Highly Educated

".....nakwambia, mimi wasas walikufa niko miaka tatu.
nilifikiri sitasoma. Lakini sasa, I'm one of the highest learned people in Kenya..."

I turn my head slightly to see how high learned people look like.

"Mimi maisha yangu imekuwa nzuri, mungu 'mesaidia.."

He walks past me and glances at my shopping bag.
I've been getting stares.

-What is the smart lady doing here, yaani amekuja all the way kunua mboga,,enyewe sida 'mekuwa nyingi- they seem to be thinking.

 I'm carrying my shopping bag in-front of me. A bunch of kunde roots (cow pea plant) covered in earth are sticking out. I bought them from a pick up; they didn't have a knife to cut off the root and stems so now I'm carrying them like french bread.

   "Hata kama sina mali, maisha yangu mzuri, na ni kanisa...." I hear him say.

 He is carrying a  black briefcase, weak at the handles, and a long umbrella. He wears a shabby coat . The stripped ones that go out of shape with pockets seeming to sink inward.
He is wearing white sneakers that have a brown discoloration between sole and body, sign of a leak.

"Hivyo kijana yangu, 'sijiharibie maisha na pombe, I can give an example of myself. I have never drank alcohol in my life..."

The proverb, pombe ni kejeli comes into my mind. Pombe; alcohol, laughs at you. Nice, I could explain that  to someone.

We have come to a particularly wet part of the path, and both of us join three or four other people trying to balance on unsteady stones to get to the drier side across.

"Sasa umenielewa...mimi nimesoma....." he continues.

Though I'm not sure if he is still connected. He seems to be addressing me, and anyone else that overhead the conversation. A justification for his imperative statement.

Perhaps he meant, "I'm quite educated."
or, "I did get an education,"
but in a moment of desire to be convincing, the statement "among the highest learned" had escaped; and been overhead by audience who wouldn't care if he was Steve Jobs resurrected.

But all the same requiring an explanation for we humans sometimes say more than we need to, especially on a lone long walk home.

I would have liked to ask him, how many highly learned people are there in Kenya? What did you learn?
Do you have a club and meet every Monday for lunch?

domestic revelations

After jaw dropping at his work, I said to the metal artist;

" I love the metal butterflies, and the dragonflies, and the metal insects."

"Aaah, women choices," said he.

'I mean, the concept, I've only seen paper butterflies before." I explain.

"These are more durable," he stated.

My heart sunk, but I moved on thinking, oh well, I've come to an art shopping mall, nkt.

Until I met the artists, not art sellers.

There was this painting by a young man, at the brush tu stand, I forgot his name. The painting was -fortress of solitude-  I didn't take a picture, it described my feelings too much.
He told me he painted emotions.

As the artists patiently explained their pieces, I felt I did the right  thing to come.
Like the -Domestic revelations- which were deeper than I had experienced, just looking..

when you dig some more; you see the real color- David Thuku

When I started blogging on the literary folder I had the firm belief that- it's a writer that knows his story, it's his business to write it-
The stories I write, they want to get out. If I don't let them out I get stuck, and impatient.

 An artist exposes himself to criticism; when in a moment of clear thought, his brush and paint pair and move in harmony. It is a gift to be able to paint what is in the mind, I have wished I could.

My stories, my babies,
No one can get within me and understand the formation of words. The way at times words, phrases and expressions go zip- zapping in my mind like discordant music. Only I can collect, sort and align them.

And not without difficulty.
For each story demands its own set of thread, canvas and frame.

this one got it right; it is impossible to dream without a feline about.

 Some stories come out in sighs, some need lots of visuals,
 some are enveloped in  many tears.
 While some form in the mind for months.
 Planted, needing harvesting.

 Otherwise they get thick undergrowth and make me edgy.
 On my way out I saw a talking T-shirt- Rasta ni wewe it said- we smiled at each other.

You sing, I dance

I was feeling like  I needed a hug, but it would be weird to walk up to someone and ask to be hugged.

made me smile right away, it was by Clavers

So I decided to go to the Kenya Art Fair. The alternative would have been to walk round Karura forest until I dropped, but it rained all morning.

I'm looking at John Silver's paintings; An animal that could  be a goat or a zebra with the neck of a giraffe..

"Come to my studio and you'll get even more disturbed."

He says, when he sees the kind of faces I am making at his art.
He is a talker, pleasant guy. He was lecturing a fellow young artist, a girl.

"Don't let your mother stop you from painting, kana akwĩraga ũtĩge gũthaka na marangi?

"Ee, wanasema hivyo."
"Hii marangi ndiyo inanilisha, na mimi ndiye nasaidia mamangu hata zaidi.
Stick to your art, kama una kipawa, ni mungu ameweka ndani yako. Let them sing, you learn the chorus and help them sing, or dance to it."

John Silver:  I'm an artist, no apologies.

 Wakiimba,-Tigana na marangi-

“Unaimba -Iĩ nĩngũtiga- na unaendelea kucheza na marangi yako."

In and out of the stands, my brain was blinking telling me, this is it.

 All the restlessness of a few weeks, lots of writing but the  struggle; should I post this?

hiding behind a language

"Ukiona  mwanamke amekaa na wanaume peke yake na haogopi, huyo ni mwana siasa.”

Said the man to his fellow, who looked up from his standard and regarded me for the first time.

‘Inaonyesha hawashuku,’ he said and went back to his news.

"Ni kama Karua ama Ngilu, the first man continued.

They assumed I was deaf.

So I played along.

 But wondered, don’t women ever sit by themselves, among men? Unless they are  into politics?

 The second man handed the  newspaper to the man of opinions then left.

“Eh, Waigũrũ. Acha tuone nayeye huyu ana hadithi gani leo.”

My mind wondered in and out of our discussion.

There is some truth in it. I’m not really intimidated among men, I might even be at most ease among them I think.

-I’m not into politics-
I wanted to explain to him. 
- I was raised by an uncle you see, and a bunch of his friends-

But Really? I don’t think that is a reason either.

So I regarded him behind my eye lashes the way us women do.

About 50 years, definitely a grandfather with a  desensitized wife weighing about 102 Kilos who gets up before 4a.m to go to the market.

The news on the radio are in a language I hear but  don’t understand, I hear the name Ngirachũ, That I understand.

My mind is back to the topic.

Dubai.

I’ve been trying to sign it. I signed it as president, then heaven, so I sign ARAB COUNTRY FAMOUS.

Wondering to myself, what language do I use to think. And I try to listen in my head. Could be English.

Wait. Can’t I hear my brain?

Kindrend Souls

My history and upbringing sways my current life. I spent a lot of time alone as a child. And the three of us, how did we cope? How did  we ever?

 Grandma ensured there was food and tea in the house, and uncle  ensured I remained in a controlled environment most of the time.
Meaning, the three gates were kept latched, the farm chemicals were on a high shelf, and if he would be too long he took me along to fence.

Mother  supplied a steady flow of story books and candy. So in my own world I was not even sure what was real and what was made up for a long time and since questions were not well entertained, I made my own conclusions.

I had gone through the book of Matthew and read a great deal of the gospels by age 8.
I said to my grandmother one day that we should build our house on a rock. And the newly married neighbour who was visiting asked if the child was alright.

Low human interaction made me more introverted than I was meant to be, but not a recluse. I soon discovered writing. I spent  much time in my  mind, so when I spoke they either didn't hear me, or didn't understand what I was all about.

But there was aunt Beth.
I asked her one day, we were eating  barely ripe plums off a tree.

"Tata Beth, if I was never born, would another me be standing here now?"

She thought about it for a moment and said.

picture from askmissa

'I also sometimes wonder the same Soni,' she always calls me Soni, or Son.'I wonder would the other person be called Beth?'

We silently mused about it for a few minutes, and that was the first deep human connection I ever had.

I don't celebrate Christmas; never did, really.

 
Christmas in our homestead was mostly sarakasi(a circus)
When everybody came together and old grudges  resurfaced, and the differences in opinions become quite distinct.

By 26th December all had found different exit routes.
 I can't account for for everybody's emotions, that would be based on mere observation.
 What I can describe with no trouble of recollection is my own reactions to the going-ons.

 See, my mother works in the hotel industry, for as long as I have known her. That means holidays are busiest, and a divorcement from social life. But a single mother doesn't have too many choices.

When in the city, I watched TV all day long, Scooby Doo re-runs on Cartoon Network.
When at plot 65, I would be in a murderous mood.

One Christmas day, me and sister had been scrubbing dishes all  day long, interspersed only with running errands for our visiting city relatives.
In the afternoon, different people got invited to different homes and some went to sleep.

We took a bath, brushed our hair and decided to take a walk  about the village.
I must add here, that any ventures out of plot 65 were limited to the school route and the church route.

We returned slightly after 6.30 to find cũcũ arũrĩte ta igi (grandmother ready to sting like a wasp). I remember wondering what Christmas was all about then.

Another Christmas went by in a similar manner. It got to me, and I had a bright idea to have some fun by raiding the Christmas goodies and hiding them until the last guest had left. About 30th December I woke up sister in the middle of the night to have a biscuit and juice party.

 As you can imagine, I didn't look forward to holidays. The last one I acknowledged was the year after high school.

Someone had boiled a chicken.

Grandmother had been invited by her brothers to eat a goat; and she left about mid-morning, with strict orders that she would like to find work started on the foundation; for the extension of her sitting room.

I was feeling stressed, and under pressure to prepare family and friends that I wouldn't score an A in the K.C.S.E. I was dropping subtle hints.

We sat in the compound after eating the chicken, mentally wondering how do get out of digging the foundation and still have a place to live the following week.

I declared:

"Next year, I'm gonna study Spanish and be a model."

"You cannot be a model, you have no boobs and your teeth are brown." Brother  communicated his viewpoint, which lead to a shouting match.

Our older mother tried to break us up, apologising on behalf of his son.

Sister was saying "Aaai, that's mean." 

All the pent up anxiety came out in the manner of "the coward of the county."

Uncle, too embarrassed by this turn or affairs took a hoe and spade and we heard him start to dig noisily behind the house. 

It was about 2p.m.

Someone got the wheelbarrow. Mwingine akatafutana na magunia(someone else found and passed the gunny sacks around) and we started to move soil.

Birthdays were no better. Mother would bring a bag of candy the weekend that followed.
One time, I must have been seven. I decided to cook chapati for my birthday.
 The concept, however was not mature in my brain yet.
 I boiled water in a sufuria then poured in a kilogram of wheat flour and  stirred. Yeah.

Uncle rescued the disaster and we had chapos about midnight.

I later learned kumbe these holidays don't even have christian origins. And the two mentione in the Bible had someone killed(too much for a celebration of life).

No wonder we were all so joyless
No wonder laughter only came after.

Good riddance I say.

picture borrowed from mallory maticic

Mr. Fong,Get out of the kitchen I’m cooking

My Fong was the landlord. We were three tenants.

Tanya, from Uganda, Charlotte from Oman but with Tanzanian Origin. I was the strange Kenyan that didn’t have much to say to either.

I only met him once. He didn’t know which one of us was which. And since he never followed us up for rent, our conversations went like this.

“This is Cecilia, I’ve deposited the rent.”

“Okay, thank you, are  you in the medium or the small room?”

He kept a fine house, with pre-installed gas, every kind of kitchen appliance and red leather sofas.

Tanya rang him whenever the bulb went out, when keys got stuck. He would send someone in 24 hours. He never complained about us and when I chose to move out, he gave me ideas to make my stay longer.
I liked the way the sunset shed light on the furniture when I came home.

Charlotte cooked once a week, she would  fill the kitchen with flavours and scents and you didn’t need to be told to get out and have your nasi goreng in the mamak stall nearby.

Tanya was studying Business, at Limko, I always cheered up whenever we met at the bus stop coz I somehow thought she was in a different college. It was hard to bring business and Limko together. She sort of kept the house, made cleaning schedules, sorted the bills and had Royco in her cabinet.

 They were really cool girls. Tanya had steady friends, they would go to shopping together.

Charlotte was intriguing, a dancer too. She later went into NewYork Film School and is charlieslookingglass.blogspot.com and an actress. We went swimming and once for a meeting, which is a lot for  housemates.