Tomorrow I'm going to visit my friend in her rural home. It's far, it's inconvenient, expensive and all the planning ahead has been quite exhausting.
But I will go, and even though I risk getting malaria I would never let such a chance go because it's not everyday that someone says, "come and rest a little here."
A few years back, I never imagined that the only thing I would be longing for with al my heart is a chance to just walk into my mother's house. The calm green walls, green velvet sofas, a calm cup of Kericho gold tea, the softly humming TV forever tuned in to a news channel, the soft radio on Sunday morning tuned to a Sunday morning prayer that went on for a few hours, and the green bedspread she always made my bed with. My bed had a green velvet headboard too, and the kitchen spelt a mixture of dry tea scrubbed wood, sometimes, the fading scent of a paraffin stove smoke which you taste at the back of your throat.
My mother would say '|doh *ke <oh>shere.' and I would carry myself grumply and go. We would talk about her cat, she would tell me about some news at her work place. 'siku hizi kumejaa wakisii.' other times she would tell me about the Maasai who had a wholesale and retail shop near the house. ' 'Akoragwo na itim<oh njohero' They were simple uncomplicated visits.
I have gained friends who tell me 'just come'
Sometimes I just want to sleep away from my solo life.
To just be immersed in a family. Where everything is happening around me and I don't really have to participate.
Do you know I write about family, loss, brokenness, hope and contenment in my recent book?
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