While I am waiting

While I am waiting

Today as I sit here waiting for an answer to a prayer I have constantly made for the last three years, I shiver as my wild mind craft forms of the many options I have to choose from.

Because the way I see it, I have waited for way too long and it’s time to start moving,

All this while the wind around my ankles has been moving freely across dried leaves and for once I wish I had its cognisance. One that is spontaneous, powerful and unbound.

I am anxious.

The weaver birds around here are incredible and similarly resentful.

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They sing with synchronized pitches and tones for a whole hour while sharing a fraction of warmth with each other. They seem happy and I seem agitated. I guess that’s what waiting does. It gives one time to examine the ordinary and ask questions of things they simply take for granted.

I am waiting.

You see for me, whether I’m waiting for a friend to show up or for hope to return in moments of despair; the feeling is equally unsettling.

As writers will tell you, ‘expectation postponed is making the heart sick’; worse still if such expectations are unguaranteed.

In either of these the anxiety is gruelling.

It’s like a grain of sand in between the front-teeth; no pain but sufficient discomfort to keep things irritable. And the more one keeps digging it out, the more unsettling it becomes. In fact, it’s just but a matter of time before pain thrives.

Such is waiting.

Plus God took it a notch higher; I know He requires me to wait patiently in confidence and I am tempted to wonder why.

Why He seems to be silent when I desperately need Him to speak, but then I am prompted of His steadfast love and mercy,

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For He knows the number of hair on my head,

He declares the end from the beginning,

He knows that I don’t need it now; that’s why I don’t have it yet and so I wait.

Yes I will wait.

I will wait for Him even when I doubt Him,

I will wait because I know He will soon be here; but even if He doesn’t show up I will still wait.

Because even when in humanly wisdom He is way too late, He is still on time.

Mwende

Our Women

Our Women

It’s Women’s international day.

The 8^th day of March 2018; a day that exists to celebrate women worldwide, the achievements as well as highlighting gender issues that face women and by extension the entire population.  

It’s one of those days that trailers make rounds in media platforms with each year carrying with it a new hashtag.

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Today, there's a vibrant call to act towards achieving gender parity. It’s a call to motivate communities, governments and the entire world to think, act and be gender inclusive.

Then the story can be different for Cherono in Pokot County, Kenya who wrestles with realities of the forbidden cut. With blood stained hands of the perpetrator still eager to yet again sharpen their cruel knives. It’s a day she remembers with such uncertainty and resentment for a scar that has now become part of her as caused by her fellow humans. A deed that has costed her two of her new-borns.

Photo courtesy of WV

This also embraces raising awareness and acting for the sake of young women in the outskirts of Lake Victoria. A young mother has to be carried on a wheelbarrow to a nearby clinic when her labour pains recon. Residents here have been having problems accessing healthcare services for too long with Akinyi bearing the burden of such conditions. She pushes with all her might optimistic that the fragile life she now holds will survive the harsh life realities into becoming the president someday. She wonders why life has to be this difficult. But just like everyone else, she’s got to toughen up in order to survive.

CWW, Kenya  Celebrates IWD 2018

celebrating IWD 2018 with colleagues

Pressing for progress to Margie needs to be now than later. A 20 years old mother in the rural southern Kenya who bears on her skull a yawning hovel caused by a jerrican that rests on her head every single day for the last 12 years. She carries the same jerrican today while balancing a baby on her hip. She’s had to trek for more than ten kilometres to make it this far. She says she hasn’t known any other way for her and her household. Ultimately she hopes that her physical strain will be lifted off her shoulders some day when water access comes near to her then her health can improve.

Truth is something has been done.

But much more needs to be done now!

#Pressing for Progress.

Mwende

Campus days

Campus Days
I remember my campus days with uttermost humor for obvious reasons.
First because it was the only time in my entire life that I didn’t need to report back to anyone.
Secondly because once a semester was over, that was it including whatever else that revolved around it. I simply didn’t have to worry about being slammed with exam questions from previous encounters.
Plus I also learnt cool slogans like destiny is personal. I would once in a while shove a few of those to tease-off villagers during short-breaks.

One of those retreats at freedom base

To my fellow countrymen back in the village, being in campus meant prestige irrespective of whether one was hawking goodies or studying. By just being ‘in campus’ I had made it to their list of the elite.
I was indeed privileged.

Those T-shirts are fleek

And so I joined my fellow scholars to train in whatever it was that would finally pronounce me a refined journalist because dad and mum believed I could do it. I later changed to my career choice (story for another day).

I remember village women and the headman warning me of boys and naughty cliques and for these two I was a good student. I evaded them like a plague. But also because every time a boy winked at me, I thought of my mother and any plans thereof would be thwarted immediately.

I coincidentally joined one of the fellowship groups and I stuck there.
Our only goal being to serve and we sure did just like our name _ service team,
For the four years’ period I served the Lord, made lifetime friends and enjoyed blissful elements of the sunburned desert with frequent views of wildlife.
I particularly enjoyed cleaning the benches during Sunday services, articulately placing hymn books and of course serving water to the preacher of the day.
One had to have polished skills over time to serve the preacher. We would confidently hold the bottle’s waistline and prudently peel off the nylon-seal in the quietness of the congregation. We would then place back the bottle on a stool strategically positioned and that became our ritual.

At Eldoret. Courtesy of Brian Mwangi

Looking back, most of the impactful friendships I enjoy today thrived in campus.
But I’m particularly amazed by how much our lives were diversified. Each had unique aptitudes and that made us stouter because there is strength in diversity.

There were those who interceded and for them fasting wasn’t such a big deal. If I made it through the day without my defiant legs leading me to the dining hall, I surely had something to celebrate.
There were those who eloquently spoke and emceed profoundly. I remember toping the shrab-meter list and occasionally Mo’ followed closely.
There were those who set up the instruments and regulated the mics during worship sessions and services; and they did an incredible job.

After sunday service

Secret Santas were the finest.
Just knowing that someone was praying for me secretly rejuvenated my commitment,
When the time came to finally reveal our Santas, my soul thrived.
I loved the gifting sessions, the cakes, the t-shirts and sharing a meal after the service.

But above all these, we laughed, loved, served and bonded.
And that’s the whole kernel of life.

Mwende

CALMED

CALMED

I think I will be a splendid grannie.

Often times I envisage sitting on that simple couch close enough to the fire-place savouring into the warmth. I imagine that I will probably be laughing at my younger self and the miniature decisions that gave me sleepless nights.

I often sit here and chat with my future old-self on what the future seems like because frankly speaking, none of us can describe with certainty the days to come.

I envision my sun-tanned skin struggling to glow with my wobbly hands fighting to garner enough strength to play around with my grandchildren. I imagine my similarly old hubby (call him husband) with patterned wrinkles on his brow expressive of the incredible journey we will have endured.

I think eye-lines are beautiful. Mine would probably tell of the laughter, affection and certainly of the scars of wounds that once existed.  I think my litheness and articulate speech will portray a pot of Godly wisdom accumulated over the years oozing effortlessly to the young ones (somebody say AmenJ).

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I’m actually convinced that sometimes (and those times are many), generations will literally wish to pull away the mask of age around my feeble frame just to get a glimpse of the girl that I once was over the years.

Then I will tell them, ‘you don’t have to because if you can pay attention, then you’ll see her because she still lives’.

But then this creepy thought keeps stealing my wow imaginings every time. In a world that measures self-worth on basis of luxuries and fame rather than the content of our character, I dread the generations to come.

Will that young damsel that I will bring forth understand that beauty and life are inseparable?

Will that lad comprehend the place of love, virtue and guarding his appetites however loud they echo?

Will he intrinsically seek to guard his neighbour’s girl in light of bullies; or will he foolishly join in?

I still wonder.

But then hope yields more power and I realize that even then, remnants will surely thrive just like in times of Noah.

Wait a minute! The times of Noah are already here!

Do we have remnants?

Mwende

JOURNEY INTO THY SELF

JOURNEY INTO THY SELF

Afew years ago, I flourished within a company of sassy-striking school girls with their energy clearly out of this world.

We had just moved into the dining hall that was shortly converted into a dance floor and the music in there was soothing_ well until it sooner turned into factually noise.

We moved from chatting to singing to slow-dancing to screaming for no good reason at all.

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I remember searching for my friend through the crowd that moved like a multi-headed beast that only shared one brain. The dance floor was fully filled with everyone showcasing their best moves. For a moment I felt a sincere touch of togetherness and in another I felt like we were just a bunch of filthy noisemakers and immediately my mind shifted. I just wanted to go home but then I stayed.

‘Hey, is all that your hair?’ a smooth exquisite voice proceeded just above my left shoulder close enough to smell the drenched face.

I was not ready for any meaningful conversation. I was tired. The kind that needs a good night's sleep.

But then I still responded.  ‘Yes’ I said with an inviting twinkle and as they say, the rest is history.

Looking back, I’m glad I met Lisa.

Because that very chat was a reflection of a slave set free for life.

Of one who lived free tangibly yet one with a bound mind that had to be continually reminded that it’s free indeed.

Yet one who purposefully chooses to walk free each single day.

What she didn’t know is that wearing my natural hair that day was the easiest thing I have had to do overtime in comparison to the striking long journey taken back to myself.

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You see, the world is effusively crowded with what beauty seems like.

The “kind of beauty” that gets us crowded and running in pursuit of the elusive not realizing that BEAUTY begins within.

I have had to constantly DRAW BACK INTO SELF and JUST LOVE ME.

Because you got to love yourself deeply to give love back.

‘Your hair is like a crown’, she said calmly and smiled in awe and I couldn’t stop sobbing.

‘And you are beautiful and you got to see it FIRST before anyone else does’, I mumbled while still balancing tears.

That day, at the corner of a veranda outside the dance hall, I realized that sometimes we all need someone to tap on our spines and trigger the vigour we so desperately need to LOVE OURSELVES DEEPER.

Then something felt good to my soul to this day.

Mwende  

Leave No One Behind

Leave No One Behind

When love that proceeded from the depths of their loins and belly was no longer there, the love of power arose in Kaole and he no longer hung on his wife’s gentle words or surrender himself to her caresses. His concern was now being with his mac and the comfy brown-leather seat that propagated his newly found life of working night and day to pay the bills; which later turned his back against the woman who held his spine.

Unknown rage that he couldn’t suppress began to hype as the two drifted farther apart. At first there was guilt and an attempt to stop but soon he gave way, realizing how much he enjoyed shouting and walloping his knuckles into her skin. With every hit he felt a cold zing of delight, a buzz he couldn’t get any other way.

A perfect marriage from outside it seemed yet Lisa hid purple ribs and "florets" that budded on her thighs; she hid them like a precious marble yet she oozed out pain with each strained breathe. Their home was a cage for her body and her body reciprocated the “favour”.

Over the years, Lisa laid on her matrimonial cradle listening to the songs and sounds of fury, anger and fight; and vehemently enjoyed every bit of it hoping that one day a tiny breach would pave way for her freedom.

‘C’mon’, open the door!’ Kaole’s brother pushed himself through into the hospital door handing over a withered piece of skin to the doctors.

“That’s what’s left of my brother’s manhood”, he irritably told the doctors as he gave-out a numb piece of scrotum to them; One that he hurriedly picked up in a pool of blood where his brother’s body laid.

His skin was peeled off from the vital organs, blood oozing from his belly.  Although he seemed peaceful, you could see that tissues were torn and his blood slowly turned into a thick-turbid brown with its power to ooze dying out. Their urgings culminated into a horrific ordeal whose pangs will stick around forever_ his blood was squarely on her hands; she killed him.

Neighbours called in the police who arrested Kaole’s wife because, if it happens to women, it can happen to men too; my worry being, will justice prevail?

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The corpse was rushed to the morgue as mourners flocked into their home you’d think they were heaped together, waiting for that one call.

Such is domestic violence; it’s lethal!

This is a familiar story for many who’ve endured the gruelling pain and trauma of Gender Based Violence (GBV) whether domestic violence, sexual violence such as rape, sexual assault or harassment, harmful practices such as FGM, child and force marriages, psychological violence or even economic violence among many more; and the fact that many of these have been normalized and perpetuated through structural inequalities makes it more arduous.

With the International campaign to challenge violence against women and girls already underway, posters and billboards are taking rounds in various media podiums with high profile cases wallowing on newspapers’ headlines on strategies towards overcoming GBV. #16 days of fight against Gender Based Violence.  

While gender-based violence cases are way too high for women compared to men, a considerable number of such cases for men occur with many ending up unreported and they too need help.

In fact, GBV has been coined to refer to women problems which clarifies why most platforms that exist to address GBV issues are naturally inclined to resolving such matters from a woman’s viewpoint. For decades, women have been found on the frontline in fight against the demon yet we still find ourselves in the same predicament many eras later.

This is not to demean the fight on violence against women and girls at all which is extremely huge and should be out-rightly condemned and perpetrators persecuted but even further, to bring on board both genders towards creating collective and lasting solutions and therefore, both men and women have a role to play.

But even better, prevention is better than cure!

 

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The question is; are you aware, willing and determined to rightfully play your role?

Surrounded by four black walls, there was nothing else to do for Lisa but to stare at them. To blindly look at the ballast that was chipping off with time. Anything to pass time was meaningful for her, slowly going mad, theorizing absurd meanings from the wall's blank stare. 

“I am finally free from the blows even though I'm caged” she sighed. She will be there for a long time!

#beyond 16 days of fight against Gender Based Violence

Mwende

UNMASK IT

UNMASK IT

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October is here and women worldwide (and friends of women) are unearthing the pink goodies and ribbons that mark breast cancer awareness month across the world. Stand up to be counted!

If today you walked into a hospital for a check-up only to be diagnosed with cancer (of any kind) how would you react to such outcomes?

‘God forbid!’ you say and I absolutely concur. It’s frightening and definitely a dark world that we all are hesitant to venture into.

But then our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that Matter- Martin Luther King Jr.

Let’s turn up the volume…

Five years ago…

Here is a story of a woman whose perfect imperfections have made her who she is today,

A woman who undoubtedly comprehends that the very rug that you stand on today can be pulled off your feet with absolutely no warning,

A woman who strives to pursue her dreams no matter what life throws at her_ because she still believes in them,

As we sat together today in the comfort of her home, I couldn’t imagine how our conversation would turn out to be. I couldn’t comprehend how stout of a person she was to still afford a smile even after all the trauma. “I still remember that day like it was yesterday 5 years ago_ the day that doctors confirmed that I had breast cancer” she calmly said with a mild smile (one that felt grateful and humbling).

Her company feeling reassuring_ it felt pleasing in every way!

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Her emotions were easily hidden on her jovial face. Yet her pain was evident in the tuck of her pretty brow and the down-curve of her lips. Her eyes showed the depths of her soul. They were built, firm and brave; a reflection of a deep pool of restless gold, an ocean of hopeless anguish, a blow that kept knocking her down only to watch her rise up and knock her back again. But above all, I saw an emerging glow of optimism and conviction of better things to come.

‘My world crumbled before my eyes; I watched as every single bit of it melted away and I hated it ’_she continued with a gush of such ache flashing on her temple anyone could literally touch it. Yet her passion to live turned her eyes into orbs of the brightest fire, and in them I read clearly that she would wrestle to the very last gasp for her life. She couldn’t let this malady rip off her free spirit. She hung on it with passion and that passion made her beautiful.

‘Today I live to tell a story of victory’, she affirmed, her skin lighting up with humour and assurance.  Even though the dawn was still some miles away, I could sense a spark of hope; a ray of sunshine yet to come and I loved it.

‘Be informed, do self-examination. Don’t be afraid_ the importance of cancer being detected in its early stage determines the treatment and the success thereof. Be positive but above all, never give up_ we can’t give up now’, she tells me with such confidence and tenderness of a mother. I snuggled in for a goodbye hug in her warm embrace having learnt that courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.

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Reflecting…

I write to celebrate her for the courage to soldier on; and to women making it through every step of the way_ a step at a time.

And to many more heroines who succumbed to the disease; they still remain warriors because every day lived was victory won!

Early detection of breast cancer saves lives!

Self- Examination is Key!

Be informed and inform others!

Mwende 

Now is the Moment

NOW IS THE MOMENT

Years back my maternal grannie resembled a lofty lean damsel ready to conquer the world but not anymore; age has since engulfed her making her seem small and laid-back.

She now sits close to the wide kitchen-window on her brown wooden armchair with a floral cushion stack on it. And while perched there, she leans forward and dimly notices the passers-by and makes remarks about them with a stray thought about the cup of tea at the base of the chair close to her feet.

Over the years, I have continually looked forward to watching her preoccupied face with the morning light gracefully reflecting on her tanned and wrinkled skin and eyes that belie her eighty years; plus the laughter lines on the forehead that coil effortlessly when no one is watching. She’s simply a dazzling woman!

For the last 15 years, grandma has constantly sat there, on the same old chair, watching the same old passers-by and hilariously enjoyed every moment of it like it was shanking new.

We recently held a get-together to mark her 80^th birthday and of course devour the toppings that come with it if you know what I mean_ she was astoundingly thrilled.

You should have seen her cheery face giving instructions and calling out persons to serve her every now and then. As long as you were one of the people strolling around, grandma spontaneously turned you into family and ultimately if your body-frame betrayed you, you were considered a grandchild obliged to tap into her astuteness.

She sang melodiously the old-time hymns picking up every stanza just at the right time; putting enough emphasis on the choruses you’d think time was undying.

The sun was setting-in dimly into the hills with striking rays cutting through the unruffled crowd and threads of light lingering in the sky. Everyone was full and satisfied having had their kind of fun; ready to give out their goodbye embraces.

It was a beautiful day; certainly one that I remember with a smile, gratitude and hope for better things to come.

“Grandma, if you can be any age, what age would you be?” a clear voice oozed from the kitchen; too vibrant it almost scattered the crowd. It was one of her grandsons packing scraps for breakfast the following day but still following the debates outside.

“That’s a difficult question” grandma said. Sounding not too confident about what she was about to say.

“It is indeed a difficult question only because I was in a race to get though life; many of those years are fuzzy_ but I loved being 65 years because that’s when I finally learnt to pay attention to the present”, sheepishly smiling she affirmed.

And since then, she continually nurtures a non-judgemental awareness of the present and a smile that never seems to fade away.

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I can only pray and hope for an inch of her free-spirit because I certainly need some. For we cannot rewind the past or even predict with precession the future, but we can undoubtedly take charge of our present moment.

And one by one we embraced and bid her goodbye then she returned to her spot of laughter and continued watching the same old passers-by and hilariously enjoying every moment, because every moment is new and should be enjoyed as it is!

Mwende 

Death (The Ordeal)

Death (The Ordeal)

I recall this day 10 years ago like it was just yesterday,

I still remember that tiny hospital waiting room packed to the brim with horrified faces in search of their own; all too anxious any further silence would literally kill them,

I remember staring at a portrait of a scenery beach sprawled on the four walls of the tiny room each depicting striking waves on tranquil sands contrary to the sulk within. Across from me stood a tiny black wooden coffee table holding health magazines and other tiny books neatly arranged. Underneath it a dull grey carpet that covered the whole room with showing patches of haughty stains. A slim television hung straight opposite from the tiny door displaying boring commercials with mild voices proceeding from it. Steel chairs were stack together in one corner to create space for two more persons in the already filled room, everyone gazing into the space in their own worlds of anxiety, worry and acquiescent.

I was too apprehensive to read any of the journals so I let my foot tap impatiently on the carpeted floor with teary eyes tightly locked on the door.

Just before I could create a rhythm, someone tapped my left shoulder which almost drove me mad; gladly disrupting arduous thoughts that were calling for rushed verdicts. Mother signalled from her corner of anxieties and we converged into the already squeezed space hopeful that ours wasn’t such a bad fate.

‘I mean she can’t be among the dead!’ so I thought. It appeared that any jiffy stillness opened a pot of differing opinions in my head; I was worried. Then a cold quiver ran through my belly up into my throat and I belched furiously; it’s like anger substituted the foul breath.  

“God please don’t take her away from us- I mean she’s so young to die now” I was literally negotiating with God on her behalf when dozens of rebuking queries bombarded me and I gave up only to realize that none of us was in charge!

In the heat of all the reprimands I sobbed desperately but still buoyant that my only niece then would be well and alive.

Viola had been involved in a road accident on her way to school. She left home at 9:30am of that fateful day, after a recap of counselling session plus a couple of warnings on boyfriends and forbidden pregnancies (you know how that goes) _ you’d think she was pregnant already!

We then bid her, “see you-s” because that was always our way of saying goodbye (it makes us less emotive). Two hours later such a young, sassy and intelligent girl was among many whose fate only God knew and that’s how we found ourselves in the tiny hospital waiting room.

‘Doctor!’ I mumbled when the tiny door whined and a man in a white apron squeezed himself through the crowd,

He said several students were in the ICU; and I could somehow tell that Viola was among them (just to mention that my qualms were confirmed that very day!).

I saw a ventilator tube go down her throat with its steady automated inhales and exhales, the light over her bed softly illuminating her face; she was overly covered in a heavy sky-blue cloth and nothing could stop my tears.

She later succumbed to the injuries and rested with the angels.

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10 years later, we still instinctively watch the gates and wish to see our cheerful lassie back home,

We never seem to get over her departure; truth is we will never get over it.

Because children are supposed to grow, learn and marry and of course bring grandchildren on our laps; then we can rest in peace_ at-least that’s our intuitive expectation.

Fast-forward…

The fire tragedy at Moi Girls School can’t be ignored; but even more the innocent lives lost should never be forgotten,  the wounds caused will take time to fill even before a scar can be spotted,

Their families’ hearts broken twice along the very same fault lines_ first by the way they had to die and second by why they died.

I still sit here and wonder why!

Why such young lives had to be cut short in such a manner!

I still wonder how one should to respond to such news; that your child is burnt beyond recognition in the very place they ought to be safe!

I won’t give you any answers coz I don’t have any; but I believe we can walk through this together,

We can ask questions that none of us comprehends; queries that leave us gasping for answers_ and that’s ok,

Yes we can call out their names and wait eagerly for a reply,

Only to be crashed by their silence and their absence,

Because the sting of death is cruel,

You see, life thrives in conversations; which through them we interact, learn and live,

Life in itself is a huge conversation of friendships, family, businesses and sometimes much more,

And so when death sneaks in, its pain is unexplainable (I mean even in our daily lives silence in itself is repulsive!).

When all conversations and interactions perish, hope withers and lousy muteness kicks in,

And that which was born in love now culminates in loss where no one seems to speak back,

Ultimately it is a scary and daunting realization that death is inevitable,

But we can be courageous and learn to finish such conversations that were once blossoming,

We can learn to live a day at a time in our own little ways; with the strength given to us,

We can still celebrate their lives and appreciate that they were once here,

We can treasure those memories and giggly chats we once held,

We can live appreciating the opportunity that we once talked and had a conversation,

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We can keep their names buzzing in our tiny candid chats,

Because love is honourable and it must be honoured in return,

So light a candle and ring a buzzer, you princess’ chuckles will be heard by all,

Its a 'see you', Till we meet them again in paradise.

Mwende