nilichoandika

The perks of writing

March 26th, 2016

I am listening to Sam Smith’s “Lay me down,” which features John Legend hoping to hear that final rendition that gives me the shivers. It is soaring to 31 degrees outside and the open window guarantees a humid breeze.

I have had two cups of tea and filled out a job application for the next research project I would love to engage in just to avoid writing this article, but you know what they say about writers- we are forever churning up words even in our sleep. Gosh! People can be clueless at times, but it’s beautiful.

Writers have the best company, words. With this delightful company comes a villain, the need to rearrange and do away with some to create the best story.

Have you ever been to an open air market?

Okay, in Kisumu, there’s this big open air market, we call it Kibuye. It is pronounced as kee-boo-yeh. I think. There are plenty of hawkers and goods and you have to bend and go through piles of clothes until you get what fits you. It is like digging through a pile of laundry which reeks of storage, to get the perfect second-hand outfit which you’ll wash, rinse in fabric softener, and iron and you’d look like a goddess. The process of getting that item is stressful. Writing is like that.

Well, it feels like that to me, but this is not about me, not yet.

Now, let’s get back to me, thank you. The final version of Earth was delightfully emailed to my Mentor/Editor this morning- during my first cup of tea moment. One hundred or so pages of words that he would slash and underline or comment on using green fonts for the sake of originality. He called immediately to ask, ‘how do you feel?’

I wanted to say, ‘hot’ because of the tea I had swallowed in a hurry but resorted to saying ‘fine, thanks.’ He added, ‘you should be excited, you know the advantages of writing and so far it has been a great journey for you, eh?’

He hung up. I looked at my phone halfway between rage and joy. It’s a hard place to be in because rage shakes you to your core and joy is like a volcano that’s working its way to an eruption. Writing has advantages? Really?

Now that I think about it, it does: not everyone delights in the company of words or rearranges them to create a story. I mean, even liars cannot stick to a story for long.

So, if you are writing, or finding your way around words and it seems like nothing good or praise is coming out of it, just know it takes time. Yes, everything takes time, but with writing you have to keep the words flowing out of you. Let them flow and sometimes force them out of you. Purge on that blank screen.

The greatest perk of writing to me is the fact that it came out of me- not you, him, her, or someone else, but the words come out of me-and that in itself is the most glorious creation.
Why I’ll never look at people’s walls again

March 22nd, 2016

Do you ever wonder why your eyes travel across the walls of people’s living rooms when you visit them?

You are ushered into the room and as soon as you sit, you start looking around seeing the pictures on the walls, the color of the wall, where they place the wall clock, and their calendar and you stop only you when you meet their eyes.

It’s odd what your eyes make you do.

I have been struggling with a throat infection partly due to my reluctance to give up anything sweet, so I went to visit a friend yesterday. She welcomed me into their house. It’s a big three bedroom house with a front porch that’s to die for-and tall glass windows that remind me of those penthouses you see in action packed films. Seriously, why do the fights involve someone being thrown through a glass door or window that had nothing to do with the fight in the first place? I digress.

Okay, so, their house is one of those destination homes that are the kryptonite to travelers like me. Once inside, I found myself doing what I’ve always done since I was four and that’s looking around. You can tell a lot about people, like in campus I knew my crush was an Arsenal fan because of the pictures of Arsenal players and not the mat or the duvet, but it was enough to warrant a ‘let’s be friends,’ conversation. You can guess how many people are there in that family, or how many graduated if they have endless pictures of graduation photos, and if they love art or not. But, what I was not prepared for was a painting next to the picture of Jesus – you know the blue eyed, slicked back long black hair, red robe, red lips, and a heart surrounded by thorns.

This was a painting of an African man sitting on a three legged stool, smoking from a pipe. His hair was white, way beyond grey, and he had his genitalia and scrotum hanging out as he sat on that stool- and I was tempted to ask, ‘Lord are you seeing this?’

But, my friend came back with soda and she found me staring and I was forced to ask about the painting. “It’s my dad’s painting, he used to paint years ago before he joined the Ministry, he calls it, ‘Man.’ Everyone who comes here is always shocked by it.”

“Yeah, they would, the man is displaying his goods right beside Jesus!”

“And Jesus is displaying his heart, it is weird indeed, but I always tell people not to look.”

“How can they do that when the painting has already left an impression?”

“I mean people should not look around, they might be disappointed by what they see in people’s homes.”

I took a sip of my soda but for the next four hours my eyes kept going back to the Man and Jesus, back and forth, like a sniper training her eyes on a target, and when I left there, I ran into an old man by the road with white hair, sitting on a bench, and God help me, I swore never to look at people’s walls.
Raindrops and Roses

March 19th, 2016

I made something of myself.

You called yesterday.

It was a rainy day.

I made something of myself,

You wanted me all to yourself.

‘Congratulations, always knew you could do it.’

The phone was in my ear,

It’s been two years.

I made something of myself,

and you wanted me all to yourself.

How’s your wife?

How is your business?

Let’s talk about your career, hard work puts food on the table not words on paper.

Who wants to read about love when they are hungry?

Get a real job, use the education you have.

I made something of myself.

Now you want me all to yourself.

No thanks, I still write. These words will one day host a party,

like raindrops on roses.
The guests have arrived, Kenyan style

March 16th, 2016
Having guests in Kenya is throwing a feast.

If someone drops by to say hello, then you share what you have but if the visit was announced in advance, then it is a state function.

Growing up, my Mom, entertained guests and they came in three groups: widows group, estate fellowship and just guests. Now when it came to preparation and ensuring the best service was delivered they ranked as follows:
1. Widows group
2. Estate fellowship
3. Other guests.
This order changed only when one person was scheduled to visit and mom would prepare the best tilapia fish stew using milk. This person was: The Reverend/Canon of our Church.

We lived for these days to end because we would prepare the food, arrange the dishes, serve the guests and then do the worst of tasks by doing dishes. I am not a fan of doing the dishes especially Mom’s imported dinnerware dipped in a basin of soapy water with the tendency to slip through my dainty fingers like a fish out of water.

Back then, the preparation would start at 7am. We would wake up and clean the house, dust our rooms and we could only use the toilet before the guests arrived. Mom did not want anyone going for a long call only to stink up the house while guests were around, so we snacked and used the toilet before the guests started arriving. It was courtesy to mom, but torture to us. The other room that was out of bounds for us was the sitting room. I used to clean this room because Mom said it was the first place that any visitor saw before they saw the whole house. I dusted and mopped and ensured all the seats were ready with matching crotchet vitambaas- I don’t know how to say that in English. They were white. No one was allowed to enter this room, not even to watch an episode of our favorite program like Escava Esaura (please tell me that’s how you spell it) or Sinbad! KBC had repeats of Sinbad on Sunday afternoons and any adventure in the high seas was welcome, but mom stood her ground. She only looked at us and that was enough to know we’d suffer a quick painful death by even touching the doorknob.

But if there was one thing I learned was that it is good to entertain guests. Mom would always say that you treat people like the royalty they are when they take time to come and visit, especially when they arrive safe and wish you well. It was through these guests that I discovered my love for cooking and loathe for dish-washing. Everyone had their specialty: my cousins Jackie and Leah could make a mean beef stew each taking turns to check in of the progress of their delicacy. I could make some amazing rice and fry just about anything, including paw paw (ask my sister, Chez, she was always the first to taste any new invention and suffer in silence, like the time I roasted green peas).

We were an army of ants every time we had guests and we would go to bed like logs. I just visited a friend this morning, they are having guests from home- her aunts and uncles and she told me, “we will have a few snacks and some tea at four as we wait for supper.” I was working my way to the perfect tantrum but she smiled and said, “it’s no big deal, they are sleeping only for one night, so why bother?”

Why bother? Chica allow me to introduce you to my Mother…
A Proverb on Family

March 15th, 2016

"The family is like a forest, if you are outside it is dense, if you are inside you see that each tree has its own position."
A copy of Roses and Lies

March 14th, 2016

I wrote a short story about life in Nairobi for a young advocate who finds himself in Parliament. Allan is at his prime when he is invited to the State House to meet with an honorable member. They need him to find a solution to their problem, before he knows it, he is tethered with a rope around his neck like a goat. Question is, who is watching and why?

You can download a free copy: here
A poem for my mom

March 13th, 2016

It’s tough being the Writer in the family.

People look to you when they cannot express themselves. My cousin asked me to write a poem for his girlfriend and I was tempted to copy and paste some lyrics from Lil Wayne.

It is not as tough as being the Counselor among friends and I reckon from Easter I will start collecting session fees for the advice I give. However, in celebration of all the mothers out there, I thought of these four lines when it comes to my mom.

I have a mother,

True as no other.

I love my mother,

Her name is Bertha.
He may love you

March 11th, 2016

I know.

He cares.

He may love you.

Really, he probably does.

He probably thinks about you all the time.

He may love you.

It does not matter, or let’s assume that it does,

What is he doing about it?

Nothing.

Wow, he may love you, he is just busy.

What matters is that is he doing nothing and you most certainly should not do a thing.

He may love you.

Really, he probably does.

He does not go out of his way to make it obvious that he does,

So, tell me, what are you doing about it?

He may love you.

He probably thinks about you all the time.

Really, he probably does- and that means…nothing.
Reading Vienna Blood by Frank Tallis

March 10th, 2016

It’s often said that sometimes when you fall, you fall hard. There are some books that make you fall hard, and the best part is that you have no regrets as a reader. When you get that book that takes you on a journey like no other, you find yourself on a high.
The first time I saw ‘Vienna Blood’ by Frank Tallis on the shelves, I thought it had the whole Sherlock vibe to it and even as I reached out to get it, I felt like it would take me to the 1900s. It took me to 1902.

Summary: A serial killer embarks upon a bizarre campaign of murder in the winter of 1902 in Vienna. Bodies are mutilated, arcane symbols are found in crime scenes and the victims are as random as they come. Detective Inspector Rheinhardt summons a young disciple of Freud, his friend, Dr. Max Liebermann to assist him with the case.

The book is 476 pages of clues and mysteries.
Mr. Tallis definitely did his research on Sigmund Freud because everything about the Professor is spot on, from his smoking and his take on Dream Interpretation.
Having a background in psychology, reading this book was like dying a sweet death and ,meeting Freud on a regular basis. It was heaven!

Favorite passage: Oskar, it has been an extraordinary night and if am unable to find a coffeehouse in the next half hour, I swear I shall expire.– Liebermann

Favorite scene: Has to be when Professor Freud makes an appearance, I reckon I’ve shared a screenshot up there.

Favorite character: Hausmann who happens to be the assistant detective who cannot hold a tune! I loved how hard he tried to keep up and present himself as a great partner in this book, made him more relatable.

This book is evenly paced and if there is one thing I learned from this story is how great research can build a story. Delving deeper into history is not easy, and writing about it is even harder because if you miss a fact or you misrepresent a fact it could ruin the story. Mr. Tallis was point on with his research, so much so that I enjoyed reading the story and felt comfortable with the flow. If you love classical music and operas, then you’d not miss Mozart here.

If I were to rate this book in terms of Smileys: 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂
Roses and lies

March 9th, 2016

You could see tiny yellow lights in every home in Micheni that night. He walked from one home to another to visit and wish them well; after all he was their son. They saw him attend Micheni Primary School. They contributed to his fee when he was called to The Maseno School. He received their letters and warnings with equal measure. Their ‘work hard,’ phrases accompanied him to every prep session for four years until he finally graduated. When the K.C.S.E results were announced and he had made it among the top ten in his school, every hand that could shake his or pat him on the back in Micheni did not hesitate. He would be an Engineer. He would be the first of many Engineers that Micheni had produced; finally, Mzee Kizito’s son had done them proud. “I always knew that boy would make it, did I not tell you? Now, see, eh, he is in the newspaper. See, Allan Mwetu.”

“Now, we should tell our children to work hard, if little Allan could do it, why not them?”

“We need big people! Doctors, Nurses, Lawyers to fight for our land! Look, look at all these names in the paper, have you ever appeared in the paper?”

“You! Leave those goats alone, and go to school. Go and read and go to Maseno like Allan.”

His name rolled off the tongues of his people like the saliva they needed to utter words. He received a full scholarship to study at The University of Nairobi, only if he would take up Law. “What about Engineering? You were supposed to build a road leading to Micheni!” His Father fumed and cursed the education system, but his mother did not flinch. Every time her husband cursed the system, she would roll her eyes and say, “how would you know what’s best when you cannot even finish saying your a-ba-cha-da?”

Her husband would shout, “Woman! Have you slept hungry since you came to my house? Have you lacked clothes? Now, be quiet and let me speak!”

“My husband, I know you have always provided for us. Allan is a good boy and he will study and make us proud, do you remember what happened to your friend down the valley? What was his name?”

“Which one?”

“The one who planted pineapples the size of two heads combined.”

“Morris! Ei, alcohol does not kill a man; it is another man who does…ei! And why do you speak of him, ei! What they did to Morris, only God knows!”

“Morris did not have anyone to defend him, but if Allan works hard, he may be there for any of us in the future. Let him go to Nairobi, and ‘Boyi!’ (Allan would finally look into his Mother’s eyes and see what he knew would always guide him-her support) when you go to the city, do not get into bad things like drinking and going to the disco. Do not break girls’ hearts and forget your books. I think you are the best my Son, so go and work hard and do what is right and let God reward you as He Punishes those who go against him. Eh?”

“Yes, Mama.” His Father would only say, “Be a better man than this one talking to you.”

Excerpt from “Roses and Lies,” available as a free download on Smashwords