Forward Backward

I tend to write about stuff that happened in the past.  Yeah, sometimes the past does look good in retrospect. And sometimes I just want to block it out. Probably why I miss out on some lessons. Like not knowing that December weddings are coming up so I should avoid family reunions if  I do not want to find myself wearing baby blue and fuschia. Or magenta with angel gold. I know ???? (Here is proof.)

So I went out for drinks with a friend, and met her friend, who reminds me of an old friend that I do not talk to anymore. It’s not because we fell out or anything. We both just got caught up in our lives, I moved to a new town, uh, I mean the big city. He is a dad and worked his way up the hospitality industry. I actually made a career as a writer and editor.

Peanut

The last few days have been extremely tough for me. I lost a friend. A writer, a brother, someone who constantly reminded me, since I first met him, that nothing is as important as being true to yourself, and being good to those you love. His death came as a massive shock for me. Boniface Gachugu was strong, even when the illness kicked him hard, and tossed him out to sea. He fought back, and swam back time after time, never losing the smile on his face. He was not afraid of the dark dark days, instead he lit them up with laughter and optimism.

I had a hard time with that. Pain, physical, emotional, mental has wracked my life. And there have been times when I have forgotten to smile, and to laugh, and to love, to live life like it should be lived, fully, no matter what. I push my friends away. I try to forget some, because it hurts less if I lose them, or they reject me.

Last week just brought it all up, onto the table, right in front of me, glaring hard at me. There is no excuse for shutting out friends who have been good and true to you, not even if it might hurt like nothing before when you lose them. That is what Boniface taught me. The character of a man, woman, is his/her integrity, to principles, to faith, to  family (born or chosen), to the life that each one of us lives.

So I made a call. To an old friend, his boy will be 6 shortly. And I wrote email. To my cousin, she seems to be doing fine in San Jose. And then I listened to my mom and brother while we ate dinner together.

I suppose it can never be easy to learn some of life’s lessons. It takes courage, and I think I will try and gether my courage up. I will call you, because I do love you, because you matter to me, because your friendship means a lot to me.

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com

Kenyaimagine Updates – Wycliff’s Story

Like so many others who were never given a chance in life, Wycliff’s story is just one of many of poverty-ridden Kenyans. Attaching no value in their lives, we see them as one: these glue-sniffing, dirt-ridden street children. I hate what my country has done to Wycliff and thousands of others just like him. I hate what poverty has done to all of us. The sound and sight of a street urchin as sit in the comfort of our cars is just as much a part of the decrepit social landscape as is the blaring chaos of insomniac matatu drivers and goats chewing away on plastic trash. Read Dipesh Pabari’s purposeful ramble about a boy who touched his parent’s lives here.

Also on kenyaimagine.com:

• Pray the Devil Back to Hell (Review) by Nekessa Opoti : The rebels fought for resources. Charles Taylor fought to stay in power. Young boys were recruited to fight in a war they barely understood. And the women of Liberia, they fought for survival, theirs and Liberia’s.

 

• Stonewalled: US House rejects war crimes report by Nima Shirazi : With the passing of H.Res.867, two days after what would have been Edward Said’s 74th birthday, Congress made perfectly clear that it not only seeks to deny and suppress the truth, but is itself, in the words of its own resolution, “irredeemably biased and unworthy of further consideration or legitimacy.”

 

• Kenya: Harmonised Draft Constitution 2009 : The Harmonised Draft of the Kenyan Constitution submitted by the Committee of Experts.  For the next thirty days the Kenyan government invites online public consultation which will be considered in the final draft.  Post comments…

 

• Book Review – Oil on the Brain by Robert Rapier : Oil on the Brain by Lisa Margonelli was recommended by Paul Sankey at the 2009 Energy Information Administration Conference as a book that provided great insight into the oil industry. I have had it on my list of books to read, and recently picked it up to read…

 

• Enter the Elephant by Nate Hagens : Our brains can accomplish amazing things when we mesh our analytical abilities with our baser emotions and impulses, but that quite often the ‘elephant’ (our limbic and reptilian cores) unwittingly assert their dominance, and in the process override any rational, reasoned intentions.

 

• Homosexuality and the Myth of Choice by Stephanie Migot : Since the story of Charles Ngengi and Daniel Gichia broke, LGBTQ issues have been pushed to the fore of Kenyan civil discourse. Along with outraged claims that homosexuality is “un-African” and that the two men must have been “corrupted”…

 

• Why Justice Must Be Served by Nekessa Opoti : Two years ago seated in my Minnesota living room I listened in horror (emails and phone calls) to stories about women being raped. The reports on rape first started with the attacks that followed soon after the election results were announced…

 

• Gifts for Mama by Sandra Mushi : Kassim was also the one until a month ago when he decided to leave Ashura for another woman.  He wanted to make sure that Ashura could have children before they got married, he didn’t want to end up with a barren wife.

 

Do you have an opinion or fiction piece that you would like to share with us? Please register on the right hand column of the online magazine at www.kenyaimagine.com, and then submit your work. You can also send in your piece to editor@kenyaimagine.com.

 

Kenyaimagine is on Twitter (http://twitter.com/kenyaimagine) and on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/kenya.imagine1)

Rest, rest, little bird, until we meet again, soon.

It seems to me that November marks the month of the year when I grieve most. Today, I have gone through nearly half the stages of grief, shocked numbness, denial, fear, anger… I am yet to reach acceptance, but as I mourn the loss of a true and dear friend, I am glad for the life and strength that I do have.

And so, I can’t stop the tears, but if I didn’t cry, it would mean I have not lost, and so because I have lost a good man, I must cry for the pain of the empty space he has left.

Still, I cannot forget the reason I loved him so. He made me laugh. And taught me that even when life is an absolute bitch, we can defy her and live life with all our hearts. He taught me to care, from the very bottom of the heart, and to believe in love even when it seemed to elude me.

Even though I feel the sting of death, I know that he is no longer in pain, and better I for the pain that reminds me I am alive, to honor the love, the laughter, and the friendship we shared.

So rest, little bird, for I will see you soon, dear Peanut.

 

 

Sophie’s Log – A Book Review

How do you motivate a young child to voice his or her feelings, hopes, dreams and opinions in written form? How do you help a child grow from tentative expression to creative heights as a fiction writer, a poet, a script writer or even a journalist? How do you get a child to understand that the world is a jewel, just as it is with its troubles, as well as its beauty, to be explored and relished?

I always ask myself these questions just before I start working with a child on creative writing skills. Creative Writing skills are skills for life, useful in any career, useful for any life. Just like Mathematics has the potential to develop a critical thinker, Creative writing has the potency to develop a creative communicator.

But before anyone can become a great creative thinker and writer they must find their own voice and identity.

SOPHIE’S LOG helped me personally explore the place I wanted to go, and the place I wanted the kids I was working with discover.

Sophie’s Log is a compilation of pieces of poetry and prose written by a young English girl, Sophie Large, and compiled into a book after her tragic death in a car accident when she was 19. The pieces compiled stretch across a timeline, from when she was about nine years old until just a few days before she died.

At nine years of age, Sophie was already an avid reader, and wrote several book reviews, as well pieces about music, or things that she liked. She wrote a beautiful poem for her grandmother shortly after her grandfather died, part of which says:

Time, here, is like nothing on earth,

And I am soon with my loved ones…

When she was about 13 years old, she wrote the tale of the Goothrans, which to me felt like a serious rival for the Harry Potter Series, if she had been able to develop it.

The more Sophie writes, the better she becomes, which is a lesson for any young aspiring writer. Write, write, write, soon you shall find your niche. She draws inspiration from observations, from things she experiences, from things she hears. Her trip to Israel bears a two page essay with very deep thoughts for a fourteen year old.

Sophie’s growth, as a person and as a very expressive writer, is evident in letters, to her grandmother, her parents and friends which are also included in Sophie’s Log. As she grows older her life moves from the simple flowers, ponies and legends, to include flowers, ponies, legends, relationships, school, career hopes.

Her interest in Drama and Theatre grew in her teens. Her happiness at this time of her life is reflected in the way she writes:

Kindertransport. First performance. How do I feel? Like any amateur director after the first performance of their first play, with the knowledge that it is only a third over. A bit flat. There is a sob in my throat that won’t go away. It went really well…

At 17 years of age, Sophie ran drama workshops for younger girls at school.

She writes: I am going to be allowed to take the Junior Drama Club after half-term. There are various aspects of theatre I want to get across to these girls. Ensemble theatre is as important as single roles. You cannot have a good production if every actor is fighting for the attention if the audience instead of supporting each other…

At nineteen years of age, despite getting really good A levels Sophie did not get into Oxford though she had spent quite a few months preparing for it. She was quite emotional about it and wrote:

When people ask if I got into Oxford, my family will have to say, ‘no, but she is going to Bristol’ – and the people will say ‘ah’ and think to themselves uhuh Oxford wannabe, less than Oxford.

She got over it however, and was soon back in life, writing upbeat emails to her friends, and working on a plan to set up a Theatre Company. Within the book is an excellent example offer letter to an actor who was set to be part of her production project.

In the very last poem in Sophie’s Log, Sophie writes:

I, me, myself, am real, alive, here,

I enjoy the feel of life under my hand,

The shouting and screaming

The mad abandoned laughter of one,

Who has let go of parts of her mind

That hold the real her prisoner

Sophie’s log demonstrates that the journey to excellent creative writing is not a short one. She starts out with spelling mistakes, improving to accurate spelling with simple, childish expressions, and growing into to truly descriptive writing whether when writing the rather formal business letter, or an emotional letter to her parents or her grandmother, to poems that capture strong emotions in very few words.

Sophie’s writing also captures the joys as well as heartaches of growing up. The reader is able to look into a world where a failure only inspires more creative thinking. When she fails to get into Oxford, Sophie looks for another way to reach her dreams.

Sophie left quite a legacy through her writing. She inspires me 11 years after her death. I hope she inspires the kids who read her work. I can just imagine what she might have become with more time, an expressive writer, a creative thinker, someone who is not afraid to dream, therefore not afraid to go out and get what she wants in her life.

That she died at 19 and still left such a legacy makes me believe that I can do so much more with my life if I just try. And I hope that her writing can help the kids who read it explore their own voices, their own worlds, and dreams, and writing.

Excerpts from Sophie’s Log by Sophie Large.

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com

Kahenya Kamunyu and Mark Kaigwa talk social media with KTN’s Larry Madowo

@kahenya and @mkaigwa talk social media with KTN’s @larrymadowo .

Tampon Taboos

Yes, this post might be about Tampons, but as has been pointed out several times, a taboo is something that has been known for a time, and then classified as a no-no. Since we are in Africa, a taboo would have to be known for several generations and quarantined as a taboo through those generations likely backed up by some oral tradition about why-not. There, we can’t really have tampon taboos, since tampons are fairly new *phenomena*

Well, the thing is, the thingy I am talking about is not a taboo either. African culture celebrated sexuality, assigning a full celebration of rites around ‘it’. When a girl reached puberty, she would go through education at the hands of the elder women at the end of which she would go through the rites of passage and become a ‘woman’. Talk about informed consent. Yeah, yeah, you are going to point at the circumcision that went with it. I am against genital mutilation. Just so we are clear. This article is not in any way an effort to make light of the brutal abuse that has caused pain for many young girls and women in Africa. But this article is all for the education that went with the rites of passage. I mean, how can you make a decision to be a woman without the information you need to make that decision?

So let’s go back to the thingy that started this all. The Tampon. At this juncture I might delve into my teens, and an experience that very nearly jarred the bejesus out of me. The Bejesus remains in me, although a certain person who might be considered my boss has as of today Patented my insanity as his. Japanese Kiondos. Sorry, I digress.

Well, I was 15, maybe 16. Those who can remember me from back then will testify that I was a very ‘boyish’ girl. Arm wrestling when the teacher was out of class, rugby practice in a team with only one other girl, oh yeah, and sitting on the wall wolf-calling at the hot girls (Daddy, you shall not comment. Mum’s mouth is zipped. We are not going to discuss species, and confusion.) Oh dear, I have wandered off again, haven’t I?

Anyway, a few years before this I had hit menarche. I had been pre-informed by mum in the ‘talks’, so i was not really shocked about the blood. But I was surprised to find out that I was a girl after all. Mum was quick to explain that I did not have to stop climbing trees, although my brother strongly advised against it, since he ‘expected me to grow up and be worth some cows.’ Mum introduced me to Tampons. We did the read-up on how to use them, and how to look out for Toxic Shock Syndrome. And then she held my hand when I tried it the first time and so I was started on climbing trees even on menstruation days.

And then came the incident that happened when i was 15, maybe 16. After rugby practice, one late afternoon, I went to the changing rooms for a shower. While i was in there, the Home Science Teacher who was on discipline duty that week walked into the changing rooms. Just as she walked in, my box of tampons fell out of my school bag. I didn’t even think much of it, until she reached to pick it up, and then looked back at me with a frown.

“Are you a virgin?”

What? What do you mean ‘Am I virgin?’ I don’t even remember answering her. I do not think I answered her. And if I had she probably would have died of stress related myocardia. Next thing I knew we had mum leaving her job to come for a PTA meeting. I think the situation would have deteriorated very fast if not for the Principal’s intervention. In retrospect, Ms. Lavingia rocked. Can’t remember that Home Science teacher’s name. Mrs. Otieno, Mrs. Ochuodho, something like that. Anyway, the PTA meeting turned into a ‘let’s educate the damned home science teacher’ session including read ups on how the vagina naturally adjusts to the tampon, and how they reason for resistance might only be ‘fear clenching’. I was not embarrassed at all. But Home-science teacher could not believe we were talking about Vaginas in the presence of ‘the child’! then she went on about destroying ‘the child’ by adopting European cultures by talking about sex. We were not talking about sex, just about the vagina, tampons, periods and adjusting to penetration.

So I remembered this incident a few days ago when someone decided to take a bashing on a kind mzungu who wanted to help collect and donate sanitary pads to poor Kenyan girls. The argument was tampons would be far much cheaper, and far much better for the environment, considering size, material and so on. At which point someone else, I think perhaps the kind mzungu, mentioned that Tampons are considered taboos by African women.

So here is my take on it, limited, since my insanity has been patented and I can therefore only use it with the very likelihood that I might be sued for copyright infringement.

Tampons are not the issue. Sex is. Sexuality is. (Honestly, judging from some people’s opinion, we should all not be alive, seeing how sex is such a bad thing) It shouldn’t be a problem but someone has perpetuated the idea that discussing sex and sexuality is a European thing. Wrong! It is not a European thing. If it was, there would not be any poor Kenyan to donate sanitary pads to. Now do not get me wrong, I have nothing against the kind mzungu. Remember that saying, ‘Mwacha mila ni mtumwa’? Well, that wise person should also have mentioned the absolute confusion of abandoning ‘all’ culture indiscriminately, and then trying to get back on the ox-cart. Seriously damaged home-science teachers.

So now, we are still having sex, but it is a bad bad thing and hush do not talk about it, or anything that has to do with it. Just use pads, which are generally uncomfortable, comparably expensive and do not ‘penetrate’. In the meantime, the same issues that have you accusing tampons of being taboos, will mean that more and more women are living unfulfilled sex lives, oh they do, cause the birth rate still has not dropped. It means that women will die of cervical and breast cancer. What didn’t you know breasts have everything to do with sex, and we do not dicuss sex, let alone go for pap smears or breast exams? I mean how can you let some strange doctor probe your ‘ladybits’? And did you know that quite a few gynaecologists are men?

Well, now, I guess what all this means is that we shall continue contributing to the environmental disaster, and continue dying of diseases that could be controlled and cured if caught early on. That’s our tampon taboo. Sigh.

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com

Mambo ya Nyumbani

I will not tell any man why he should not hit a woman. I would rather talk to you, my fellow woman. It starts with you, you see. How much you respect yourself will determine how much respect you will get. If you feel that being someone’s punching bag sits well with you, regardless of the aches, the broken bones and the indignity that you have to carry around the next day and for a few more days to come, then perhaps it is your right to endure ‘mambo ya nyumbani’. If not, then for the love of life and for the sake of women everywhere, make a stand and do something to protect yourself and your children. It is true society as a whole is paying greater attention to the crime of wife-beating but whatever laws are passed will be of little use be put in use in the protection of women, unless those women are themselves determined to use them.

The 16 Days of Activism against Gender Violence is an international campaign that was started in 1991 to call for the elimination of violence against women. It runs from the 25^th of November to the 10^th December of every year. The main objectives of the campaign are:

Ø Raising awareness about gender-based violence as a human rights issue at the local, national, regional and international levels.

Ø Strengthening local networks around violence against women.

Ø Creating a method to share and develop new effective strategies.

Ø Showing the solidarity of women around the world by organizing schemes against violence against women

Ø Creating tools to pressure governments to implement promises made to eliminate violence against women.

What does this make you think of? The women politicians violently attacked in electoral campaigns? The woman politician stabbed to death? Yes, these are the high profile incidents that carry in the media and for this reason the ones more likely to be followed by an effort, no matter how small at the apprehension and punishment of the villains. Even then, the perpetrators are likely to go free, just as they would on the numerous lower profile reported cases of violence against women.

What riles me in particular though, are the numerous cases of gender violence that are not acted on by law enforcement or commented upon because they are not reported and especially because the victims of these attacks seem themselves to be colluding in their continued commission. So it is that unless these incidents turn particularly tragic no one pays them any attention.

Every single night in my neighbourhood, the peace of the darkness is disturbed by the loud screams of a woman being punished by her spouse for one mistake or the other. No one bothers to get up and go help her; most people do not even stir, not anymore. Such screams have become a part of the night, as much as the barking of the neighbourhood dogs, the crickets or the occasional cawing of the crows. It is a nightly occurrence; just another woman being disciplined by her husband, you see. In the morning, those who decide to trespass societal norms and ask after the woman in question, is she well and does she know that the law stands in her defence, will be met with a battered but resolute smile that insists “Hiyo ni mambo kawaida ya nyumbani tu.” (Those are just normal domestic issues.)

It is persuasive to suppose that it is alright, nothing to make too big a deal about and what right does an outsider when the victims themselves seem untroubled. But it is most emphatically not alright. It is the continued commission of such crimes, and the impunity bred by never being held to account that allows women to beaten and abused so much that they are compelled to the permanent occupation of the bottom position in society, a position from which their ability to contribute to society beyond the prescribed roles is severely limited. And this attitude then spreads across some more with women discriminated against in leadership roles, or in education or looked down on as managers. It is this attitude that leads society to look the other way as men continue to escape punishment for the sexual abuse of women and children, including the perception among many women and girls that this is their lot, this is what they should expect as women.

Real men do not hit women. This is not because women are defenceless for I know myself a few women who can fight for all they are worth. Real men don’t hit women because they do not see in women a sub-humanity undeserving of treatment equal to that which one would desire for oneself. Women like men have emotions, intelligence, and dignity and are important to the progress of the family and of society at large.

The real man is aware that in his treatment of the woman ,even as she may be physically weaker than himself, he is making a statement to society on his personal dignity and to his family on the respect for one another. He is also acutely aware that the family must exist for the common good, and that the crushed spirit of the mother is the destruction of the entire family.

Beating your wife, even in those cultures where the singularity of the matrimonial union is not emphasised, amounts to violence against yourself. For most humans, the nurturing contact is female and it is from this female that life itself is born and cared for especially when it is at its most vulnerable. The way of nature is that the female nurtures and guides and protects. Part of this nurturing role is in guiding society and spouses to an appreciation that violence against women is immoral and impermissible.

In so doing women, especially those threatened with violence help shatter the myth of normality surrounding gender violence and crucially also protect future generations from domestic violence. Such violence is not only illegal and immoral, it is also not normal. But unless its victims demand the breaking of the cycle, whole generations of boys are being transformed into men who believe violence against women as an acceptable way to conduct family life.

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com

 

There Goes My Teaching Career…

I get very nervous when I’m expected to stand in front of people and speak logically about anything. I mean, if I am in front of 2 and more pairs of eyes, it is very likely that I can’t even remember my own name. Yeah, I know it starts with a J. I have several theories about the reason for this type of fear. I bet you have your own. But believe me all those reasons do not solve any of your problems when you find yourself standing in front of a bunch of hormone crazy teens, I don’t mean you.

 

So when I woke up and found myself as the new volunteer teacher at a tiny school somewhere beyond ‘Kwaheri Nairobi, Karibu Kajiado’, I figured I was in a whole lot of trouble. I was. First of all, it was a high school. If you break down and cry here, the kids will make fun of you mercilessly, unlike in Kindergarten, where the babies would either stare at you in total shock or toddle over, pat your arm and say, “Pole toto, silie…” Just like their mama tells them when they cry.

 

Then, it was a boys’ boarding high school. There should be a rule against sending trainee teachers or volunteers to boys’ boarding high schools. Combine weeks of not seeing a female, apart from the workers and the only other female teacher, with raging hormones and general male boorishness and you have the perfect teacher trauma situation.

 

The first class I was sent to was the Fourth Form. I was substituting for the English Literature teacher. When I walked into that room, and found 48 eyes, half of them with gleeful mischief shining, the rest looking totally faded with boredom, I figured I was in a lot of trouble.

 

I think started out pretty well. Yeah, that is until I decided I would give them a writing exercise so I could sit down. I eyed the worn out blue table, and wondered for a bit if the wooden chair would hold my weight. I had already suffered from a bit of ‘the spoilt brat’ treatment in the staffroom. (Well, I was volunteering. Most of the people who volunteered there were either white and foreign or rich and bored. I had been out of a job for so long I thought I’d go mad if I stayed home one more day. So I volunteered at the school that had denied me a job a month earlier.) Anyway, I did not want to appear ‘spoilt’ to my own students, (bad idea!) so I quickly sat down.

 

I thought I had engaged their minds quite well because in a few minutes that they were all busy scribbling down their thoughts about Coming Home by Marjorie McOludhe. I was very pleased with myself until I decided to stand up and see what they were really writing about. That was the end of my bliss.

 

After a few seconds struggling to part from the chair, I looked up to see all the faces, including the ones that had looked dull now bright with merciless glee. I struggled a bit more in panic, until I felt the rip of my long prim skirt, and looked over and under my shoulder, to see that I was a few inches away from free, with my ass bare for them all to see. Right then, for the weirdest reason, I wished I had worn one of my better panties. As it was it was white on red polka dots, grandmother large under wear that generally formed a wedgy between well…

 

The tears were scalding hot, the anger boiling, which also meant there was no room for coherence. I must have been quite a sight, hopping out of that classroom, with my skirt stuck onto the chair, dragging the chair, down a corridor that now seemed endless, to the staffroom where all the male teachers burst out into even more cruel laughter. The lady teacher was a little more sympathetic. She helped me into the store, then went to her home which was not far from the school, and got me one of her extra large skirt, then sent me home, obviously not expecting to see me anywhere near the school again.

 

I probably would not have gone back, except that I am Juliet, told you it starts with a J. I have four brothers. The glue in chair is a classic bully set-up to bring down an authority figure a notch or seven. My brothers are older than me, but they have done this to me, and when I cried from humiliation, the eldest asked me, “What do you think the world will do to you, kid?” Totally cruel.

 

Anyway, the next day, I woke up, puked my guts out, and settled on my fade blue jeans and boots. I did not show up for morning assembly so everyone, students and teachers had written me off already. When I walked into the staffroom the silence was palpable. I looked them all, 7 men, and one sneering woman who terrified me the most, and yeah, my innards were flooding with fear. I sat down prepared my lesson and by the time the bell for the third lesson before break rang at 9.30am, I was ready.

 

The boys in 4th West burst out laughing when I walked into the class.  I launched into my lesson with all the seriousness I could muster. It threw them for a few minutes; that I had come back and I was going on as if nothing had happened. But that did not last long. Soon enough the hormones kicked in and the merciless teasing begun. What happened next is the reason I am not in a High School Class teaching Literature.

 

The boy was seated at the very front of the class. He reached out boldly when I was talking and touched me, on the arm. My skin crawled, and all the anger from the previous day exploded, fuelled by inkling that he was behind the glue in chair set up. He couldn’t have figured out what I was doing, but 25 years with four and ¾ brothers saw me step up behind him, lift him right out of his chair and sweep him off balance with one kick to the back of his legs.

 

As he fell, I envisioned scenes of teacher-student violence. The other case scenario which terrified me more was him falling head first, hitting his head on the floor, his head cracking, prompting an intra-cranial heamorrhage, resulting in brain damage, death and my arrest for murder. (I really should stop watching CSI). Anyway, the boy fell, looked up at me in shock and rolled to his knees begging for forgiveness. I packed up my books, went to the staffroom, packed up my bags and left the school, for good.

 

Yeah, if should ever go back to teaching, I will stick to Kindergarten kids, who are infinitely more demanding and difficult to teach and train, but whom I have spent 42 months learning how to deal with. Judging from your expression as you read this; I am guessing that you will not let me anywhere near your precious little baby. Well, then, I hope the writing career picks up.

© Juliet Maruru She Blossoms

 

The Legend of Creek Town

I am not sure why the story appealed to me. Ichabod Crane, the superstitious schoolmaster in the story, amused and irritated me. I was living in a town full of superstitious residents and their assortment of legends. Even at ten, the idea that an itch in the middle of my palm was a herald of coming wealth seemed totally ridiculous to me. I knew that people had to work to get money. At least my mother had to. As for Ichabod Crane, I was certain that if he had been smarter than superstitious he might have won the heiress, Katrina, whom he adored.

I preferred Brom Bones, the other guy who, though not as schooled as the esteemed Mr. Crane, was smart enough to up his game and win the battle for the girl. I would re-read the story for a few more years to come, every time I thought I was losing my battles. It always reminded me that it was up to me to be smart enough to survive. So I tried extra hard to be both smart and a survivor.

At ten, I had already fought a few battles. In fact, the kind Khalid Kassim had come into my life precisely because I had almost lost one particularly terrible battle just before my 10^th birthday. On March 20, 1992, I was rushed to hospital after ingesting a few dozen quinine tabs – quietly lying down at a corner in the school playground, waiting to die.

After the initial treatment to save my life, the doctors turned to my mother in hushed frenzy trying to figure out why a 10 year old could be suicidal. At this point Khalid Kassim appeared. He was a pediatrician with an affinity for psychology. Dr. Khalid Kassim. He said I could call him Khalid Kassim. So I did – and still do. He took me up on a no-charge basis.

My bi-weekly trips to Khalid Kassim’s clinic in the Mombasa town centre were very much anticipated. The first time I went into the clinic I was totally fascinated by the wooden paneling and the pictures hanging on the wall. I was taken in by the hanged scenes of a pride of lions, snowy mountain peaks, still jade-blue creek waters and flowers in bloom. The receptionist at the clinic was a nice, matronly woman who wore a navy blue dress with pink flowers. She spoke kindly to my mother. I liked her.

Khalid Kassim was kind to me. I didn’t talk to him at first – not at the hospital where he visited me several times and not at his clinic for the first four visits. I just wasn’t talking to anyone, not even my mother. Khalid Kassim would sit in his chair and watch while I did everything but not talk to him. Everything my mother had taught me thus far about being polite and well behaved pretty much dissipated in Khalid Kassim’s clinic. I can still see my mother tense up every time I knocked things over. Khalid just watched and I guess they had a previous agreement not to scold me. Occasionally he would say something to draw me out. I had nothing to say. Not really.

I loved Khalid Kassim’s library. He had an entire wall full of books, everything from Puss in Boots to Mekatilili and Nancy Drew. The wall fascinated me. The first four visits to Khalid’s clinic were spent kneeling in front of the wall flipping through books, but not reading really. However, on the fifth visit, I found the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. So I spoke.

“Can I read it please?”

Khalid Kassim nodded, “Of course, you can. But you must do something for me in return. You must write a story for me to read next time you come.”

Khalid Kassim told me I could keep the little book. I did. After reading it several times over, I wrote him my story.

In my story, there was a little girl who lived in a sleepy town by a creek. The town was pretty with flowers in all colors against the beautiful jade colored waters. The women in the town made pretty mats and baked sweet pastries to sell to people in the next town. The men built beautiful houses thatched with palm fronds and then went out to fish for supper. The children played on the white sand and in the creek water on clear blue sky days. Everyone was happy until…

One blue-sky day, while everyone was busy having their mid day meal of spicy minced meat on chapattis and hot bitter coffee, a little girl disappeared. Everyone noticed that she was missing but no one cared to go and look for her. They all went on baking pastries, building pretty houses and playing on the sand – all, except the little girl’s brother.

When he realized that his sister was missing, he went frantic with worry and tried to get everyone to help him look for her. No one, not even the little girl’s mother and father bothered to help. He searched everywhere… he even dove in the creek hoping to find something of her. He wondered at the frothy bubbles in the middle of the creek. Finally after 3 days searching, he emerged from the mangrove overgrowth next to the creek, paused to consider where to search next and saw her sitting at the edge of the creek. He ran to her yelling, crying, scooped her into his arms and searched her for any injuries. She seemed fine, so he took her home. But he soon found out what was wrong. The creek monster had taken her heart and kept it for himself, replacing it with an ugly empty box in her chest. Without her heart, she would not eat, play, or laugh. He was scared that soon she would die, too. Who can live without a heart?

The little girl had no idea what to do. He wanted his sister to have her heart back. But to do that he would have to find out where the creek monster lived, then approach it for a negotiation. First, he decided to set off to the other side of the creek where there was a Wiseman. He hoped the Wiseman would give him advice on how to go about the situation. The brother decided not to cross the creek by boat but instead to go around it, which was a journey of many days. Finally, he arrived at the Wiseman’s home. The Wiseman listened to the young man’s dilemma, and then offered his advice which was brief and simple.

“You must go back to the creek and fight the creek monster. If you kill it, you will get your sister’s heart back. If it kills you, both you and your sister will be lost.”

The brother went back to the Creek and goaded the monster into a fight. The monster killed the brother with one swipe of its ugly paw. From then on, the creek monster stole a child’s heart every year. Soon there was no child left who had a heart.

I still remember Khalid Kassim’s expression as he read the end of my story. He frowned. I thought his graying hair turned white. His eyes definitely drained of the burning emerald, turning grey and flat.

“Are you sure, Juliet? Are you sure that nothing can be done to stop the creek monster?” Khalid Kassim asked.

I shook my head, “No one can stop him.” I declared this sadly.

“What about the little girl?” Khalid Kassim demanded, refusing to give up like I had. “I think the monster left a tiny little bit of the girl’s heart in her chest. She can use that to defeat the monster. She just needs a little bit of help. The Wiseman can help, don’t you think?”

“Why should he?”

Khalid Kassim’s eyes filled with color, “Because he wants his heart back, too. He fought with the monster a long time ago. He knows how it fights, but he has just never been strong enough to fight it again. Now he can help the little girl defeat the monster, don’t you think? Besides if we let the monster keep stealing the children’s hearts, they will all grow to be monsters like him. We can’t let that happen can we?”

So it was that for the next three years, every Friday at 4.30pm without fail, I went to the clinic to plot with Khalid Kassim the best way to defeat and kill the Creek monster. In 1998, I won my first battle against the creek monster. He was jailed for 3.5 years. Since then I have discovered that the creek monster has relatives and friends of his species who also steal children’s hearts. Khalid Kassim and I still plot battles from time to time. I won my second battle in 1999 when I completed high school and a few more when I turned 18, 21, then 25. I will be winning yet another battle in a few months time when I earn my degree in Early Childhood Development.

I still haven’t killed the species of monster that destroys children’s lives. I need a lot more help from everyone.

Yesterday, Khalid Kassim and I sat at a City Café, sipping coffee and laughing at some of my teenage antics. Dr. Kassim’s hair is white now and his back is slightly bent from 70 odd years of life. His eyes still burn with color and feeling as we talk about life. I get angry still and work myself into frustration. He placed his wrinkled warm hand over mine to still me. His éclair brown skin contrasts against my chocolate brown. He can hush me and make me listen just like he used to when I was 12. And now he smiles, gently, “Princess, you know by now that battles cannot be fought alone. Not all battles are fought the same way. Even in the same battle, there are different kinds of regiments; attackers, defenders, decoys, routers, medical aid and so on. In a regiment there are different kinds of roles for each troop.”

“I know that,” I say quickly. That has always been my flaw: thinking I could go it alone.

Khalid Kassim laughed softly. He knows me better than I know myself.

“You’ve come along way, kitten. Use the lessons you’ve learnt. Do your best but don’t do it alone. You need all the allies you can get, even if some of them just come along to make noise. Remember, the creek monster hates it when people make noise and talk about him.”

I remember. I guess its time I rewrote my legend. Khalid Kassim smiles, and the emerald floods his eyes.

Deadline extended for ‘The Kenya I Live In’ Short Story Competition

Dear Writers,

Kwani Trust is pleased to announce a deadline extension for its
national short story competition titled, ‘The Kenya I Live In’. Though
we have received in excess of 400 entries, we feel that we have not
done justice to what our original ends were for the competition. This
includes reaching certain demographics and geographic locations. We
have undertaken a huge outreach initiative to address this. The new
competition deadline is now October 26, 2009. Kwani Trust would like
to thank all the writers who have, so far ,submitted entries into the
competition. We look forward to a successful completion of the process
when we announce the winners in December, 2009.

Please note only the dates have changed, the rules and guidelines remain the same.However those who had sent their stories earlier and wish to re-submit are allowed to do so.

• Winner: Ksh. 100,000
• 1st runner up: Ksh. 75,000
• 2nd runner up: Ksh. 50,000

Submission Guidelines for Short Stories on ‘The Kenya I Live In’.

• Word count: 3000 – 8000 words. Theme: ‘The Kenya I Live In’.
• This is adult fiction (in the sense that it is not ‘children’s fiction’). Since we are targeting a certain generation, we will only accept entries from writers born after 1978.
• The work can be in English, Kiswahili or Sheng’. The story must be ‘new’ in the sense that it is ‘unpublished in book form’ (we will accept submissions which have been previously published in magazines.)
• Please send submissions by email , attached as a WORD doc to mykenyakwani@gmail.com or by post as a typescript ( no handwritten scripts please)to P o Box 2895-00100 Nairobi.
• A maximum of three entries per person is allowed.

Formatting Guidelines
• Name of author (Times New Roman 12 Bold left justified)
• Contact address, telephone number , date of birth and email (Times New Roman 12 Bold left justified)
• Title of short story (Times New Roman 14, bold, centered). The story should be in Times New Roman, black, size 12, justified, 1.5 line spacing.
• Page numbers and name of author on every page please.
• Word count at the end of the story, bold and left justified
• Submission Deadline : October 26, 2009
Please visit Kwani for more information.

Sincerely,

Kwani Trust