurt a soul, especially where onions are involved.

You settle down to have your supper at eight. He’s called six times.

He is still calling but we both know you are done and there’s something about growing cold and becoming impenetrable that he is yet to learn. So, every call fuels the freezing process and then you find yourself watching Spongebob Squarepants till midnight.

Have you ever wanted that?
Shadows in the forest

September 20th, 2017

If you would have asked Henry what being caught between two women felt like; he would have told you, “like Samson, standing in the Philistine temple.”

It is the kind of feeling my mother says makes monkeys flee when a storm is brewing.

Henry remembers the numbness he felt when he first met Grace. She was poise, charm, beauty and intelligence. He remembers taking her in as though he was working in a vineyard, tending to berries that would produce the finest quality of wine.

He could not bring himself to speak in her presence and for two weeks, this unnerved him. He walked into a room and people got to their feet, but with Grace, just one look, or the awareness that she was around him, rendered him helpless.

He did not as a result, later on, tell her about the wife and kids. Leah belonged to another realm. He attended to her in that realm and cherished every daylight with Grace.

“We are not as the world would seem,” he would say to Grace every time she raised an eyebrow or tilted her head to the side as she watched him.

He did not unravel the mystery that were; Daniel, Samuel, Jonathan and Delilah; his children.

If you would have asked Henry what it felt like when Grace told him “Don’t” and turned her back to him, he would tell you he didn’t know what you were talking about.

It’s like my mother says, “There are so many ways to break a man, but a man who lets himself be wounded is the kind that forests never speak of.”
Voices in the forest

September 19th, 2017

What is it about voices that make them storm through our minds at odd places? The places our souls frequent, to get that sense of calm; places like temples, churches, mosques, shrines.

These voices perch on our shoulder and proceed to mock every word, feeling or thought we have.

What is it about these voices that wake up a wife at three o’clock in the morning? The voices that help her watch her husband sleep and list the ten thousand ways she could kill him. She looks at his neck, the thing of beauty that holds his head, and smiles. She then slips the knife beneath her pillow and drifts off, her slumber summoning the voices.

If you would have asked Leah at that moment, what it felt like seeing the goddess that summoned her husband, she would have laughed. My mother calls it “the face,” and she says “every woman has that face, the one that neither the world nor her offenders can read.”

Leah would tell you that she does not care and isn’t that how a storm is brewed?
Ghosts in the forest

September 18th, 2017

If you would have asked Grace how she felt in that moment, you would have glimpsed at something. My mother says it is like the oldest tree falling in the forest at noon, when the sun has fully kissed the earth.

Grace.

Henry.

He always said that he was named after a missionary. He brought good news, conquered her heart, toyed with her will. When he called she ran. When he said, “I want to see you,” she packed an overnight bag.

Grace was his light. She felt like his partner, the one drug strong enough to numb his nightmares, but nightmares called wife and children can never be wished or kissed away. If Grace were to ask anyone, or tune into any local morning radio talk show, she would have received her judgment. She was too smart to feed her brain such mush, instead she took it as it came; the love and kindness, but of all, she lived for the way he cherished her.

Dinner after a long day at work.

Career recommendations and the phrase he kept saying “never change yourself to suit a man, change to suit yourself, keep your dreams alive and never stop working.”

It’s why eight months later seeing Henry at a dinner party walking with his arm around her made Grace desire never ending sleep. When he found the courage to walk up to her, she shook her head firmly, as though each shake could wipe away the images that were playing in her mind.

He reached out for her hand, “Grace.”

“No, don’t,” she said and took one look around the room, but even then she knew. She knew that his wife knew and that is what my mother says is like sharpening a knife.