254

Ignorance is a terrible thing, and I got caught out in this. So there is  this song by Rihanna, Ludacris and some rappers. It’s called – this party don’t stop- I’ve been hearing  it on radio since  last year but didn’t pay much  attention. So the other day  at my friend’s house  I asked for some music. I’ve decided to listen to Neo Soul, Lovers’ rock(love Reggae ), and Kenyan music for the next part of the year. After getting the Glen lewises, Norah Jones and Vivian Greens, he puts on a video and you can imagine my shock that that Rihanna song is actually by CAMP MULLA. I was blown away. These beautifu beautifu  (no typo)Kenyan kids making great music, and here I’m thinking I knew all about Kenyan music! I stand corrected, I felt like one of those people who after hearing a couple of Cold Play, Nickle back and Daughtry songs won’t stop telling you how great rock is and how you must listen to clocks by cold play and photograph by Nickle back and you’re thinking, no, I want Owl City, Ben Jelen and Bo Bice.

So, there are,  some good  mainstream music going round. My favourites: Just a Band, Harry Kimani, Kidum, Ken wa Maria, Sauti Sol, John Njagi, That Jazz guy, who plays the guitar and has an unlikely name for an artist, I think he’s Kevin or Mark, I’ll find out. But Kamande wa Kioi disappointed me with his almost inciting song, he should have stuck to his kapusi and belching in church lyrics. Makes me shudder imagining just how bloody the next election might carry on “shiver”

Then there is Liquideep. There are not Kenyan but I want to adopt them, they are South African. I love the beat to their music, they also don’t pimp their video’s much, kinda like –Just a Band- I like that, you get to concentrate on the music. Asa is someone else I’m coming to love, I hear she’s Nigerian, like Sade is but I don’t suppose she records in Nigeria?

 I once sat on a table, and someone bragged about Justin Beiber being his country man, I thought about mentioning Ezekiel Kemboi and Ndereba  and the huge tea estates in Kericho, the white sandy beaches and the delicious avocados, plums and sweet potatoes, then I thought, a no point, let me just have my pork rice in silence, no it was a cheese burger, yes at McDonalds. A place I only went in when I had to, and not alone, after being openly racially discriminated.

I was two weeks sick last month, bad cold with stuffed nose, headache and a cough that would wake up the dead but the great thing is I knew I’d be alright.  It’s just a Winter cold. Not like that time I had dengue fever and didn’t know  what was wrong with me, you could have  boiled arrow roots on my forehead. I thought this was the end, and started wondering, should I be cremated, or sent back in a box and  what would happen to all my picture collection? 

poem

You lived a dream

Floating grappling

For air, always.

Until the day you saw  running blood, 

from you finger

I’m liquid after all. 

                                                                                      Greg, Diary of a Wimpy Kid

Every living thing

--------As the cloud shadows, racing on the wind, flew over me, trailing ribbons and brightness over the endless browns and greens, I felt a rising exhilaration at just being up there on the roof of Yorkshire. It was an empty landscape where no creature stirred and it was silent except for the cry of distant bird, yet, I felt a further surge of excitement in the solitude, a tingling sense of the nearness of all creation.-------

James Herriot was in touch with his world. Last month I read- Vet in a Spin and Every living thing. He was a vet, but he didn’t simply go about with his medical bag oblivious of the world around him. So as I read about helping lambs give birth, or fixing lame dogs, and clearing off rot in horses, I wish I lived earlier, I would have made an effort to reach him.

Chad Kruger is alive and I haven’t emailed him yet, and the’re three letters to Maeve Binchy which I need to send out. Time.

-----‘Have you felt inside her?’

‘Nay, I haven’t had time.’ He turned harassed eyes towards me

We are behind with the milkin’ this morning. We can’t be late for t’milk man.’

I knew what he meant. The drivers who collected the churns for the big dairy companies were a fierce body of men. Probably kind husbands and fathers at normal times but subject to violent outbursts of rage if they were kept waiting even for an instant. I couldn’t blame them, because they had a lot of territory to cover and many farms to visit, but I had seen them when provoked and their anger was frightening to behold----

I can relate to this. My uncle has to get up at bizarre hours just so not to upset the milk man, he sells a litre for 25 Shillings to the society. Half a litre of the same when packed is Ksh 50. So we tell him to take a risk and move to Brookside but, what will happen when Brookside decides to take less he wonders.

------------She was of the farming generation which had come through the tough times before the war and her gaunt, slightly bowed frame and lined face bore testimony to the hard years. It was the kind of face I had seen on so many of the old Yorkshire folk-grim, but kindly.----------

Reading that paragraph lists faces in my mind that would fit that description. Years of hard, tiring work have lined their faces and roughed their palms.

…….Afterwards we walked through the scented silence of the woods,

The pine needles soft under our feet, and he talked, not only about the deer, but about the other wild creatures of the forest and about the plants and flowers which flourished in those secret places. He seemed to know it all and I began to understand the depths of the interest which colored his entire life. He held the key to a magic world.

As we reached the field the sun came out and, looking back, I could see long drifts of bluebells among the dark holes of the trees, and in the glades, where the first ray struck through the branches, the primroses and anemones shone like scattered jewels…….

Yep, that’s James Herriot for you.

books, memories and giants

I broke open my old book box today and was  surprised at how many books I have collected  over  the  years. From MobyDick to- what if I’m a literary gangsta?- Poetry collection by Tony Muchoma to Carcass for hounds by Meja Mwangi. Diaries and journals dating back to 1997 my own bound sublime Innocence poetry collection from 2007, and  a stripped pullover. The diaries are a bit worthless to me now. Between  ’97 and ’03 I made my entries in a made up language which I can’t be bothered to decode now. ’03 to ’05 was in French, I can’t be bothered to decode either  now.

Maybe I should write  a will. But talking about a will now may convict me if I turned up dead next week, they would  say I  had been suicidal. But I have realized I actually  have  some wealth. Quite a bit too. On average a novel in a second hand shop costs up to $2.50.

There is also the unpublished manuscripts  which could sell after my demise. Two cats, more than  five good clothes, a USB drive, 2 nice plates and a really nice purse my friend gave me. I’m worth about that much.

 There is a time that my dictionary was my most valuable possession. It went up in flames in 2010. If you ask me now, I’m not sure what is that extraordinary something. I think I could get up and go and not worry that I didn’t bring  my camera. Is that a  good or bad thing? It depends. There was a time moving required so much planning and bags. I was attached to old clothes and drift wood collected from sea shores, I guess now I’m more attached to people. I drag along people across the boundaries I traverse.

It’s easier to bring people along. The smiles  and laughs and experiences  shared are lighter to carry  than rocks from Mt.Longonot or sweaters that mean something.

I never look forward to Mondays

I'll take one shot for my pain
One drag for my sorrow
Get messed up today
I'll be okay tomorrow

Singing about liquor is not really a way  to progress, but it helps me  boot  on Monday Mornings.

Cause my job's got me going nowhere
So I ain't got a thing to lose
Take me to a place where I don't care
This is me and my liquor store blues("Liquor Store Blues"
(Bruno Mars feat. Damian Marley))

 Monday has always  been my worst as far back as is possible to remember.

 

Our music teacher wanted us to make musical instruments. We had options. You could make a flute from bamboo, shakers from bottle caps, burned in fire then straightened out. Or you could make  a wandindi- it is a kind of a guitar with a drum base made out of stretched  skin. A shaker  would  have been easy but bottle caps were hard to come by.

 The main brew then was Shibuku, which came in yellow  plastic bottles, the kind that is used for battery water now. I had rabbits, but mine were pets, about 25 of them, they had names too so slaughtering one  to get the skin  was out of the question. The only time  I had some slaughtered was  when  ants invade the hatches  and ate them alive. So I needed bamboo.

No one grew bamboo in my area. The closest bamboo plantation was kirangi. Kirangi was  part of the Aberdare  forest where some squatters planted cabbage interlaced  with ganja forest conservation they called it.

I had  a classmate lived in that direction nearby so one Sunday afternoon we decided to go search for  the accursed raw material that  could make music. To say it was a 50km walk would not be a big exaggeration, and by the time I got back home, grandmother wanted to skin me. Worse, the cows  had broken into the farms and fed on a good number of corn heads, the rest had been carried away by baboons. Two of the young bulls were bloated, and while the village vet was  basking in his glory after carrying out a major surgery-piercing their abdomens to let out the air, I run in horror to the back of the house to find my uniform wet from the afternoon rain. A calf had chewed on the sleeve of my good sweater too.

 In those days, children didn’t get depression and high blood pressure and such, it was simplified in one term- rung’athio- I got a  telling off from cucu for having- rung’athio- the following  Monday morning. I had barely finished my tea when the whistle went off- my neighbor always  whistled twice to say-ukaga- meaning unless you fly you will find us ahead.

If Damian Marley and Bruno Mars had had their liquor store blues single then, I’d have sold all my earthly treasure, rabbits  and library and bought a ticket. Coz you can imagine how it felt when I realized I didn’t pack my lunch, nor the hastily made flute.

strange thing, is that as I post this, about midnight, the egesa- the pub in the neighbourhood is playing that same song-... I bet I'll sleep  soundly then.

A Poem

Let them be as flowers Always, watered, guarded admired
 But harnessed to a pot of dirt
 I’d rather be a tall ugly weed
Clinging on cliffs like an eagle Wind
 wavering above high, jagged rocks
 To have broken through the surface of stone

To live, to feel exposed to madness Of the vast eternal sky
 To be swayed by the breezes of ancient sea
 Carrying my soul my seed beyond the mountains of time
 or into the abyss of the bizarre

 I’d rather be unseen,
and if then, shunned by everyone.
Than to be a pleasant-smelling flower
 Growing in clusters in the fertile valley
Where they’re praised, handled
and plucked By greedy, human hands
 I’ d rather smell of musty green stench
 Than of sweet, fragrant lilac

If I could stand alone,
 strong and free I’d rather be a tall,
 ugly weed.

 Julio Noboa Polanco-Identity

Excuse the term: Anal Glands

I washed them yesterday- the kittens. The sun was bright and I’ve been putting it off long enough. Mooze has been giving off a really bad smell. I see him cleaning himself and his sister helps but after a visit to the litter box, his exterior smells not so great. So this evening I’m concerned because, Goo Goo still smells fresh from yesterday’s scrubbing but Mooze? Phu phu phu. It is very unusual. I have a vet, but haven’t consulted him since the other cat died. And there was that period I couldn’t afford to have a pet and just looked after other people’s. So I consult Google, and trust this expert to know what I’m talking about. I’m surprised, the search results fill the page. Foul smell under cat’s tail? Pardon the expression-Anal glands in cats. How to excrete anal glands. I was doing this absent mindedly, replying text messages and reading – White Thorn Woods by Maeve Binchy but as I read about cats and dog’s anal glands, I stop the texting and reading. I have chills. So this really is a problem? Mooze is really laid back. He doesn’t fuss a lot, he’ll fall asleep anywhere. Not so with Goo Goo. So cute. I knew which was a boy and which one was a girl even before they agreed to come close. I always laugh when Googoo goes to the litter box. You can hear her clicking- nkt, when will some cats learn how to use the littler box!- then you’ll hear her scratching and digging furiously to put the sawdust all on one side before she can go then she’ll cover everything properly and lick her legs before getting back to the main area. Mooze just needs to get in the box. Now I’m fully awake. Apparently, felines and dogs, wait does feline stand for both dogs and cats? So anyway, the two have 3 glands around their anus filled with some fluid. It is used to mark territory. When in danger they’ll squirt that fluid and also after pooping. The smell is terrible when there is an infection in the sacs, or a tumor. A bad diet lacking in fiber can cause the sac to block, thus the smell due to congestion. I feel bad to think I might have contributed by the diet. I’m hoping it will get better. I wipe with a saline solution, now he’s dozing off on the couch and Goo Goo is playing with a roach that came through the bathroom door. Usually I can fix a lot of cats problems with a few spoons of amoxyll or piriton but this beats me. My furry ball could be in serious problems.

a note book

Lethargic is the word.
Perhaps not
But I have a feeling that could spell a big word
A feeling brought about by late payments
Evasive employers
And rent that’s got to be paid
Wonder, would love dilute this feeling
Change it to a smaller
Word like- neo soul,
Cruising or simply
Snapping fingers
Music.
Music would
Perhaps some simple plan
Perhaps John Gray
India. Arie perhaps?
John Njagi would do.
Or flowers, wild flowers
Tiny bits of color in white
Lilac and yellow
Perhaps a bunch of long stemmed
Jasmine.
Lethargic sounds like chemistry
But I have a notebook now

To think, create. 16/06/11

Don Anstan

me and cuz in mama's cabbage farm

1996. I had just moved to a new school and fighting hard not to wish I was back at the public school. The first day was a climax. The deputy asked me why my last name was woman’s name. I had the desire to point out that on average women form the greater population in any society, but he could have been my great grandfather’s age, I didn’t dare.
I couldn’t find a desk and had to share a bench with another girl who didn’t speak at all, even when the teacher asked her name, I had to look over her book and shout it to the teacher. Then that boy threw my bag on the floor. The floor was dusty, it was a new bag, and by the end of the lessons it was raining as it only does in Endarasha: leopards and foxes. My mother always got me dancing shoes for school, they were flat and smart yes, they also had holes all over.
It was barely the end of the term. We were having our P.E lesson. Mainly running around singing songs, and boys saying which girl needed a brassiere.
The teacher called me over and said- if you don’t stop doing that you’ll have to bring your grandmother.
I had been doing cartwheels, in the middle of a bunch or girls. We didn’t have P.E Kits, we also didn’t have curtains in our dormitories, parallel to the boys’. But he wasn’t talking about the cartwheels, he said- in this school we don’t allow boyfriends and girlfriends- I thought of the boys I hang out with, The wag, Prince Kigano, James and Mbua. Buddies. Boyfriend, ai, no.
So he mentioned the boy’s name,a boy in class eight. I would have liked to see my expression. I was shocked, but was already thinking about the idea, having a boyfriend in class eight would have solved a lot of problems, like having him kick that boy that said I had wincked at the teacher, but not him, aw. So I looked at him wide eyed as he said I was to end the relationship right away. Then he sent me away.
I have always been one for new ideas, and that really got me thinking. I checked the boy out at evening parade, he didn’t look that bad. I asked Shellomith what his other name was. She seemed to know what I was thinking, she said his head was pointed at the back(kisogo). I didn’t want to be the girl with a boyfriend with a kisogo- pointed head.
I never got to hear the end of the story and the teacher didn’t ask again. But in class seven another strange thing happened. I was now boarding. So one afternoon I was cleaning my shoes at the puddle below the tank, we rarely had water. A girl in class eight came and said- what do you think writing letters to my cousin? I feared the girl, she could box you. She never did box anyone, but she wore boy’s shoes and wore a mean look all the time.
I don’t think it was from me, I tried.
Nonsense, I saw the letter, everyone saw the letter.
Oh no, everyone? Everyone in class eight? The girl had a brother in the same class. The cousin was in class five. I was really embarrassed. I even wondered could I have by any slim chance written it in my sleep? A boy in class five? I had a marquee with the words sugar mama going across my mind.
I waited for the authorities to call me in but it never happened. I still wonder who wrote that letter. Kids can be mean.
But it was never all bad, well it was when I was getting canned daily. At one time I had to receive 25 strokes every day, straighten me right up it did, for the time it lasted anyway, then I was back to reading novels during science lessons and getting 32% in Maths.
So last week a friend calls me, happy about a message I sent. I had not written any message but she was to happy, didn’t want to put a pin on the ballon. But I told her later, there was no such message from me. In case she receives another asking for a ransom, you know?

a poem

Sometimes I like the reddish with black eyes,
Or the slim smooth white ones
The dark round ones can be surprisingly soft. If you handle them right
Sometimes the tiny on are fun, not much fuss. They don’t try to impress
The mixed ones don’t come cheap. I now remember the burly rough ones. With thick brown skins. Don’t see them anymore.
I loved their tough exterior, inside, soft almost powdery

Fry them
Roast them
Bake them
Boil them
Mash them
Slice
Curve
Roll and spice them
I love them all
Long live potatoes

My new loves

Goo Goo and Mooze

burning my fingers

I had kids over the other day. With kids you are never sure what they will enjoy in terms of food. So I decided to make a little of everything and I should have known that kids are easy to please. They loved everything! I guess it's adults I should be wary of. Kids like to try new things. So if you decide to have jacket potatoes, they will love them, adults will ask why didn't you peel the patatoes like everybody else. The one thing they were really interested in was the pasta. I don't break up my pasta. I washed their hands and asked them to go ahead.
By the way, why do people break up pasta, if you are going for small why not just buy long grain rice?

The one person I haven't been able to impress is my little cousin Irungu. He doesn't like salad at all. Unless there are pineapples in it, then he will pick these out . Reminds me of my friend's son who would only eat a few cucumbers off a whole bowl of salad. But Irungu likes pancakes, and as it is, his brother makes better ones than I do. I donno what's with that boy, Munyeki. He has a way with food. When he fries githeri, it is gourmet githeri.When I try that, it becomes githeri, onions, tomatoes and water.

So this time I'm sure I can feed about five people, with second helpings, men included. That is not exactly correct.I'm assuming all men eat the same huge amount. My friend's husband would eat less than us. Times when we went out for bakut teh, Me and and my friend would order two three rice bowls, each one and a half, and Wei would have one bowl. Then we'd scrape off the mush rooms and bits of pig from the pot. I guess I should say, five, moderately eating people. And about 3 kids. And they need to be open to new tastes.

I haven't made a pumpkin in days, so I'm off to look for one.

Ready to Go Emergency kit

Earthquakes, Tsunamis, Bombs, falling buildings, civil war... eehk.

In Kenya, our recent scare is Al Shabab. I overheard a woman at the market say-
"see these black spots I have, what do you know, I got them when Al Shabab started."
You would think Al Shabab was a communicable ailment. Gun shots, especially where I live are common but these days whenever a shot goes off you'll hear someone saying- they have come.
So I've been meaning to write about how to prepare for such an emergency. It is not an original idea, I read about it in the Awake! magazine.

You will need. A carry on bag
A torch and batteries
water
canned food(you can have biscuits, noodles)
A first aid kit(pain killers, antiseptic, scissors, bandages, Elastoplast, safety pins,salt,wet pads and those that can be used on burned areas donno what they are called )
Red cross has medical kits going for ksh.3,000 and ksh 2,000. But it is cheaper if you got them from a chemist.
You can add anything else you think is important.
For me, I would have copies of identification and a list of family and friend's numbers.

I have only done it half way but I'll keep getting the things I need.
When disaster strikes, all that would really be useful is yourself in good shape. Grab that bag and escape.

the link lists comfortable shoes and rain wear as well as an fm radio phone if you can manage (http://www.watchtower.org/e/200709/article_02.htm)

I can't get this off my head

"How To Save A Life"

Step one you say we need to talk
He walks you say sit down it's just a talk
He smiles politely back at you
You stare politely right on through
Some sort of window to your right
As he goes left and you stay right
Between the lines of fear and blame
And you begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

Gentleman Vs Thug

versus

The other day my friend said to me that she thinks people generally end up getting mismatched.

yeah, sad. I said

"But that's the way it should be, you fight, you hate each other and have a miserable life, but you are in love and you won't just settle for the nice gentle man who does everything right but you just don't feel him," she said. So I wanted to write something about it.

Well, gentle man, thug which one?

It simply depends on what you are ready to put up for rest of your day lights.
But of you ask me, I would vote for a thug any day.

A thug is not afraid to tell you right out that he likes and you are really cute when you wear you hair like that.

A thug is not wishy washy about what he wants. If it doesn't work out, so what, at least you tried. If you just continue walking on the line, 27 years after 2012, you'll still be wondering why ladies just wanna be friends. A thug won't keep you guessing what's up.

A thug doesn't think the world revolves around him around him. He knows you got stuff to do.


And a thug will walk past your mother to see you when you're sick, he won't care.

So to all the thugs out there. You are special.

My play list this week:

E.V.E and Alicia Keys- Gangsta Lovin'
Agar tum mil jao
Quelqu'un M'a Dit - Carla bruni
These bones- Dashboard confessional
Cinderella-Ali kiba

pictures courtesy of photo stock images

discovering tastes

pic courtesy of clia.org.mx

Me and my mother's friend are in the kitchen arguing about the best way took ugali.

You just mix it then cover, she says.

But this is flour from the mills, you need to boil it first- I say.

She takes it off the fire before I think it's ready but I don't argue, I was just helping her so, it's her meal.
2010 was a crucial year for me.I learnt the way to make well cooked ugali from Tata. And in 2011 I spent most of the evenings perfecting the skills. My neighbor would tell people.
-her, she only cooks ugali, I think she prefers it to many foods- I'd agree and add that maize products are actually good for a healthy worker's body.

So last night I was making ugali and I realised I do spend quite a bit of time preparing and cooking food. I enjoy cooking, I didn't before, I guess coz of lack of ideas or was just plain lazy.
Spending time with Michelle's mum, Mrs. Yap changed a lot of things in me. I'd pound the ginger, garlic, pepper, tomatoes , onions and green pepper until it was a fine nice smelling pulp to be used in frying the rice, or green veggies.

That pulp is used as a base for all frying as opposed to a single onion.

Now whenever I'm frying even green veggies,I make quite a big deal of it. To make a good pumpkin soup, I'll start at 5 p.m to serve at seven.Then the sink will be full of equipment needing a wash. The other day I made fried rice, the Chinese way but lacked one ingredient- soy sauce. I'll look for it next time I go to the market. It turned out okay and now I know I need a wok, a big one.

I have freedom to experiment in my house. My friend Carol rang me the other day and asked what experiment I had for super, and you can bet it was a laugh. I had fried that green shaped veggie- we call it shasha; with beans and the usual spices, then using mashed potatoes I made my own version of a shepherd's pie, it tasted good.

I just googled. that veggie is called chayote, choko, chocho,
or Bangalore brinjal. and it's good for you too. check out wiki-http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chayote-


the real shepherd's pie ;)

pic courtesy of snovalley grub blog

in the neighbourhood 2/01/12

six eyes, and three beautiful girls always meet me at the gate when I get back from a trip. They run upto me screeching:
Auntie Gathoni Amerudi!- auntie Gathoni has come back. They all hug me and almost topple me over and I can't help the warm feeling welling inside me. They carry my bags and we have to spend five minutes looking for the keys, then:

aki tumekumiss... they chorus
then when I'm settled on my bed they ask :umetuletea?-what have you brought us?

I ask what they've kept for me and they will say they didn't know I would get back so soon, but promise to keep something for me when I go away again.

Three girls soon to be unassuming teenagers
Rose Brenda and KUi. Brenda is the oldest but Rose is more outspoken and has seen a lot in life so she is the captain. She is in class one. My friends in the coffee bean neighbour-hood

I once fell sick and was expecting visitors, the girls came and assisted, I simply gave instructions and for the week I was sick, they all came to cook clean and sympathise.

I remember Brenda in the great grandmother's smoke congested kitchen boiling eggs for me-of course we split everything- but she looked so lovable with her tear filled eyes, her pink tights. I could bet a load of firewood she had never had to start a wood fire before that day.

Kui, 4 years old came in and advised me to gurgle salt, it helped, when you are sick you don't think quick enough, and salt is a good antibiotic so with tonsillitis it is bound to come in handy, even a little girl will tell you that.

Rose lives in the same compound so she came in frequently to do my bidding. She's secretly my favourite. Her personality is just a book by itself and she challenges me, like an adult, so we converse one on one like agemates, and she won't take a telling off. She has opinions and reason.

So whenever I'm headed to my house I'm thinking what treats to carry for my girls. This time I had plums. Dear Rose didn't know what Plums are, never had any. I'm glad I lived in 2011 and met those girls.

January 2012

I can hear my head going tiiiii, after a full day of sign language interaction. Though I guess the tiiii is imagined because after a while you actually begin to 'hear' the signed words.

But I'm craving music, and as I alight from the green city hopper bus and head to the cyber, I'm thinking I need to listen to a few tracks, but before any of that I need to spruce up my c.v. My computer has been on and off the last year and this week I took it to a new technician who put it apart, piece by piece to try find a problem. He found none. So I'm doing the math and thinking- I'm fried. It's hard enough making a blog entry from a cybercafe, leave alone writing anything more that 300 words. Maybe look for work now.

As I sit in the cyber with yahoo, facebook, youtube and my blog on screen, half an hour later my c.v is still undone and I'm not so enthusiastic about the whole affair.
I guess coz the c.v is not much, and whenever I think I'm gonna pull that out in an interview, I just think -aa- let me just get the phone number and call them later- ok, fine? Can I leave now?

I hate the whole process of looking for work, and being academically unqualified as I am, I admit, it is intimidating. Ah, that's the word. I'm intimidated by the whole Human resource arrangement. Even with my experience and skill, they'll still need some photocopied certificate to show you've been to school- how about the school of life? Yeah?

If my computer is out out and I'm fried, can I come for an interview? Yes or No will do.

the little wooden house at the corner of the coffee farm

There’s something serene about coming home. The blue couch, the wooden walls with smiling faces of friends smiling back. Whenever I go away the set routine gets distorted. Even normal things like praying become staccato.

So coming home I feel the sound of settling: I know I’ll make ginger tea, listen to the Jam on Capital fm, feed my neighbour’s cat before the old lady comes to ask me to find a contact on her phone or check her m-pesa account. I also know that I’ll set an alarm for the following morning.

Sometimes I just sit and regard the iron sheet roof; the wasps foaming liquid paper from their mouth shaping it to bell-shaped incubators, a pollen footed bee struggling to find a way out, the ever suicidal moths, strings of spider web, termite shelters.

I love my four corners.

Sometimes I come and don’t even notice the blue and yellow curtains that flutter when it rains on windy nights.

Yet, it is within these four corners that I’ve been able to rearrange my thoughts and viewpoints. These four walls have absorbed my fears, my disappointments and utter shock. These walls have watched me laugh, dance, knowing that finally my past has its place, and no longer a frontlet band between my eyes.

Online

I have been thinking about getting offline , pulling off my blog and just, disappearing for a while, but last week convinced me otherwise.
I had a clear way of putting down thoughts when I blogged so I better get back to it before I start thumb printing my documents.

So fans, come back :)

bean season

Nyĩrĩ

I remember telling Michael, Botswanian Michael as we called him- hey hey not beyond my wrist- when he would shake my hand- poor boy, that must have been so offensive. But I was not fully to blame for such a view point, I had just landed from a society, which still adheres to the code of boys on one side, girls on the other, even in public meetings by the chief, no no now, we mustn’t get too close; yet S.T.Is and Bastards abound, everywhere.

Hear I was, in the midst of Africans, the easy going Naija people who’ll call you brother on their first meeting, the happy beer loving Botswana people who like to hang out most of the time, the friendly Mugambe people, the smart- ly dressed Tanzanians, the Waswahili from the Kenyan Coast, from Oman, the curly haired Sudanese, now northeners, the Indonesians from Florence, the Tamil, and the Stiff Kenyans.

Ivy, from Uganda would tell me- Kenyans are so stiff, you’re like robots, why so serious all the time, fear, perhaps, no no now don’t get too close I don’t want you coming over to borrow salt and chai whenever you feel like. I’m from the highlands, hugs are a new education.

So Michael would shake my hand and give hugs all around. A month later I was a changed woman.

Last week I met my friends, a couple fro long ago and on impulse I wanted to jump in with open arms, but then it clicked, it’s a cheek to cheek greeting for the woman( Man! I hate those!), and a firm handshake for the man, with a slight eye contact for acknowledgement.
I am re-learning what I re-learnt and this time, honestly I feel like bursting out of this town and never coming back , end up somewhere on Ogingo Island or Kamchatka, where people hug and nod to Lady Gaga’s Poker face.

Things I have to remember:
If you have boy friends over- you are a prostitute
If you wear jeans – you are a prostitute
If you wear make up – you are a prostitute
Hug men- you are a prostitute
Wear a short skirt- you’re a prostitute
Wear a long skirt- your religion tells you to wear long skirts

The middle ages I tell you.

Farm Diaries, Jane of all trades

I got up at 5 this morning, it took effort since I slept quite late last night. See, every evening, I have to milk a goat, cook, food and tea and clear my neighbour's kitchen. A lovely old lady who has many tales. Anyway I really enjoy helping her out. She has experience in a lot of things, like slaughtering rabbits. Last Sunday she got up early so she could slaughter one and get it ready to cook in the evening, it needs to be hang up for drying. She said to me- If I ask someone to help me slaughter this tiny thing, they'll expect meat, so what I'are we supposed to eat if we serve the butcher a platefull?

We cooked the rabbit in the evening, three of us, the young child she is bringing up loves meat, she ate most of it, yeah and last night she vomited in her bed for eating too much, but we love the young one, she lost her mother only two weeks ago and is coping with it in her own way, like narrating funny stories about her mother to us. She told me, when my mother comes back, I'll be big, in my own stone house and I'll never get married. Her great grand said to her- she won't come back, you'll go to her, she said she doesn't want to die.

So when I got up, at 5.15, I made instant coffee and threw in a ginger root into my mouth. I'm not a fun of coffee, but ginger coffee is nice.
When the old woman got up some minutes to seven, I went in to rouse the child, who complained about a tummy ache, but we knew it was from overeating, and she has been looking for excuses to miss school.

Many times I pause and think,hmm today was another funny day, like the night when a strong wind blew and fell several avocados on top of my neighbour's roof. She is a teacher, lives with her daughter and a househelp, they begun screaming to the ends of the earth, and I, the good neighbour helped them. When other neighbours came with sticks and rungus, we thaked darkness that hid our embarassment. But that happens when women live alone,among coffee plants; they get hallucinate.

So today I'm going out to buy a thermos, and garlic if my budget allows it, I might get a heavy curtain too. I keep thinking a thief, banana thief,they are plenty where I live might come peeping one evening, I'm not ready to scream like that day.

cooking a fish

I’m a lover of fish, infact for a very long time I couldn’t forgive my uncle for not letting me taste a fish he once brought home, bought off a boy who had caught it in a river. I was six or seven, and I promised myself when I grew up, I would go to the Indian Ocean and catch myself a fish. I grew up and learnt that grand ma had said to uncle not to give the child any fish, incase I died and he’d be blamed. A lot of people won’t eat fish for a number of reasons. Fish smells bad my friend Mel says, the fish bones will kill you according to a lot of people in central province, majority have no clue what to do with a fish so they just opt for other meat.

When I lived on an island, I ate a lot of fish, different fish and when I came back to the mountains, I longed for the days I had bought 5 medium sized tilapia at Tesco for Rm.2.50 on holiday sales.

So when my friend suggesting a fishing trip, I could have jumped up and down.
I live in Tetu, and you can see a lot of Wangari Maathai’s green belt movement’s efforts. Trees are more than the population, unlike most places in Kenya, the beautiful surroundings are a treasure. There are a couple of public dams around my area, not many people make good use of them though and discovering the dams have been happiness itself.

I must say the scenery was more enthralling than the actual fishing itself, especially when the sun begun to set; the green reeds were reflected into the water giving the dam a soft green luster. The long legged white birds with the black, red breasted diving ducks, the kingfishers all completed the ideal setting for a fishing afternoon.

We arrived at 1.00p.m and at 5.30 none of us had caught a single baby fish. But you should have seen the determination. Someone caught a tiny one, which we threw back later, honestly, you can’t carry home a finger’s length fish and tell people you went fishing.

On another fishing trip at a different dam, on one Kamanda’s farm, the wife hailed her workers who came and dragged the net in the dam and caught us five fish-yeah!. We disappointed them though because immediately after we continued throwing our grasshopper baited hooks lines into the water. They left us to our mad experiments, and Maureen, by accident, haha, caught one, for which we celebrated.

Fishing is fun, as much fun as learning to play a guitar. I think you get the same excitement as you do when you learnt to play two notes of Snow Patrols’ Chasing Cars. I need about 15 more lessons before I can at least get a fish out of the water.

To cook a fish, unless it’s fish balls you’re aiming at, don’t boil the fish, like potatoes.

Fragrance Of Rice

I brewed, I harvested, I met, I fished, I sat for hours trying to understand written text. I wrote poetry, yes I am writing poetry once again.

June has been a good month, thinking about it this morning in the train, I felt a sense of satisfaction, and smiled. The girl opposite looked at me perhaps wondering what was there to smile about. She should have asked, I would have told her- honey, you have one option every morning,initiate happiness which will reflect on others' faces.

Radio was playing- lifestyles of the rich and the famous by good charlotte. My mind was humming a one man guitar I heard earlier: You gave birth to a daughter, my mother's name won't simply disappear, and you've told me you're preparing yourself to have another, our house will expand- totally inappropriate to be humming such songs in the morning.

Anyway June didn't help to make my mind more organised, actually I've had to write down the things I need to do more than before, but I end up forgetting where I put the list, so much for organising myself.

Looking back though, June has been a great month. I learnt something important to look at another human in the eye and ask: what did you do that for. Well, not exactly but I've learn to ask.
I always preferred to just wait and see the turn of events, to be polite but June has taught me to fight, and how to harvest potatoes without piercing too many. It's been really enjoyable, harvesting potatoes. I like it when I pull out a wispy stem and discover six big round ones attached.


I get a similar excitement when each evening, I realise, a foundation takes time to build. It costs time and needs thought. I'm learning, slowly to accept help, to give way to others and not look at it as interference. So bottom up, I'm getting stronger. And when my young cousin, all by his own initiative came to visit me, the word -worth- came into my mind. He brought his friend along, and we had a blast, I admire the vivacity of teenagers. He's grown up, that boy, and he was looking cute, I didn't tell him, but I said- the cream you're using is making you nice and lovely, his friend said it was make up. He said he was discovering what's good fro his skin.

A little girl once said to me: why don't you stay here, It's better when you're around. I didn't want to be a burden. I later went back, and as much as I wouldn't admit it, I needed that young girl , and she needed me, and together, we managed some emotionally difficult days. She wasn't a small girl, she was 20,but she knew a few things about life.

I would like to wish July won't be so cold, but that's a dream, I've got to get another blanket.

Maybe I'll catch a fish this July, but if I don't I'll keep practising. I wanted to learn how to ride a bicycle but never got the time. Maybe July will provide the opportunity.
Posted by Ciss at 7:52 AM

Coffee berries and the cappuccino query

Yesterday around 10.00a.m, when the drizzling subsided, we went to the coffee plants to remove suckers. I didn’t know what a sucker was before. Now I understand the weight of the insult- you sucker. Ever painted a  high wall with a roller or fixed a few light bulb holders? De- sucking is the same  pain in the neck. I can’t say I enjoyed  the job. The coffee plants are long and with the morning drizzle, the minute you pulled the plant towards you got a wet splash across your face. See, 100gm tin of ordinary coffee goes for ksh.200. A kilo of raw coffee beans is selling for ksh.106 at the moment, the highest pay they say. At times they get ksh.20 per kilo.

Yet the  farmer prunes, weeds, de-sucks, harvest for that  kind of cash. Somethings have me puzzled. A farmer grows coffee he cannot afford in its final form, yet lives in a lopsided, temporary shelter. I’m trying to put away the thought- how much does a 500gm tin of Java or Nescafe  coffee cost? A small cup sold for ksh. 120 four years  back.

So as we  de-sucked the coffee plants and got wet from the dew, I kept thinking about sweet potatoes and terere(pig weed) you are better off planting every inch of your land with those.

After that neck biting task, we beat some macadamia to snack on as we warmed lunch.

Macadamia has two outer hard  covers. You can tell it is ready  when the outer  green cover  breaks   to reveal the  harder  brown  shell. If you roast them for a while, when you break the hard cover, they come off the shell easily, the heat enhances the taste too.

I read in an Awake!  Magazine that Macadamia nuts regulate blood pressure. Funny, I live in a place where every third person has issues with B.P or diabetes, or both, they all have macadamia trees, which is a children’s  snack. The rest is carted off to the international market.

One day, I might understand farmers’ logic. The patience, the hard work, the undying hope. I never  met  a farmer  who didn’t believe in God.

Some days shine, some days glitter, some days are as bright as yellow curtains, inside my heart

Radio played my favourite song. That is significant because, I was feeling quite low, so sipping Rosemary tea and thinking about getting into bed, but not yet, I wanted to write a poem feeling that the moon rising earlier that evening should be honored with a poem, but the kind of poetry I've been composing lately involves my camera.
So shiftening channels on my uncle's transistor radio, they played Corrine Bailey Rae-Records On, I didn't think that station knew her, they play Luther and other dead people like the dude with a bass which John from Ally McBeal used to impersonate, what's his name- my first, my last, my everything, that guy.
Anyhow. I had gone from wishing I had a brother, or a father, to wishing I was man, to concluding that God must be a superwoman long story that. I had to go somewhere in the evening so I couldn't go alone, my aunt was not around otherwise she would have gone with me. I needed company, preferably male with the rise in rapes and muggings .


On further thought, I realised even if I had either, a brother or a father, they'd probably not want to go with me. If I were a man, I wouldn't get the chance to wear flowing cotton skirts and ballet shoes so that thought didn't last.

So I decided that either way, thank God God is not a physical ,an and since no one has ever seen God, I'm free to imagine him as a superwoman: Kind, patient, helpful,with a smile, hardworking and tough, yeah.