I grew up in some parts of the Yatta plateau singing
and looking after goats.
No, I wasn’t convinced that it was the longest
plateau in the world. As far as I was concerned, my father’s farm wasn’t big
enough to contain the wild goats.
Some folks will tell you that they love nature and
bushes; that they enjoy sun-downers under the shadows of the evening sun behind
grass-thatched huts. No, I don’t like shadows.
All that I know is the standard here was precise.
You were either an obedient happy child or a perverted rebellious crook who was
squarely set for failure.
At first I detested grazing and then I realised it
wasn’t my choice to make. I could either sob the entire day and still graze or
be wise and find a happy place in bonding with the goats. Most of the times I
was dumb. I chose wrong.
Primary school was fun. We bonded but we also
shared in the pains of the canes.
If you were not carrying firewood to boil your
lunch for the day, it was a jerrican of water to calm down the powdered soil in
a tattered classroom. Fridays were good relaxed days and teachers had better
things to do with their time than just watching out for ‘naughtees’.
Looking back, I think there is part of growing up
that is genuine. The kind that childhood is.
The sincerity and unexplainable convictions that
are aimed at helping out.
Mine was to be a veterinary surgeon and help my
father’s sick goats and occasionally a few cows but mostly just the goats.
I gave up on it in class six when other kids made
fun of how uncivilised the career was.
But then two years ago, I met Kenn_ a childhood acquaintance
and neighbour.
He had proceeded to the university to pursue his
childhood dream of becoming a veterinary physician. It felt like he had just
grabbed my dream off my grip when no one was watching.
He was now a competent veterinarian working with
one of the prestigious livestock research institutes in the country.
This news caught me off guard. I agitatedly swallowed
a salty lump of nasal mucous all at once. I was annoyed with myself for not
being brave enough to pursue mine.
I later learnt that primary school life was rough
for him; the fact that we shared in this vessel of difficulties calmed my
nerves and especially in knowing that the number of those who partook in the
pain of arrogant and frustrated teachers was more than just one.
He told me school had not broken any of his bones. ‘You don’t let it break you; no matter how
hard life gets’ was his catchy phrase which so far seemed to be working
well.
This school roughness had not changed his unruffled,
relaxed persona. He still was a pleasant human being.
His zeal was my longing at that point. One, I
needed a life phrase to live by.
And two, I required the skill to shake off
letdowns. Make them a glimmer that falls off and move on as if nothing
happened.
Anyway, story for another day. Back to my meet- up
with Kenn.
We met on a Monday evening in one of these busy
restaurants in the CBD. On one of those Mondays that you don’t have the energy
to work. Not when the weather is this chilly. But you certainly have enough oomph
to catch a bus from Ngong, endure the pain of gridlock traffic and even more, pay
for a cup of tea with a friend.
“It’s been a minute” it was him screaming from
behind me. Close enough to see the goosebumps that formed immediately all over
my skin but far enough not to bear any liabilities for my death in case I
collapsed.
Scares don’t fascinate me; they terrify me!
“Hey Kenn, you scared me!” I turned to respond
while catching heavy breathers.
Kenn and I grew up in the same village but went to
different primary schools. Girls said he was cute but I guess I didn’t see it.
All that I remember is that his grandma’s house was a safe haven for us when
storm invaded our own homes.
He was certainly more composed than when I last saw
him.
When I sneaked out of the office on this particular
Monday, all that I needed was a perfectly brewed mug of Kenyan Masala tea. One
that makes me bath in the kick of its ingredients. I had just moved into one of
those neighbourhoods where people still queued for matatus in the evenings from the
CBD; something that I found disturbing to do. So instead of standing in the
cold for an hour or more, I could gladly walk into a restaurant for my
favourite tea. Then end up spending more time there than if I had just joined
the queue. And I was totally cool with it.
“It’s been ten years since I last saw you. It can’t
be a minute!” I probed as I placed my classy miniature handbag (or so I thought)
on one of the chairs on my left hand side.
I had picked a quiet corner that day not knowing
that someone chose it too. “I take tea from here a lot and I kinda like this
corner too”, he said in between smiles and I wondered where he had learned the
'kinda language' because where we come from, this isn’t English. I didn’t let that thought dwell in too long.
We had deliberately joined each other for a cup of
tea and that’s all we wanted. Plus I thought he was also waiting for the queue
at his route stage to shorten.
The hotel was casual and not too crowded. Wide windows
faced us from the other side of the room. The furniture was high-end and
bespoke. The fabrics were spotless and colour coordinated well with nature. Tiny
pentagon beams pointed each table from the ceiling each with exquisite contour.
Sitting here for a polite conversation was easy enough to imagine. It was an
amusing blend of cheap and expensive both in one bowl.
Plus the prices were favourable for a girl trying
to make it in Nairobi with no intentions of getting a sponsor even when all the
pointers seemed to suggest so.
I wasn’t about to shame my grandmother who
dedicated her Friday evenings to pray for me and whose supplications were
clearly cut-out: to get a husband and many great grandchildren. Both at once
because to her family planning is ungodly. “Why would someone destroy what God
freely gave?” she kept wondering aloud.
“These eateries can be so packed”. It’s just 5pm
and this place is already full” Kenn interrupted and I wasn’t offended. He
sounded too sophisticated than I left him 10 years ago but I wasn’t judging. I
mean how many times in a day do you use the word ‘eateries’.
He had changed a lot since then. He now had a shiny
and well kempt moustache. One that I found weird looking on his round baby-face.
“How times change!” I smilingly thought to myself
remembering just how in primary school,
having signs of growing beard was unacceptable. And so was any tips that tried
to show off young girls' chests.
You were not allowed to grow up. Not in primary
school!
“Long time. How have you been?” I prompted.
“Life is good and God has been gracious,” he
excitedly said and I figured out this is all we should talk about. Family life
and work not the intellectual topics on animal insemination in New Jersey.
“I last saw you in that pitch when you were the king
of sprints”, I jokingly said not to revive long-healed wounds. His school lost
that dayJ
“Primary school was hard” he interjected.
Completely pretending that he did not comprehend my last comment. I let him continue.
“And then there was the trekking bit. Every single
day I wore the same black laced rubbers just for this journey. Once silk black
they turned rusty white-brown with dust and tone soles”.
“Count yourself lucky; I didn’t even have shoes!” I
said as the waitress walked towards our table to pick our orders after almost
an hour of waiting. “I think she doesn’t like her job and now all of us will
have to bear with her moods” I whispered as the tall slender waitress came
closer. I still think she overheard my statement.
Her white blouse well ironed with the hotel logo
easily visible from afar. ‘Because you
matter’ neatly printed just below the logo on the right hand pocket.
“We might as well sip that tea two hours later” Kenn
rudely looked up at her and for a moment I wondered who the audience was; I or
the tall slender waitress.
Then she reluctantly picked our orders and off she
went. The next time I saw her was when I had already outgrown my tea cravings.
“Sorry where were we?” he asked “the trekking bit?”
I responded. “I used to walk through the same path every day for 8 years plus
two more. Yes I repeated in class one and two” he said running through a text
message. I guess it was the wife or probably the kids wondering where dad was.
I can’t confirm this information.
He had earlier mentioned that he married Hannah; a
childhood friend too and the two were blessed with two girls. My ovaries
skipped hard to the news. It’s quite interesting that they were now the third
person in our conversation. Reminding me that the clock was ticking fast and
mine seemed to be racing.
Is it me or does time seem to move extremely fast
these days?
The last time I checked I was 20; just the other
day 40 waved at me severally in an otherwise disrespectful manner!
At this point I whispered a quick prayer. The kind
that most of us craft over time and engrave them at the back of our minds for
those requests that God seems to constantly throw in his parking lot. Or so we
think.
I let Kenn continue.
“There are
moments I closed my eyes and part of me kept thinking I was still in my bed
with the obvious chores waiting for me – fetching water and feeding my father’s
cows”, he posed. At this point all I was doing is nodding. “And then there were
moments I closed the same eyes and I was terrified by blows of mother waking me
up after wetting my bed”. It was a shift to the extremes. No grey areas”. He
shrugged. “Wait a minute, you actually used to wet bed?” I laughed out loud
with no glimpse of composure whatsoever. I just couldn’t imagine this huge
physique in front of me wetting beds. Well of course he was a child then but it
still was a difficult truth to comprehend.
He didn’t answer that one. We laughed and let it go.
“Such was school”. He said while his eyes wandered around looking for the tall
slender waitress. “I need my macchiato. We don’t have all the time here!”. He screamed
at someone with similar blouse as that of the tall slender waitress and for a moment
I wondered, “Who is this man?”
He had the ability to shift personalities and shove
away emotions. In just under a minute he had shifted from the shouting, fuming
guy with wide blood-shot eyes calling out for his macchiato to a calm, collected
gentleman seemingly too keen on whatever I said. I was amused. “He wasn’t like
this 10 years ago!” I thought to myself now imagining that he was possibly
brainwashed and recruited into one of those terrorism gangs. I hear those groups are strange. Then I brushed off those evil thoughts.
I guess people grow up plus situations and people
change you. I mean I had also quite grown in those 10 years. The English I ‘breathed
out’ now was way better and polished. So I concluded he was just stressed.
It’s like he also had a way of timing my thoughts. Every
time I concluded on a thought, he automatically picked up our discussion “Plus
you counted yourself unlucky if the teacher on duty had a squabble with your
mother”, he continued.
The tall slender waitress was back with our orders.
Now with a badge printed her name (which we will not mention here). I didn’t
even care about that tea anymore.
Kenn received his macchiato calmly and I gave him a
moment for a few sips just to confirm it the kind of macchiato he was anticipating.
He said no word after the sips and I let
it be.
“By the way you were very active in church those
days, do you still sing in that choir?” He excitedly asked reading through my
eyes. “Yes I still do but it’s been a while”, I lied. I wasn’t in the choir
anymore and I wasn’t about to ask for a sinner’s prayer. Truth is, I needed to
score some points here. I needed him to see that I was still in faith.
At this point Kenn glanced at the wall clock on the
wall right next to us alerting that time was really rushing. He seemed
comfortable though so we continued. We chatted a bit about his wife and kids then
continued with his childhood stories.
He mentioned that his two beautiful girls were intelligent
and an apple of his eye. I could see that they melted his heart.
I hoped that grandma remembered to pray that I
would melt my husband’s heart too; in waiting.
But I continued before the emotions overwhelmed me.
“I recall us habitually practising and flexing our
vocals every Saturday afternoon within the confines of the sanctuary. Mwove the
young man who used to be in charge of the instruments devotedly set them up for
us. A skilled gentle man who was the pride of his father and every parent
wanted their sons to turn out just like him. He was easy-going, placid and considerate.
“Can I order more macchiato?, You want some?. It’s
really good” he apologetic interrupted which was necessary. I agreed to have
some. Plus I hadn’t tested this thing and I needed to know what it was. As long
as it was alcohol free!
My culture does not approve of women drinking. It’s
funny that men can.
They say a woman might get drunk and forget the
baby in the 'shamba'.
It was getting late. It was almost 8:30pm and I
needed to leave but I wasn’t about to leave without having a macchiato. When
the two-anticipated mugs were finally brought, we agreed to be done by 9:00pm. The
air was thick with the scent of the espresso coffee that I first drank into its
aroma. It’s baffling I didn’t smell it at its first order.
I literally savoured it but I wasn’t regretting my
brewed Kenyan Masala tea.
“The church taught us that we were only supposed to
sing for God and that He heard us; and that’s all that I did”, I said laughing.
“Whatever sound I made out of my mouth, I attached
it to God in faith wholeheartedly.
Faith to me was killing all the bad thoughts in my
mind at that point, focusing on the song at hand and singing out as loud as I
could. If the pastor was nodding, then God was listening”. I added alerting that
it was time to go home.
We chatted a little bit more just to finish the
macchiato and agreed to hold another date. This one would focus on my church
memories.
We drained the macchiato up to the last drop and
left.
By the way the matatu queue was not there at that
time.
I got home late that evening too sleepy but
persuaded that the things I was today were once childhood dreams. For those that died, I let them. And it was
time to be okay with it.
Did I pay for the tea? I can’t remember. Kenn paid
for the Macchiato.
Mwende
