WHEN GOD SAYS NO

Yahweh’s promises are YES, AMEN and TRUE! I read Deuteronomy, Psalms, Acts and every promise in the 66 and was assured; assured of love, security, heaven-bound immortality and Emmanuel’s aura. I want to trample on scorpions, prophesy in tongues and partake every fruit from the HolySpirit’s orchard. I am ready to squeeze through the narrow road and progress through my pilgrimage. But then the silence…

I gave my best, albeit it will never pan out to full-force holy. I venture and pray over what I perceive to be my calling. Then I launch, convinced that the voice propelling my wings is the wisdom you built the foundations of the earth with. The fall is harder than pride’s leap in defiance of gravity and old-age caution. I should testify of how pain has its own monopoly on parts of your body that you wished you never owned, had you been consulted. Pain grips your heart in a manner likened to Paul’s “thorn in the flesh”-the one that makes a pierced lion submit to a monkey’s fingers. Trust me, I had enough monkeys chattering and howling for my humility to know what monkey business is.

Still, I got up. I’m not one for tears but if I shed them at this phase, I must have used them to wipe off the dust. At it again, I lunged further and soared higher. This time, laugh with me, I got not only the thud of my fall but also the haha and the ooh! Have you ever re-read the Bible, armed with your evangelical telepastor’s interpretation of God’s word, backed by fervent testimonies of how it will work out? Well I have, I am proud to confess that the particular phase of confusion that I endured is over and done with. In anger, I wanted to surrender to the brews or binge in compensatory purchases. I deserted dreams that I had ventured and brooded in lamentations. There were zombies all around me settling for less but I would not have it.

Usually people in my shoes would mock my faith for trying the umpteenth time. But you don’t find a lot of size 11s around, so mock all you want. I lost fans to gain friends. I lost friends to gain acquaintances. It was an eventual tagline to my life,” Life’s too short to waste on dreams.”

Here I am asking God if He meant wait or no. I can see Canaan at a distance, through Moses’s vision and not Joshua’s eyes. Or shall I liken it to the temple in David’s dream as the voice that tells me NO! Did you mean wait, oh God Most High? I really want to do this…still NO!

Now that I hear you so clearly, above my disappointment and enthroned on your will, I contemplate whether I did not have your blessing going out.  I prayed and fasted, knowing this was it-my Goliath was about to fall. But You O Lord, saw otherwise from your seat of infinite wisdom. Humble pie tasted by the tongue that laments so bitterly is bland indeed. Now what?

I wait on you, Oh Lord. If I need the patience, I seek your grace. You are an open dam overflowing with insight, a brook that truly never runs out. You are not mean but are tactful, abundant in blessings that the human eye cannot discern. I take the no, gladly knowing that nothing on earth can compare to my mansion in heaven. I am counting my blessings, turning down the chidings and hurt and tuning in to the station of your will.

ONE GIRL’S HELL,ANOTHER GIRL’S PARADISE

FIRST WIFE: Peace be unto this house.( places plate down) Why are you like that?

HALIMA: (sniffles and buries her head on her knees in tears)

FIRST WIFE: Tell me...(accidentally dips her head in a pool of blood) Ah,that’s why you are crying?

HALIMA: He beat me up,my body is paining all over. He was so rough last night.

FIRST WIFE: He did not mean to hurt you. It’s his way of showing love.

HALIMA: I am so hurt,I don’t want him to come here at night.

FIRST WIFE: It’s only because it is your first time. You are so lucky,other girls your age want a husband as rich as ours.

That is an excerpt from a Nigerian movie Dry  by Stephanie Okereke Linus: Halima is nine years. For a minute there,I switched stations and went to keep up with whatever is in vogue to tear down the definition of femininity. A definition arrived at after countless centuries of activism,only to be torn down by  attention-seeking ingenues that could not return a favour and fight for their enslaved sisters. Then I switched back to the movie and recognised a world that I had forgotten to remember.

It was probably one patient ,passed over from the unfortunate hands of a crude traditional birth attendant. They broke her but could only admit to wanting her fixed,whole to birth more babies.Thank God for adult diapers? No,she could not afford them as often as the stool and urine spilled;literally spilled uncontrollably. The ward reeked because of her fistula,even pots with festering wounds complained of that kettle. She needed a surgey and her monthly Kshs.500 NHIF remittance might have been able to cover it.But that was a privillege way above her partner’s wages;besides,the contribution would be diverted to campaign coffers and sponsoring sports events while she languished in her own filth.

The free maternal care programme that would have encouraged a hospital delivery was not so free, with strings attached to the NHIF subscription. We did not even have enough experienced Obstetrics & Gynaecologist specialists in our facility(yet it was in the second highest tier of hospital classification that should have these). She would have to travel thousands of kilometres away to the national referral hospital to book a corrective surgical procedure that might not be immediate;give or take weeks of  waiting and prayer to be included in the waiting list for free procedures.So add the horror of a cumbersome bus ride through the roughest roads with bumps,the bickering by other passengers and the impatient relatives who might not be able to host a latrine for a relative.But thank God for partners like Freedom from Fistula,otherwise...

She was the girl whom grumpily I ate for when my tantrums could not fathom mother plating ugali and beans.In my friend’s world seen through the TV,she was my warning that people were starving in that drought;her parents’ cows and goats kissing the caked-dry grave in that severe five year torture.Obviously,our tales of getting to campus  were different struggles.While history had favoured my ancestors to be at the right place and choose to educate women before me,she had a mother who heeded her husband’s every command.Even when this meant making her daughter revise her horror of being a child bride. My parents kept a bank account,while a clever man with camels and Zebus in her village had a flock that outlived the drought.That sexagenarian man was her village’s SI Unit of riches and he preyed on teenage belles like her to wife them after the mother’s ensured they were “cut” to the cusomary requirements.

She was the heroine that would tell her grandchildren what shelter her defiance and flight landed her in;straight to the bold arms of the woman who run it.This woman would be bold enough to vie for governor but would be asked to forget it for rousing a bigger rubble than she could handle. My friend was a stolen wife who might never go home,valuing her culture from a distance but craving a change. She taught me not to chase after the trends so much as I should to help her settle in this freedom she is painfully adjusting to.

In my paradise,FGM was dying.In her hell, she was fanning it ablaze. She scoffed at alternative rites of passage like I would at corruption. “I am a woman,not a victim who happens to be a girl. Expect me to do it for my daughter as my mother did it for me,” she declared as I mulled over the pages of Letter to my Sisters. This short story had not gotten through to her. She bragged of how she would sneak her unborn daughter past her husband-to-be,claiming they were both going to visit the grandmother. I bet it would hurt my friend when she sees that the mutilation that she was campaigning for might cost her the unborn daughter.

Paradise is a daily struggle but it gets easier with all of us in it. Initiators of the #MeToo movement or suffragists who demanded a vote for evry skirt never envisioned setting many free. The silence or ignoring of women may have set our sisters and daughters up for the same trap. There are enought music videos,books and other audio-visual content that berate us and spur on molestors. We need to expect this danger,the world is rotten. We should expect to fight for it,suspect any other definition of paradise,face fragile masculinity head-on,invest in greater esteem for all men and tear down institutionalised sexism. I don’t need to tell you how,but I will if I have to...

THE GRINCH WHO STOLE THE CHRISTMAS OF OCEANPARK.

Let me call him GM,for now.The lord of this land,hovers with green eyes over this place and has stern words for those who speak of his green-loving deeds.I could care less now that I am moving out,my final middle-finger stance to a wizard that would fit in at Oz.He might have been a clean man once,he did love water so much that he once envisioned parking an ocean for his tenants.But nothing could blind his rage when the tenants did not give him the 5k rent hike.I mean,it is just 5000Kshs."These people get high class real estate for a pittance and cannot fork the same amount that they spend in a weekend outing at the mall."I hear those were the few decent words the caretaker could divulge on his instructions.

What the caretaker could not divulge to the leader of our neighbourly care,we found out the hard way. We were bold for believing that this is not the kind of Kenya where GM could infringe on our rights without a fight.We were smart for rushing to the Rent Tribunal to get an injunction,they ruled against his rushed hike faster than he could say "Two weeks notice."Oh,we went for Christmas overjoyed that the law was on our side.We were foolish for underestimating that GM operated under jungle rules.I mean,you cannot buy class, a heart or manners, no matter how rich one is.

I came home one evening to a crowd gathered at the ground floor, a sight we reserve for parking brawls gone awry. I had not anticipated that it was a neighbourly care meeting. Just then I remembered with shame that I was yet to fork out my 5 sock(500Kshs) for the lawyer fees.As I paid the cash,our neighbourly care head jokingly hinted that we might be visited by the grinch who stole Christmas.

The grinch came in his full green colour,spraying the stench of uncollected garbage along the staircases. We reeked of French baths when he cut off the water and the bulky Christmas stock in fridges began rotting.We were enraged but the grinch was just warming up.On the dying days of December, a father rushed home to an emergency report of vandalism in his home.

The grinch smeared his green bile through the window of a tenant,giving his two children a front row seat to the sewage spill atrocity.We all were foolish to associate oceanic serenity with the name Oceanpark for the apartments when GM had goons who could pollute his ocean...where do you get bucketloads of sewage and how do you ferry it?The caretakers were long gone...

The audacity of GM to rattle the middle-class snake.Someone called someone from a media house.You would think that nationwide TV broadcast, middle-class tongue-lashing all over Twitter handles and a court order would arrest the grinch.Mkscheww!

A week later,all the tenants got the final green spilled at the doorway of the storied apartments. Who needs all this stress in January,it's the third day and we still house last month's problems?We argued with an untouchable fool,the kind that poisons children to model after leaders who infect them with communicable diseases by spilling sewage in fields.The night-blind police cannot sight him by day but likely drink on his bill by night.Bankable truth,they would never be mad enough to be his tenants.You have to be crazy to hammer a mosquito on your skin,unless it is ill-gotten easy come cash.

CHA BABA CHA MAMA

Cha baba Cha Mama is your typical child's play where children role-play their family structure. Nyef nyef alert: If your liberal house has two babas and no mama,I can guarantee you NO Kenyan parent will love your child's influence as a playmate. Children's innermost thoughts are revealed when they play.Children are innocently mirror a society,which could be anything from your househelp's accent to those cartoons that Ezekiel Mutua banned;even the gay lions if you are overtly controlling like that. 

Children are so innocently speak their mind,that is ,until they start to see that line of shame and truth. Once in a while, play with them.Pass the baton of these games we had-we, the Facebook generation,are failing terribly at this.Other times let them roam free(even though you have your corner eye on them).Once in a while,designate a playspot within the confines of your watchful eye and enjoy the drama that is Cha Baba cha Mama.

Children's mirrors are their games, counsellor's tap into it and call it play therapy. So children act out parental roles inspired by parents,the babysitters (from the TV that you leave them locked up with or househelps) or the neighbours. If I reflect on my childhood days correctly,Cha Baba Cha Mama offers insight on how I understood the family unit.The queen bee or king lion usually assigned roles.These two would most likely be the parents and take up that role with the authority that comes with it.It's comical watching kids feign arguments, act bossy and play that chauvinism-feminism card,innocently of course.

The next great thing to these roles would be either firstborn/siblings uncle/aunts/house guests(you will have the stage when summoned for a visit).The remaining roles would never be fought for but rather against-the maid,furniture, hawkers, watchman.It basically said,"In this game you are to be seen ocassionally, dangling at the periphery of our worlds." It was like being the donkey in a Christmas play.If children could and still cry about these roles,it makes you wonder what was and is being subtly communicated  by their parents in the latter's interaction with these characters in real life.A friend had me cracked up enough to write this story.Ati they don't own a table in their house because they always played "table" in this Kenyan version of house

Cha baba cha mama was basically a play with stage appearances that were fun as long as you were on stage.Baba had to find a space and partition it into rooms,building cars (out of clay),cars which he would drive to work to return with household items

(recycled trash).Mama had to arrange the house and fend for the children, the latter mimicking baby monkeys.If real-life mom was a gossip or Facebook addict,expect that Cha Mama Mom to do the same.If real-life Dad hid behind newspapers and remotes to avoid his parenting role,please applaud the kids who take after that Cha baba Dad.

As you struggle to remember which role you played,get a laugh out of it.Maybe you attended a wedding of lovebirds who sowed their love at this stage.Just a warning:Get worried when a particular pair of kids always assigns themselves the Mom-Dad role like Daphne & Fred of Scoobydoo sleuths. In today's world,get anxious when Mom-Dad assignees go to a secluded  bedroom.Which reminds me,how do you react when you find two kids innocently in the act?Another story for another day.

THE TALE OF UGALI

Once upon a time,there was a land called Kenya.People loved eating and eating maize at that.They ate maize on the cob(boiled,roasted on a charcoal grill and rubbed red with a lemonhead dipped in achari),maize as popcorns,maize as free seeds mixed with beans etc.But the best kind of maize was that which was ground into flour then systematically worked into a paste under heat.That was not maize,it was ugali. Ugali went well with everything,except the things that did not sit well with ugali.Ugali fish,ugali beef,ugali terere,ugali matumbo-golden rule is to never mix your ugali with another starch form.Some liked it so soft,but never the mashy form cooked down south of Africa.Some liked it so hard that you could be charged with assault for hitting someone with a piece of ugali.

A good wife knew how to cook your ugali right.It was the litmus test if you were not these borntown boys who abscond the blade by the river for that of the clinician. It has been postulated,though not empirically proven,that the quality of ugali is to blame for marital strife(a quote borrowed and modified to edify the urban pizza hunters & gatherers).
Now ugali spiked the demand for maize so high that it became the staple food of Kenya.To qualify as a breadbasket,acres and acres of Zea mays had to be witnessed.Man(in the strict sense of gender) shall not thrive on rice or cereals at breakfast,he shall thrive on ugali the whole day.Unless you work in a mjengo,ugali at lunchtime is a sedative that renders you unconscious.
Then it happened.People politicised ugali.There was talk of famine,there was talk of drought-silos had no cereals to sell. The price of maize flour scaled to Yego heights and it became unaffordable to cook ugali. Can you imagine serving 3 packets of spaghetti to attain the satisfying value of 1 packet of ugali?People talked and grumbled,it was 2017,an election year in Kenya. The Gvt & opposition ping-ponged the issue,their armies on the ground did likewise.
Then the Gvt subsidised the price and the consumption as well.1 packet per household?Might as well serve tea for dessert too. Sugar and milk prices high too?Eish,they have finished us.The end is here.
If you thought things were worse,brace yourself. Soon there was no maize flour at all...GOK or baller's version. My child we ate chapatis until we developed an allergy. We formed cartels with supermarket attendants,as soon as a new shipment arrived we were in the know before it ran out of stock in 15 mins. Each family member bought their separate packets at 90/= Kshs and we secured enough for the week. Those were hard times that brought out the worst in us. Imagine some supermarkets had funny rules like"spend 500/= to get 1pkt of unga" or "buy 2pkts and we will ship it to you at a cost of 400/=". 
That is the myth of ugali,our long lost friend.

TALITHA KUMI

This July has been mildly cold.Unless you come from Nyahururu where Game of Thrones fans wanted to migrate for the upcoming premier of "Winter is finally here".Thankfully,it was not snow,it was sleet or hailstones.
It is a fact that during the cold we lose more people to the afterlife,especially the old.The names are out there by now. But this cold season we have reversed the order. There is Mama Rosa from West Pokot,the most recent miracle( 22 or 23rd/6/2017)as witnessed by the Repentance & Holiness Ministries. Cheparten village in West Pokot had their Talitha kumi command via texts from the Prophet Owuor but loyal bishops in the locality of the miracle verified the claims,some of whom are doctors.Death took 2hrs of the victim's life and gave her sleepy village fame.
Next comes Mwingi,Mbondoni village(17/6/2017) where a 1-month infant heard her Talitha kumi 3 days after she was thought dead. No prophets this time,just a cough to alert the women dressing her. The death phase had not been confirmed by any medic but the people around rightfully presumed a cold body and no breath signalled death. It was just in time for the child who was minutes away from her burial.
In Gakwegori mortuary(March 2017),there was a failed resurrection when the Eagles Wings Ministry did not soar high enough to Talitha Kumi the pastor's wife. Here was a medically confirmed death from TB treatment that forced congregants to ambush the morticians and lock them out until prayers and and anointing oil yielded nothing. Did they think the similar attempts of
Nakuru's Kingdom Seekers on their departed pastors two years earlier were amateurish?It seems morticians have more to fear outside the morgue than inside when mobs lock them out to tongue-lash death in prayer. Unless you count the case of that failed suicide attempt in Naivasha when the corpse ingested enough insecticide to slow its heartbeat and woke up alive in a morgue (8/1/2014).
What of the presumed dead who show up alive & kicking? I CAN'T,,,,,how do you demand a refund on the emotional turmoil such news can cause. Death is unfair,challenging it is futile unless you are rooted in the eternal God.Rest in peace our beloved,safiri salama.

ONCE I WAS A FEW YEARS OLD

Once I was nursed, washed, weaned and wrapped in diapers with my excreta constantly spewing next to my tout baby epidermis. I could not tell a minute from a second and my communiqué was gurgles, coos, giggles, wails, pouts, drools and wiggles. First there was Mother then Father then people whom I forgot as soon as they left. I crawled then stumbled whereas now I walk.  Once I was a few years old.

I wore my sandals the other way round: it felt so right. I ran up and down church pews, so confident in my Father’s house. Inside-out, outside-in; what were those? Right, left, back, front, mauve, purple-I did not care for complications and just wanted to be. I ate what was served although I craved the sticky sweet affections of confectionary. I was told when my own stomach was full or when my brain was empty. Once I was a few years old.

I was made ready for everything and everything was made ready for me. The calendar held no meaning for me. I was told its Sunday when Father travelled, Monday when Mother wore her lab coat and Saturday when I slept in. Christmas was heralded by crepe paper everywhere and New Year was a countdown I screamed out. Diwali was a sky-lit horizon and Ramadhan was not a strict fast for me. Easter was a puzzling crucifix that horrified me at the memories of movies behind it. Once I was a few years old.

There were emotions to be felt, understood and later managed. The endless retinue of friends to be made, fights to pick, tantrums to throw, falls to bandage or walk off, songs to sing, words to learn, adults to respect, tears to dry out, chores to do…how did I do it all? I morphed so fast yet so slow that I fail to grasp the twelve years that slipped out of my expected eighty. Once I was a few years old.

Pimples, menarche, pubarche, adrenarche, crushes, rebellion, self-consciousness- juggling all this with school, passage rites and the unclear dawn of adulthood. Was it the allure of make-or-break decisions? Or maybe the daunting dare to finally be all I had imagined or more? Now I was more than a few years old, less than what I needed to regret being my age.