She Blossoms…
The Centre Must Hold, When Everything Else Changes. I blossom…
I stood on the sandy beach, barely noticing the rising tide, so lost in thought I could have been hit by a wave of salty water and not noticed it. This was the first time I had felt this kind of pain.
Sure, I had felt pain before. I had felt anger, even rage, and the accompanying tears of loss and betrayal, but not pain like this. Here in this quagmire of pain, I was lost, all alone, the friends who had stood by me, and still dared to, could not quite fill the void in my life. It was a chasm, like a blackhole that pulled in everything else that was worth living for, and destroying it, leaving me floating all alone in space.
I had fallen in love. It had come to be. I, Gabrielle Wambui Wanjohi had fallen in love.
I was young, with some vestiges of innocence, naivete that made me believe that I could conquer the world; more importantly, conquer the heart of the one man I thought was worth the silly racing of my heart when he was around.
But I didn’t.
So here I stood, at crossroads, not certain where I should go, but absolutely sure that I did have to move on.
What a contradiction! Free flying, lost in space, and yet weighed down to the lowest dregs of the sea by an emotion I had failed to control.
I finally woke up from the painful reverie. I must have stood there for hours, my red and white floral print sleeveless dress flapping against the ocean breeze. The boys, some of them who had been my closest schemers for our teenage adventures, were now sitting down after a vigourous game of beach football. The madafu guy was giving them a dafu (fresh coconut juice) each at 5 bob. It was Kalume’s turn to pay. Only he was watching me, because he knew how bad I was hurting.
The rest of the boys knew something had gone wrong, but only Kalume had seen the look on my face as my heart broke to tiny irreplaceable pieces. And now he was trying to convince me to take the change my mother has suggested. He was sure that time away would help me heal my heart faster.
My aunt was recently widowed, and her daughters flown out of the coop. My mum thought it would be a good idea for me to go spend some time with her, maybe attend college in the big city, find my career.
I had serious reservations about that.
Perhaps the reason I now hate the December holidays so much, is because when I was a child the entire Wanjohi extended family, Uncles, Aunts, Cousins and all would gather up at my grandparents home at this time.
Now, although my mum, sister and brother lived all the way in Mombasa, and so were considered rather exotic, we were also the poor relatives. My mum worked really hard for us. We always had a meal, decent clothes, and we went to school, during the time when Primary Education in Kenya was not free.
But our clothes were never trendy, and we went to public schools. We were awed when the relatives brought around pizza, burgers, risotto, lasagna, things I’d only ever read about in the John Grishams and Jeffrey Archers I loved so much as a teen.
We did not have colour TV, and the Stereo we owned was ancient. As a matter of fact, for a time, things were so bad that we lived in a house that had no electricity.
I don’t think what we did not have would have mattered much if the relatives had not pointed it out rather mercilessly. Everytime we went to the family reunions, there would be someone certain to make me feel inferior, out of place; because my mother did not earn gazillions, because we did not have a car, because we lived in a tiny bed-sitter, because I had no idea how to eat the pizza, because I was inevitably wearing the cousins’ hand me down jeans from five seasons ago.
And so back then, I was definitely apprehensive about spending any time with the relatives. But by the time Kalume paid the 50 bob he was owed by the madafu guy I was thinking that any other kind of pain could distract me from the horrid agony I was going through now.
***
My aunt’s home was a 5 bedroom bungalow in a leafy green neighbourhood with street names, just about a 10 minute drive from the Nairobi Central Business District. 10 minutes when there was absolutely no traffic, that is. On a good day the easiet time one could make was 45 minutes, and only if you had your own car.
I, of course, had to walk 20 minutes from my aunt’s front gate to a matatu stop that was only ever used by the people who cooked and cleaned for the real citizens of Greenville. Then I’d have to wait nearly an hour if I was not fortunate enough to catch the matatu of the hour before it left. Once I was inside the matatu, usually an old dilapidated piece of metal junk that should not qualify as a vehicle worthy to carry living souls, it would be about 10 minutes on clean smooth roads that a certain government minister or two used, and then another 50 or so minutes stuck in traffic before I could finally get into the CBD.
I knew this because the year I finished high school, I spent the December Holidays volunteering at a Children’s Home in Nairobi, and I had stayed with my aunt then.
My mum had already called her, and she had agreed that I would be well served living with her while I got some tertiary education. She had even communicated with yet another aunt who had offered to cover the initial costs of my education.
In spite of my reservations there was a spark of anticipation, hope that I could leave the past behind. The past, the pain…
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Do you want to know? Will the girl who tells this story move to the big city, find a career, find love, find life? If you do want to know, come here next Friday, and you might just find out. But it might cost you…
And if you do want to help me tell this story, send your suggestions about the issues you want me to address as I (it could be ‘we’) tell this story to creeksideprincess@gmail.com
Have a nice weekend!
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