Three puppies,a Red shoe and a Granny

I always had a dog. In most of my pictures while I was young, I’d be holding a dog, most of them I called –chui- apart from one, Bosco, whom I really loved but he got poisoned by a mischievous neighbor when I went to boarding school. Mama{my uncle} had got him for me when he was just a little thing that fit into my cupped palms and when I held him he at once disappeared into my shirt and mama said-you are a very silly girl you know-as I squealed.
The chui’s also had a bad end, poisoning by the same hater. To this day I wonder why no one ever did anything about it. But I guess he got repaid when his dog ate some poisoned food set for the nieghbours' dogs and chicken. After hanging out with some vets, I have come to learn that poisoning a pet is as bad as feeding broken glass to your neighbour’s child. Next time your pet gets poisoned, don’t just fume inside. Take action.
One time, we had three puffy puppies. I loved them.
My grandmother loves color red. If you want to give a gift to her, please let it be red. She will be peeping at it all the way home. Her shoes are mostly red, her favourite dresses too. Her red shoes get a special place under her bed, and she rinses them out one more time separately. SO you can imagine the chaos that broke out when one morning as she prepared to go for her women’s group, she went to pick her red pair of shoes behind the tank, and one of them was missing!

Gathoni! Iratu ciakwa ciiku?{ Gathoni! Where are my shoes?}

I had laid out the shoes the day before behind the water tank where the sun set last. I had forgotten to lay them out, when I remembered, I realized I’d have to either iron them, stuff papers into them or look for the sun. The last option was most suitable, until, I saw the three puppies fighting over the shoe that was missing that morning.

We niwathira,{you are finished} Mama had said.

I got a nice reprove. I swore I’d buy cucu some red shoes when I got my first job. I haven’t, the way I see it, she has enough shoes for now. Her shoes, compared to my collection, she’d lend me 10 pairs and still wear a decent pair every day for about two weeks, last time I checked. But women love their shoes, so, I might just keep the oath now that I have some money to spare.

Ordinary Extra-ordinary Things

I guess,being away from home will always have its advantages,its disadvantages,, and the things that make you want to pack up and make a detour. But again I think, what makes one not pack up and leave it’s the small strange things that happen and make you think-Nowhere in the world but right here-. Like today, I was at the bus stop, the hot Eastern scorching every decent bit of skin on me. There was a woman smiling at me and I was trying hard to ignore it, but I got curious, because,hear it from me, it’s very rare to encounter a smiling woman where I am currently. And as I supposed, she is from a neighbouring country.
Hello-Africa?,She asked,running a hand over my back.
I said -yeah- and sat beside her.
-Do you have boyfriend?- She asked grinning
-No I don’t-.
-Good, I have boyfriend, Africa man. His friend, all single-.
Then she said I must visit her, so that me and her boyfriend’s friend can meet and talk- African-
The conversation got weirder and weirder .I was nodding and saying no thank you but she would say the same thing again.
-Have boyfriend-?
-No-
-Why not ? I show you African boys, you choose-.
She went on to tell me details about her boyfriend, how much money he has, how much he weighs, how long they have been together but recently he has been chatting a lot on the internet and she feels threatened..
Did I mention this woman is in her 40’s? Yeah.
I was saved by some friends on their way home too and we started to talk,when the bus came the woman gave me her contacts and repeated I must go to her house.
Up to that point, I was amused but I am sure if it had continued,I may have had to walk away.
Small ordinary things out of the ordinary.

POEM

Knead me with a disciplining touch,
Let purity and clean personality engulf me,
Forgive me,
Fumigate my wretched soul,
Compassionate me, please.

Media Freedom- How free?

(copied and pasted from the DailyNation,Kenya)

Police have arrested journalists and activists in Nairobi as they protested over a bill that seeks to curtail media freedom.


The protesters were arrested at Nyayo Stadium, the venue of Friday’s Jamhuri Day celebrations.

Police rounded up Kiss FM presenter Caroline Mutoko, activist Mwalimu Mati and his wife and other journalists as they arrived at the stadium.

They were arrested on the strength of wearing t-shirts with inscriptions critical of MPs refusal to pay tax on their allowances.

The group was taken to various police stations in Nairobi.

The ICT Bill contains contentious clauses that will severely limit media operations.

For instance, it gives the Internal Security minister the powers to seize broadcast equipment once he has declared an emergency.

The minister of Information has powers, under the Bill, to control what can be broadcast, when and in what form.

He will do so by giving guidelines to a Communications Commission of Kenya made up of people hand-picked by him.

It also restricts cross ownership.

The Bill was passed in Parliament on Wednesday and now awaits presidential assent.

On Thursday, media owners petitioned the President not to sign the bill into law. And on Friday, most of Kenya newspapers editorialized on the issue.

{I wonder what stories I'll be writing if I get back-the weather?Safari?}

Growing Up

To this day, whenever I meet a primary school teacher, I give them a thumbs up in my mind. In primary school, I remember the kinds of cases they had to solve : ‘He called me a dog’, ‘she stuck out her tongue to me’ and my favourite- ‘she called me a boy’. Well, there is nothing wrong with calling a boy a boy, but when you call the same boy, boy in my mother tongue, it becomes a very big insult. I mention this because I was amused by this term and would use it liberally whenever I had the chance. So you’d over hear a boy almost in tears telling the teacher- I kicked her because she called me a boy in Kikuyu- A boy in Kikuyu is ‘Kihii’, an un-circumcised man. To better explain to the teacher the intensity of the insult, one boy Swahilinized the term Kihii and made it kipii, which was acceptable and the teacher understood how hurt the boy was.
One time I screamed the insult at a boy for throwing my keys out of the window and ruining my key holder.I never said I was sorry but he looked at me and thought of the meanest thing to say to me,, he said- you were born as a mistake.
Insults aside, in standard 6, my desk mate and I got very bored . I asked him if he could draw me something. He drew very well{ I wonder how he ended up. Maybe he does posters or is a graffiti artist now but back then he drew like a pro}
He took out his pencil and I pushed my Maths exercise book to him.
‘ How about Daniel’s foot,’ I suggested.
Now Daniel was a boy that walked 25 km every morning to come to school. He wore no shoes{ shoes were not compulsory then} and so his feet had adapted . The bottom was very tough and along the sides, the separation between the top and the bottom was so distinct it , both feet looked like a nicely baked block bread. In this case, the common bread was broadwayss.
So my desk mate J, drew a loaf of bread, and when I burst out laughing, the girl sitting behind looked over to see just as J was putting the final touches, 5 fingers.
‘ Is that Dan’s foot?’
We all laughed, and Dan, having heard his name came huffing to see what was going on.
He grabbed the book and we all looked at him smiling. You guessed, he didn’t see the joke. He did 7 steps to the staffroom. We got a nice beating.
The teacher on duty had asked in desperation, ‘ nyinyi watoto kwani akili yenyu imeoza?’
‘Kids, are your brains rotten?’

poem

I’m gonna re-write my story
Write it in bold letters on iron tablets
See, the past has been reeling me in too many times
Spiraling me inside it’s vortex like a helpless leaf in a storm.

Nights of tearful contemplations, breathless internal fights
Disclosing and admitting fears embedded within me,
Tonight I’m re-writing my story.

See, I may not have started out clean cut and definite, pre-meditated.
I may not have been of good stock
But I look upon the stereotypes with aghast.
For now the small bits and pieces have been stitched together-
And reinforced with strong seams.

Yeah, I may not spell and say words correctly.
I may not put together colors alright,
But inside; The colors match, the words make sense
Tonight, I loosen this rope

safety man

You hands,
The nails that you bite
Your arms,
Your hands that hold me so.

Your voice,
When you talk to me
Your laughter,
When we think of funny things.

Your kindness,
When I’m in trouble
Your concern,
Over the little things that nag me.

Your smell,
Resides in my mind
Your smile ,
Breaks my heart into two.