I stumbled upon a word,
Evil.
So, I tried to explain it,
I lined up all the letters I knew,
Got A to Z in capitals
They waited for my order,
But nothing came.
I stumbled upon a word,
Evil.
A to Z awaited my command,
I had nothing.
They stated their demand,
I had to use them,
I had to create a word,
To probe and twist and turn,
A to Z awaited my command.
I stumbled upon a word,
Evil.
So, I broke the rules and decided to spell it backwards
LivE.
I woke up to two things: a splitting headache and a text from my younger sister. The former was not as serious as the latter,why, well she is in campus and has run out money. I know how being broke on campus especially on a Friday sucks, so ignoring the headache and nausea, I got ready and set out into town.
My first stop was the Naivas supermarket to simply buy a soda, not just any soda, but something bitter sweet like Krest. So, there I was at 9am in line waiting to be served by the cashier. See in Naivas, they don’t have the express counters, any cashier can serve you, so that means you can be in line for half an hour to buy a life changing product like Krest, but don’t freak out, I was patient. It felt good to be out of the house and see the city a little. There was a guy right behind me who reeked of new cologne and an aftershave gone wrong, but I couldn’t check him out without being obvious, so I took a step back and told him he could go ahead. He smiled and said thanks. He said and you can quote me on this “you look lovely,” now isn’t that a great way to make a recovering invalid’s day!
As we were still talking, I heard the cashier shout “password” and turn his attention to the customer care desk. Why is it that when you are in a hurry in the supermarket these two things happen? First, you find yourself behind someone with a full trolley. Second, you find yourself behind someone who either spends more than they planned for and the cashier calls for that password and the guy who has it is either upstairs or ten minutes away from you.
I got a second text from my sister.
I waited and paid for the soda and walked to an Mpesa agent within the supermarket and sent her the money she needed. After that, with three sips of Krest down my throat I felt like taking a short tour and buying stationery just to remind myself that life is worth living and I had better resume my writing. The calls and texts from my friends asking about when my next book would be out suddenly filled my already aching head. So, I walked to Uchumi supermarket to get some pencils and a scribbling pad. After that I made my way down to the post office to check if we had mail and since Mega plaza is under construction I found myself making an eye connection with a danger sign “Warning! Watch out for falling objects.” The next thing that came to mind was how could I do that? I was walking under and right beside a building under construction because I had to. It was the only way to access my mail and these guys were telling me about falling objects and not offering any helmets. The sheer madness of it had me smiling all the way to the post office and out.
But, I was not prepared for what came next. As I was leaving I ran into the guy I had met at Naivas. He smiled first and said “we meet again, unanifuata ama ni mimi ndiyo nakufuata?” I shrugged and stepped aside thinking he was walking in the opposite direction but he stepped beside me. “Naitwa Mose and you?”
Okay, hold on a second, I know guys always have an agenda. A guy does not approach a girl just for the sake of approaching someone and though I was tempted to ask him what his deal was, I knew he would step back. So, I told him I prefer to be called Arch and he laughed.
“Yeah, I thought so too, I follow you on Twitter. It’s nice to finally meet you, though unakaa poa sana in real life.”
I turned back hoping to lose him and said that I wanted to check out some books at Nakumatt. I only had three hundred shillings with me but even then I was sure I could get a couple of books, if not one then two. The guy followed me all the way to the BooksFirst section yapping about how he did not read much, but he read the newspapers.
Reading a newspaper is not active reading. It is sourcing for information not building a creative imagination or traveling on a journey with a Writer.
I started looking around and caught up with Fred, he showed me the latest selection they had on offer and shared his insight on the new books I could buy. As we talked I noticed Mose taking a backseat until he finally said he would go and check out the home theatre systems downstairs leaving us to the discussion of to read or not to read. Then Fred turns to me and says, “Your boyfriend does not seem interested in books.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
“Serious? I just thought…”
“Don’t apologize Fred, it’s okay, I will come for these four books kesho, usizirudishe kwa shelf. Sina pesa ya kutosha.”
“Ni sawa kama hujanipata ulizia Brian atakupatia.”
“Thanks.”
I walked out of Nakumatt and walked to the place where I could pick a mat home. For the love of Geography I don’t know the name of that street I just know iko karibu na CFC Stanbic bank ama nyuma ya Guru Nanak hospital. I scouted for a 44 and got into one immediately it came to a halt right before me. The Driver goes, “msupa niaje,si ukae na mimi hapa mbele?” I hop in and before I can say hello those big yellow paper bags make their way beside my leg followed by a woman eating a slice of watermelon.
Watermelons are like sugarcane, they cannot be devoured in silence. There is always that iss sound that comes with each bite and this woman was a beast at it!
For a short while I enjoyed the sound of her enjoying that watermelon until I saw my next stop. The Driver told the conductor, “huyo msupa ni family ya mine” when I was reaching for a twenty bob coin to pay him. The conductor smiled and wished me a good day and I turned to the driver to see him wink as he drove away. And do you know what the best part was, I came home and turned on the computer but it wouldn’t start, thanks to a blackout.
So, I set my tablet on battery mode and typed this as the words came to mind. What a day!
I am a collector.
I like my women like my toys.
New and shiny.
I don’t have time for cuddles, if she’s broken she’s forgotten
I text her “goodnight”
If she replies in under a minute, I send her an emoji of kisses.
I am a collector.
Fine women, fine memories.
No attachments, no responsibilities.
Sly ones on twitter,
Fly ones on Instagram,
Both fly and sly on Facebook.
If she says she likes me a lot,
I send her an emoji and ask her to coffee.
She’ll say yes.
They always say yes.
Then one day, when I meet another fly one,
I drop her and pursue the other.
Like I said, I am a collector.
Why court when you can flirt?
Thing is, I found this one mama.
She is beautiful, like magazine beautiful
She is intelligent, her words cloak me with wisdom
But, when I think of her, I think I’d love to keep her,
She looks at me,
Spends her day as she sees fit,
She texts me when she wants to,
Answers my call when she feels like it.
I’m a toy collector who’d love to be kept.
I have never heard of Rachel Simon. So, imagine going to buy books and seeing one sticking out and it is titled “The Story of Beautiful Girl,” and you think…well, is it not supposed to be ‘a beautiful girl,’ or ‘the beautiful girl?’ So, you pick it and read the blurb:
It is 1968, Lynnie, a young white woman with a developmental disability, and Homan, an African American deaf man, are locked away in the School for the Incurable and Feebleminded, and have been left to languish in the institution, forgotten. Deeply in love, they escape and find refuge in the farmhouse of Martha, a retired schoolteacher and widow. But the couple is not alone-Lynnie has just given birth to a baby girl. When the authorities catch up to them that same night, Homan escapes into the darkness, and Lynnie is caught. Before she is forced back into the institution, she whispers two words to Martha: “Hide her.”
Lynnie’s story begins the moment she trusts Martha with her baby girl that night. She is taken back to the institution and her favorite attendant, Kate, notices the change in her and this sets the pace for a long term friendship and trust. According to The Washington Post, this book is “heart-wrenching,” but it’s more of an eye-opener. There are institutions for people with disabilities and more often than not, there have been cases of neglect, abuse and even mismanagement of resources. However, what Rachel succeeds in this book is to show the reader that Homan is deaf, but he has feelings and knows right from wrong. He escapes with Lynnie to protect her baby. Lynnie has a developmental disability but she loves her daughter and is willing to entrust her to an old widow, Martha, because she wants her child to be loved and not raised in an institution.
Inasmuch as I would have loved to read about the reunion of Lynnie and her child, I would still admit that the story will break your heart and slowly assemble the pieces together without you knowing where that strength and relief came from.
Visit Rachel’s site for more on this book: here
The first time I walked the streets of Barcelona was in August 2013. I remember turning that first page of The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon and walking into The Cemetery of Forgotten Books with little Daniel and his Father, Mr. Sempere.
So, when I came across a copy of The Angel’s Game lying on the bookshelf at Booksfirst, I simply picked it and held onto it all the way to the cashier. I could not wait to walk those streets again but better yet, I missed The Cemetery of Forgotten Books, imagine walls upon walls stacked with books so precious that they have to be protected by readers.
For three days I sat down to read The Angel’s Game.
We are introduced to David Martin who writes pulp fiction for years. He comes across an abandoned mansion at the heart of Barcelona and decides to reside in it because he’always felt like the house called unto him, but his dark imaginings are not as strange as they seem , because the house he calls home harbors a secret and an unsolved mystery. When he thinks he’s had enough of his life and writing struggles with his selfish publishers, he receives an offer from a French Editor. It’s the offer of a lifetime, but what’s the price he would pay?
His task is to write one book, a book with the power to change hearts and minds. But as he begins writing, he realizes that there is a connection between the book and the dark shadows that surround his home…and that’s when things go south.
I was immersed in this book for the first half. Mr. Zafon’s writing is clear and slow, like listening to the tales from an elder every evening, and the discussions on human nature and his ability to believe is strong. When David and his boss talk of writing this one powerful book you feel the tug of war between David’s hopes and writing ability and the man’s desire to see his will done by David. It is full of humor and takes a sharp turn in portraying the relationship between Writers and Publishers and how works by Writers are received. As a Writer, I was sold upon reading the first line of this book:
A Writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story.
The downside to this was that I did not pay attention to the details like confirming the events, names or places and the fine stuff. It was great to visit the Cemetery of Forgotten Books again with David giving intricate descriptions of the place and his relationship with Mr. Sempere made this an enjoyable read. It’s a mystical read with characters as flawed as they are beautiful.
It goes to my library as I seek out the final book in the series “The Prisoner of Heaven.”
It is my first time sitting in this session. There are seven blue plastic chairs and one green one at the far end of the room. There is a poster on the wall right above the green chair “Silence and Chaos are mirror images of truth.”
I am about to question the authenticity of this quote when my friend pulls my hand down and I settle on the seat beside her. She sees seven women.
I see seven bestsellers.
She sees seven sources of wisdom.
I see centuries of wisdom, libraries of events and memories that need but one trigger and they’d fall like dominoes, or power up like hurricanes. Isn’t it a wonder that all hurricanes are named after women? She tells me to shut up and the session begins.
The first one starts:
“My aunt was laid to rest this past Saturday. Can you believe that for all the years I have known her, it was only during her burial that I learned her name was Agnes. I mean where was she? Where did her identity as Agnes Akinyi go? Why didn’t I even ask? And I was so emotional that I turned to my hubby and asked him, ‘what’s my name?’ He just looked at me and shrugged, ‘You are Lillian Awino, of course why?’ And I simply told him ‘never forget it and no matter what happens never let me forget.’ See, it just ate at me the whole weekend. My aunt was always Mama Baby and with that her name was forgotten, how can I as a woman keep my identity?”
She turned to us, her eyes taking in everyone and it dawned on me that out of the seven of us, only one was single and she was seated there thinking ‘how can I turn this into a book?’ The moderator smiled and asked us to give our thoughts on the matter, but my mind was still reeling at the thought of becoming something utterly different from me.
However, I am more than my name.
So, when she spoke of identity what exactly did she mean? These thoughts danced around in my head and when my turn came one thing was clear : what do I have to do to keep my identity and also ensure those around me know of it?
I have created personalities on social media. I believe in Nilichoandika here, suchakenyan on Instagram, herhar on twitter and the list goes on, but it has never destroyed or set aside who am I, in fact it has helped me channel my writing and enabled me to engage with lots of people.
As the women aired their thoughts my mind went back to the times when names are set aside for either personalities or work. Like the woman selling vegetable whom I call ‘mama mboga,’ and the vendor who sells shoes and I call ‘msee wa viatu.’ Or the neighbor in the last house down this estate whom I call ‘mama ndovu,’ because of her obese son. I will admit that all these years I know the woman as ‘mama ndovu,’ and yet she’s the one whose salon does magic to my hair. On the other hand, the lady who spreads her mat under the tree right outside our compound is known as ‘Khadija,’ and she has been going by this since I was a toddler back when they used wooden combs to help part your hair while plaiting it.
What’s in a name you’d ask and I would say centuries of stories. There is power in a name, but even so, there is infinite power in how you brand yourself. Our take home assignment from that session was to figure out what identity is and why it matters, but as I made my way out of that room towards the neatly piled plates of mandazi outside, all I could think of was one thing: the names of all the women who have inspired me in my family.
There are three sides to every story: your side, their side and the truth.
Well, there are also so many styles of writing and with the rising number of blogs and support from platforms like WordPress, I found myself delving into the world of other bloggers in Kenya.
I simply key in the tag: Nairobi or Kenya and read the posts that follow.
So, it’s no surprise that I am addicted to these blogs and I am always eager for new posts from them in my reader log.
Those are the three sides to my story about my sudden fascination with these blogs, trust me when you visit them you’ll be charmed.
Have a lovely day people!
There are things Tom never talked about. His house. His job. His love for chapati and the scent of the earth when those raindrops hit the ground. He woke up at five because fifteen minutes before that the Muezzin would summon all the faithfuls to the Mosque. He had his tea, black and strong with two slices of white Supa loaf bread.
When he got inside the bus at six, he never looked at the other passengers.
Maybe he did, but he never saw me.
He sat by the window always keeping on the driver’s side.
Sometimes depending on the bus he’d be stuck with that morning show about domestic issues and fall outs on Classic. You’d see him scrunch up his face, twist his lips as though he wanted to spit out the disgust that streamed into his ears, but he’d never utter a word.
He would keep his eyes outside the window until the bus came to a stop in town and then he would take his time and let everyone step out before finally taking in the bustle of that morning.
Sometimes when he did this,he had a smile like on Fridays. Sometimes he looked like he needed a hug, a reminder that someone still cared, like on Mondays.
There are things Tom never told anyone, like who he really was and why I was the only one who saw him.
I have had a relaxed week and what’s better than reading a book and being transformed by the characters? So, here are four books that kept me company and here’s why:
1. Summer at Shell Cottage had secrets that all came to the shore by the sea.
2. The Last Summer introduced me to Clarissa and Tom who love each other but are kept apart first by their social status and second by the First World War. It also reminded me of Daisy and Gatsby.
3. Stand by Me showed me the strength of a woman called Domino, beautiful, bold and above all one who falls apart with a smile on her face.
4. A long way down, phew! What a way to write about suicide! This book had me walking on egg shells and laughing at the witty remarks made by the characters. And it had me at Maureen’s statement:
You know that things aren’t going well for you when you can’t even tell people the simplest facts about your life, just because they’ll presume you’re asking them to feel sorry for you.
Now I would have to get working on my current project titled “40 Days” which takes me back to a genre I enjoy reading and writing. Romance. You’ll know more about the story in a few weeks or shall we say the end of Summer? Maybe, I just got through the first chapter and I’m hopeful it’d not cause me grief!
So,what is it about these four books? Truth is I enjoyed reading them, and there was something about the style and flow that I picked up which would improve my writing like having strong heroines and including elements of surprise that could throw the lead off course and working on how to get them back on it.
nilichoandika 