A breeze in a park bench
Birds singing,
Columns of sun rays sprinkled with tiny insects trying to climb.
Fallen leaves
Grass stains, damp grass and falling leaves
You can’t eat, you can’t cough
In case you miss a second of;
The sound of wind in leaves.
Sunset through a gap between trees
This is home
This is my home
A bench in a park
{Picture by Ciss,RiverSide}
When I was I primary school,I reached the height of mischief,I look back now and I wonder how I got out trouble.If you found people being beaten, I’d be among them.If some people were kneeling outside,the staff rooms,I was in among them.If someone was caught reading a novel during the maths lesson,it’d have to be Gathoni wa kina Gitonga.Gitonga was my neighbor.He was two classes ahead of me,tall and burly, he played in the volleyball team,it didn’t matter we were not related,to everyone,he was my big bro and scared off everyone that tried anything on me or his twin sister,a class ahead of me.In the morning,he whistled twice,to alert me to get ready,then once more if I hadn’t appeared,to tell me,ukaga{we are going on ahead}.
One time,in class five,I had been singing very loudly,my cousin had visited us during the holidays and had taught me some songs in the Luo language and I had been entertaining my classmates during the lunch hour.After the bell rang for classes to begin,I continued to sing for about 5 minutes,we had a music lesson but our music teacher, Mr.Jakubu, who was also the headmaster, showed up once in two weeks, when we had a morning lesson.
The prefect had gone for some shairi competition and the assistant was my deskmate; we were good buddies,he liked to draw,I liked to praise his drawings.I always wonder where he ended up.So anyhow,he wasn’t the least bothered by my singing.Suddenly everyone was turning to their seats,and pretending to read their homescience books.
-Can the musician please come to the office.-
The discipline master’s voice barked.I got a tongue lashing from all the teachers who:
-knew my gran and thought she was a respectable woman who shouldn’t be wasting her time coming to hear about my bad behavior and can I start to behave or else they might have to summon her.-
Wo! Apart from being sent out to get the wash basin at night,my number 2 fear was gran. Her stern look was enough to have me confessing even my friends’ sins.
So I was ordered to kneel outside the headmaster’s office and wait for him.I knelt,the entire 40 minutes,until the lesson was over,but as I said before, Mr.Jakubu was a no show man when the clock hit midday .
Our Kiswahili teacher rescued me, he was going in for his lesson and had the notion I was his best student, even though I couldn’t string three words before dropping a shrub so prominent no one would laugh, they just looked on with pity. ..but my written work was perfect.
BY CECILIA GATHONI
‘Hajal marries choc.’
The wall at the conference hall had been spray painted. Obviously, the artist who had chosen this particular wall as his canvas had not done it in daylight, for when Hajal’s brother, Mo had checked last night everything had been alright .The fresh flowers would be brought in the morning, but the sitting arrangement, the microphone and music system were all in place. A night walker. Some one who knew us very well.
As Mo stood there trying to calm his brother. I cringed. I was peeping from the next room. Hajal had dropped in to check if I was okay and still willing to marry him.
I had held his face in my palms, looking into the slits of his Asian eyes and assured him I loved him and would continue to when I became his wife.
Despite the looks my girlfriends and sister were giving us, we sat for close to and hour, talking, but not about anything in particular. Just enjoying each other’s company like we always did.
Then my sister pulled me away and told Hajal to clear off.
‘You shouldn’t be here when we dress her,’ she had said and pulled me to the next room.
Hajal still hang about.
While Kala was trimming my eye brows, Mo Had come in and announced the news.
He has a loud voice, Mo, and he doesn’t realize it. He is like one of those very short people who try to walk in such a way that they may look taller, but only to themselves.
When Mo talks, even what was meant for a particular pair of ears ends up in a couple of others.
Rispa, my sister, was fussing with a clip on my white dress, the other three girls were shuffling around getting ready the stockings, the flowers, the lip balm-I had told them under no circumstances was I going to have lipstick on me .
I don’t know, they probably heard Mo’s news, they probably didn’t. They went on with their self assigned duties. I stood to peep from the door.
‘Hey, where do you think you are going?’Kala asked
‘You are going to be with that man every day after today, relax.’ Joyce was saying, slipping a black kamisi over my head
‘Shouldn’t this be white?’I asked still peeping into the other room.
‘No, white will make you knickers visible to all .’
‘Shouldn’t all eyes be on the bride?’I asked off the head.They thought it was funny.
Hajal was pacing around the room. I was almost sure what he was thinking, worrying that I don’t get to hear about it, that I’d not freak out.
I looked back and Karla and Joyce were arguing over what they should dress me underneath all else. They had black, laced black, cotton red and white silk, laid out on Jigna’s Bed. This was her bedroom.
‘I say red,’ Rispa said
‘These? They are so plain,’ Joyce said
‘They are comfortable. She’s going to be nervous all day, why add discomfort on top?’
Jigna had been very quiet, packing me a light bag.
‘Nyambura, she spoke up now. You know whatever some insane racist thinks doesn’t matter, yeah?’
‘Yes, I just wish whoever they are, they would spare me this one time.’
‘Look around, Nyambura.’
I did and got her point. The only other dark skinned person in the room was my sister and even her, she lived in another country, and spoke a different mother tongue. Jigna was Pakistani, Joyce was from Australia and Karla was Chinese.All this time I never stopped to think how diverse we were.
‘Thanks Jigna,’ I hugged her ,my eyes wet, ruining the eye shadow Kala had been trying to apply. I stood to peep at the door but the two men had left.
‘Whatever it is, they’ll take care of it. They are the men.’ Rispa said.
The girls fussed over me.My usual routine is simply, a bit of lotion, hair gel, and a tube of lip balm. Then I throw over some jeans and a top. I wasn’t very certain the eye shadow and eyeliner and mascara would stay in place, unless, which was highly unlikely, I didn’t get emotional and had to brush off a quick tear.
Jigna and her husband would be the best couple, she was the only one married in my circle of friends, and Aneel, her husband got along well with Hajal, they were both into computers, programming, and were even thinking of doing something together.
I remembered my first day at the university. In my timetable ,It had read-H2 1 F5,History of Photography. When I got to the fifth floor, there were several doors labeled 2 1,I’d later come to learn it was 2 and 1 not twenty one. Meaning, Ist and 2nd units. The first door I entered, the students were as quiet as in a library. I’d have said hallo guys but all eyes turned towards me and I lost my tongue. About 50 faces. I talked to a girl in the first desk. She simply looked at me, then turned to her fellow student, said something in the language of the Island,and they all laughed out loud. I thought perhaps it would be the obvious reasoning-stupid black skin can’t even find her class, and I at that point physically ached for inchi yetu. I couldn’t help noticing I was the most chocolate .She then pointed to the door opposite, H 2 1.
‘Unit 1,’ She said.
The laughter would have been the kind of laughter a form two will give when a form one says something which is obvious or silly according to the former. That must have been one of the Unit 2 halls, and I a first year, a bomu, a mono.
In my class there were three other dark skins; three from Sudan, one from Angola and his mother white, one from the Solomon Islands, and a South African. We automatically formed a gang minus the guy from Angola, whose place was taken by a girl named Joyce from Australia. She was white to look at but said her father was as black as a Dinka.
To supplement my pocket money, I did freelance editing and a bit of research. I had major commissions from a small private company that dealt with computers. I mainly did research for this one, and business letters. They were about three guys, the one that dealt with research was called Hajal and he’d thank me after each job. He’d e-mail me and tell me they appreciated my job, I was irreplaceable. He wondered if I’d consider working for them in future.
‘Two things I can’t keep in my life, I said,’ a full time job and a potted plant.’ He had laughed and it’s funny that I kept remembering he had a chipped canine tooth, which was really cute.
When we were courting, it always made us laugh to see the horror in people’s faces when we stood too close, as any one dating would. One, it was Muslim country, two, mixed race couple were very rare.
Many times we met at the pizza inn with our friends. Hajal’s parents were not so pleased. Well, his mother, but I could swear I saw his father wink at him one time we paid him a visit and I wore a nice kitenge, and Hajal’s shirt had a slight trimming on the collar, with the same material. His father also would as a lot of questions about my country, not offensively but with interest.
Hajal is soft spoken, funny and very hardworking. He’s also very calm and never gets too excited over anything-good or bad. Me, I like to laugh, and since I am a worrier, his calmness dissolves any anxieties. When he asked if I’d be his wife, I had no doubt. In any case, nothing would stop him from his chocolate bride. Not even an insane nightwalker with a spray paint can.
At the reception, the DJ played the song-Spray Paint, by Gorillaz as a first request and everyone had a good laugh, after which, an African and Indian drumming group started their drumming.
We danced, we laughed, me, Hajal, Choc'late and Honey.
To remind me I was pretty,when I’m gray and wrinkled
Write me letters
To remind me I once smiled nice,when the old
Woman smell checks in.
Write me letters
To keep me company when sleep don’t come easy
Write me letters
To remind me of your humour when you no longer smile
Write me letters
To read to our children and praise you to them
Write me letters
To keep in my memory box, to read at dusk,
When the candle flickers in the wind
Write me a letter, now,
And tell me again why you stay with me
A letter,
To fill in the silence that builds up over the years
When we share, spoons, taps and perfumes
Write a letter.
My uncle,he always forgot our names.He’d never admit that but I know that’s the reason he never calls any of us by name.
When we were young,me and my three cousins had names specially designed.I was machang’i,because of my hair that stood out from my head like branches.My cousin was kabuyu,because he was shaped like a jerry can, and the youngest was mbuku,because she liked to hide behind the house and you’d find her crouching like a rabbit.
Personally I didn’t like the nickname,I’d have preferred if he’d called me by name.The title kabuyu always caused fights if anyone but mama used it,and mbuku,it stuck.Nothing would stop mama from using the names, infact the more we resisted the more he used them and the more it caused laughter from the neighbours. There were of course,other temporary ones as the need arose.
As I grew older and learnt to hold down my hair,and grew tall,I became muraihu{the tall one}which was used inter-changeably with the other one,giraffe.Kabuyu became kibuyu{a big jerrycan} and mbuku became ka J{ka Jobless}This,we don’t explain to anyone coz mama coined it from J’S habit of hiding so that she wouldn’t be assigned any duties.Now we simply call her J and tell everyone it means junior co she was the small one though now she has bigger hips than me and isn’t afraid of work.
We finally grew up and left the nest.Mama is now raising his own kids,two boys,10 years apart.The older one is titled Kihii,just kihii{meaning just,a boy}the younger one they call ndungu{fat}.Mama is comical,it’s nice to know that not even the dropping prices for farm produce can suppress his humour.
When I was a young happy girl growing up in my granma and mama’s farm,I picked up smells and identified things by their smell.Like the rabbits I reared.Their fur has a comfortable scent that makes you want to cuddle . It’s not the same smell when someone has butchered the little balls of fur and they are cooking together with some vegetables, what used to be the rabbits’ food.
Mama would scold me daily if I didn’t give enough leaves to the poor animals and even if it was dark and misty I’d go out carrying a touch to pick a few leaves.How is one supposed to know which leaves are green when it’s dark?
I would have to smell the leaves to know which were safe and which would fetch me a beating. If by mistake a single onion stem got into the mix and the nose missed it, wo!
I’d be peeled,kuunurwo,proper.To be one the safe side,I’d try to trace some spinach and banana leaves.The spinach would definitely result into a beating,lucern was out of the question,that was for the dairy cows.Pigweed was for the sheep, cabbage leaves for the chicken, and the kales we ate.To differentiate the weeds in the dark was the hardest task.Some weeds made the rabbits' ears sick.
So apart from sharpening my sense of smell,my sense of touch just had to catch up.That’s how I I’d know how to get the blackjack and not the stinging nettle and how to avoid the Datura thorn apple.
One day after my night tour I smelt datura but, assumed the smell was coming from my gumboots and clothes since I had been wading among the weeds.When I got to the hutch mama was waiting . I was mumbling prayers, when I handed the leaves to mama for inspection and was pretending to scrape the mud and weeds from my boots on the grass.I looked up when he said nothing for a whole minute ,he was holding up-a datura thorn apple leaf-along with a face that’d have split a log of cider.
Mwana uyu kai ugucagia kii?{you child,what drug do you use?}
Ugatwira mbuku magurukia?{you got datura for the rabbits?}
Datura, in kikuyu if translated would mean the plant that causes madness.
I could never answer my uncle back so I just kept quiet and the smell of the plum tree cane intensified[that was what I received my strokes from,a fresh pimpled stick} ,and the taste of tears was strong in my mouth.My ears were itching and I could not even hear what he was saying.Just the strong voice of my cucu in the kitchen saying to tata:
Ici mbuku ni ciaki ituragia mwana na kiriro[what’s the use of these rabbits ,they just bring tears to the child]
But at the moment,any beating was alright,as long as I kept my rabbits,and my cats,and the puppies,and the chicken,and the trees I was watering every evening and forgetting to feed the rabbits.
Now that I moved into the city I hate it each day because you will not imagine the smells I pick.But I can still remember how blue gum leaves smell and taste,how the sap smells and taste, how the blade of a two handle saw smells after it has been sawing through wood all day.
When I see rabbits,I remember the old times how mama threatened to set free all the rabbits if I didn’t feed them enough.
I read in a magazine that just because rabbits have long ears doesn’t mean they should be used as handles.I read that somewhere and laughed because mama would scold me when I held my chicken like a cat,not roughly by the legs,like a handbag.Yet,he doesn’t get near chickens himself.He says they are full of fleas,and a health hazard,their sole purpose to destroy his cabbages
Mama-uncle
Tata-aunt,mama’s wife
Cucu-grand mother
Language,speech,the means of communication.When I think of language,I like to lean more on the written bit of it,and for a good reason.
The few times I have tried to say something in public,and especially when a microphone is involved,my heart beats 142 times per minute,and that is when I have taken deep breaths.
What happens I’ve surveyed is despite having the idea clear in mind,when I start to speak,boy.My mind behaves like a faulty marquee. I only have single words and letters in the mind,and that’s what I grip to.If I had to say something like.
-It is important to retain the literary form of any piece of work when posting a blog.
I’ll have literary ,important, piece of work, blog in mind
And try as I might,the correct order can’t come so I might end up saying something like:
Remember it is important to, for a blogger, um,any time, when posting um literary works to retain the literary bit of the piece of work.
A pack of too many words which most times won’t make any sense.
Ken Njuguna says it’s always better when written and I agree,talk is cheap,some say. Literally, I agree. Because as you talk,you don’t think much about what you’re going to say and what comes out is not quality.
So writing is the better option,and when you have to talk,always have an outline.But then you might sound boring,or abrupt,or even out of your mind.The other day someone I respect asked me
-how’s you cat doing, okay?
I said yeah. Yeah, and should have said thanks and shut my mouth but heck I asked and, how is your fish?
Well if he had a fish it would have been fine, but he never told me he got a fish,so he asked
-A fish?-
And I asked
-what do you have?
And he said I believe to rescue me;
-I have a couple of mosquitoes, some of them are dead..-
So you,see,talk is overated.That’s why I write,even to my gran who can’t read.I figure she can always ask someone to read the letter or text to her.
My heart is full of thanks, for a calm, chilled afternoon. I enjoyed seeing you enjoying each other's company, talking and laughing an...
