fires

I have a hard time getting a fire going.

Be it wood fires, stove fires, charcoal fires any fire. It’s like Math. My uncle says he has a solution  for it each time he finds me going crazy in a smoke filled kitchen.

“It is simple, tell Nyawira to bring me a goat of fire”

translated, he means to say that according to custom, my mother ought to give him a goat on my behalf, so that I can be able to make fires. Mburi ya mwaki he calls it. I should pursue that idea, not for any superstitious reasons, but to find out if say I got married, would the groom be asked to bring along a goat of fire along with the blankets for my mother, the sodas for the cooking women, the lesos for the aunties and the guard of wine for  the uncles.

 Last month I saw a woman get into a taxi with 2 sheep. She was taking them to her maternal home as dowry since her husband died before he  finished off the dowry price. She is in her early 50’s, surely.

I’m told if I was to get married the groom would be asked for my mother’s dowry too, since  she isn’t married (hahaha. Lolz) sorry. I told cucu, when that time comes, I’ll elope and come back a month later with a marriage certificate from the D.C;s Office.

We are out of firewood most of the days, and we have to use maize stalks, maize cobs and other debris about the house.

Soon we might be using  cowdug. I have a mind to pray for daily firewood. I was going to tell auntie we ought to be saying- give us this day our daily firewood but changed my mind in fear of a lecture against blasphemy.

But seriously we are getting our daily maize meal we might a well expound on our prayers.

Things which facilitate the getting of our daily ugali.

Steady as she goes

Yesterday, I stopped in the middle of the street to laugh. There was this dude singing very loudly, don't stop me from singing, this is not your town. So he looks my way and starts to sing- young girl, why be proud of your two breasts, a dog has eight and it doesn't boast-
I like such characters, maybe because inside me, I sometime am that kind of carefree character, who despite being different, resisting the society's norms, still finds her way, as everyone would were they to live, and not just imitate. Many times I don't quite understand the paths I take though distinct, but relying heavly on instinct like the animals I love, who love me unconditionally, and so far so good.

Last few weeks I've had to look at decisions, weigh them, try to pick out which is the most exciting, fresh,risky. Well, not exactly, but along those lines.

I was staying with my second family for the weekend, a simple, lovely set up. The father of the house loves loud music and everyone goes along with it, the son, just turned 16, in my mind he's stil 13 and a half. He likes to dance and he taught me a few moves. He's in high school so he knows what's in, and we played J Bloogs song- Let's do it again- over and over, late at night, and it didn't bother the sister, who was studying math, or the newest visitor- they always have someone new, everyday- who was reading some magazine half asleep. So we danced, then listened to a classic fm, and sniggered like two school girls.

But in the back of my mind, I have this decision hanging loose like the soot laden strings of old cobwebs in my aunt's kitchen. They become part of the room, that when it rains and they dissolve, you somehow miss them, though you always knew, at the back of your mind, they are not permanent. Perhaps it's the resistance to change. It has been six months and even though I knew they would be over, I resist, despite the warm thought of getting out once again on my own, living a quiet life, reading numerous books and making soup out of this and that every other day, listening to Colbie Caillat, David Tao and Matchbox 20 at the highest volume.
I guess it's the feeling that, these six months will never be repeated. I have to get set up, and as much as I have enjoyed the evening laughs with mama, the late night heart to heart talks with tata, photography sessions with my cousin, he's got quite good at it too, and guessing cucu's mood everyday, it was a season in my lifetime.

I have to leave eventually, and every day of my life I'll remember this stage of my life, like the sign language class I took at the university some years ago, the trip to an Island some few years ago, the saree clad Mumbai ladies with such quick feet the saree seemed to flow. Memories.

paloma kimani waturaco

I wanted to write something exciting, like how this Paloma song is a hit where I live, but I'm yet to decide whether the other Naija version by the same guy is a bigger hit, I would also like to write about the cow theft in my village, how cows disappear at night, only to re-appear as fresh meat in a different county, and every farmer now has to sleep with one eye open like an ogre incase of any new movements. Yeah that's the village news. After pulling water pipes around the farm, honestly, a one man guitar tune is very relaxing. Though the honest truth is I left my farm diaries in the village so I have to use old material, yeah and my computer is acting up.

Oblivious to the City

Yesterday I walked into the market  and felt at home. Somehow above all the din, it was peaceful. Perhaps from the fruity smells and noisy retailers. It reminded me of going to Chowkit market in Kuala Lumpur. I used to call it  the fruit tasting stroll. The peddlers would ask you taste mangosteen, a bit of rambutaan, a slice of dragon fruit . This is a red fruit covered in spikes, it grows from a type of cactus. If you have eaten the tiny cactus fruit, that is the big version of it.

 I have a pain in my right pointing finger  from  two months ago. I saw a nice cactus flower and tried to touch it, ended up with a thorn in my flesh and I’ve tried poking around, dipping my finger in kerosene, it’s still painful.

Like one time in Puchong, Malaysia I saw a  cactus plant ridden with ripe fruits, I was hungry- we had been walking about in the sun and the fruits looked appealing- I picked a handful, and my friends must have thought- ah, maybe her hands can take it. I  must say that was a crazy adventure. I ate the fruits, yes, but only a week later when the pain and swelling in my palms had gone down and a friend  suggested I use a knife and a fork.

So the market, it was interesting seeing  the red and yellow mangoes, fresh ginger, fragrant passion fruits, cheap shoes, which I bought- you can never  have enough shoes, and finally: finally, I got  ballet shoes that fit me. I live them but never get my size. Even though I have to walk with my  toes stretched out, I feel very happy.

 Then I went to the post office to pick up  my stuff from Malaysia. I love my trash, and I carry it around but I might just stop after being charged more than I suppose all those old clothes cost. I didn’t want to argue since I saw an Asian lady almost in tears for the amount they mentioned to her for  a packaged handbag she received. Last night I had a dream that my last  box of things  had arrived, and new things kept popping out, boots for my uncle, valued at ksh. 5,000 by the tax people, a knock off Gucci bag, yeah,. These Kenya Revenue Authority people really got into my subconscious, officially my new enemy.

Comfortable 20's having a drink, listening to the world.

The wood fire burns lazily under the mumbling sufuria(cooking pan). I'm peeling overripe plums for home made jam.
The smell is sharp, like new red wine. My bare legs are outstretched on the earthen floor to catch some warmth from the fire. A radio sounds off jazz tunes. From the window, a few stars sparkle gaily.
The sky has moved, I can tell from the position of the plough and the three stars on a row.. The cat is picking bits of food from the floor. It feels good. I search capital Jazz club on facebook but the link is slow so I put on the jam to cook and imagine I'm close to the sea, with silent waves slapping the sand playfully. It's easy to imagine. The forest is a few meters away, dark and quiet. I know there are animals and bugs I've never met inside that sea of trees, just like in a water sea. One of my favourite mainstream song goes like- I'm with the bartender, if you're looking for me, I'll be at the bar with her. I think if I thought hard enough I'd tell you whether it's T.I or T-Pain in it. It reminds me of days when me and my girl Bridge would get a bottle of red wine well, she mainly got it, I only had enough cash to keep alive.
We would have fries and perhaps home made muffins, I loved the banana ones, as we watched Avatar, the Last air blender Cartoon Series, which would be hilarious than the usual measure.
It wasn't really about the wine and grab, it was more of-Saving the little moments. Sometimes we listened to Norah Jones or Maxwell, other times we watched a different movie on our laptops.
My heart was chipping away like acid rock; but somehow, eating junk and drinking wine with a solid friend was a lovely stage.
I'm brewing a bottle of red wine with plums from last season and an internet recipe. It looks red and rich, but made my mouth smell like Tom's, my dog. Maybe I should wait the 12 months the recipe said it would take. That is, if gran doesn't catch a whiff and send it flying across the Aberdare forest, which is currently on fire.

Farm Diaries- The long walks

I started off by walking a distance of about 25 kilometres two way to visit a colonial house that used be rented by  nuptials for honeymoon. It’s a beautiful house set on a hill, with the great mount Kenya directly facing the most important  windows. It’s in the normal colonial style, wooden floors of the ground, with black paint , and white wash for the huge windows.

There is a separate  kitchen, with a chimney coated black with soot, and a sagging bamboo ceiling. The reason for my visit was, I’ve been simmering with this brilliant  idea  to feature colonial houses in my area, even though a few  people  have told  me it’s  not really  something they wish to read about.

“Would  you imagine if  someone came, took  your  land and your neighbour’s  land too and moved  you  to a small plot and made you his servants? Then on the same spot  you had  your  house  he built his own magnificent mansion?”

So when I heard  about the one  that was converted to a guest house, it caught  my interest, up until that Monday . I was received  by a rather, thin man, he told  me he was  man of God, and said  he knew  what I wanted  from him but I would  be disappointed.

He gave me a comprehensive  history about the Presbyterian Church, his family, and  gave  me a tour of his library, which included different Bible translations and home remedies. He initially thought I wanted to request to host a wedding, possibly mine at that compound, so when I told him I was  a journalist, he quizzed me and asked for my opinion on a lot of things, saying his daughter  has recently graduated  from Mass Communication School and it would be nice  if we  met since he could  tell ‘even though I don’t have  a lot of flesh on me,  I something on my neck”

Seeing I had no story- the house is now a family home to him and his family, a minister’s manse- I walked back and went out to sniff out more stories, but first I sat and ate  the supply of plums I was carrying, the sun  piercing to my very marrow.

I had seen some farmers harvesting onions and I decided to pass by, it was a large crowd of workers, with some happy young men calling out to me, ‘hey, someone wants to talk to you’ so when I  started towards them, they began to disperse . I sat to talk to one woman, who wanted to know my family tree, later I found out they were relatives of my grandmother through marriage and polygamy. We had a nice  chat, the owner of the onions said I needed to show them where to  market their products, since I obviously know more than them. I did some rare quick thinking and said, of course when I write about farming, I am passing on knowledge, so at some point I might have a marketing article. He invited me for their Onion Farmers Association  general meeting.

 As I left, they offered me onions to cook. I could only carry a few, and they thought that was not very appreciative, were it up to them, I should have carried a whole gunia. I think they were happy about the pictures  I took of them and promised to bring them print outs.

I rushed through the rest of the week, doing more interviews and planting peas along with garlic, since my aunt, a seasoned horticulture farmer suggested it, even though what I really wanted was to wait for my sweet potatoes to grow, then I plant some hot pepper.

 

As  the week came to a close I was fatigued, really worn out and I dozed off while chatting with my friends, that was embarrassing.

Cats,Dogs and other fauna

Both of our dogs mad,  the older one is a serious nut case, but we somehow love him and side with him despite his mistakes. He is currently healing a wound on his left ear which he got from his night trips. I always resort to amoxyll, the anti-biotic when the animals are sick and it works, somehow. He had a fever, my aunt gave him a painkiller and a sleeping pill and cleaned his wound. He is fine now, even though the past two weeks he has  been scratching at the would, perhaps to prolong his convalescence  to avoid the leash. When it dried up this week we had him on the leash, and he broke free the first few times, dragging along the leash and getting more  bruises from his night trips. My neighbour said she’d poison him for eating his green maize. Tom, as we call him has two weaknesses. Eggs and green maize, fried; and he hunts for them, oh yes he does. So this morning, when I found an empty container of cooking fat, and a happy looking mongrel, I profusely regretted having left the kitchen door ajar. I’m going to get it from grandmother since I let the dogs out last night. I feel safer when they are running around howling in the compound, even though I know  that wouldn’t prevent an elephant from walking across the house if he needed to, but at least  bad guys won’t steal our cows or sheep while we are sleeping, to slaughter them a kilometer away.

 Not far from home, someone’s cow was stolen in the night and slaughtered, leaving only the dirt from the intestines and the tail. And as the owner, an old widow picked up the tail and swang it  about on her way home, the neighbours felt an urge to tear the thieves, if they were ever found, into little bits.

So Tom, when he’s not  looking for eggs laid out in the bush, he’s eying which doors are open, so that he can grab a container of magarine or butter. The vet says it’s unhealthy.

A few days ago, the two dogs, Tom and Tusker ganged up to steal a baby rabbit. When  my aunt approached, Tom ran off, but Tusker has something wrong with her head, she continued to eat the poor thing like it was legal food. She got grounded and was on the leash a few nights, and a porridge rationing. Tom tries to hunt the cats too sometimes, unsuccessfully. Tusker tries to play with them, they scratch her .

One of the cats who has a family of two not very cute kittens is having a difficult time providing for the family, since, well, grandmother sold the maize and the rats  that had over populated have moved. She is not into the vegetarian food we give them. So she got a medium sized one from the store rooms , brought it to eat by the cow shed- a note about Sock, that’s her name, she’s  black with white toes- she hangs out a lot  with the cows, I think she identifies more with them. So you’ll find her relaxing with them after her meal. A few minutes later I saw a chicken running with a half potion of a rat, instinct had me chasing the hapless fowl with a stick round the compound. Chicken must have powerful lungs. It didn’t drop the ‘hunt’, I got tired and decided I’ll never eat an egg from socks anyway so the chicken might as well have it. Poor socks getting harassed by the chicken, maybe she should  make a better budget  when she decided to add on to the family.