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 25th of November to the 10th 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
It is interesting how fast communications paths have evolved. From mail that took a few months to arrive at its destination, to express mail that was expected to arrive in 3 to 7 days, and then email, instant messages, facebook, twitter… The modern professional needs to keep learning all the time just to keep up with the fast changes.
Africans living and working at home, or living/studying and working abroad, all of us are very much interested in seeing our country not just developing economically and financially, but also protected from greedy and corrupt individuals who would seek to deplete all the resources Africa has available.
The Swahili tribe has a saying, “Kidole kimoja hakiuwi chawa.” One finger cannot kill lice. To be in a position to understand the Africa we live in, her challenges, and the possible ways to make her better, we need to do more than observe. Africans need to get together in dialogue, information and enlightenment in order to ever be able to devise processes for better democracy, stronger economies and even stronger societies.
Afripot is the answer to the question. As Africa’s Melting Pot, this new web portal seeks to bring together the North, South, East and West of Africa, in a conglomeration of information, discussion and creative intercourse that aims at opening the doors to the further development of our beloved Africa.
As well as offering you news that affects Africa, we also offer forums and networking applications that can make it possible for you to connect with your friends as well as with new contacts from all over Africa.
To advertise your business or event, please go to www.afripot.com and fill in the contact form to the right of the website.
“I read myself out of poverty, long before I worked myself out of poverty.” Walter Anderson
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
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 10th 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.
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,
Born of a conversation between me, a friend, and the Senior editor at Storymoja, the topic of which also landed on a certain blog affiliated with the above people, I went into a personal scrutiny moment.
I’d tell you it was about my growth as a writer, except it is not. My writing world has been anchored in lessons instilled by my various mentors, most of them experienced writers who have no tolerance for any kind of tardiness manifesting itself in a writer’s work.
My other world runs into problems all the time, though. It seems I do not have the same amount of determination and motivation in RL (real life) as I do with regards to my writing career. Sad.
So last week I closed a chapter that I am beginning to think I should not have closed. Personal note to self : Do not drink and dial. After all it is your errr…fault. Right.
When doors are closed in my career path, I fight, and hold on, and try to sort it out, and show them who matter that I am worth the chance. When doors close in my personal life I watch mouth agape, mind upside down, heart inside out!
Pssshhhh! Scrutiny moment over, conceited moment begins, Someday is now halfway up on the blog. Just go to the right side of the blog and follow links to chapters. Then type out a few comments. Really I need you esteemed help in rewriting the novel.
© www.jmaruru.wordpress.com 2009
Kenyaimagine Updates – Nairobi Notebook and The Savages in America
In a previous life, I worked in the kitchen of a seafood restaurant, and I’ve always had a soft heart for waiters. But this solidarity cost me a ‘friend’ in Nairobi. We were in a city-centre pub, and our female companion – degreed and with an office job in one of the city’s steel-and-glass towers – felt that I was paying inordinate attention to our female waiter. Sheepishly, I tried to defend myself. I mumbled something about the value of egalitarianism, and said my inquiries were nonromantic in intent. “But she’s vulnerable!” our companion protested, which I took to mean that she didn’t believe me and that my attentions were somehow exploitative. Find out what happened next in Henry Gekonde’s Nairobi Notebook
The American savage can be a right-wing conservative like the ones the media often focus on, or a bleeding-heart liberal. They are both afraid of the new. They both refuse to learn about others because they think the American way of solving problems is the best. That’s why, for example, when NGO’s run by Americans who identify themselves as liberal set out to end the plight of the African savage, insist that they make all the decisions. Find out more about the American Savage as told by Edwin O. Okongo.
Also on Kenyaimagine
- Gaddafi: Right Message, Wrong Messenger by Kawuma Busuulwa
- Why I don’t want to go to heaven by Ombuya E. Okongo
- The insults of the earth by Patrick Gathara
- Fried Brains by Faith Oneya
- When Activism is About the Cause by Okiyah Omtatah Okoiti
- Commuting Justice? Why We Need The Death Penalty by Patrick Gathara
- Kenya: Surveillance Country? By Ciku Kimani
- A Report on NextLevel: Interviews
If you would like to contribute an opinion or analysis piece, a fiction or poetry piece to the Kenyaimagine pages, please send your work to editor@kenyaimagine.com. For enquiries please direct your email to office@kenyaimagine.com
“Too many people grow up. That’s the real trouble with the world, too many people grow up. They forget. They don’t remember what it’s like to be 12 years old. They patronize, they treat children as inferiors. Well I won’t do that.”
Walt Disney.
Do you remember the magical moments of childhood, the times when you were just beginning to learn how the world works, and your laughter filled the air because even when times were tough, your folks didn’t let you in on it? You are very fortunate then.
Some of us lost those magical moments when we were way too young. So we can hardly remember being in a time when nothing mattered except the present; the games, the lessons, the laughter, some tears as we faced the physics of the universe. Lost in a struggle for survival when that struggle should have been on someone else’s shoulders.
I woke up about two or three years ago and realized what a quandary I was in. Here I was trying so hard to be alive, but trapped by the past, and pain, both physical and emotional, that I hardly enjoyed the life that I had.
And so I decided to revisit my childhood. I vowed to enjoy what life I had in spite of any pain I had to face. To watch children discover the world and bask in the joy of learning with them. To watch a kitten play and laugh at its antics. To relearn the joys of reading picture books, by working on them as they were being developed. To stop, suspended in time, lost in a childlike thought, mischief, pure love, curiosity, and endless mystery around us.
So here I am, 12 going on 28, happy to be alive, to love and to be loved, happy in being me, happy in letting everyone be whoever they want to be.
©Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com
I would offer decent explanations for the thoughts that cross my mind, if I had them. If I could do that, I would probably come up with better explanations for the things I find myself doing, but I can’t do that either. So I will just look for the closest scapegoat to blame it on, but I seriously doubt that it will be sufficient.
My current blame-it-on-him is a nice (not) dude, who speaks with an accent, plants ideas of malicious things I could to the office bully, and continually makes me second guess myself every step of the way. I am glad for that. Glad that I have someone who forces me to re-examine myself, my goals, my choices, my ambitions, even my whole outlook. I am glad that I am not comfortable right now. It means that I know what I need, what I want, where I want to go and my reasons for all that. Someday, I might find a measure of comfort, but this man will be a constant reminder that there is always a reason to improve on who you are.
10 years ago, I was a 17 year old kid, straight out of high school, with half dust stars in my eyes. I knew I was going to be a writer and an editor for a large publication. To get there was the path through university education and challenges that I was sure I could overcome with no effort; just the same way I had managed to remain a top grade student through most of my schooling years.
One thing I never counted on was that the heartache of my pubescent years would be overcome by hormones, and I would fall in love, with a man, nonetheless. Oh, go ahead and speculate. This one I’ll catch and explain. You see, when I was 9 years old, one man did something that made me hate all the men except for my brother, and later my therapist a wizened old man I adored with all my heart. All along until I tuned 17, I could not see how in the whole world I could get to like or even draw close to anyone of that gender. In fact, I started reading lesbian material in secret because somehow I figured that I’d have to find a companion for friendship, and maybe sex. I figured that could only be with a girl. But back then, my blame-it-on-him was my therapist Khaled.
Khaled was the one who made me re-examine myself, question what I thought I wanted. He was by far the most liberal man I had ever known. In his eyes, I did not see disapproval. He was not my therapist anymore. He had become a father figure. I knew that no matter what choices I made, he would still be there. So I knew that if I discovered my identity and sexual orientation to be anything other than the norm, the accepted, he would still be my best friend. I never doubted that no matter what, I could count on him to hold my hand as I defined and redefined myself.
So when I went to him and told him that I was in love, with a man, a much older man, one I very obviously couldn’t have Khaled was there for me. I’ve had the chance to listen to a 17 year old gush about a boy she is crazy about, so I can imagine what Khaled must have been feeling and thinking then. He was patient, enough to take me back to our earlier discussion about my identity, and to make me carefully think about what I was feeling.
The man, I know you want to know. He was 29 years old when I was 17 years old. All the girls in the neighbourhood single, not so single and very not single always fell head over heels, with his brother. The brother was tall, dark and handsome, with a grin that made the said girls swoon, and devilish attitude that made him break hearts all over the village. I would easily have gotten over him. But no, I went over the fence and fell in love with the other guy.
The man, he was just about my height, I was tall at 17. He was quiet, and if you didn’t look carefully you would never see the passion and the humor in his eyes. I looked. He cared about people, he was careful to show respect where it was merited and concern where it was needed. I would watch with my teeth biting at my lower inner lip as he stopped his car to check if the old lady who lived down North Beach Road was alright (turns out she took those really long walks to stay fit). I would watch as he listened to and answered the kids who asked him about his great big motorbike and then offered to help one of them who had serious trouble with his Math. He asked how I was doing whenever I was coming up to all those major exams we endured in school. I fell upside down, inside out.
If he ever noticed me, I doubt that he did beyond the friendly neighbour/family friend level; he never let me see it. He wouldn’t have. He was a man of honor. He would never have gotten involved with a teenager still trying to find her way. It was tough for me, and I know that I didn’t do a very good job of hiding my feelings for him. Maybe all the other questions hanging in my mind forced me to curb myself from throwing myself all over him. Now, that would have been a painful memory indeed.
I was soon distracted from the infatuation, the only one I ever had in my teens, by the death of my brother when I was 19. When I was 21, I fell seriously ill with a condition the doctors took a while before they diagnosed Fibromyalgia with acute hormonal disturbances. When I was 24 I almost married a man who just never quite reached up to my dream man’s standards.
Recently I wrote an article about the highlights of pain in my life, and someone wrote to me with ‘sympathy for the bad luck in my life.’ Here is my response.
Everything that has happened in my life, and everything that has not, is a firm reminder that I am alive and that I have the chance to rediscover myself, to achieve my goals and make a difference in someone else’s life.
Those of you, who know me, know that Khaled died last year. For some reason, his death has sent me on a quest to rediscovering my childhood. Everything, my reactions to life, my pursuits right now, my career ambitions, are focused on finding that core I lost 18 years ago.
There are times, when I have seriously doubted myself, when I have thought myself too needy, too dependent on validation, too much of a coward. That is where the current blame-it-on-him comes in. He has shown me that it alright to doubt yourself once in a while, that a strongly independent person can be needing validation once in a while, and that fear is a normal part of being alive.
Today I proudly declare that I am 27 going on 12. Being here is making me pause to enjoy the good things in life and to focus my efforts at developing my skills in creating learning and entertaining material that children will enjoy for as long as they are children.
I refuse to be drawn into petty rivalries that can only be devised by adults who have found themselves inadequate and try to cover up all that by trying to bring down everyone around them. I stand up here, refusing to compare myself with anyone, because I know that right now, I am where I need to be to get where I am going.
I will walk past the downtown pub, because I would rather be as far away from the Tusker you are all looking forward to downing on Furahiday. It is not because I am a snobby kill joy country bum, yeah part of that sentence is right. It is just because I love beer but it doesn’t mix very well with my meds. Besides I have a date with five and six year old kids from my neighbourhood who are coming over for a sleepover so we can discuss the children’s book I am working on. We will play games, eat ice-cream, and watch Shrek, Madagascar and the old animated Tintin collection I finally got. Then we will talk about the book.
At exactly 9.06pm, blame-it-on-him will call, I will unload today’s events on him, he will most likely chastise me for not keeping a promise, and I will smile, because today is one more day I am alive.
P.S. No, I am not yet over the guy I fell in love with 10 years ago. That is why I am writing this. The thing is, I have changed and maybe he has grown old. But if he shows up at my door tomorrow morning, I will promptly faint with joy.
Wasee Wasee
Book Title: Wasee Wasee! 99 mchongoanos for your dissing pleasure
Publishers: Storymoja/Storyhippo
Compiled by: Joshua Ogutu Muraya, Juliet Maruru, Millie Dok
Art: Directed by Ciro Githunguri, Illustrated & designed by Lucas Wambaa
Genre: Mchongoano collection
Mchongoanos are very much a part of our culture today as they were all those years ago during my primary school days. And it’s not only school going kids who enjoy this form of art but adults with a youthful heart (and a sense of humour) as well.
On seeing and browsing through this book, here were two reactions I got from two different friends.
Zaf: Great! I’ve been having a really hard-time getting a good mchongoano to counter the one my cousin sent me.
Patrick (A Kenyan living in the US and currently visiting): To make matters better, they have it translated in English and with a glossary page at the back. This would be the best present to take back with me!
Joshua Ogutu Muraya, Juliet Maruru and Millie Dok compiled these hilarious 99 mchongoanos for anyone to use.
Mchongoanos, like traditional storytelling cannot be attributed to anyone because they have been going around for years and you can’t really say who came up with what.
One of the compilers Joshua Ogutu Muraya says that mchongoanos can be defined as ‘Uniquely formulated jokes that tend to exaggerate or bring out the worst of one’s physical characteristics, behaviours and intelligence. The joke is on your father, grandma, dog, the size of your head or just the dumbness of it.’
An excerpt from the book:
a) ‘Kwenu nyinyi mafala hadi mna patia kuku zenu maji moto ati ndio zitoe mayai boilo’
Translated: Your family is so stupid; you give your chicken hot water so they can lay boiled eggs.
b) Dame wako ana lips kubwa mpake yeye hutumia roll-on ka lip-balm.
Translated: Your girlfriend has such huge lips, she uses roll-on instead of lip balm.
So you see, dissing your friends verbally will now become easier. I believe this book will serve as a basis for the exploration of an important part of our culture that has been downplayed for far too long and needs to be mainstreamed.
I totally enjoyed reading (and sharing) this pocket-sized book and keep getting back into it when I need a good laugh.
The book also looks extremely fabulous, thanks to the print quality, the art direction by former Ukoo Flani manager Ciro Githunguri and Lucas Wambaa’s illustrations and designs.
Stand-up comedian Churchhill and Gossip Columnist Smitta Smitten are some of the people who have commented about the collection-on the front and back cover.
This collection was launched at the recent Storymoja Hay Festival and is now available in local supermarkets and bookshops for Kshs. 300.
Why the name ‘Wasee Wasee!? You might ask. That’s how mchongoano challenges start, like how we say ‘Hadithi Hadithi!’ at the beginning of a story.
Eudiah Kamonjo is a freelance journalist and writer. See her Personal Blog.
Review Borrowed from Haiya
To find out about Storymoja, the publishing company and how you can get your work published with them, go here
