Funny how we are re-living Highschool

The past few days have felt like re-living highschool . On a lighter note. Suddenly the president and his counterparts sound like the harsh principals or the those tough teachers who always used to rattle at the students on parades. Every breifing resonates with the emergent assemblies that were called and your gut knuckled your intestines cause you all knew what happened during that school funkie that weekend.

Their words are threatening and send punches to the air to declare war to the culprits found. In this case culprits are the ones who turn positive. Sirens resemble how the ‘nyahunyo’ swips through the air as it whizzes a buzzing sound whilst you watch your classmate receive his due. This instantaneosly sends chills making you say a silent prayer imploring God to spare you. That your name is not called next.

The high risk counties represent the notorious forms. Nairobi being form 3. Mombasa following closely as form 2. Eishleigh and Kawangware representing form 3 east and 2 north respectively.

Lang’ata and Kibra are form 4 south and west that keep being called out for how they keep treading. Yet they wear thier names proudly because they know what position they hold in the school. They are the sayers. They have support from reknowed teachers like baba (Principal who genlty chides at them with a smile not to disturb others during “group discussions”). And so a lockdown is not a vocabulary that exists. Cause who locks down “punishes” form 4s?

They are the creme of the school.

Turns out unfortunately some culprits are just staunch culprits. This weekend I saw those on quarantine dancing and singing and enjoying themselves like nothing was wrong. Not that its a bad thing. It was just funny! There was the choir master leading the song at the same time commanding those who came too close to move back all awhile turning round and dancing to the beats of the song. It was hilarious. It was a representation of the noise makers who had been told to kneel down yet went on to make exuberating laughs when the teacher walked out.

The police represent the loathed prefects that kept on imposing their wicked punishmenst just so to make a statement. Beating up someone for being caught after curfew is like that bitter prefect who poured a handful of washing powder to a messy dunked blocked toilet. Oh we hated them…

Indeed, it is all comical. Maybe it’s just in my head. But sometimes you gotta look at something that causes anxiety at an amusing angle. Just so you keep being sane.

All in all, lets do what is necessary and right to curb this covid19. It’s no jokes. Especially to the victims and those who succumbed. May they all find pertual light and RIP.

Amen!

Oseke and the lights

The middle-aged man stood in the middle of the crowd fumbled up as they shouted louder and louder around him-at him. “Bring back the lights. Put back the power!” He tried to calm them down. He tried to explain to them if he put it back they wouldn’t be able to apprehend it. That it would be overwhelming. For they did not understand the basic principles for having the power. He was scared of the impact of the magnitude on them. The more he raised his voice the more they became roudy. Yelling and agitated they kept on jeering. No one was making sense at this point. Few droplets of rain were starting to fall. The clouds were as murky as the crowd. The earth was mud caked but no one cared.

They demanded what they thought was theirs by right. And yes, it was their right-sort of, maybe, but did they fully comprehend what it took to be able to manage it? The understanding of its peripherals?

Eventually Oseke ruffled his way out and stepped on a ledge. He started by apologizing for the lack of power due to the heavy rains that had been pouring. “My people, by no means do I enjoy seeing  your lives disrupted. By no means do I enjoy seeing people living in darkness. And by no means do I enjoy the mean splatter of insults. You clearly understand the situation with our poor electric posts and cables . How many times have I pushed and begged you for your support? You all know we don’t have a working system. You know we have no one to help us but ourselves. We have to start making right decisions and putting the work where it’s needful.”

“You can’t expect free goods in this life! Even infants suckle their mamas breasts but they put on the effort. They latch and put some action behind it. If you see a need, then fulfill the need! You go to work because you need the pay. No one has to push you.” The loud boos now became low murmurs. Oseko was now like a torrent. Firing, going on them. He found new energy in making them see the practicality of the situation. And they did. Because everyone was now silent. Listening…

Let’s Deviate…

This was a vivid dream I had some weeks back. I woke up in the middle of the night wondering what it was all about. It was so clear and palpable I felt I was part of the crowd trying to discern everything. It was not just a mere dream. Out of nowhere someone (Oseke- I gave him a name) was trying to make people see sense over lights? What was that!? And he declining their demands, What on earth?

I turned and tussled, questioning the meaning. Eventually I asked the Holy Spirit to reveal the meaning (if a message was trying to be passed). But I didn’t get it till I decided to put it on writing. Then today as I read today’s word it all made sense. Watch this;

Jesus is light for all believers right? He is light because he brought the knowledge about who he was and who God was. We understand who he is because he brought the knowledge with him. And in knowlege there is truth. There is light. There is a shift of perspective in what you knew. Yourself you got education so that you will be knowledgeable and out of ignorance right? So if Jesus is light then it means we have to seek his light. Whoever believes in him is prevented from staying in the dark. So for us to to be in light, we have to seek him. We have to stay in him to get that radiation. His radiation comes with blessings and gifts. Everything you have is a gift from him. But we do not deserve anything from him. You just don’t say God I deserve a good life and so I command you to release it. There are ways to go about it.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s asking for a good life and there’s demanding for something even when not credible. You don’t demand an iphone from your parent do you? So if that is true, we cannot expect to be in darkness and still demand anything we want from him. Yes he blesses the righteous and the wicked, the rain falls to all, but there’s a difference in being set apart. There’s a difference in being distinct and living in Him.

He is a good God, and he gives according to his own merit but we don’t have a right to his goodness. We are not worthy in the sense of our human nature.  Matthew 8:8 The centurion replied, “Lord, I do not deserve to have you come under my roof. But just say the word, and my servant will be healed. We simply need to recognize that everything from him is a precious gift. Because naturally we are below God. For no servant is greater than his master, no messenger is greater than the one who sent him. John 13:16

For us to get the fullness of his beauty, love and goodness, we first need to seek and find a relationship with him. We have to do our part. Just like the baby latches and suckles the mother thereby forming a beautiful bond, so do we need to make deliberate efforts to connect to the greater source of power. Which is Jesus. For Jesus is light, the source of all good things (not just earthly riches), the gatepass, the deliverer and the savior. We need to cultivate deep intimacy with him. Remember it was not of his own accord but of the father who sent him. John 12:47-50. And in him we have all his love. All these beautiful blessings which surpass all human understanding.

I hope my revelation will give you some light as you let this be an opening to look deeper into your dreams.

Stay safe.

Hope In the midst of Covid 19

At some point, everyone has felt like that he/she will break and fall apart. The Virus has shaken the mighty. Even the strongest bulldozers who seem too strong to be shaken by anything, this time are scratching their heads heading for sanitizers. The don’t cares for lack of a better word were the first to self-isolate. Everyone is scared of death, of pain and of hurt of losing a loved one. The cases and news of victims on the ground are disturbing.

The parade of coffins sends a panicky chill. The wheezing patients that can’t breathe as swiftly as they would love, makes you appreciate the easy in and out air through your nostrils that you still can partake without constrictions. But everything is at a standstill. There’s the nervousness of staying at home on pay cuts or worse still without salaries. There’s the fear of job security. There’s more fear in going to work which makes you more susceptible to carrying the virus and catching it. Every sector is bleeding. I feel the public transport sector which is now getting half their pay with the unceasing high fuel costs. More so I feel those who have to go to work cause that means a hike in fares thus digging deeper in their pockets. I myself not spared. 😦

I feel small businesses and entrepreneurs like thrift sellers, bodabodas, mjengo, and Juakali people. I feel those who don’t have enough to buy food in bulk and store for darker days. (Hopefully, there won’t be.) I feel for street families and children whom the word sanitizer does not exist. I fear for the old people in towns and more so in rural areas who stay by themselves. How do you sanitize hard calloused hands that are always holding jembes in shambas, feeding, and milking cows? (Absurd.) I feel the fear they have for their children. Constantly praying for their children in the cities not minding their own deaths. How deep and wide is the love of a parent? I feel the constant fear of a mother worried whether or not to permit her stubborn help to go out on Sunday.  I feel for all international jobs and basically, all economies that are now at a halt because of canceled flights.

I feel the overwhelmed medics and caregivers. I’ve watched greys anatomy show and remembering how they break down in sobs and sniffles by the death of their sweet patients that they connected with brings reality home. [Remember Izzy and the chest complicated guy she stole a heart for?!] Gutwrenching!

But one thing that calms me is forgetting for a second all this dark side with its shivers and turning my gaze on God’s love. Every time I’m hit by anxiety I remember to constantly turn my gaze on the face of Jesus. Slowing my breath for a second. Imagining in my mind His merciful eyes back at me. Seeing that He sees it all, that He is spiritually hugging me through his word. For His word is life itself,  and being calmed by the thought that He’s still on the thrown. And letting Him run His course till he says enough. All awhile trusting, feeding and meditating on His goodness. For He himself is love.  And His will for me and the whole world is love and mercy. Thats His second name.

Doing this and asking Him to bring a powerful good out of all the bad while remembering the most affected, loosens the grip of fear.

Let’s meditate today on what he has been doing in all of our life. How has he shown himself to you? Like literally… Dwell on that. And if you thought it was not God but just sheer luck, maybe try see in a different angle that it wasn’t in your natural powers but higher powers. And let your heart shift and soften to this higher Godly power that has been holding you afloat.  It’s ok to feel fear and worry but also lean on the eventuality that He will turn mourning to dancing and graves to gardens. For he is the God of the mountains and valleys. And we shouldn’t just embrace him when things are good.

Also remember if you see and act on fear, you will face and act on fear. If you see and act on doubt or anxiety, you will face and act with doubt and anxiety. And what good comes out of that? Better see and act in faith you will be able to face it with Faith. May God keep you and be gracious to you and your entire family. And your children. And a thousand generations to come as Elevation worship sings.

Your’s Mkundwa.

Cheer On Wakundwa’s (Loves)

Wakundwa meansloves’ in my native language. Like you can call someone -my love. So, dear wakundwas, I want to share something with you that has been somewhat a hill to climb. A wheel that takes a whole load of energy to turn. Ever been on a hike and you find yourself going back before reaching the summit cause all of a sudden you are done! Not because you can’t but because you don’t want to push yourself. Yes, that’s Procrastination for me. One way or another we are all suckers for procrastination.

Most of us never lack an excuse behind not doing a task that we had set. Especially if the results are long term. And we end up not taking the necessary steps towards a goal on the grounds that most times there is no immediate/measurable repercussion. Our couches become too comfortable. Or it’s too much a hustle, there are too many people involved.  And then a year later, we check what we have really accomplished and we cannot fill a basket. We had the vision but somehow we ended up getting stuck. And that becomes the varying threshold between a dreamer and a doer.

I’ve found myself too many times in this pit. And yet amidst knowing the regrets, I still choose to sit around my Netflix. And pine over feeling tired – will do it tomorrow etcetera.

With a new decade, I don’t want to sit and curl. I don’t want to only dream. Someone said that dreaming without taking action is like building castles in the air. And knowing that motivation will always come and go, made me realize that Discipline is the endmost objective I should strive to have every single day.  A plan executed imperfectly now is better than a plan executed meticulously never. And what better Faith-based inspiration do we need more than knowing what God said; “Whoever loves pleasure will become poor. Whoever loves wine and olive oil will never be rich” (Proverbs 21:17). As I give you what has been helping me, remember to pray for wisdom before engaging in a task. Let God order your steps.

These are the few guidelines I try to incorporate prior to taking a task;

  1. Choose a goal/thing/item you want to do or are supposed to do and start now. This very day.
  2. Never look at it like this huge rock science project to accomplish at the end rather break it into small achievable tasks that you can start with even if it means setting aside 5 min for that specific task every day as you progress to an hour-long run. Ecc 11:4 says whoever watches the wind will not plant. And whoever looks at the clouds will not reap. So ditch the excuses already or you won’t know what works and what doesn’t.
  3. Get rid of all distractions during this particular time just like you would when being monitored by a supervisor. Keep your phone silent and switch off your notification bar.
  4. Take breaks after the time you have set has elapsed. Human brains are easily conned with incentives. So don’t shy from making it fun. Making it your ville. Get that treat/ favorite goodie/guilt pleasure 🙂
  5. Another proper grinding rule you can apply is having an accountability partner/friend at specific times or days. You can make it even more fun by betting the project away, for example, buying lunch to your co-worker if the task/project is not accomplished as per the set time. Remember, the key here is discipline and not motivation. With time, your muscle will be strong on its own.
  6. Always be easy on yourself. It’s ok if you don’t get to achieve your goal as you had intended. Forgive yourself like you would want to be forgiven. Just try harder next time.

With the steps above, it’s unlikely to be ungrateful at the end of a long year. You will look back and see a year full of blessings still overflowing your cup. Bear in mind to keep your sanity whilst getting rid of distractions. Put on a power song that gives you power. We all have a muse that cheers us on.

With that, I leave you to it. I’m probably headed for a treat since it’s been a long time coming to get back on my writing. And I’m happy to see the steps are paying off. Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time, we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. 

Leave a comment below on what book that last bible verse comes from 🙂

The Vintner’s Charm (Cont; Art of Wining)

 

My eyes went to his broad shoulders as I imagined my tiny frame being enveloped in his. He was tall and dark. My kind of guy. (Perhaps he was huge) I suddenly Imagined the kind of kids we would have. The color of them.

Would they be tall?

Or have an aura of sarcasm?

Self-confident when they were grown just like him?

Or would they be like me?

The melancholic patient side of me

What about our tongues? Would they wag in passion fire? And would he want me always?

Not that he had said it, but his eyes and the twitch of his lips gave him away.

 

In my ‘lost in thought state of euphoria, yet kind of bizarre dilemma I was seeing myself into,’ I did not notice his long legs walk beside me. I almost choked on my champagne after realizing he was staring right into my eyes. His moss brown pupils elated. Like they knew exactly what I was thinking. He gave me a napkin and kept staring as I mumbled my apologies.

I was totally making a fool of myself so I had to get my grip back…though the champagne was not making the situation any easier.

I stood up and thanked him for his time. Only to realize I was wobbly. He grabbed my arm. I jerked it back in defense (to insinuate I had myself in control ) and asked if he could give me a short tour around. He almost curtsied with a gloat and led me away. (Bragger much!)

The bright sunlight stung my eyes but quickly settled on the verse green plantation of berries. It suddenly became peaceful and settled. Maybe not on the Vintner but on my own thoughts…
Shortly after, we made a turn that led us to a massive backyard to an active wine cellar into another building. All this time, he could not shut up. I don’t know if by now I was keeping up or I was holding my own meeting.

 

We ended up into another sort of a bar. A classic type of a bar with mirrors that spoke to me. He seemed to own virtually everything. His confidence, his cologne, his sheepish smile, his winery, all seemed to get me. And I wanted him more. More of his ideas, more his stare.

It made me feeble with desire. I wanted that, that which seemed toxic and wrong in all manners. But not just yet.

The chase was good. It felt good. It gave me a kind of warmness. A tingling indescribable. And so we perched selves on one of those stools.

The ones called

‘Sina tabu’

our tête-à-têtes continued

This time the shyness had up and left, cos of the wine I guess. And just from the blue, he spat those words out. The ones he had spoken with his eyes from the onset.

But who was this guy?.

 

The way he blurted out those very inmost deep words had me riddled and at the same time sent a queer shudder through my pulse. I was in awe of how boldly and easily they flew out.

He was too brash…It was annoying and sexy at the same time. I wanted ‘it’ to stick on the annoying lane. Who did he think he was? To woe people around the way he pleased… And so I made a conscious decision not to fall off his ‘wagon’. Though I knew he was coming too fast. Too near!

“Can we go back to wine art, Sir Alec? ” I gave one of my fake irate smiles as I signaled the waiter.

Seeing I was not giving in, he literally extracted everything about wine that he was yet to unleash. Admittedly his mind was sultry.  I thought I had safely navigated his prying eyes but I was inwardly caving in being a sapiosexual. (If you know what I mean). He knew so much I labeled him ‘smart-alec arse’

I heard harvesting and crushing,  fermenting and bottling with, in between hard words I was yet to decode. All awhile he remained focussed, wiggling, elaborating with his gigantic hands. His lips twitching, whilst consuming me with his eyes whenever he stole a chance.

But I was also Ms smarty pants.

I questioned about the blends, the history of his winery, how to tell if a wine was corked or bad, how to store wines, etc era… I was actually enjoying this. Finally. My cork of wit had unscrewed and I didn’t let any areas of my body (or moist thereof) take control. I was in control. Only before he touched me…

**

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortably hot.  His gaze was perforating. This time without a flinch. My mind and heart were now picking up. They were starting to lurch. In an attempt to cool off the atmosphere, I wriggled my knee out.

He was taking the bull by the horns. I was becoming his prey. No no no. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was supposed to be the stoic one in regards to emotions. Not the other way round. I wasn’t to be they coy type he thought I was.

And so to prove it, I looked him up in the eye, stood up to match his height and as if to make my way out, I turned back within seconds, held up his face between my palms and bore my lips on his. I wagged my tongue in with fiery passion. His goldilocks lips received mine with equal devotion. It was exploding. They pressed like daisies and molded like clay. Only when I felt his grip tightening my back, did I leap out and leave without looking back.

His secret lay with me. Mr. Alec the Vintner… Who was the acidic one now?

The Art of Wining.

 

He owned a winery. And he described his so-called ‘Vintner self’ with sheer boldness. He was overbearing. A little too much. His voice was loud, virtually sarcastic, his posture like he owned the world. He took up the whole room, and his manly woody scent swept through your nose whenever he brushed near. His confidence could be labeled, it beamed with power and I found myself almost intrigued, almost impressed with how he took charge. And though I rolled my eyes several times as I watched him, I found myself being more attentive.

 

I didn’t consider it a date but a class about wines. He taught me the basics which I had no idea of or never really followed through when it came to handling wine. For me, wine was something simple; for relaxation and winding down, while to him, wining was celebratory. Monumental. To be taken with pride. To mark something as simple as accomplishing a goal at the end of a long day, to decoying someone to your appeasement. Wine was a symbol of ‘class’.
“There’s a way you hold the stem without holding the upper part of the glass .” He went on, “If you do so, the warmth of your hands ruins the taste of the wine. The next step is to go ahead and swirl the wine to aerate it. Put it to your nose and sniff. Is it fruity, spicy or floral? Depending on the wine, it could be acidic, crisp, complex or precise upon tasting. It all depends on your preference. I happen to have them around for your tasting.” He smugged. My face grimaced.

 
I didn’t expect that my simple innocent touch of the glass would interfere with the tartness of the wine. It had never crossed my mind. This was turning out to be interestingly fun. I bet by the time I got home I would be all squiffy and sold to this vintner’s charm.

 
“Keep in mind the legs of the wine. For you to see these, you got to tip the glass. These are also known as the streaks. And the heavier the streaks or legs of wine, the higher the alcohol content. Do not lose sight of the fact that the marriage between wine and its wine glass is of utmost importance.” ( coming to a sudden stop of hovering the room by assuming a delicate power stance I was yet to see.) “Do not mix a Chardonnay glass, with a Bordeaux glass, or Rose for Burgundy. The taste tilts in a matter of seconds.”
Being from the hood, I was yet to hear some of these heavy, hard worded names. But I guess it came with ‘Class’ and the more you got out of your circle the more you became bolder and refined.

 

The class-date was coming to an end. I settled for some swishes of Cristal Champagne while I contemplated my life decisions about this handsome vintner with his art of wining.

 

 

Necessary-Unnecessary Clouds.

**Phone ringing**

“Hey, little nugget… How are you? Been sometime”

“Hi, Shay. I’m fine… Well, not so fine…But forging on. How are you?”

“I’m good, Up and down. But good. Talk to me…”

“Well, nothing much. Just had a long day. Waiting eternity for my uber to arrive. Trying to make circles meet at work. Bumping and grunting with my socials. My cat pooping under my bed only to discover it hours after searching whilst the intoxicating smell almost bursting my lungs. Now it’s acting sourpuss after lashing out at it. Feels like everyone is trying to cross me. I mean, it can’t just be me. Can it?”

“I hear you little nugget. You know it’s not you. Life sometimes is just shitty”

(Silence…)

(Something intangible hangs in the air…)

“What are you doing now?”

“Just gazing at my ceiling on my nook, awfully drained and void. Cold and washed up by emptiness…”

“Well, why don’t you grab a glass of wine and sip. Or get outside for the sunset. It’s beautiful this evening…better yet, call that same cat of your’s and get a cuddle. Breath in from 5 backward slowly taking long pauses. Let it go. Life is like water. Don’t hold it. Let it flow. Same are people and basically your socials. Let go”

*Almost misty eyed*

“Thank you, Shay. For listening.”

“Thank you little nugget. Be well. Remember, I’m just a call away…”

This was a conversation that went on my head the other day that resulted from feeling all knackered. Occasionally, I do wish I had a catfish sort of a friend. Without any motives on either ends.  Something just casual but meaningful. Being there for one another or rather for myself like those therapeutic guys whom you just call when life decides to give you a meltdown. I wish I had this person somewhere lingering in my circle. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate my dear friends. So much and I wouldn’t trade them for anything, but I would love to have that person whom I wouldn’t have to explain why I’m feeling so and so. Someone who would just listen without the need of me trying to measure up or feeling guilty or infantile or feeling as if I’m interrupting their busy lives. Someone who won’t literally give me contemporary solutions. At times I know the solution I just want to wallow for some time without the need to jump and fix things immediately.

Earlier that week, my heart was heavy and sad. And this cloud could not wipe out from me. I tried looking up for positives messages online but nothing changed. I read the bible, it still lingered. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. How do you cry in the office without the ability to give a reason why? They say it’s not power if a woman cries in a professional setting. (So many standards for women). So that was not an option. FYI, it’s different if a man cries. The world is more sympathetic if they show their emotional side and are sort of applauded for showing their emotional strength and openness. Their human side. (Wow! Double standards right!) Why can’t we all be accepted equally? Yes, I would like for them to open up emotionally but that should not regard me as a woman when I become emotional. A reminder that it’s also not hormonal either!

I tried opening up to a dear one but I didn’t have the strength to start explaining it all. I didn’t even know how because I could not point it out. These little chunks and shreds from different areas of my life formed a thick mass that caught up with me. Some necessary, some unnecessary. It was some sort of a haze. You try to shake it but it doesn’t come off. Like a hard stain. Vinegar and other detergents all become useless. I wondered if there was some weird comfort in the miasma of this dark cloud? They say misery loves company. So my last card had to be played.

 

Music!

 

Music is life. And life is music. It’s always been my decampment when I have such meltdowns. Depending with the moods, I can juice my system with club boombastic jingles or sometimes my heart just yearns for Hillsong vocals that picturize my singing with the angels in heaven.

From old school Rhumba to Lingala music, I never discriminate. I became familiar with this genre at a young age. My parents had Pepe Kalle, Madilu systems, Franco, Yondo sister, Aurlus Mabelle, Samba Mapangala and all the other old school musicians’ cassettes.  I remember vividly dancing to Yondo sister ‘Mbuta mutu, mwana ya maman (Eh papa) song, and for that (70/80s) generation, it’s always been baffling to see her swift and vivacious dance moves. She, dancing like a lunatic and feeling her music to the bone makes you yield to her snares. You can’t just sit when her songs play. They push and drive you wild. Whatever the dance floor, picking a ballroom is not an option.

African music made a statement. You heard a song from those decades and even without fully understanding the meaning you were sold. It left you embracing your Africanism because it was raw, original and organic. Sure, the new generation songs are still great, but there was something deeper and sheer from the old songs. Matchatcha by Diblo Dibala blurrly reminds me of my homeland Mgange Nyika, it’s corners and it’s hills. That song is electrifying and metallic at the same time. The guitarist kills it. It drives you bonkers. And to think girls in that era were just as crazy to dance so alluringly and open (nothing Konshens naughty) you wonder why our ancient African women were viewed as reserved and frigid as compared to the modern African lady.

Fatimata (shared on my FB recently) isn’t left behind by the art of flawlessness. Melodious and tuneful, Sam Mangwana plays it effortlessly and calmingly with a silky sweep. Awilo’s coupe bibamba, Kofi’s songs (This guy’s deep bass… Yoh!) Assinata by Beniko, Mbilia Bel and everyone I’ve not mentioned… All epitome of instrumental elegance incorporated with rhythms and rhymes to drift you to this imaginable world of excitement, smiles and nothing less. This is what I plunge myself into to shake off those dark clouds.

The slow soft Bob Marley’s redemption song doesn’t just sneak up to your soul, it speaks to every fiber of your humanity. It speaks of breaking the chains that have bound our minds. Whatever that may be for you. You tend to get pushed to break free.  If you’ve heard Skylarking by Red Fox ft Screechy Dan you would find the value of ghetto radio in the evening while heading home. Your head will nod automatically as it synchronizes to the tempo. Lucky Dube’s slave and prisoner are rich and lilting as the trumpets and cornets tantalize your ears.  I can go on and on but music has it for me. I might be deeply sunk in a book, then a song hits and I can’t concentrate till it’s over.

Sometimes it’s not even about the meaning of the words in a song but the beat. Let’s face it, no one can sing a slow worship song like ‘In control’ by Hillsong at the gym. And no one can sing ‘Boasty’ by Idriss in a shrine, church or temple. This also means that the visual effects of a song can make it more meaningful depending on the depth of the artist. It can be palpable, almost real or it can be incomprehensible and just ‘meh’ for the less creative artists. I say let the music take control when it’s needful. It’s therapeutic.

My best songs/musicians that are legends are but not limited to; Ti, Eminem, Dorobucci, Amarula, Rara, Major Lazer, Chris Daughtry, Avicii (RIP), Rudeboy, Ed Sheeran!, Highway don’t care by Tim McGraw, I believe-Jonathan Nelson, MOG! Lauren Daigle, Sinachi,  Khalid, Kygo, Pink!, Maluma the cute boy (insert tongue emoji) J.lo, Selena Gomez, Sia! LadyGaga!! Toni, Charleyyy meaning Charley Black and many more. The list is endless, but I won’t leave behind New position by those Kenyan young’uns. That song banging in the speakers makes you wanna twerk on the aisle of Umoinner as it maneuvers through Jericho. (hide face emoji)

After my research, I’ve come to the conclusion that music is that invisible friend that I can reach out to after everything else prooves slow and nonresponsive in shifting my moods. Oh, little yoga tip; If you want to squeeze and embrace yourself while listening to that song that speaks to your soul, just lie flat on your back, bring your knees to your chest and hold yourself tightly. Fall over to your right side and let your right hand be your pillow. Then wonder with it believing the best for your life. Feels so much better for that meltdown.

Namaste!

Death Race

 

“I stop here,” he said.

He was pleased to have been driven late at night by a female Uber driver. They had not talked much during the trip, but enough for him to know she was a tough woman. Brave enough to drive an Uber at night. “I stop here,” he said again, louder.

But she zoomed past his gate, seemingly not hearing him, her face contorted in what seemed like anger…

“Ma’am, can you please stop the vehicle?! I have to alight here.”

She looked at him, peeved from the rearview mirror. Her forehead creased. Like she had something against him. She didn’t utter any word, rather gave him another cat eye look and put her foot on the gas pedal!

Owiti was now agitated. The hell was going on? He was already late from his rounds of liquor with his boys. He had promised the missus to be at home 2 hours ago. It was now way past midnight. Just like everybody else, he liked his good time, but he was a man of boundaries who took naggins of whiskey from time to time. His wife, on the other hand, was the most catastrophic wife on earth.  Sometimes he didn’t have a fog of how her mind worked. The most innocent pure explanation would take a mountain to be understood. It was amazing how patient and understanding he was. But most guys would never give another thought of his wife’s melodramatic charade.

His voice menacing, he grabbed the front seat vivaciously ready to stir up a commotion. Though a bit wavering, he still managed to speak between clenched teeth.

“Ma’am, can you fucking stop the car!”

Sardonically, she enunciated back,

“calm down pretty boy. Isn’t this exciting? I’m taking you home right away”

For a minute, she smiled. Looked and sounded friendly. Almost unreadable of true intentions but considerably easier to talk now. But before he completely got it, before he thought of relaxing and warming up to her, she took it away with a smug. She became a paradox within seconds!

The car veered right towards the hill, and he knew his house was now out of sight. He grabbed his phone to call the missus, but she wouldn’t answer. He called again, but it went right to voicemail. He knew he was screwed. Her mother’s face and father’s temper placated her heavy sarcasm to a different level. But he would deal with her later. Right now he needed to get out of this damn psycho, lady driver’s car. As he tried calling one of his buddies, the car halted to a screech and threw off his phone.

He tried reaching for it but his stupor hazy self kicked him off balance and fell head first… The lady had driven off without prior notice by taking a sharp turn and throwing him off. Minutes after recuperating, his anger flared up like a current. His vigor interlaced with testosterone and adrenaline filled him and the rasp air inside the car. He was ready to cause havoc, grip and bundle up the lady in some sort while controlling the car and thereafter throw her out since simple reasoning was not making sense to her. Hopefully, they wouldn’t end up in a ditch. It was a risky calculation.

Just as he was about to jerk himself towards the front seat, loud multiple shots fired up right next to him. Next to their car. Completely out of nowhere! He ducked down towards the gear level with a yelp, his hands covering his head. The lady gassed up trying to outrun the other vehicle whilst shouting to Owiti, “move and lie down! lie down!” Within a second, she had grabbed the gear and fired up the ignition which had gone down. The flashy Volvo xc60 had caught up with their not so new Nissan note and bumped on them. A teasing bump. Ready for war. The lady driver was quick to recover and off again she picked up. Upon assessing the range between them, she instructed Owiti to open the glove compartment and get out her gun. Owiti cursed under his breath but obliged and took it out his hands feeling like putty. His stupor had now faded.

“Careful Owiti!” She shouted through her open window. “Now you gonna show me that masculinity you showed me minutes ago and do as I instruct.”

“Listen, you can’t afford to make any mistakes or you are dead” She went on. ” You’ve got 2 seconds to crouch to the passenger, open your window and shoot back.”

Owiti was confused. He had a good rank economically but he had never come into contact with a gun. He just saw them in movies but never had an interest in possessing one. And who was this woman who knew him? Was she saving him or taking him to the den? He knew he had to do it considering the hard brazen drilling look she gave him.

The Volvo came to their side and brushed against them igniting sparks. She outwitted the guy and took the furthest lane. It was now a frenzy. Before he could change lanes to follow them, she had darted miles away…

“Check out your target, grip the handgun, use your dominant eye and align the sights.” Came the first instruction.

“Keep the trigger finger off the trigger till you are sure of the target.” She hurled again. Owiti did that shaking. But didn’t want to show it. Scared to death and crippling with fear from the inside, he screamed at her to stop swaying the vehicle.

“I have to sway or else you get shot.” She retorted back

As the Volvo built upon them, she told Owiti to get ready. They were fast approaching behind them and getting closer.

“On 1,2…

Boom!!! A loud bang shattered the Volvos windscreen. Owiti was already on mode!

The car swerved right and left. Taking advantage of the circus, he pulled the trigger again. Not once but twice. On seeing splattered blood he froze. Gaped back at her driver. He had probably killed him.

Within seconds he gave a wounded grunt. “Shit!” Owiti was suddenly bleeding from the shoulder.

Looking at him, the woman cursed and darted the other psycho. She hurriedly grabbed the gun and shot the parallel head to head driver who was trying to finish them. Lights flashing, and wind roaring from the top-notch speed, she gave him a derisive disgusting look and pulled her last bullet.

The Volvo went ramming off the road and finished him off.

Silence ensued while Owiti tried to make sense of everything. It was all almost elusive. How did he find himself in such a death race? He started feeling dizzy and he knew his strength was ebbing away. He took out his shirt and tied his arm not saying anything. The lady took a turn, reported something from her phone and dashed Owiti to the hospital.

It was almost 4.00 am in the morning. His wife had died with worry.  He finally took up his phone to text her when he saw her million missed calls. Picking on the first ring she rushed to the hospital they were heading and he knew the long coercion would not be necessary.

“Hi, I’m Savannah. A secret agent from Kena County serving you. It was reported to us some malicious men were against your firm. We tracked you down to save you from the lunatic. Some are under arrest and are ongoing investigations. Please be cautious till we are sure you are clear”

Owiti was left stupefied. He needed a minute to rest before he could take it all in…

 

 

 

 

 

Maze Of Lies

She puts on her helmet and pushes the bike out of the little storage area. Her sling bag with her tablet and notebook bumps against her hip as she walks the bike out of her SQ’s compound, past the main house, onto the road outside. She mounts the bike and rides towards and out of the estate’s main gate. The watchman waves at her with a smile on his face. The road outside has very little traffic, as is usual on Sunday mornings. She turns left and gets into a steady pace towards the park four kilometers away.

A white Nissan March passes her slowly and comes to a stop a few meters ahead of her. Probably an Uber dropping a passenger, she thinks. But why on the road? Might it be robbers waylaying her? The car is stopped in her path, so she has to swerve into the road to pass. She does a quick shoulder check and begins to swerve, and braces herself to pedal hard, just in case…

Her anxiety heightens when she sees the passenger window begin to roll down… Her feet increase their pressure on the pedals. Her hands grip the handlebars harder. A sweat breaks out in her armpit. As she passes the car, she glimpses into the window just long enough to see a woman with a large red wig. She swiftly flies past the car…

“Angie!” Someone screams her name. She looks over her shoulder, startled. The red-wigged head is hanging out of the car, a hand waving furiously. “Angie! Is that you?”

She contemplates whether to press on to her brakes or follow her instincts and dash as her bike is now gliding away. A million questions are streaming through her mind. “How does she know my name?” “Who is she?” “And why would the driver stop in the middle of any incoming bike?” It’s utterly moronic!

The redhead calls her again. And this time the voice sounds desperate. On second thought, she decides to stop. A few meters away. Over her shoulder, she can see that her head is outside the window. Her face pleading for her to turn back. She tries to recollect if she had seen her somewhere. But nothing comes beckoning. Her heart thudding, she decides to reverse back.  Cautiously slowly. The car is now at a standstill… She can’t figure out the other passengers. A few yards almost catching up with the white car, she shouts, “Hey! How can I help you? Do I know you?” The redhead answers back; Angie my daughter, is that you? I need your help.

“Who are you? I can’t seem to recall you.”

Before she could manage to answer her, the redhead rummages her with questions she almost sounds frantic…

……

The tables are a bit dusty. The din of traffic outside wafts incessantly into the restaurant. A TV on one wall is on. Football. Early afternoon repeat of yesterday’s game. Few are watching. The bamboo plant at the doorway sways a bit in the wind blowing in. The hanging light bulbs swing to and fro. A waitress scurries by, giving a signal that she will be back in a moment.

“Sorry for startling you like that, Angie. But thanks for agreeing to come here with me to talk.”

Angie stares blankly at the woman seated across the table. She seems to be in her early fifties. Lot’s of makeup. The red wig is totally out of place. Her fingernails are long and turquoise. Her pink cardigan hangs on her frail shoulders like a curtain. She is thin. Her cheeks sunken. Her cracking lips twitch as she forces out her next sentence…

“Angie, my daughter…”

“I’m not your daughter!” Angie is getting angry now. She eyes her bicycle leaning against one wall. She wants to grab it and flee. “You have two minutes, then I walk away!”

The woman is hurt. Her eyes betray the bleeding in her soul. She looks away for a moment, lowers her head, and then, as if finally gathering all her resolve, looks back at her, straight into her eyes…

“Angie… I have cancer…”

……

A minute passes before she catches on with the redhead… Her attention had briefly wondered off reminiscing the game she had seen last night. Lukaku had sent chills of disbelief, cheer, and excitement to all Manchester fans. It was implausible! It was almost debilitating to the knees. They had come from far and things were turning around for them.

A smile almost creases her puffy lips. She just remembers the song everyone was dancing to ‘Tumeuona baba, mkonowako bwana, matendoyako bwana nimakuumno, umetutoambali, umetushikamkono, Mungu chinihatajuu, watu unawainua… before she hears the word cancer. And she abruptly jolts her attention back.

Her anger sweeps right up on her spine again. “Why did she even agree coming with her?”

“What did you just say?”

……

The redhead is now almost sobbing seeing she doesn’t have anyone who cares for her. She remembers raising Angie.

‘How she came screaming after a bunch of kids bullied and kicked her butt from school. How Angie at the time looked at her with utmost loving eyes while she chased them away with a whip. How she taught her confidence to fight back because her parents were just fucktards. For they never gave her the time she needed as a child.

Angie’s dad was always away making money and whoring his over active loins while the mother was busy calling herself a Christian woman but sold and took drugs to curb her depression. At the time she wondered why she didn’t get out of the marriage but later came to know there was a lot of money involved. And the lousy husband wouldn’t give her a dime for them to survive if she left with her two kids. She was a homestay mom who paraded herself with church meetings and on late evenings did her dern deals.’

The redhead calms herself down…

……

Angie cannot fathom it all. She has a cascade of effects towards the woman she is staring at. A cloudy daze fogs her mind.

Her eyes almost bulging out, nothing comes out of her mouth. The annoying buzz from the flies on her face do not bother her this time. Her bike becomes a far away object. She can now join all the dots…

When she was at the age of eleven, people always stared at her with her younger brother. She minded her own business, but it always distraughted her.  She remembered her mama’s beautiful flary face. Her lazy eyes and her mellow almost soothing voice. She was the kindest honeyed person in the world. And trying to put into perspective what she heard from the redhead could not make sense.

You could say most of her childhood was without her parents, but she never felt she was alone or lacked them thereof. At least not her mother. Her dad always brought gifts when he came home but he was a man of few words. There then help, was always the joyous one. Her tittle tatter filled any void that might have existed without their knowledge. She sang on her loudest shrill while she was washing. You could describe her laugh as the most roaring that swung her plump curvaceous body. And to think this was the same person was the most insane thing she could imagine.

All this time, she blamed the wrong person. But at the same time, she wondered if the redhead was making it all up. But even if she did, she had most of the facts. Was it a scam? And why did she think she behooved her support now. All this while… like she awed her. She had the guts!

……

 

He had found some stash on the cupboard one day and had a jab. This escalated quickly to becoming a habit. But he was always good at hiding like her mother. Matter of fact, he was always gone thinking about it, so no one could possibly guess he was under the influence.  

Then one day he came home buzzed up and had a confrontation with her mother. It blew up, and there was shouting. The redhead sprinted towards the bedroom, screaming. She tried to pull him apart. But he plunged her back forcefully. He demanded for it. He shook and spat while he ruffled but her mother denied it while she sobbed uncontrollably. The redhead dashed out to seek for help. And before knowing, a bang chilled her to the bone from outside. All had gone sour. Angie came home to an aftermath of gloom, tears, and confusion. 

Her brother had shot her mother. And all this time Angie thought it was his father.

The lump on her throat paves way and Angie sobs quietly trying to wipe her snot with the back of her hand. Her eyes glassy with tears, she tries to grasp all the redhead has told her. But it seems like a nightmare. All the redhead pleads is for Angie to get in touch with her father to help her with her cancer treatment.

She wants answers. In fact, she demands answers. 

‘The person she thought was the most angelic all her life turned out to be the most evil barbaric foul she ever came across!’

She wonders off again. ‘What beings are her family? What twist of a maze is this?”

‘And where is his father ?’

 

>>END

 

A Breeze of Danger

bajaj-dominar-400-front_profileI was fidgeting. My heart throbbing. This was a joke. The day had approached. And here I was waiting. How did I even find myself wanting to go such miles for such adventures? This was insane! It wasn’t me.  Having a gentle spirit made the idea completely absurd. I’ve never been a hyped or crazy person for that matter.  And this made me have major panic attacks. The slightest reason not to indulge at this kind of life would have made me cancel. And I was almost canceling when it took longer than expected due to unavoidable mishaps and delays.

But there was this nudge. A gentle prod. And It was pushing me to do something different. Something scary. The idea had been brooding for a long time now. And this bad boy had caught up with my pubescent heart. Well, scratch pubescent and put youthful. So I went with it. By 2pm we had checked out with a bang. I had full gear on. And it was a fantastic scene.

Being on a fancy bike is one thing. It comes with an aura of sultriness. Everyone stares at you with admiration. With eyes of ‘damn, I wish I could get a ride’. It’s definitely a ‘Hot’ situation… So we crash at Dj Styles wedding and my do I feel sucked into this situation. Of course, it’s invites only, but hey, I was among the bike fraternity on this particular day. I decide to seize the moment and do what the Romans do. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious or for that matter wondrous, was an understatement. There were about fifty humongous bikes chilling right at the entrance of the church. Most of the groomsmen were these bikers and once they got to their bikes to lead the motorcade, my heart almost dropped with a squawk almost forgetting my manners. I was in a daze! Almost proposed to one of them.  That small village girl that was deeply buried by my Nairobi class reverie almost resurfaced.

How could there be so many smoking hot dudes and ladies all around me? Ok, maybe the bikes made them very good looking but I had to take a second to ruminate in what was happening right in front of me!

Most of us see these bikes on the road and our hearts flutter. So being in one made me almost feel like I had made it. The cameramen made this feeling explode. Every motorist was staring cause we had to put them at a standstill for our passage. My co-biker was well-known and had raced occasional times and his constant chatter with the other bikers made it harder for me to decipher what they were saying. They had their own jargon. But this couldn’t stop me from taking it in.

Once we were done with the reception area, we left the other bikers and embarked on our journey. This was the scariest part! My! Heading out to Thika as our first stop made me contemplate my life decisions. See, for you to enjoy the ride you have to go at a nimble superfast speed. And being a highway there’s no way you are going at a speed of 100Km/h like a normal vehicle. You have to top that. A bike of 400Cc has a pretty decent power. We were at 180 Km/h. My head was buzzing inside my helmet due to the wind and I had to hold on tightly. I could flash my life in front of me in case something happened. I could see very horrible things happening but then I would jolt myself out of it to enjoy the ride.

In minutes we were at Murang’a Kenol and we turned back to venture into the Abadare Range all the way to Njabini then making our way back through Nakuru highway back to Waiyaki way. All this was about 400Km at a top-notch speed, stopping to catch a breath or slowing down at potholes. Outside Nairobi, the air is as always crisp, cold and raw fresh but the safety gear made it bearable. The back high seat popped me higher than average vehicles and this made the scene more sensational.

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Kids melted my heart when they would stop at what they were doing and wave at us. It almost felt like a celebrity or a queen. Passer-bys shouting back and other nduthians hooting as a sign of taking a bow. At least thats how I took it.

All this was an intoxicating breeze of danger cooled by a block of sudden ice that melted my heart. It was a charge, a thrill! And I loved every bit of it. I compared it to the hike I did last year to Elephant hill that was agonizing and outstanding to achieve at the same time and reaching the summit was euphoric! I’m a by the book kind of girl but these two activities I did, fall to the category that makes you reach for your partner after accomplishing them, rip off their shirt with all the sweat, shove them to the wall and lose yourself to a wave of rippling desire of explosive love scene. A battle of resisting and submitting, until the promise is untangled.

But since I’m a good girl, I’m out!