Salon Stories

 Financially speaking

If you come from the lower middle class like me, it can take longer to attain a financial status that AT LEAST keeps you above the water.

No Wahota kūringa mūkūyū handū and you start earning more than barely enough for basic wants but for most of us we will live our lives tūkīihūragia tūkīonoragia.

What you can aim for is to become a player in the financial field.

That you have a good credit standing, that you have at least 12 sources of income however small and insignificant they may seem.

I always say that hair gave me financial freedom.

When I was younger I knew that a hair dresser in African can never sleep hungry. (But then I aimed for fame and recognition and look where it got me )

In Africa,

Men and women must groom their hair because it’s not only part of the culture but it’s a societal norm, and to be accepted in society, your head and face must be up to par.

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That said, It’s only when I got fully into the field of personal grooming services that I understood how hard that income earning can get. Yet, how fulfilling.

You have to be ready to get physically tired, sometimes to a point of feeling faint but you keep going. Because first, yes the money. The money is good na nī cash kīī mbakī.

Two, the satisfaction of assembling something beautiful with your hands.

And third, the client’s smile in the end.

#sisterlocks

All reactions:

5Jamu Wairimu, Nash Kalahari and 3 others

Middle Age: Why I want to leave civilised Society and move to the forest

My biggest concern in life is that I always to come home to a peaceful house, and a quiet, peaceful environment. It stresses me out when the balance is shaken because home is my sanctuary, and whenever this is disturbed I get unsettled. 

I have lived ina wonderful place for almost five years now bt recently my heart is getting unsettled.

A family moved in that fights everyday, they harass their children, they have a new hosuegirl every two or three weeks akikaa sana, they leave the gate open, their kids are naughty and unruly and basically, they's turned  our formerly peaceful environment into a plot 10.

The woman always has an issue with someone in the family, and now she is picking up a fight with neighbours.

One time she and her husband started screaming at a young girl,about17 years old and threatening to call the police on her. Reason- the girl had scolded their son- the son had pitched the girl's bottom.

But the girl was roho juu, she told the mother if you don't discipline your children we'll be happy to do it for you and challenged her to a fight.

Another time, the boy scratched someone's car- the parents denied it.

The one that has all of us up and arms is a recent one.

Something about a toy that was run over in the parking.

And so the mother of the child whose toy was run over went round cursing everyone that owns a car in the plot.

‘ Mnaringa huku na magari Kwani sisi hatuwezi nunua.’

(Na si ununue)

‘Hata hamna akili!’

(The problem with cowards is they like to throw words around uselessly. )

‘ Hamtutishi! Mimi niko na pesa na hata nikitaka kununua gari haiyanichukua two minutes!’

(Na siununue)

And so some of the plot members had accompanied the woman who had accidentally, and very slightly cracked the toy as she reversed, as she approached the other woman full of curses)

“ So can we have a solution? I can have the toy repaired.”

‘Unafikiria mimi sina pesa ya kuirekebisha? Kama nililipa 5000 fundi tu ndie atanishinda?’

(So unataka? Kuchapa mtu? Si useme basi tutengeneze ring ni nini mdomo mingi?)

So she finally felt silly and started talking on the phone.

And the well mannered lady told the silly woman’s child to bring the toy for repair.

20. That Ka- age - Adult Orphans And Morgue Visits

 

I pulled out this story from my  upcoming book- Going to buy A plot in Maaĩ Mahiũ. This is too dark for a funny book. I will add it to my next book  : Conversations into Adulthood, which is also a hilarious tragedy, but expected.

And then your parents begin to fall apart. They are on daily medication and monthly clinics. When they are not needing intensive care, they have lost their memory and want you to tell them where you work for the fifth time.

You arrived an hour ago. Now you are wondering how this long weekend is going to get by.

Or they die and now, as a human adult, you are asking for the number for Ebony Meeting chambers on Tom mMboya street so you can indicate in the WhatsApp group that family and friends are meeting at 7 p.m. for funeral arrangements.

You have become so proficient at writing eulogies that it’s a bit heartbreaking.

Your friends are losing their parents as well;

You are crisscrossing the country attending funerals every month.

You have lost friends.

You have lost siblings. 

And when your heart is cracking, your boss tells you, 

‘By the way, contract yako iliisha September.’

How do you tell him, please let’s talk about this, I just lost my big sister and there is a dark cloud hanging above me now!

Or you get called for a job, after being out of work for a whole year. They want you to start tomorrow. But you are in your village in Mikindani. Na mūtirī mūracokia mibomu ya ītū ūramtaa. The mtaa chairlady has come to check if the utensils are in order and so far five out of 120 cups have broken handles, 20 spoons are missing and someone used a plastic plate to carry hot ash.

Rīu mwī hau mūgīka ithabu rīa damages.

How do you tell that admin girl that the earliest you can start work is next year, February because hata hamjajua huku kunabaki aje!

Ama you are those who “keep yourself busy”, so you plan and organize and hold back grief.

Then two months later you break down in the Super Metro on your way home and argue with the conductor for 15 minutes and people look at you and stay very busy on their phones. And you go home and realise “man! I am in pain”.

When you lose a parent it’s like a wall that shielded you falls down in one swoop. Mbu!

Unabaki hapo umejishikilia usipasuke.

You feel a cold cold shiver that doesn’t get better with time.

If one parent is alive you start to visit them more often.

 You are scared; you work harder so they don’t wear out and die too.

You worry about every single bit of their lives.

You regret the times you didn’t appreciate them enough, and you are ready to slap anyone disrespecting their parents.

‘They could be dead, you know !’ You want to scream at them.

But you have to learn self -control.

Quietly quiet your beating heart when people talk of 

‘My mum, my mom, my dad, my daddy, dadii, my bro, my, my.’

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You come back to your house and discover a child left some graffiti on your door, with charcoal and crayons..

It shouldn’t matter but it’s the last straw.

You have to move.

You cannot stay here.

You must start your life somewhere else.

A completely different place where people don’t know that you were once happy. 

You once had parents,

And brothers,

And sisters, 

And friends,

And you keep thinking, “Aren’t we all better off dead, tumalize hii confusion!”

‘Ata, there are more on that side than the ones left on this side.’ My brother likes to say.

Maybe we should all be gathered up to our forefathers, mapema ndio best.

But then you realise, haiya, life is for the living.

 And if you have to drag yourself up by a forklift, you better.

You have to pick yourself up.

Again and again you get up and live.

You get up another day and dig deep inside of you for that flicker of hope.

Because pain and hope exist in parallels. 

And sadness and joy are fraternal twins.

And just when your strength is out.

You catch a moon the size of a big basket.

A faithful witness in the sky.

A reminder that in heaven, we have a Father.

And he will never die.

Revelation 7:16,17

Yesterday made  four years since I got the call that left me motherless. I tried to push it out of my head and not have an  'anniversary' but it's hard not to think about it. She was an amazing woman, and each year I appreciate just how much courage she had to continue putting one foot infront of another for 55 years. I don't think I'll make it that far. I often feel a sense of loss, but I habe to keep moving until I also breath my last. Irene Nyawira Munyeki. May you wait patiently, all the days of your compulsary rest. Until He calls out and gives  you back your life.

Finding God: They were all men with feelings like ours

Sometime in August, I felt the world coming at me full speed and it hit me right between my forehead.

I woke up one morning thought: what is the point of everything ?

Why do we have to do this dance of life only to die unexpectedly?

Why don’t we just all die in a mass death and end this whole pantomime.

I told myself

‘My mind is not a very safe place to be in right now.’

I wondered what was wrong because,

I was okay in many respects, I had paid my rent, I had food and different sources of income, nobody had died and I wasn’t sick.

I couldn’t figure out what was going on. I got worried because it dawned on me that I could be okay but still feel down.

So I tried to text a few friends

‘Hey, can we talk?’

But NOBODY was available.

I even picked up my phone to call someone and she didn’t pick up.

Thought I later on found out she was in a worse off situation than I was, she was in hospital.

That’s when I became my own parent, my own big brother, big sister,  best friend. 

I sat down and thought of how to solve the problem.

In all respects, this was a hitch in the system

The same way I may wake up with a fever and boil some turmeric, or when my arm won’t stop paining when I have stringed a couple of sisterlocks in a week and I have to go for a massage, it was the same way.

I have a first Aid Box. An emotional first Aid box. It’s something my friend and I made one evening when we were studying an Awake! About Teenage Suicide.

I opened the box and went through everything.

It’s a folder, actually, with Bible verses that remind me of how God feels about me, articles that I have read and felt nice, song lyrics that lift me up, and photos. And magazine cuttings of big sunflowers, cards that people have given me.

(Two of the songs in the list are -Broken Song by Simon August, and Beautiful Life by The Collection)

Then I started to really tell Jehovah how I was feeling.

I told Him everything. I left out nothing.

And that’s when it hit me how accessible God is.

On the day when I could not reach anyone, I didn’t need bundles or WiFi or Safaricom’s Tunukiwa to reach my creator.

And something wonderful happened.

The more I talked to him, the more I remembered verses that heal the soul. I read each one of them.

I cried and cried  and I felt God’s comfort seeping into my system.

I was amazed at how miraculous God’s power is. How the mind can connect to such a powerful force and be revived.

Then I made decisions.

1. To see a therapist 

2. To be more engaged in helping people

3. To ask for help from the elders

4. To keep moving. Because when you stop moving, that’s when you start to see that the ground underneath shifted. You are not walking on solid ground, you have been suspended by your creator all these years. He is the one that has been carrying you.

And so the elders came, and comforted me. And they told me to hand in there. And reminded me that even though I may not see it, I am loved. And they told me it’s normal to have

Low moments, and when you have such low moments, it’s when you tell your creator- we need to talk. And you tell him. 

Your creator can take it.

I am so grateful that I have a father in heaven.

 (Psalms 18:28 For it is you who light my lamp, oh Jehovah. My God who lights up my darkness)

Psalms 145:14