nilichoandika

My aunt Millicent

October 25th, 2016

My aunt, Millicent, could smell pregnancy a mile away. It was no surprise when she knocked on my Mother’s door at six o’clock in the morning. She had just got off the phone with Milka. What she had to say could not wait. I stepped aside and she walked right past the sitting room to my Mother’s bedroom ignoring the greetings she received along the way.

Milka, Aunt’ Beryl’s daughter, is the first girl to get a direct entry into the University. She is going to be the first doctor in a family of teachers, priests and counselors. Aunt Beryl speaks of Milka during breakfast, lunch, and supper. She sings her praise in the toilet, while washing dishes, walking to the market or negotiating fare at the bus stop. The touts, boda boda men and market women know her as ‘Mama Daktari.’ Milka is just in her first year. I hear that most people never make it past the second year studying Medicine. She could slaughter a chicken, so maybe she can stand the sight of blood and meat.

Aunt Millicent stomps into the sitting room with my Mother in tow. I am dismissed to quickly serve them tea. When I return with the tray in hand, Aunt Millicent begins, ‘I know you all think I have nothing to do except brew trouble, but something tells me that Milka is going to pile buckets of shame on her mother.’

‘How can you say this after just one phone call?’

‘The voice does not lie. You should know this! Listen, someone has to go to Nairobi and check on that girl, I am certain that Beryl would not take it if her daughter disappointed her.’

‘So, what do you think the problem is?’

‘She is pregnant.’

‘Milka? No! She cannot be, are you sure?’

‘Listen, you have had six children, more than the number of fingers you have on one hand, so you know how children love to make their presence known. There is the nausea, vomiting, demand for certain foods, the stretching and blowing up until you push them out only to have them do what you least expect them to.’

‘Milli! You are crazy to say let alone think that Milka is pregnant and until she confirms it, no one will go to Nairobi or speak to her mother about it. Is that clear?’

Aunt Millicent looked at my mother, smiled and gathered her lesso, fastened it around her waist and walked out the same way she walked in. Mother shook her head and continued sipping her tea careful not to spill any for her hands were trembling.

‘Do you think Aunt Millicent is telling the truth Mom?’

‘She has never lied about anything in her life, but no mother would want her daughter side tracked from her dreams and I am certain that when the truth comes to light Milka’s mother will not be able to handle it.’
For a while now

October 24th, 2016

The art of spinning a tale has eluded me for a while now. Like smoke off a cigarette butt, it is caressed by the wind and vanishes unaware of my sorrows. I thought about it at 4am sitting on the cold cement floor in my bedroom, one leg stretched out to accept the cold and the other folded as though being introduced to the cold. I think at 4am, often write at 2am and clean the house from 6:30am when nothing but cold water reminds me of chores that are to come.
What usually starts with a word, a feeling and ends in a composition has left me thinking of what should not happen.

These thoughts keep me company as I take strong tea, brush up my hair and tie it in a bun and leave for work. I plug in my earphones and click on ‘No longer slaves’ by Jonathan and Melissa Hessler. I walk to work, slowly making my way past Uzima University (they have a new bus and students whose attention is always on the road and not their destination), Frank’s place– he makes the best chips and has chilli sauce for days. I walk past the Carpenter’s shop at Robert Ouko who walks into his shop every time he sees me approaching, mistaking me for my sister, he never fixed the drawers she had paid him to, in September 2014.
My feet advance me towards the Le Savanna Junction, where motorcyclists speed past you’d think the traffic police were right behind them, by this time the song I am listening to is almost ending.

So, I slow down and watch the vehicles speed past me, children rush past me to school and I take in the stench of the latrines of St. Mary’s Kibuye Girls. At this time, I am tempted to start dancing as Usher’s song, ‘No Limit’ starts playing and then I realize that I don’t got that same master p he’s talking about, but even as I smile and laugh, the people walking past me think I am crazy. They would not know the joy of listening to lyrics and not the beats of a song.

I walk on past Mountain View estate, four tuk tuks are parked, and the drivers in their seats ready to take passengers.
I make my way to the coca cola shop across the road, buy two sachets of Nescafe, hand the man twelve shillings- careful not to brush his fingers, he has yellow fingers- the kind Magda calls tinted fingers. He smiles, ‘have a good day today.’ I nod and walk past the woman who sells tea and hot mandazi to the boda boda guys every morning. She has a purple head wrap today. I love the yellow one, it’s the epitome of fresh sunflowers.

By this time, my playlist has reverted to either some Daughtry or what I always call mellow music. It gets me reflecting on my life and why I work every day. Who names their playlist ‘Sober?’ Seriously!

I cross the road, look at how much dust my feet have gathered and this time Justin Bieber‘s Sorry is playing and I am tempted to start twisting my ankles and swinging my hands in the air, but the office is only two minutes away, besides, I walk past The Neurosciences Center, I cannot unleash my crazy right there. So, I keep my cool and let my soul do the dancing.

And as I reach out to push the gate open, Kings Of Leon comes on and I suddenly wonder why I tap the shuffle icon on my playlist because clearly Sex on Fire is my jam and now I am officially under the complete scrutiny of the HR department and cannot wiggle, now do you understand why the art of spinning a tale has eluded me?
If I Were

October 17th, 2016

If I were a scent how I’d love to be Jasmine, something exotic and sweet.

If I were a drink I’d be Scotch in the morning, Water in the afternoon and Coffee in the evening.

If I were a color, I’d be just as your eyes view me and so much more: Red, Blue, Green, Orange, Black, White, Brown but not Purple, please not purple!

If I were a book, I’d come plain, a canvas awaiting a creation, no ruled lines,so you can never tell where your scribbles go and how much I can take.

If I were an experience, I’d be Fanta Orange and crank up the Bamboocha in you,

If I were a flavor, I’d be ice cream, Vanilla flavoured.

If I were a letter, I’d be Q, so you know I’m a Queen…

If I were a song, honey you’d love me a melody, sing me a feeling and tune me a rhythm.

If there’s this, then there’s more.

If I were anything less than this,

If I were anything,

Anything

If…
In love with a Prince

October 10th, 2016

I fell in love with a Prince.

Red hair, soft lips and a shattered heart.

The pieces were scattered in his shadow, glints of a past he drowned in. He came to me in my dreams.

Image courtesy of WeHeartIt
I could shut him out by opening my eyes, but the glints glistened like glass that could cut a vein or two.

So, I opened my heart instead and stretch out my arms and watched him crawl into my embrace. It was a merger, a culmination of sorts, but who am I to tell for in this dream only he was in charge.

Waves crashing, moon rising, stars shining.

I fell in love with a Prince.

A royal mess with a royal message.

Wake up, Your Majesty. The world awaits your story.
Of all the times they asked why

October 3rd, 2016

The one question people ask is “why don’t you leave?” Some who are bold just ask “why do you choose to stay?” But why is the ultimate kick in the gut and it hurts more than the ones you receive from the one you love when no one is watching.

Why is always followed by a good defense starting with because…and what follows are a cloud of thoughts, he didn’t mean it, he’s a good man, he loves me, he loves the kids, he cares and maybe I pushed him too far, I know he did wrong but no one’s perfect, he won’t do it again, he said he was sorry. These thoughts comfort you when your ribs are too painful for you to turn. They soothe you when it hurts to smile. They are the ones that cloak you with warmth when your heart starts to freeze. They stay with you through every kick, toss, slap and blackout. On the kitchen floor, in the living room, in the bedroom, in the bathroom, in bed. They stay until someone’s gut feeling is brave enough to condemn you why don’t you leave? Before their courage, they saw you and saw a vision. You had the sweetest man. He bought you flowers, took you to dinner, bought you fine dresses, held you close in public gatherings, kept his eyes on you wherever you went, called you every day,sent you text messages. They saw a vision. A blurred vision.

Image courtesy of WeHeartIt

When one why turns into two and three and suddenly the whole world, you hide in your hole. It hurts to lift your head up. It wounds to admit that love maimed you. It hurts worse than the punches and kicks and you hide not because you are scared but because the dark is familiar. You are at home with your demons. What they see is a woman too weak to fight back. They see a woman who is stupid enough to die at the hands of a pathetic excuse of a man. They hate the man for hitting you but are disgusted that you’d stay. They look at you and say I wish you would just get up and leave but they do not give you a doze of the courage they seem to have. You scream in your head for it is not the punches that hurt but that they were preceded by love. They came after paradise, but you know better. You know nothing will ever change him or his ways, and you know that if you stay even one more day you’d be six feet under. You think of all this and smile because a part of you knows that death would be a relief. What of the kids? Who will look after them? Suddenly an alarm goes off and you are in Kenyatta Hospital screaming your head off ready to deliver Henry into this world. He is four. He will soon know better, and stand up to his father and then what? You think and think until your hole becomes too small and you have to step into the light.

Somewhere along the line, he comes and he’s fuming, it’s worse than last week and he’s just gotten a call from your Aunt Millicent. The one who can smell a pest a mile away. She sends you her love and you know he is not happy. He says the house smells damp. Did you clean? Yes. Did you have lunch with your cousins in town? Yes. At what time because I called you and you said you’d be home? At two. What did you talk about? Cindy’s wedding, she wanted to know if I could be a bridesmaid. What did you say? Yes. And he smiles and turns just as his smile fades to hit you across the cheek. You take it but this time you don’t scream or plead. He grabs your braids and pushes you to the floor. You land on your butt and he kicks your knees and waist, just above your hips and he kicks until you stop moving. You lie there swimming in a cloud of darkness and it feels like home. What does the world know? What do they know about death or tragedy or humiliation? What do they know about grief? You swim your way to another day and it hurts everywhere. You suddenly want someone to ask how does it make you feel? You would say hell doesn’t even come close. You have to get up. You have to get up. It is time. You have to get up, lift your head up, get your children and walk out that door.

You have to get up. You can get up.

You can take one step, two steps, three steps and walk out.

You can.

You can.

You can and it’s all you think about whenever you think of all the times they asked why.
The one I call Daisy

September 27th, 2016

She’s gone and suddenly she’s everywhere.

Pets can break your heart. Kittens to be precise, but I am at odds and writing about her is wounding myself over and over again. We rescued a kitten two months ago and named her Daisy. At first I found her annoying because she was everywhere, in my face, on my books,snoozing on my clothes,sprawling on my laps as I watched a movie, jumping on my feet and always purring.Then, I went to sleep with her beside me, always woke up to her face, played along with her,fed her and let her sleep on books.

Yesterday, as I was shutting the door I heard her scream and looking down I saw her neck caught between the hinge. It was 8:07pm and mom was watching an episode of CSI. Daisy twitched and kicked and kicked and lay still.
Life’s fragile and she fought, God she fought. We watched her take her last breath and buried her out in the garden, two steps beneath my bedroom window.

Two women digging away into the dirt at night, and I held her and wrapped her in my favorite cloth. She did not sleep beside me. She did not drink from her bowl today, and who knew that this little kitten would break my heart, who knew that she’d die in my hands, who knew this of the one I called Daisy?
to be inspired

September 24th, 2016

When you wake up and write for hours and cannot take a bathroom break, you’re on a high.

It’s so great you want to dance in your nightdress and so you do.

It’s as intoxicating as being kissed by the guy you’ve been crushing on in the rain, just outside your house.

It’s like,

It’s like,

It’s like heaven in fall

Clouds and rain,

Laughter and bliss,

Love and kisses,

It’s what it feels like to be inspired and you go with the flow until something like spell check, boredom or a blackout bursts your bubble. But one thing is certain,just like that kiss, that taste of freedom, it never leaves you.
Cup of tea

September 18th, 2016

I am reckless,

when restless,

not thoughtless,

just reckless.

The words come out,

The hands move about,

The feet pace up and down,

Until it all comes out.

I am reckless,

not thoughtless,

and that might not be your cup of tea.
After the Ashes

September 15th, 2016

Maria, I told you that our journey began long before my feet could meet the ground, but I was never prepared for the life of bitterness that followed. The bravest man is the one assured of his death. Wakoli, the village shoe maker was such a man. You never met him, but Wakoli could look at your shoe and stitch it in one motion, but the same hands could not hold a woman’s hand without his knees shaking. It came as a surprise when he suddenly said that he wanted to return to his father’s land. We sat with him as one of his hands went into the shoe and the other the needle, pulling and fastening and fixing. He would speak of his ancestral home. “A man has no friends in this world.” He would pick another shoe, look at it and smile. “You can tell a lot about a man’s shoes. How he takes care of the things that protect his feet as he leaves footprints on the earth. Some shoes speak of love, others, misery, but my Father’s home is awaiting me.” Wakoli was not a day older than your Father, but his back was bent from all the stitching he did. He carried his sack of shoes waiting for his clients to come for them. The sack was old and torn but never did a shoe fall from it. Wakoli was such a man Maria. The wind. He came and went as he pleased. Everyone at home knew him, but even so, he was the only one who saw me beneath the busaa.

No, that is not true, he was one of the few who saw me, your mother- Nyanam, the only woman who could carry ten pots of water and not complain of a stiff neck come dusk. She would laugh and you would believe Heaven was with you. When she cooked, the food would warm your soul, and she never let me sleep hungry. She would come to the busaa den looking for me. “Shemeji, you have to eat what I made today, you know you are the only one who appreciates my cooking, eh? Now how about a few mouthfuls then you can continue quenching your thirst?” When she returned home, your Father would be waiting by the door, his rage ten times his size. She would start singing praises of him. He was her one and only gem. He worked day and night to keep her young. He gave her what she wanted before she even asked. She would sing and praise his looks; his handsome face, strong hands, big feet, big heart and she would go on until your father shrunk back to his size.

PS: Definitely a working progress, let’s see how the story goes.
Intrigue

September 13th, 2016

You know there is story when two people’s eyes meet across a table, in a matatu, a church and one person smiles. You know one of them is crazy when they give that death stare. You also know that you are probably imagining things when they wave and shout ‘hi!’

But, you are officially mental if you think that there is a story where there’s none. However, if you write, then you are the lucky one percent that gets away with it and it happened to me.

I was in Naivas supermarket here in Kisumu going through a selection of braids. They have this simple aisle that is packed with nothing but braids; blue, brown, red, maroon, grey, white, green, black, gold, short, long. You can have your pick of braids in less than ten minutes plus the prices are two shillings less than other supermarkets. I braid often. Guess that helps me save ten shillings for every five packs.

So, there I am with this wild afro going through braids when I hear someone say, “niaje, madam!”

I’ve had a long battle with this phrase “Madam” for though it is better than ‘tsk! tsk!’ or ‘wewe!’ or ‘tsss!’ it always reminds me of primary school teachers. There is always this spitfire in me that is tempted to retort, “do I look like a primary school teacher?” But, it has never come through, mainly because I prefer to confront people in a counseling session rather than in public, crowds can disappoint you.

I turn to my left and see this supermarket attendant checking out the girl right beside me. She has her earphones on and I look up at him and smile. He shrugs smiles and asks me to tap the girl, you know, to join his team in getting her attention, but the girl is busy picking braids- purple braids.

I settled for black braids and make my way to the cashier to check out. I take one look at the aisle and the guy is still checking out the girl watching her hands travel across the packs of braids, fingers caressing, gripping and then letting go of each pack. I pay for my goods and descend the stairs, wondering just how great I’d look in purple braids!