Long ago…some twenty two years ago…at the Mathari Hospital… a little baby girl was born…She was named…Maureen…Bitterness of the Sea…I am told the name means…Brown…full of life…a baby girl who hated food… A little girl whose nickname became Yokozuna…though today I see no resemblance of that….

My parents were not and still aren’t rich…not in the very sense of the word…But they made sure I never lacked…and so I got spoilt rotten…Got used to having people around though I do not say much among strangers…I prefer to blend with the wall…

Somewhere along the way…in the boarding school with the Sisters and High School with the all –so- strict and upright Miss Wahome…(My former head teacher who I love Dearly)…I developed a non- flexibility…a routine…a resistance to change characteristic if you may call it that….Fast forward and years later…here I am…Facing my inevitable move…After years of getting used to things done for me, I have to learn to depend on Me…Don’t get me wrong…I am very Independent…Just that when it comes to the cooking…the washing…the living alone…I am not too enthusiastic about it…But who knows where this new path will lead? Why Am I so resistant to change? Just what am I scared of? After all, I see myself as a writer…and writers are isolated creatures…So off I am…perhaps I should drum up new fervor…for this Inevitable Move…And hopefully get sucked into a whole new world of Self Discovery:-)

…There was no self-consciousness of the smoke trapped in our nappy hair…of the clothes decorated with patches of dirt that came from sitting on the earth floor…I miss the days we used to fetch water at the stream down the hill…hehe…Of buckets falling….soaking through our garments…and repeating the trip until the water tanks at grandmother’s homestead were full…rewarded with a piece of sugarcane…all that work for a piece of sugar cane…tsk tsk…I miss the simplicity of it all…

The tree climbing…with the disregard of gender…the Picking of coffee…and the feeling of accomplishment to having completed such a daunting task…I miss the slow paced life…days I would stop on the middle of the road to look up at the skies…Why are the skies blue mummy? Why do the clouds look like they are moving? What is the velocity of the wind? Can it carry me? Why can I fly? Why don’t I have wings? Why am I black Mummy? Oh look, a bird!!! Ah, pure bliss…

…and then there is the fact that it was all green…so beautiful…just like in the animated movies …The air…so unspoiled by industries and numerous vehicles on the roads…I miss the days of no worries…days I would run down the hill with the dress blowing in the wind…I suppose I had seen too much of the Sound of Music…

I miss days of old when we could all sit around the Black and White Samsung…anxiously waiting for a wrestling match on a Monday evening…Yokozuna, remember him? A man skilled with sitting at wrestlers chests, crushing their poor bones…I always wondered what those men took before going into the ring with him…I still cring at the thought of such matches…not forgetting grandmother’s exclamations every time…’Ngai, Nioragwo’ “God! He has been killed’ It was comical…Especially since she always let out a bloodcurdling scream after she saw the man she thought dead stand and limp away…

Ah…the memories of the days of old almost go up in smoke with the sky scrapers, the traffic jams…the horrible smells…the tap water…the ignorance of the young generation…the clubs…the lack of a cultural identity…the English…the English…the English…the  days of old are unrivaled…I wonder what the next generation will think of this what will be their days of old…

His name is Truth. And boy does he preach it! He will tell you that you look horrible when you do look horrible…okay …maybe terrible…he has no time for pleasantries…no time to be subtle about things….for him, a fact is just that…a fact…Take it or leave it…Once a lady threatened to kill herself in his house…he turned and told her she was free to do whatever she wanted…die, live…just as long as it wasn’t in his house…well, I guess that is truth served cold…

His name is Arrogance…his superiority….his conceit…his egotism…his pride…And why not? His brand is in the things he touches…his influence felt in the offices he visits…They all know his name…Recognize its importance…They all know how hard he worked to get here…they all know his not so humble beginnings…that class he carried even when he had nothing to his name….

His name is Gentleman…he opens the car door, leads the lady by the hand…holds her by the waist and steers her in the direction they are both headed…a man who will pull her chair…and wont sit until she has sat…he will order for a glass of Champagne…listen to her go on and on about her family, that bitch from work, her bad habits…listen to her shrill laugh and think it beautiful…. And when he has driven her home and walked her to her doorstep, he will kiss the back of her hand…say he had a lovely evening….make another date and leave her to dream about him….a gentleman…but calculating, isn’t he?

His name is Romance…he capitalizes on intimacy…a candlelit dinner for two at a jazz club…preferably at a table at the corner….he holds the Lady’s hand…leans in to whisper in her ear to share a joke…or to tell her how lovely she looks…he looks deep into her eyes…not enough to make her uncomfortable, but with just the right amount of intensity, to convey his feelings…no matter how slight…she gets it…she will blush…she will giggle…he will peck her cheek…squeeze her hand…and when the timing is right, claim a dance…Jazz….with the bass…Jazz with the acoustic…Jazz with the Keys…Jazz with the saxophone…Jazz with the sultry voice accompanying the instruments…and as they dance he plucks at her heart strings…drawing her deeper into his world…his life with his words…words that carry intimate meanings…

His name is Passion… He leaves the Lady with an obsession…he leaves her infatuated…with a kind of craze that surrounds him…that surrounds Passion…an excitement…a fervor…an ardor…she will see him tomorrow…she will see him in the following days with a zeal…she cannot stop herself…cannot hold herself in check…No sir, she will see him tomorrow, The Logic, The Truth, The Arrogance, The Gentleman, The Romance…The passion…She will hope to marry him…He who branded her with his All…. He who is Her Man…

I know it is challenging to find new material to write about daily, hell, it took me a year to finally write again (I did explain it in the previous article)…but that in no way gives you the right to assault us with your lack of creativity…it reminds me of the first time I ever tried to make fish…a harrowing experience I must add …I was sixteen years old, and back then Fish was my thing…I would go to the market place and look for the biggest Tilapia fish they could spare…the collective smell of the delicacy at the market place was enough to give me a bad case of nasal damage but a girl had to have her fish…and so on this bright day I took it upon myself to see it cooked….I had seen mother prepare it a dozen times…I was a brilliant observer, a good student…nothing could go wrong…it was the self confidence I suppose, that resulted to the end result that came out  …well…fishy…I need not mention the fact that it ended up on the walls, kitchen mat, in my hair, face and on my clothes for you to know that it was a complete disaster…the house reeked for two weeks!! Two weeks of being constantly reminded of a venture that ended up in the gutter.

My family had a good laugh…but it left a ghastly taste in my mouth…literally…I never went near fish again…the experience was ruined for me…So why do I read the blog, you might ask…simple…I read it to feed my curiosity…to see what will they say today that is completely out of place, that is so absurd… to see what they will say that will be so annoying that I will find inspiration to write my own piece…so I suppose we have an awkward relationship, that Blog and I …that Fish and I…

And then I have read from a writer who has made me dream of smoky silky nights in the Caribbean…made me dream of wine glasses and Jacuzzi s…of scented candles and rose petals…of Jazz and Opera…of the Fox trot and the Tango…A writer who unknowingly feeds the siren in me…who awakes my intellect…the Voice, I call him…the voice of consciousness…a voice rich in bass… the voice of reason…authoritative…the voice of romance…gentle…it reminds me of the first time I ever kissed a man… No displeasure…just a whole world of possibilities…of discovering a different feel…a different sensation…a different tune to the words…to the music…strange isn’t it, that the planet of lexis can be so different…I suppose we have a healthy relationship, that Voice and I…that Kiss and I…

There is a writer who makes me wonder of the secrets of the night…of the meaning behind words…of the creatures in the shadows…makes me wonder to what tune the trees are dancing to…to what words do the leaves flutter…to what flow does the water rock…makes me question a symphony…She reminds me of the first time I ever sang…a beautiful melody… filled with genuine emotion…that carried tears…that carried hunger…that carried agony…that carried  a longing…I call her Music…a gentle combination of notes ending in a shuttering crescendo…a striking finale that calls for an encore…that leaves one clutching at their chest…holding back the silver tears that threaten to fall and soak a beautiful gown…I suppose we have a loving relationship…Music and I…

I believe they all draw emotion… the disparity in how they say it…making me have different relationships within me…the assembly of words…the mating of voices…the splendor in the paradox …the hating, the loving, the disunity, the admiration, the envy… the Fish…the Voice…the Music…all in Me…

I never was a believer for charm. In fact, I brushed the whole thing away with little more than a snobbish snort whenever sombody decided to bring the subject up. See, I was pretty sure that anything that presented itself as charm was nothing but a lie. A dreadful lie for that matter. Perhaps I over reacted then but there was simply nothing I could do about it. Until that particular incident…

I was walking in the play ground one beautiful Sunday afternoon totally indifferent to what was going on around me. The children’s happy  noises filled with screams and laughter barely registered as I walked alone, far apart from the crowd. See, I was more happy brooding alone. Or I thought I was, Until I saw him. And what a sight he was!

He was half caked in dust as he tried to reach the ball which had fallen under one of the merry-go rounds. The strain was apparent in the way his shoes dug in the ground and in the way his hand stretched and his fingers inching frustratingly away from the ball. Nobody seemed to notice his predicament. My feet moved aganist my will and before I knew it, I was kneeling beside him, picking the ball. As he turned, I experienced a moment of panic which was quickly quenched by the one smile he flashed. In his mouth were perfect white teeth;on his right cheek, a charming dimple.

His face flushed from the afternoon heat, he took my hand and led me to the field for a game of soccer. As I looked down and smiled at him, I realised one thing; I had been charmed by a five year old. And what a Charmer!

They said that safety comes with belief , the lack of it caused by misbelief. Yet as I ponder this statement, I cannot help but pause in my path. The midnight countryside air clear of the pollution that normally carpets the City Centres drifts to my nostrils and as I deeply inhale, comes a sudden thought in my head.

Heart pounding, I quickly turn around to see a cat run sillohueted in the shadows. Calming a little, I continue with my midnight stroll, eyes drawn to what I left behind when I chose City Life…by default. Distracted, I walk towards a tree and sit underneath. There In the Shadows, I am free to dream, to see all that the naked eye can see…and only there can I laugh or cry in abandon….

There In the Shadows, I find the false sense of security …yet these same shadows, could be my ruin…My father, My robber, My Peace, My tormentor, My Pride, My shame….

In the Shadows, one thing is for sure…Nothing ever is the same again…For In the Shadows, there is a certain unconceivable change.

To help me drown my sorrows

To help me collect the pieces my life has become

To help me wear my shame like a crown

You said you would dry my tears

You would help me see that no sin was unforgivable

You would see me through my dark times

You would be my knight in shinning armor

For the blinders I wore

I believed you

Hang onto every word you said

And so I waited; waited for my Saviour

Patience, I said to myself…

It turned to self-pity

I had made a fool of myself

For loving such an ingrate