Mourning Lummie’s Death

We started off pretty well say a couple of days before Raine was born in December 2013. Hubby and I, well, we decided to gift me early with a new phone for being a mother-to-be anew. I was very brave! Walking around showing clear evidence of not being a virgin… or better yet declaring to all and sundry how you never used protection while at it is REALLY brave. I ballooned a lot slower this time and by early December that year I was literary straining to move around. I was barely hanging in there and anticipating the freedom from pregnancy. This story has nothing to do with babies or fat cheeks and sausage toes.

 

Justin brought the phone home on the 26th of that month and the first photos I took were of Pesh my elder munchkin. She looked lovely through the 5mp lenses and I couldn’t stop clicking after her. Right after the birth of Raine, I woke up in the middle of the night and took photos of her, clicking at her every move, zooming in on her skinny and peeling toes and some more at her clenched fists. She looked so bold and strong she made me think how I must have been when I was born. I shared my pictures with my husband at 4am that morning…

Lumia

It felt as though we were whispering as we chatted for an hour through Whats App. The font was just big enough, the light not too bright for my sensitive eyes. I fell in love with it just as I did my new baby. It was through my Lumia phone that I joined instagram. It was with this beautiful gadget that I was able to print photos and send to my mom in law after her visit. I loved using the speakerphone and so did Raine. She enjoyed conversations held out aloud during diaper changes, and seemed to enjoy the attention she got every time the video recorder followed her. I recorded pretty much every thing; from her first crawl to her first steps , her first water splashes during bath times and all her giggles…her first teeth were captures in it…so did her first matutas…and mosodo which we ended up creating a song for.

cute feet

But she must have known my phone was a darling to me because despite all these adventures we went through together, she was the first person to smash it on the floor. The first screen crashed early this year. I should have started saving for a new one then but we just never know what fate has in store ever, do we?

 

I spent a painful and savable 5k to fix the screen and in less than a month, Pesh joined the smashing bandwagon. I spent another 4k in another cubicle repair shop worried that I may become a regular. I finally decided to protect the gadget from my overly playful minions.

 

I went to my favourite online shop – Ebay and shopped flat out., pimping my little gadget with a new protective case, and a protective screen and a pink unique charger… Oh yes it had to be pink!

3ft-Retractable-Charger-Micro-USB-Data-Cable-Cord-For-Samsung-For-Huawei                      $_12(18) the case too 🙂

A few weeks later Little Lummie,(that’s my phone’s name and its sad I am naming it now) passed on quietly while lying silent and untouched on my desk. I rushed to my fundi who declared its death just this morning…”The memory collapsed” he said, “…Think of the memory as the heart of the phone, through the charger is in perfect condition.” He went on as I blinked hard pushing back tears of pain and disappointment. ‘It should have at least lasted till its second anniversary for friends’ sake!’ I thought. It wasn’t even the least remorseful. It never even flickered or gave a sign of its coming end. It- Just-Died… on the 22nd day of a month; of all times of any month.

Gone forever... I loved you, Lummie, but you loved yourself more
Gone forever…
I loved you, Lummie, but you loved yourself more

So I move on with life without looking back. So long Lummie, and goodbye Nokia. I am not to trust any more of your gadgets with my friendship. I have lost friends and that hurt…I have others ignoring me and that’s ok. But some friends just leave with all the treasures you entrust it to keep for you. You want to hate them but end up missing them. I have to stop typing now. Its enough I’m blogging about a dead phone but I shall not shed a tear over it!

 

I am a busy, Happy woman :)

Finally, I sneaked into the bathroom to steal a few words with you. See how much I care for you? I can stand the foul smell of the new toilet cleaner as I balance my heavy laptop on my lap, so I’m trying to punch in as many words as I can, with one hand, while the other holds its joint.

Outside this room life is spinning so fast I am getting countless headaches. Who said its easy working three jobs at a go? I raised my collar claiming I could do it. I only realised it was way beyond me when I was given a main story and a feature to work on alongside the ten I was meant to submit in a month. Sounds easy right? Sit here and let me explain some more (dragging you closer by the ear)

I am an administrator in a PR firm. That is my main job. That’s where I report to each day, get off days and fill up assessment forms. I am the one who calls chief accountants and other administrators, and we speak the ‘I-Want-Money-I-Will-Not-Give-You-Any language. When you come to our office, I am still the one who will open the door for you…or not J so I get the ‘There is the secretary’ look quite often. I never mind really. I love my desk.  It’s a great job as I get to bird watch against the tints on my window; I never get busted J, I window shop for bridal shoes and tiaras online and well, once in a while, update my blog. Challenges do come when another company we are hosting at our office bring in a lot to my desk. They too think I am a secretary and I am made to call and make appointments with the ‘who is who’ all over Africa. It’s boring sometimes especially when I call some countries like Sudan and all I hear are strange sounds, a question mark and some silence. Just when I am about to quit this new overwhelming profession, the Asian manager buys me a camera as a thank you gift. We are in great terms now, although he still never understands why I am always too busy on Tuesdays.

Tuesdays are my deadline for submitting articles to a local newspaper I write for. I hold two columns; one is fun and exciting and the other, well, let’s just say my husband calls it ‘Justly and professionally boring’. It’s too true! So when the editor gave me a main story, I thought I could do it so easily. But that was not to be. It wasn’t easy searching for people to interview…and I am not sure I want to do main stories anymore! It’s overwhelmingly demanding. People love publicity yet they are allergic to photos.

The other problem is that much as I blab too much here, that’s all I’m mostly good at. I am not good with the public and I am still scared stiff if meeting new people…

My sister in-law got me a book, ‘Talk your way to the top’. Its really nice, considering I am not such a good reader… 🙂 Don’t wonder how I get to write so well 🙂  (Enough. This post has a little too many smiles) and now that I am getting my courage in good communication, it’s making me very naughty. I understand people better, page after page and I got to admit, my crazy ideas don’t just crack the roof; they tear away the damn thing.

Working three jobs, planning a wedding, raising a toddler and being a good wife is tough, but again I will insist; I am not dead and I am not thin…:) (damn another one!) so it’s possible to work it out. In fact its fun being busy!

Wedding bells!!!

We made a one minute decision; a by the way idea. ‘Let’s just do it’, we decided. It was all we needed; the motivation; the push to make it work. Secretively, we calculated and thought to try out, that if it wouldn’t work, we would simply drag two friends along to pay a visit to the Attorney General, sign some papers and put the rings on. We would then throw a party of the year and invite everyone. hehe!

That was not the case, though. We made the most important phone calls to our respective parents and later convened to discuss our results. Hubby’s side was a bit hesitant. For some reason, they were worried as they said bride price is extremely expensive where I hail from. That killed me in an instant. ‘We will give it try, though’, was their agreement response which breathed air back into my lungs. Deep in our minds our A.G visit dangled visibly as we didn’t have much hope to hold on to.

From my side, the news was received with excitement and surprisingly, jubilation. I was left in shock seeing my mother cry while hugging me. She sighed in relief. ‘Finally, my child’ she wept. ‘This is such great news!’   like two overexcites teenagers, mom and I immediately set out to lay the plan.

My sister in-law said it all starts with a decision. Just set the date and see how God will lay out your plans and make your wedding a success. That’s exactly what we did and here on this page I will take you step by step on what exactly I am doing.

I choose not to use a wedding planner in my wedding. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, no. I’ve started early and I feel I will make it to the D-day. Wish me luck friends. Let’s see how to make a wedding the real thing. So this is how we’ll do it. I will write down my experiences in sessions just so we don’t miss out the most important details. Thats is not my wedding gown by the way… stop that. I won’t show just yet!

Diary sitting- April 2012

Yes, It was that long ago….and I was too scared to call a wedding committee. Previously while with friends, I heard complaints from people who hate wedding committees. They say they are saving up to get someone a bride. Well, I thought the same until I realised that a wedding is no longer for the bride and groom but rather the community. It’s like celebrating your one year old child’s birthday and making the party the adult kind. The kid probably doesn’t like strangers and cries herself to sleep, leaving the grown ups to dance the night away. In essence, all I’m saying is a wedding celebration is a celebration for all to gather, meet, make friends and party together. The bride and groom serve as an excuse to put all aside for that day. I think I needed to hear all this to go on with the plan. We thought to plan and save up till we get enough money…..well, that was until a friend mentioned that some people may get offended when they don’t get involved…. Do you see how long it took for me to make the bold step? That will be a cold Strawberry soda, thank you very much.

Kick off

I set off to search for my wedding gown. Armed with Google, I searched all sites and filled my laptop with a million viruses. I didn’t get anything. I thought to hire one then…that too never worked. Finally, I got someone to do the perfect one for me…one that I unfortunately cannot describe to anyone 🙂

Not to worry though, I promise to keep you all in the know, especially for those friends we hope to infect with the wedding bug. Keep it locked here and I will take you through my journey to 12/12/12

Cold Chill in my Bed!!

I wanted a 2”x6” size bed. The carpenter said he could make one for me, but that I would have to make my own mattress to go with it. So I thought of buying several sacks, tearing them apart, stuffing in some old clothes…and probably some from my discourteous neighbour’s line. And voila! I’ll have a mattress! Ok. Today’s topic has nothing to do with mattresses, not that I have anything against them. You see, a mattress is one of the values items that even super-markets keep close to their hearts… hehe! I’m messing with you. Supermarkets keep these cushy items away because they are easy fuel to accidental fires! 🙂 Back to important things.

My little one is officially out of our bedroom. It wasn’t difficult to kick her out. She actually loves the colours and the prints in her new room! However, someone else had trouble getting over this grandeur separation. That person was me.

I kept peeking into her room to test its warmth; checked that the windows were tightly closed, and that the water paint was not smelly. I did her bed by myself and made sure to put in two sheets, two blankets and a soft pillow. I then went on to feel her temperature every two hours at night…..Call me what you want, but I am just a young, hot 🙂 mother reacting abnormally to a normal situation. Once in my bed, I tossed and turned and had nightmares and heard baby voices and saw the demon in a bear and anything else you can come up with.

It was cold.

I felt cold chills with every passing second. They ran from my back to my tummy and straight for my feet which I folded closer. I grabbed the blanket closer and tried to shut my eyes really tight. I even whispered a prayer to beg for some peace. I got a little and rested before it was time to check up on her again. I slept facing the wall. That was where she always slept each night. I’d spoon her in my lap to give her warmth each night and in return I felt protective. It was as if I had been pregnant from the outside.

Pesh slept well in her new bed. She never even once woke up to ask for her bottle. While I struggled to get used to my new life, she was busy enjoying a peaceful night. On the second night, the same thing happened. At some point I sat up and put the lights on. Why was this cold chill still there? I even thought my bedroom was haunted…think ‘Haunted’ from Investigative Discovery. I’m a fan by the way.

My husband slept facing the other way. He seemed comfortable on his own and I immediately felt guilty that for two years, that is how he had been spending his nights. It felt horrible to know he never had anyone to cuddle him, or share some warmth. I looked at the space at the bedside and fitted a mental baby-bed in it. ‘That is where our next baby will always sleep’ I thought to myself.

Another cold breeze crept in and I suddenly sneezed. The curtains were shaken. That couldn’t have been caused by just a sneeze. I reasoned. I moved closer to the window and slowly opened one side of the curtain. There it was; my reason for sneezing. I stretched my hand quietly, careful not to awake our  estate night-runner, and shut the slightly open window.

The cold was gone.

I switched the lights back off and crouched next to my husband. Instinctively, he moved closer, held me tight, just like I did Pesh and helped me sleep. I promised to create that spot for myself; to always make him warm and never to bring another child into our bed.

Oh that night runner story is very true by the way. He made me change my curtains from a beautiful, red and black to an ugly, brown, heavy one. I caught him peeping through my window once while changing into my night clothes. The scream I let out was enough to scare off an armed robber, any day.

That morning I woke up with and ugly flu.

Pesh seems even happier now that she sleeps better at night. She doesn’t get destructed by us preparing to leave for work each morning. She hugs us tighter than she did when we come back each evening and tells a lot of stories in her language. She seems to have forgotten mommy’s comforting embrace and has adjusted well, unlike someone I know.

Now, the bed.

The reason I wanted a smaller bed is simple. With Pesh’s exit, it seemed too large for us to even find each other! One of its sides would get cold and we all temporarily squeeze into a little corner and hang in there till morning comes. If we had a smaller bed, we’d have no choice but to hold tightly to avoid falling over. This way the room would never be cold.

But since we found out what made the room cold. Thank God it was no one from ‘Haunted’; we can now enjoy our big bed even with its lack of a third party.

Something Good

This year, something really amazing is  going to happen to me;  something I can’t wait to share with you all very soon.

Wait, please stop guessing will you? And I’m not pregnant! and no, my own website is still in the kitchen.

I will tell you in due time. I just thought to let you in on it just so you don’t start looking for me in, well you know, on phone, twitter, morgues and all?…for going all silent on you. It’s a big milestone for me and when I tell you…only then will you understand.

In the meantime, you are allowed to play with your minds and keep guessing…stay cool and keep that smile coming!  🙂

See you soon!

Straight from a Virgo's mouth

I thought I was a melancholy, but a friend once argued back and described me as phlegmatic. It doesn’t matter. I mar, I take pleasure in things I do and I express myself. I’m only human, and to experience emotions is only but a part of it. I am no poet, but I comprehend its language. I understand that each poem jotted is always influenced by some sentiment, regardless of the sort.  Many are times I get a rush of emotions, so strong. I take a moment, shut my eyes and just let it pass. I feel it from the tip of my head, down my spine and off through my feeble legs.

Today I thought to take a tick and um, space and explore these extreme untouchables that God gave me.

When I love, I love. I guess this is the part where I reveal the fact that I’m a Virgo? I love without turning back. I trust with my whole being and will only be cautious when one gives me a reason to. I give everyone an equal chance to tan themselves black. I forgive too, but that’s easier when an apology is offered. If not I’ll heal, and when I do I will not hate nor will I despise. I will become stronger and only prove to the world that I am unique.

One thing I have never done is take back an ex. No matter how sorry they say they are, or how much they work to prove how their world stops for me; or that I am the only mosquito in their net. I will feel their distress and I will understand them. I might even shed a tear for their efforts. But I never take back someone who lets his interests get ahead of him, no matter how small.

If you cry, I’ll cry too. Not because I love you so much or that I hate to see you cry, but rather because I feel. I feel your pain and anguish and I will cry whether I like it or not.

If I do not cry I will leave your panorama to avoid the contagious weep-mode…because it’s inhuman not to feel another’s genuine pain. Why else do you think babies’ communication tool is crying? Then again it takes a flexible foot to fit in another’s shoe.

If someone dies, be it a stranger or not, I bear it in my heart. I picture their last moments and let the fear of impending doom that lurks in waiting wearily grip my heart. I mourn silently wondering whether they accepted their fate or battled and still lost.

If a child dies, I die.

I endure the terrible feeling of the gut wrenching reality choke in my throat; the bare truth that a child so small, so innocent so young has to face the harsh wrath of death…let me not swing the Friday mood.

If you smile (this is tricky), I might or might not smile back. I most likely will first swerve and look over my shoulder just to make sure I am indeed the one the smile is targeted at. This act aims to save my shame in case I spot another person grinning uncontrollably at you from behind me. If it’s I you directly smile at. My first reaction would be to smile back, after which I will start wondering whether we have met before or whether you mistook me for someone else.

If my daughter smiles at me I will feel all warm and fuzzy inside and I might get overwhelmed, grab her and steal a hug. No pun intended…note I say this in defence before my next words…if a man suddenly smiles at me, I will immediately become suspicious. If it’s a stranger I will see a potential rapist and the next thing he will see is dust. If my husband smiles at me…I will peer into his face looking for possible clues.

I am outgoing, but do not seem so to everyone. A first glance at me will automatically brand me as snobbish. I won’t blame you. It’s just the look on my face, when my soul prefers to consult my brain rather than my mouth, I go undercover and into a conference meeting. There my body becomes a shell protecting a myriad of activities happening inside  my head.

Pulling me out of this shell to give you attention will no doubt be a challenge, not only because I will be deeply engrossed in myself, but also the look I will be wearing at this state. The scary scrawled face all too natural to think ‘impression’

I write, walk and talk very fast. At times I get over excited and tumble over my words in a stutter.

I am a home-maker. I love repairing torn clothes (wish I could, shoes too!) and customising everything in my house to my family’s comfort. I love being a mother and a wife, with its challenges and all. I love bathing my little girl and chasing her all over the house…does it sound a lot like the old school life in the Spanish Prairies? Ok. This prairies joke has got to die now. I enjoy the inevitable boring stuff that get on my nerves like shouting Pesh off the window, making a budget and hanging the clothes on the line after a wash.

I value a simple happy life with extravagant things. I am soft spoken yet blab a little too much. My family says I am the kind of person who will emotionally defend people close to me and teach them their rights. I smile a lot but will tell you off should you step on my toes.

A young immature bloke once stopped me on the road and said hi. He called me beautiful. I told him I’m married and walked off. He didn’t stop. He said he just wanted to shake my hand…that a handshake wouldn’t get me pregnant. That did it. I stopped, turned and walked to him. I never shook his hand. I stood right in his face and dared him to repeat his words. The idiot backed off.

I will not speak of bedroom matters. No I am not shy and no you will not blackmail me. I am just a normal Virgo woman.

So well, that’s me, in a thousand words.

A little girl's dream

(Eyes closed)

Once upon a time, when I was young and imprudent; when I walked the path of artlessness and lived in a castle in Spain, I was a beautiful little princess living on the prairie and chasing wild dogs. I’d love picking berries and running in the woods. I’d catch butterflies and let them go; and take home a basket full of lilies. At home, we’d have a kettle with boiling coffee always  hanging above the fire place and any visitor would be offered some. We’d stay indoors if we got the flu and nurse it, safely sandwiched amidst blankets. All girls and women would hold the hair back in a simple chignon or tie it in two braided pony tails.  We all had long, soft and straight hair.

During the cold weather, we would wear hoods that were made of sheep skin and long-armed dresses with petticoats and laces. My grand mother was always sewing warm cadigans and blankets while carefully perched on the rocking chair by the window, just next to the fire place. When bored, I would curl up on a rug on the floor beside her and listen to her beautiful voice fill the airwaves with tune.

Years later, I’d grow into a beautiful young woman, aware of her influence towards men. I’d  be shy if a young man would look into my eyes; and I would I look down and draft a numeric number 17 with my big toe. I would finally gather all my guts and face him and eventually turn him down. He would again try to woo me, and still fail miserably and would give up as I would be too beautiful, to precious a diamond to get lost among silvers; to good a young woman to have just any man out there. I’d be innocent, yet aware of myself; intelligent yet inexperienced.

I’d be a virgin waiting on my prince charming.

I’d attend parties and dance with my friends, yet no man would have the courage to talk to me. I would have rejected them all. I would never let just any man into my heart. Not until I met someone that would make my heart skip a beat; someone whose mere presence would make me tremble and feel weak in my knees; someone who would  make my brain stop thinking and just want to be with him; one who would be my man, my hero, my knight in shining armour; my prince and sole proprietor of my heart.

And one day, I would meet him, in a crowd, his eyes staring straight at me; seeing only me. His body would be masculine, broad shoulders; precipice face, firm big arms and a chest that would make me want to scream for breath. He would capture my attention and make me a fool for him. I would fall flat, not literary, in love with him. I would know it is he, my heart had waited for and I would  smile at him.

This man who knocks me off guard would approach me and take my hands in his. His eyes would hold mine and we’d share a bond. A bond that leaves one to marvel at the mysteries of life; the bond that would only grow tighter hence forth, that bond that entangles two souls into sparks and fireworks that eventually turn into a ball of fire.

Fire that burns furiously; burning away all sorrow, lonesomeness, trepidation, frustration and desperation; burning all things and people who get in it’s way as it rolls down the mound if life. My prince would ask for my hand in marriage: I would not hesitate. I’d immediately say yes!

We would get married and start our own life…without the fear of being broken, not by him,or our fake friends,or relatives; not by some other ill-motivated man or woman. Not even STDs/AIDS would shake us. The only thing that would detach us, fail us, mock us, that we cannot brawl against would be death; and in death we would part,  not at 40 not even at 60.

(Eyes Open)

This is a dream most young girls always have. A dream I too had since I was just about 5 years old. I read books that described the beauty of every little girl in a perfect replication of Rappunzel, Snow White and Little Red Riding hood. I believed every girl was a special little princess and if you were impecable in your deeds, then a good prince would come your way, to save you from the ugly jaws of singlehood and loneliness.

Not until my eyes opened did I realise I was in a country they called ‘Third world’, somewhere in Africa now in the 21st century; a place where all our hair is black, curly and hard like steel; a place where many a women have their hearts torn away from their chests. They watch them get tarnished by hungry lustful men, and get thrown off at the next stop…another woman.

I have watched many men treat women like pieces of tissues, (not hankies) in a flu infected area. They would blow off ghastly mucus in them, sneer at the disgusting sight, hurtle them in a crumble and toss them away.

I have kissed enough frogs and instead of letting them go, I hung on to their slippery tails, and watched them slither into other women’s arms. I sort for love in all the wrong places..is there a right place anyway? I was broken, torn down, mocked and jeered at, but never gave in.

I held on to my fantasy.

I still believed my prince was out there, somewhere, probably lost in one of the millions of streets in the world. I still hang in there. I never yearned for another woman’s man or boyfriend, I never sat on hot chapos or hide ‘Kamùti’ in my bedroom. I was patient.

And in the end, I met him, with my eyes open.

Extaordinary Big heart…not literary.

One can as much as whiff electricity from our home in Taita. It is too near yet too far. Our next door neighbour has power. Yes and this neighbour is one steep down-hill, a river and another steep up-away. So we resort to generator power which is selfishly rationed for durability.

We took a short trip to visit a close friend of the family…who am I kidding, everyone in Taita is a close friend!

It was a lady who lived close to the next door neighbour and she too had electricity. We found her quietly sipping her tea outside her house. She was expecting us.

“I had to borrow some sugar from a friend on my way back as I forgot to buy my own” she began. Remember how close I mentioned the shops were? She had gone to a clinic for the fifth tetanus jab for a prick she had acquired five years ago. ‘She is too faithful to medication’ I thought to myself. We were welcomed into the house and joined the tea party.

After the usual introductions to the strange faces e.g. yours trul. The lady, went on to tell us of her daily life routine.

The story…

Her husband works in Mombasa while she lives in Taita, her nuptial home. All her children live and work in various parts of the country and she is left with one person to take care of.

Her mother in-law.

Every morning, she wakes up, milks and feeds her cows and later makes tea for the old lady. At 10am, when the air outside is fairly warm, she carries her aged mother in-law out of her bedroom and lays her on a bed right next to the fire place. ‘She often complains of too much cold so I put her next to the fire place the whole day.’ She explained. In the kitchen she will dress and change her whenever she soils her clothes. Yes, this lady claims to have been born between 1912 and 1914, but she is too old and weak, everyone believes she is well over 100 years old.

‘She is like a small baby’ she went on, ‘I always mash her food and feed her, while holding her by the shoulder. I bathe her daily and make sure she is dry and comfortable.’ She has lost most of her memory as she always seems to believe that the son works nearby and comes home daily.

‘Don’t you ever need help?’ I asked in awe.

‘I have tried leaving people with her so I can start a better business. Every person I left here complained that it was too much work while others couldn’t stand the foul smell of a soiled grown up, So I decided to do it on my own.’ Her children  tried to relocate her to the city to no avail. Her excuse was always the same..that she cannot leave her mother in-law all by herself.

But why bother yourself? Everyone asks her. Mothers and their son’s wives are generally not the best of friends. I too was very curious to find out…well not that I got beef with mine, but to actually dedicate your life to taking care of an old lady and lock out all chances of developing yourself is the most unselfish form of love I have ever witnessed.

‘This woman welcomed me to her house with the whole of her heart,’ she explained. She loved me like her own daughter and made me as comfortable as she could afford. She has a very big heart that does not judge or condemn. She deserves better than I even give her right now, but since I can only manage to sell the milk from my cows, I rely on my children’s financial input to feed both of us.  And anyway, it’s much easier this way as customers come to pick the milk themselves. I vowed to take care of her till the Lord decides otherwise.’

I was wide-mouthed. 

We went outside and into the kitchen to see her- the old lady.

She looked wee as she lay helplessly on the bed. I almost saw no legs after her hip bone. They were so skinny and feeble; clearly they could not manage her weight.

Our host bent over to her ear and shouted, ‘Mama, you have visitors!’ in the native language. Apart from being almost blind she could hardly hear a thing! I tried so hard but did not manage to put myself in her position. It was unbelievable. ‘Mama, stretch your hand and greet them!’ the old lady managed a hand stretch which we all grasped and greeted in turns. She smiled and I was touched. ‘Visitors, thank you for visiting,’ she mumbled before her hand fell back on the bed.

We let the old lady rest and went on to see the cows in the shed. We intended to use the long route through the shamba and experience another venture of the hilly suburb. The cows started mooing uncontrollably the moment she shouted for her cat to stop trudging alongside us.’ Are they alright?’ we all were puzzled. ‘Yes, they just think I’ going to give them more rations. They are all familiar with my voice and can tell it’s me from very far.’

The freshian beasts mooed till we got to the shed and then mooed some more when they saw their master.

I went back home intrigued by this lady’s life. It’s not every day that I meet a person with such a big heart, not everyday that I remember the most imperative things in life; but because of this day, I will for ever have off pat that if this lady can still be happy at the service of her old lady, her cat and beasts, so can I with the more that I have. Contentment is all in the heart anyway, right?

Continue reading “Extaordinary Big heart…not literary.”

Happy Holidays!!!

I am travelling out of town. Heading for my in-laws’. It will be the first time meeting most of the family members on that side well, since my parents–in law just moved back to shags. Four days I will be away from Nairobi. 12,000 hours I will be gone; away from freedom, electricity and laziness; missing from the only form of livelihood I know; missing from life. I will give up the ghost and rise again 12,000 hours later. I have never been away from Nairobi for more than two days. Not after I finished high school. Even in those two days tops I have never got to the point of missing the relaxing comfort zone of my home or the annoying traffic noise pollution that sort of worries me in its absence. The only thing I ever got to miss was my bed, once when we had gone for a burial in Kisumu and we slept in the bus we travelled in. I slept for an average of seventeen minutes, thanks to a myriad of interruptions from drunks and intoxicated youth staggering ridiculously, looking for empty seats or slots to plummet into, generously whiffing the air with all variety of odours and all.

So I have been told stories, enough to build a perfect replica of Wundanyi, Taita in my mind. I know the sands are light in colour and texture. It’s perfect for growing light foods like maize and a few soft wood trees. I have heard of many monkeys that make life unbearable for humans. They harvest the maize while it’s still so young and destroy acres and acres of plantation. To prevent this one must have as many scarecrows as possible, as well as idle men…ok paid men to kill the stubborn monkeys that don’t get scared away easily.

At first I was excited at the thought of watching the monkeys steal away till I was cautioned that Taita is nothing like City Park. They are not friends with humans in Taita; they battle with humans for survival… And they die.

So without much further ado, let me finish packing my bags now. I have been at war with time beating deadlines to clear debts and update accounts. I tried so hard to type this week’s post and this is the much I could manage. I hope you don’t mark my face and plan to strangle me or throw eggs at me should we cross paths.  I will not pack my laptop so don’t look for me online. Where I am going, I hear even the network is rationed hence. Should you wish to call me, please do so very early in the morning and hope that I will not be in the woods fetching firewood or balancing an 18kg Jeri can of river water up stream…if I manage to get  the thing past my waist.

I will carry with me a camera and share photos with you, if the monkeys don’t beat me to its ownership. And I will take a before and after photo and when I get back, let’s chat more on what you did that I wouldn’t do and what I did that I can tell. Think * hugging trees, pissing on a trail of ants or pooping behind a bush… Happy holidays y’all and see you in January. If God wills!

Prince Charming?

Have you ever been written off as a traitor yet you didn’t understand why? Ever tried elucidating yourself to people who have judged you wrongly and they just won’t turn back? Have you been in a situation where things that you feel are barely worth it turn against you and you still can’t take off? Been there, done that, not doing it again…well, given the chance.

Grab your spot.

I was in form three. Yes, don’t turn away just yet, and a great melancholic I was. As usual, I had my small circle of girls. One was my best friend; I had a few other close acquaintances in the same class, a few younger ladies I apparently mentored *ahem! Adjusting my fake collar* and a few older that I followed closely too. I don’t know if they still call it the same thing nowadays, but back then we were called Rangers. This was just a grown-up word for girl guides or scouts for that matter.

I loved being a Ranger. I didn’t have to wear our unpopular green blouses on Mondays and Fridays and it sort of nicely broke the monotony for me.

So it was a sports week and as a Ranger my First-Aid services were necessary. I packed my back and was ready to go for day 1. I had never gone for any sporting event held outside our school so I felt like a pre-schooler visiting Giraffe Centre for the first time. In the massively boisterous bus I quietly and hopefully invisibly sat behind the driver and pulled out my novel. Yes. I chose to read instead of screaming my lungs away with the rest of the crew. I never did sport, no. In fact I hated competition. I was too terrified of losing and falling, I chose to play safe… And take care of those who did.

At the playing field I chose a quiet spot under a fine-looking shade and spread out my kanga. I neatly unpacked my bag and got ready for any emergencies, most of which would be painkillers, water and glucose. I then sat myself down and on my writing pad, described what I saw in front of me in as many words as I could.

I totally enjoyed my own company. I wrote and smiled down at every descriptive word that popped into mind. My only destruction would be a few players who would more often than not drop by for more glucose and a quick hello.

Games changed and I had to let go of my already favoured spot. I was now on a playing field, large and wide. I didn’t like it. It was too exposing for me. I left my things in the bus and walked around, obviously aimlessly.

Now the juicy part.

I could see boys gazing at me. I had never seen so many boys all in uniform and in gang-like groups. I wanted to run. I was never the all attention on me kind of person and I felt invaded, my privacy uncovered. Each step I took felt heavy and I didn’t want to turn back and run. They would know I was the coward I was. My heart thumped so hard in my chest, I held on to it so they wouldn’t notice. All groups of boys each turned to stare and I knew something was clearly wrong, I could almost hear the words they whispered to themselves. I was almost sure I could read their lips. ‘She’s new’

‘Do you know her?’

‘Call her’

I knew none of them. Actually I knew no high school boy. Yes, remember I mentioned earlier that I was a severe melancholic? I was not chitchatting. All I knew at that moment was that I wanted to run and fast. Suddenly one of them stepped out in front of me and the silence banged my ears. ‘Hi!’

I froze in my tracks and waited for him to say what he wanted and leave me to my peace. He didn’t.  I murmured my reply and tried to walk away. He followed me.

He introduced himself politely as asked if he could join me. “It’s a bored walk I’m taking” I said clearly on the defensive. He wasn’t moved. He still insisted in getting bored together. I didn’t like him for not respecting my wishes but for his effort, he deserved one very bored toddle.

I could see my crew members stopping momentarily as they curiously watched us saunter around the field. I didn’t let it bother me, but I should have. The girls who had a chance to get closer asked what he was telling me. They gave me an alarming look. Their eyes screamed impending doom and they bit their lips in aggravation. But it was a little late. He had become a friend. Yes, he managed to savour my cob-webbed rejection and got into my lone world. He never asked me out, at least not yet. He just made me laugh the whole time*nostalgic giggle* sorry Baba Pesh*wink*

Needless to say, I had no intention of meeting him again. I hoped he didn’t too, so when I met the girls back at the bus, I was unruffled…until they unleashed the truth.

My charming company, I found out, was my classmate’s boyfriend. The girl in question sat right behind me! And to jump right onto the fire, everyone apart from a stranger *me* who never socialised with boys and had a handful of friends  knew this.

I felt horrible. This was purely unforgivable. Seeing all the disgusted looks on the crew’s faces, most of who were personal allies to my classmate, made me look at my feet in shame. I tried to look brave and swore never to see Prince charming again.

I quietly slid back into my seat and looked out the window, angry, not at myself but at Prince Charming for picking me to ruin my day. I pinched my ear and swore never to talk to him again.

I turned to check the time. Crap! I remembered Prince Charming fitting into my coveted golden*I believed* watch around his thick wrist!

Battle of the sexes

Hands down please! I am distraught at our men and all this whining about us women. I have not met one eccentric man who will not play cheap talk about ‘You women’. Now it’s even worse when I meet a male friend who goes on and on and on…like all women are me!!! I don’t represent all women here. I probably represent myself alone. Hell! Perhaps all women represent themselves!

Radio breakfast shows are now making a kill in profits by frying relationship stories in hot rusted pans. Yes they say that now that we have grown horns, we’ve become brutal at the game than men. It’s like women are the hot spice while men are the meat. There goes the headlines; Hunters become the hunted, women battering men, women cheating on men, women high up the social ladder, women ‘pangiaing’ men. Women refusing to get married, women wanting successful men…women, women, women! So what if women have changed? Are you going to deny the existence of us and brand us the outlawed sex? Let me get you back a few steps.

Some women don’t want to commit, they’d rather have an already committed man who after a lunch time quickie will go to the one who cleans up after them, makes them look great and are too caught up with HIS kids to have love time. True, SOME women, note the key word, are tired of waiting for good men to come by, so they have opted to go for the already taken ones whose wives go berserk. War is sparked and there’s a lot of hair pulling, face scratching here and there. Whoever wins gets the prize. Other women give up and get dejected, others want Pastor Ojigbani to marry them. Heck! All these and men still protest (sigh).

Okay, I get it that men feel cheated in this game. I feel you brothers, but wait, weren’t you the ones who once got weary of women sitting at home and gossiping while you worked your asses off? Oh yes, I remember you said you didn’t want to come home to crack neighbourly nuisance?

Then who was that who got a high school girl pregnant and vanished into thin air? Do you know what this girl had to do to raise his bastard daughter? Of course like him, you don’t. I’ll be glad to enlighten you that she tried to get married, but no man sought after bearing the baggage. So she landed on a ‘strange’ street and targeted men, our fathers’ ages to get a share of the cake and feed the baggage. This baggage grows up without a father and learns from mom that a man is a means to an end.

A wise teacher once said, “If I feed you with gold, I expect gold to come out of your results. Not shit.”Sometimes we reap what we sow. Look deeper inside you. What are your sins? Do you ever consider that what you once did is coming back for your ass? Because we women do what we do, thanks to some masculine influence back then, either from our parents or men we date.

Here cometh the difference. Some women get bitter and frustrated and lean on to vengeance for support of the defectively bruised hearts, others run to friends, even previously derelict ones, and cry buckets till they run dry. Others will go back to ex-boyfriends in attempt to seek approval by rebound, and some like me will mourn the pain away and ultimately let go.

Those women who pangia men, in my view, should be given a chance to experience true love. Once it sweeps them off they will discern what others value, for to love you do not prioritise wealth but rather moments.

Those in it for revenge, well that’s hard. If you get caught in that net, you are disaster-prone brother. You’ll need someone to slap you back to reality. Wake up and take off.

Those who wait for you in the bushes so you can drop a penny will remain there till you cease from visiting and those who lie and blackmail you will stop only when you become unadulterated.

The rest of us loving and faithful women will make pop corn, grab a seat and watch y’all combat it out.

Yes I’m Kenyan and there those like me who still value love. Not the generic, pimped 21st century love, but the old, original , fresh scented love that makes you see a woman and see flowers….yes, that. It’s the kind that you see yourself in a meadow of soft trimmed green grass, picking lilies to fix on your hair; then suddenly there appears the man you want to get gorgeous for. Nothing matters in this field and every living thing responds to your love. Yes sound like a fairy tale.

I loved my husband while he was on the dole and in campus, loved him when I got a job before him, loved him as we struggled to get him a place and love him even more when I see him in those striking one button suits. My sort is ‘Those women, who hurt, learn and grow’ I am the kind who will give my man cash and let him be the man. I am the breed who love and hearten. Yes I giggle and smile all the time. I flush when he stares into my eyes and remind him he is unrivalled and the finest for me. Yes, my type still exists and No, I’m taken, my sister too.

Three ingredients…

If you would ask me if I constantly enjoy the feeling of being a mother, I would to your utmost and unexpected blow and horror say no. It’s not that I don’t love my daughter or that I don’t intend to have more kids. Not that it’s not exciting to go home to a bubbly baby to sooth the remnants of my tough day at work or watch her knock herself out with the most minute of things. It’s not that she doesn’t rock my world with her genuine laughs or that she makes me young with the games we play. No.

It’s not easy to have another life depend on me. When I had her, my doctor deposited her in my arms before I could say ‘Fillet’. I’d felt a pang of fear engulf me at the thought of being a mother. Had the doctor given me a chance, I would have asked him to give me a few years to prepare myself psychologically. Yes, (thoughtfully) a few years would do it because the nine months I had been with child had been a drop in the ocean. Again, yes. Please shut your surprised mouth now. No matter how much I thought I had prepared myself, I still felt strange when reality checked in. I was terribly confused; I didn’t exactly figure where to start especially this, being my first time and all. Luckily I got used to it.

There are three major ingredients of motherhood, the first being love. This came in the moment I conceived. I loved her even when I had no idea what she looked like, even when I had no bump yet. I felt a sense of defence and promised to protect her with my life. My love grew with the bump. Her every shift was an honour and we played even while the most I could do was feel her. I’d talk to her and pray with her, even introduce her to things around us. I felt her movements the most when I’d lay down to rest. I was almost sure she felt it whenever I was at peace.

Then I gave birth to her and my love for her multiplied. Scared as I was to finally meet her I loved her to bits. She was tiny and helpless. Her head was heavy and her limbs folded softly into a soft comfort position. It was enough to make my heart melt. She relaxed whenever I held her in my arms and moved toward the direction of my voice. I knew instantly that I was an important person to her, to her daddy, and to the society. That is where my task began.

The second ingredient came in shortly-Care. I was tasked with the obligation to make sure another human being was fully comfortable. She’d cry and I’d get confused not knowing what to check first. Thank God for ‘New Mom’ books as they made me learn that there are three reasons babies cry when they are not sick; wetness, hunger and sleep. That made it easy for me to work my way around… at least untill one day when I did all that but she couldn’t stop crying. Oh, so I realised I was not supposed to take in stress lest I wouldn’t produce enough milk! Crap!

So with this responsibility weighing squarely on my shoulder, I had to work harder to endow her with the best we could get. I had to rally round her daddy to make more money. We would rather eat left over food than watch our baby struggle to survive.

Worry is the third and most comfortable ingredient. This is what led me to write this piece today. Since I had her, I have been watching this girl’s every move and react quickly with every whimper. I worry that she could fall badly when playing and I worry that while at work my house help could mistreat her or that she could feed her with lots of piriton tablets so that when she sleeps, she can take her domestic tours around. I worry that she could get sick. I worry when she chokes even on water. I worry when she sleeps when petrified and I wake up at night to feel her breath and to make sure she isn’t having any nightmares. I call home umpteen times a day to talk to her. I fret more when my heart skips a bit and my house help is unreachable. That kills me.

Mine is just a letter in a sentence. I know many women who struggle in marriages but hung in the there because they worry about their children’s future. Mothers worry about their children when they travel and even when they get married. They worry that they may get hurt in relationships and even when they take too long without communicating.

This ingredient is the most agonizing and I have already accepted the fact that I will worry for ever. I worry till I’m called paranoid, then I start getting worried that I could indeed be paranoid. The minute you become a mother, if you are not, you will know the depth of my plight. Meantime, it’s about time I call home again to check on my girl.

Guilty

Two days after I updated the blog last week, my father called. It was Friday at about 6pm and I stood at my usual spot in town waiting for my husband. Most of the time we hook up in town and head home together, considering that none of us works in the CBD and , well it’s more comforting struggling to get home in twos, with all the rush hour baffles and irritating traffic disorder.

So dad called. “Hi Mom,” he began. He always calls me mom as I’m named after his old lady. He particularly insists on calling me, mom when he’s had one or two. “Hi” I answered.  My mind went straight to my recent post. “How are you doing?”

“Great dad, is something the matter?”

“No, just saying hi. It’s been a while and you’ve been quiet. So I thought to call you up!”

“Really? That’s nice of you. I’m doing well, just adjusting to my new job. He must have read the piece, I thought to myself. He must hate me right now for giving all glory to mom. This was torturing me. “Mom, can’t I just call to find out if you are okay?” he went on, “Of course, dad”. Dad never calls to find out how I’m doing. I do that and whenever I call him the first thing he asks is if everything is okay. He calls only when it’s important and is very brief. It always irritated him whenever we’d call each other up while in different rooms in the same house back when mobile phones became the in thing.

“Are you getting used to your new job already?”

“Yes dad it’s really nice and I like it.”

“That’s good to know. Well I’d like to hear more when you have time”

“Sure dad. I’ll make a point and come over.” The call ended and I was left in utter disbelief that made me spend the next full minute gazing at my phone. It was as if I expected the handset to provide the answers that couldn’t stop bugging my mind. It made me realize that my article somehow painted daddy black. I recalled dad’s great achievements.

When my sister, our first born was barely nine months old, mom was with child again. She had been living in shags, hadn’t finished college yet and clearly, another baby wasn’t really primed for. It got worse when after the nine months and labour bonus; she gave birth to yet another girl. Even the fact that this second girl was named after dad’s mom did not make grandma’ any happier.  Kisii tradition by that time valued boys and girls were a pure waste of time and resources. A letter was immediately drafted by my uncles and sent to dad informing him of the bad news. ‘Sorry’ it read. ‘It’s another girl. Maybe you could try again with another woman. If you like, we can find one for you!’

My father truly loves my mom. He was infuriated when he received the letter and made a point to yap us out of shags and bring his family to the city to live with him, since he was fully aware of what his siblings were talented in. We were safer with him and he made sure to achieve that. Mom then took a baby-break and went to college while dad took over taking care of us. Mark you, mum was training as a teacher and she had to board in school and that meant that we would only see her during holidays. It was not easy. Dad managed to take us to school, cook us dinner help us with homework and work shifts, though he at times hired someone to help on those days when he just couldn’t make it. To me, that counts for something.

We all went to boarding school at the age of 11years and it was nothing short of misery, especially for me. Dad had to constantly visit us in school and reassured us that he had his eyes and ears on us. Many times he was mistaken for the invited pastor whenever he’d land in so early on a Sunday morning and he’d be received by C.U officials on duty. He watched us grow and taught us girls to be like men. It was hard as we got punished the hard way but ultimately we learnt to be tough. Despite the live nightmares we had to live with at home, dad loved us so much and he always made it clear it was never about us.

He taught me to save and budget and life stopped for him if any of us got sick. Once I was down and he never left my side. He wasn’t working then so he had all the time with me. He took me to hospital, then back home and became my nurse. He made sure I took my medicines on time and made me pudding and some porridge. He only left my side when my husband, then my best friend paid me a visit. I still remembered the smile that cracked his face when I told him I felt better.

love you too princess

Dad made me realize that no matter how evil someone could be, there was always a good side to them. He is the most optimistic man I have ever met and probably the most credulous. The latter definitely cost him an awful lot. Now he leaves his trusting to God and I picked that up. I always sought for my father in my potential boyfriends and now that I’m married,  I want my husband to do the many things, my father did; kill mosquitoes, buy the meat, sleep after everyone else and even wake up in the night to check up on everyone. I know my husband will certainly not wake up at 2am and I always keep the bugs away. Either way, I would never trade this man for anything, his imperfections and all.

This Friday I’ll shoot a call his way, just to say hi.

Juggling with life

I’ve got myriad of ideas on what to change in my life and not a single way to start. Maybe it’s because I’ve been reading a lot, or watching too many drama movies. Maybe because I’m changing careers or because I’m still establishing a map layout and I got several options before I place my bets. In my mind I’m in a casino.

 I juggle my ideas in my hands, the way I would with chips, carefully watching the croupier’s every move. This croupier is none other than fate. The very fate I look up to when I wish, the same fate I curse in despair and hopelessness when nothing seems to works. This damn fate still rises in my mind when I can only hope. Fate won’t aid, not ever.  He only plays with what I lay on the table. He lets me float in the armor of making the decisions then gladly aims to hungrily gobble up all my sowed seeds and bluntly stares on, waiting for me to take the disappointment in, hope in him and once again, bet.

He spins the ball and shouts, “Place your bets!” then waits for me to place my chips on my preferred numbers. I do. He never warns, nor advises, he simply watches, expressionless, perhaps with a precipice heart. Who knows, he probably wishes for me to lose so he can innocently blame the aftermath on the spinning ball. He probably smirks in his heart when I make a wrong move and lose. Because then I’ll have to buy more chips and go yet another round.  If I win, He takes his time to reward me. Counting and recounting the chips, just so to be sure it’s not more. Suddenly his math skills flew out the window. He may pay less, but that’s for the inspector to discover. The inspector here acts as the government. It’s even worse since I’m in Kenya as I know the corrupt minded inspector will ally with the croupier to tighten my blindfold, and unless  the floor manager is on my side I’m dabbed the ignorant fool who lives a great life and dies without future plans (whether I’m off to heaven or hell), so I go straight to hell. The floor manager here depicts God.

The spinning ball slows down and jumps carelessly on the numbers, unable to control its motion. This ball is the damned judge who rules whether I made a great choice or if I’m damned.  I’m watching its every move as my very life balances on this tiny thing’s final stop. The moment it stops, I get on my feet eager to receive my judgment.  I see the wrong paths I took and watch as my lost chips land mercilessly in the deck. My fist tightens in anger, despite knowing it’s a choice I’d made myself. I stare on jabbering curse words to myself and obviously at fate. I still have few chips on the winning number; a few on 35, several on 17 and an 8. Not too bad I can always make up for the lost chips with the winning ones.

On the next round, I get even better. I move on to poker. I have learnt enough already from roulette so poker should be better, I hope. See? Hope is still in my head because I vowed in the name of a stranger called  fate that I would eventually conquer; I play a different game on the same ground. The inspector cares even less while the floor manager keeps pacing the floor to ensure balance. This time I have to be wiser. I wait for the croupier to lay the first three cards. He does and I watch him, cat-eyed. It’s as though I can see right through his fingers, straight to the face of the cards.

“Place your bets!” he goes again. This time I study my set of cards and weigh out all my options. I plan ahead. My mind is a crystal this time around. I carefully place my bet. I take a risk and my heart tells me to hope, even more. The croupier’s eyes are roaming the layout.  When his gaze lands on my bet, he stops and a smile cracks the corner of his face. He too knows he’s cornered. His gaze moves to me. He doesn’t have to open his mouth. I can read his face already. “You little lucky witch!” he says.

He displays his hidden cards out for all to see. Bingo! It’s unfathomable but hey, it’s just my lucky day! I grin broadly and soon I’m laughing out loudly; taking in all the amusement and pleasure of success and fame; a true feeling of ecstasy. I know some of my mates are jealous and rumors will probably start their round that I cheated.  Others will hate me for succeeding and plan my execution.  Who knows, some will out of nowhere be my new-found friends!

In my young life I have made many right and wrong choices; monetary, love and relationships, school, friends and have repaid dearly. For my dark actions, I have been cheated, robbed, Heartbroken, insulted, beaten (only by my father and teachers), defeated, the list is endless. On the other hand for the right, I have been loved immensely, cared for, taught, advised and encouraged, all which have made up for all the mischances. I have learnt to be tenacious, with all the push and pull life remits, annoying as it can be. I realized that I grow stronger from these occurrences.

Keep them coming then. What can’t kill me, will mould me…well unless, I start seeing my doppelganger. Crap! My parents saw mine and called me at 6:30am in the morning to ask why I was ignoring them as they passed me on Outer Ring road. I was taking a shower then. If  it gets to that point, then God help, because I’m going to need lots of hugs!

 

Robbed kindly

It’s amazing how criminal minds work. Slowly I’m getting convinced that to be a criminal, you have to be very smart. Not that I’m considering changing professions, but if I were a thief I certainly would borrow many of these tricks, and faithfully watch those high intelligent movies like ‘Thief’.  An example is where someone will rob a bank of 20million shillings, transfer 19million to private accounts under different names, gets caught with a few hundreds of thousands, after spending some. He then insists when asked that the rest of his gang took the rest of the money. He gets jailed for a few years and finally goes free, a millionaire. That’s one plan, carefully laid out (suffer for a few years and die a rich man).Others will spend millions in order to make billions. And trust me, it’s not in investments. Let’s not speak of those who feign insanity to avoid going to jail.

I don’t know if my house help is also getting this intelligent or if it’s merely illiteracy, or misunderstanding. Call it what you want. All I know is she robbed me of my 600shillings to my face. 600bob may be peanuts to you but that is my one week’s transport expense, three packets of milk for Pesh for the week plus I save 60bob as change!

My house help wanted to buy a cheap phone. One which costs 1,000 bob, and as a good employer, I decided to buy the phone for her, then deduct 200 shillings from her salary, monthly. I deducted twice very comfortably, explaining to her how much she still owed me after every deduction, just in case she lost count, and to make sure we were in agreement. The third month, I did the same and she suddenly turned on me and furiously said I had already deducted the previous month. Shocked, I tried to count the months with her, trying to make her understand how I only deducted twice. For a while she sat, silently listening and I knew she had understood well. She then turned to me and bluntly said, “I don’t even understand what you were deducting for.”

I couldn’t believe it. How do I even start arguing with her? It would be like pumping air into a sack! I wondered if she thought I bought the phone for her, I even asked her why she never asked why I was deducting. She continued to act dumb as I tried to drill some sense into her thick head. Eventually I felt despaired, wasted and angry. I gave her her full salary and told her not to ever expect any favors from me. It didn’t make me feel better though, because if it had, I would have forgotten all about it. I would not even be writing about it now. So I’m hoping that I’ll feel better after I finish writing this.

Whenever I get a chance, I steal too, only the difference is I steal time and bus fare.  At work, I steal time to update the blog, read the paper and surf the net. The only other thing I would steal is my fare, if a matatu tout doesn’t ask for fare; I will not offer to pay. I am a good Christian, but I will never offer to pay my fare because these matatu rascals will charge me a whooping 70 or 80shillings for an annoying 30minutes trip to town, if it dares to drizzle. Don’t even ask how much I’ll pay when it rains. They will then drop me off two or three stages to my destination for fear of heavy traffic and police inspection.

In the morning these matatu rascals despise me when they get their matatu full with passengers. Instead of informing me politely that it’s full, they will stare when I inquire, as if they have no clue what I am blabbing about, then pressure the driver to speed on. When it’s off peak the same rascals will stampede over each other to persuade me to board their vehicle. I do not pity them during these off-peak times. Dare any touch me in the name of persuading me to board and I go to the next Matatu.

If the fare is high during these off-peak times, I will wait or bargain ignorantly to my preference before I board, and I will not offer to pay my fare if they don’t ask.

I’d rather have my house help con me. I have learnt the hard way. Sometimes you end up looking foolish when you’re too kind. I feel better already.