Beloved Kenya, You Never Cease To Amaze Me!

I saw you stumble and stagger and fear gripped me as I helplessly watched, praying hard that you wouldn’t fall. When Kofi Annan saw a light at the end of the tunnel, I breathed in deep with all my might for I had been holding in, in fear. But that did not last coz soon after, a threat was issued that you would be visited by mass demonstrations. I held my breath again and went back to praying and hoping and making wishes. At some point I almost give up on you coz I had no answers, everything seemed impossible.

But what did you do? You turned around with a wide grin on your beautiful face, looked at me pitifully and said, “it’s gonna be alright, not to worry”.

Blessed are you my fantastic mother land and that the whole world can see. That you never deterred from the course even when we, your sons and daughters were in the verge of loosing faith in you is exceptionally brave of you.

When brother Odinga said that he “would do everything possible to make sure that the agreement is successful” tears of joy filled the wells that are my eyes. Everything for you my Kenya. I owe you my belonging, my identity, the I am whom I am. But as I tell you these you laugh it off as if it was nothing, encouraging me to be happy. You have never looked so beautiful to me, like you do now.

That your son Kibaki did not swell with greed of power, but was willing to share some for your sake is admirable. That your Honourable son Raila, who has been spoilt by your love, was man enough to sacrifice his ambitions for power by all means, is phenomenal. He earned my respect when he called his brother “President Kibaki” for your name sake. Bless them mother land, they are true statesmen today.

I miss you my darling Kenya, to dance to your happy African tunes, to explore your beautiful features. The mountains, the Rifts, the valleys, the plains, the coast, the forest, the rivers, the lakes, the ocean, the animals and mostly your forty two tribes of a nation. Who can doubt that your are truly special?

I hope that we, your sons and daughters will now work extra hard to restore and maintain your reputation. That we will reciprocate your love for us by loving each other. That we will appreciate your peaceful nature by nurturing peace among us. That we will share your fruits in unity as you have provided for us. May we all be equal in thy sight.

I thank those that came when you called. Annan, Kikwete and other eminent persons who heard your children cry and came to offer assistance. But my love, heed not the Babylon states that seek to exploit you, to use your children as slaves. You will do fine with Africa for you are, a true African. A pride, as such.

My flag is high up and there it will remain as you embark on the real ‘second liberation’. Fly as high as my pride for you this day and show them all, how majestic you are!

I Love Kenya!

Your Son Njoro.

Something To Be Happy About!

There was a certain mood in the air. Some kind of a festive attitude was everywhere and on most of the facial expressions on the people that I met. Though I could not for sure tell what it was, I could feel it in me as well. Something in the near wait, something good, something expectant, a coming soon though not new.

I like the sound of the flaccid snow softly breaking under my feet, later to melt into dirty water and run down the city’s drainage system. I often wonder how many litres of water came from the snow every winter. Must be an ocean of it. The white stuff from the skies covered every space and object on the ground plus all the roof tops and trees. Beautiful at first, it eventually turns into an ugly dirty grey from all the stamping kneading it to a mixture with the black soil, before finally giving in and melting away.

Walking through the park, I noticed the newly erected ceremonial tree in the middle, yet to be decorated. On both sides of the park, men had put up camp and big heaps of freshly cut little trees were waiting for these years’ customers. In the centres of these camps were camp fires made by reject branches from the little trees, and off the fires came the familiar sweet scent of firewood smoke. The little trees and the scent reminded me of another time, another place far away. Home.

I was about seven years and we, me and my friends Jora and Wanyos were playing with the sand heap opposite my house. ‘Boy’ had run to his home to empty his bladder and probably “steal” a mouthful and pocketful of getheri as he often did. The boy loved eating and his body was good evidence to that. The sand was meant to be used in building a new house at the site but since it took sometime before the job kicked off, it became our favourite playing place. We would fill our tin made toy trucks with the stuff and transport it to other “sites” where we would build our “houses”.

While playing in the sand, we had to be on alert for the owner who loved to surprise us with unannounced visits. These visits resulted, if one got caught, to a good beating before being taken home to our parents where there was a guaranty of a bonus beating.

The sound of the village young men could be heard from far as they returned from some adventure that we were not allowed to be part of. My uncle and his friends were the village young men. Around ten years older than us. They had the freedom to play wherever they wanted, but not us the village kids, we were not to go outside the village without an adult supervision. They had fun and we envied them.

We ran to see what they had been up to this time which sometimes could be a good surprise for us. Their trips to the woods could yield wild berries of different sorts, fresh honey, a wild kill; from a rabbit to a gazelle, or just some fish depending on their luck. As we met them and to our disappointment, we realised that each one of them was carrying a small tree. Us we, bored, went back to our games we knew what it meant. Later on during the day they would call us and demand that we go look for stuff to decorate the trees with, bougainvillea flowers and such.

As we settled back to our game, ‘Boy’ back and chewing hard on his getheri, we heard the familiar sound of the Voxwagon beetle labouring up the hill and we froze. ‘Materu’ the nightmare was here. ‘Materu’ was the richest man in the village also the fattest and even worse the owner of the sand we were busily distributing around in our trucks!

We rose, prepared to make the now common dash and as usual came the moment we dreaded most. ‘Materu’, so called because he had a beard that never heard of razors or scissors since it started sprouting from his lower face, despised kids. But though we did our best to stay out of his way ‘Boy’ the village nuisance, could never resist the urge to provoke him. ‘Materu’ knew that people called him so, but never to his face. He was so huge that I was sure even the bravest of the village men feared him. He had a belly huge enough for anyone of us kids to comfortably fit in and live inside hidden from the rest of the world. I could not understand why a man of his size would have a beetle for a car. The pitiful thing heaved heavily down on one side every time he sat in it and jumped up as if in a mixture of joy and relief every time he disembarked.

‘Boy’ started laughing stupidly amused at something only he could tell. He put the handful of getheri he was just about to throw into his eagerly waiting big mouth, back into his shorts pocket and waited. ‘Materu’ who had by this time seen us was just about to drive past when ‘Boy’ let it go, “Materu!” he shouted at the top of his voice. Even before the ‘u’ left his big mouth we were a good fifty meters away. ‘Materu’ braked hard and came to a stop by the sand hill with ‘Boy’ only a few meters away. ‘Boy’ had not noticed that we had taken off so when he turned to start his sprint, he let out a loud scared scream calling after his mother after realizing that he was on his own. Lucky for him, it took ‘Materu’ precious seconds to drag his giant self out of the beetle and start the now familiar chase, a disadvantage that led to an almost sure win for us. If he was ever to decide to loose weight, I was sure it would be more for revenge than for his own health.

Afterwards and sure that ‘Materu’ had given up the chase, we stopped under the huge jacaranda tree to laugh off the “comedy”. ‘Boy’ too was laughing with tears in his eyes. Though he played along as if it was nothing, we could tell that he had been scared well this time. But we also knew that that was not going to stop him. He had a reputation to keep.

When I came home for lunch, I found the small tree erected in the centre of our sitting room, my sister already putting cotton wool all around it. My uncle came in a moment later with the flowers that would soon join the cotton wool in the tree. “Where have you been, I’ve been looking for you?”, “outside” I answered and prayed it would stop there. “Go get the ribbons” he commanded and I rushed to the bedroom to retrieve the annual ribbons, used every year for this occasion for as long as I could remember. Once brightly coloured and shiny, they were now starting to fade.

As I came back, my uncle was putting on some music on the record player, the only one in the whole village at the time. The pleasant sound of it soon filled the house and we danced while decorating the small tree, it was Booney M singing ‘Mary’s boy child’.

From the kitchen came the scent of a burning fire, I loved that smell and I can still remember it today, I miss it. Now, here I am thousands of miles away in a similar atmosphere but different still. All the same the season is the same all over the world something to be happy about. Christmas is coming, a time for positive thinking, hope and most important a time to express love. Something to be happy about!

Njoro

Beloved Love.

He had always perceived the presence of someone moving around close by. But he never dared ask coz though the presence felt friendly, he could not tell for sure. Somehow, in a way he could not identify, he enjoyed these times and he found himself longing for the moments of the presence.

But today was different. The presence felt nigher, as if needing. He had lived miserably, blind, and for these he feared that a reaction from him would scare away the solacing presence.

“It wouldn’t be worth it” he had always concluded.

But today was different. The presence was reaching out.

“Who goes there!?” he asked without thinking.

“It’s me” came the answer from an angels voice.

“You who?” he had to ask, hopefully, as he realised that presence lingered.

“Am the one you have been waiting for.”

“How would you know that I have been awaiting?” he asked.

“I can see it in your eyes” was the reply.

He pondered, trying to make sense of the answer and the whole conversation.

“But my eyes can not see”

“Even so” said the presence.

He knew that the presence was right but the answer was not complete. He inferred that he had been waiting for the presence, but how could she know by not knowing?

“Am me” he introduced.

“I know and I like you” said the presence.

He felt the presence move nearer and felt the soft touch ; like a mother’s touch, soothingly on his face.

The touch moved, soft and sweet within the confinement of his face.

“I can see!!” he exclaimed.

In front of him was a beautiful smiling face, the smile covering every dot of the face.

She seemed to spread the smile all around him making him discover joy! Soft beautiful eyes understanding.

“Hi” she said.

“Are you an angel?” he inquired.

The presence that had now taken form, laughed, like a love song.

“No am not. But I am of God”

“I know you!!” he proclaimed loudly as comfort colonized him.

“I have longed for you. Been looking everywhere for you and yet you were so present.” He whispered in her ear. An attempted romance.

“I know. I have been yearning for this too. But still I don’t know.”

“I do.” He tried.

“Your presence I could not deny, but I can not tell the unknown.” she admitted.

“Will you stay with me?” he had to ask, sounding like a little boy.
“I want you to” he appeared to beg.

“I want to but if only I knew!” grieved the presence.

“What can I do, for you to stay?” he prayed.

“Take you out of you and I will know” she averred.

“But I can not create that!” He cried!

Suddenly, the presence started to pull away.
As if by some force out of her control.
The hands outstretched, she tried to reach out to him.

“Oh love!!!” she appeared to cry.

“But who are you?” He inquired in pain as he realised that the presence was pulling out!

“Am your love!” the face, filled with uncensorable sadness and tears.

“ But it’s you I want……..!” He jerked into a sitting position and there was darkness!
“I …..” he tried searchingly.

He fumbled and switched on the bed side lamp for light, still hurting from the dream!

“ MY LOVE!” he whimpered!

An imagination of Njoro?

Another Day For You And Me In Paradise

Am sitting in a McDonalds, eating my lunch since am uncomfortable taking a lunch box with me from home. A lunchbox always reminds me of my school days and coz I didn’t like it then; it was no fun being forced to carry one, I don’t like it now.

At a table in front of me, a waitress prepares for a painting session. You know, one of those days when the McDonalds treat its kid customers to a fun face painting. Soon enough a line of kids is quickly formed with difficulty as all struggle to be the first in line. The winner of the queue struggle gets his face changed into a Spiderman’s mask within no time. After a pip in the mirror he runs off to show off to his mother with a big grin on his face! It’s easy to tell that he feels supernatural in his mask.

The second boy in line wants to be turned into a lion. ‘No problem’ assures the waitress/painter who assumes the job with ease. She proceeds to do a wonderful job transforming, or rather close to transforming the little boy’s face into a lion’s. Like the first, he too runs off with the same wide grin unlike the lion’s fierce look. At this point my mind wanders off to the lion’s kingdom. Africa. Yes, Kenya.

Somehow, a warming pride wells from within me and I can’t help the widening smile that slowly forms in my face. That’s where I come from. Close to the lion kingdom, neighboring with it. I smile some more as a system forms in my mind. The lion-boy and others like him must know of Africa: Well, that is what automatically comes to mind when you think of lions, right?

If he does, then he would know about the people from that part of the world; Africans. If he is bright enough in his child years, then he might easily guess that am an Africa coz I do look like one. Thus the connection between the boy, the lion and me. The world. Do you see it? Good.

Its fun sitting here and watching the art but I have to get back to work, so singing ´´jambo bwana“ in my head, I go past the art session and out the door.

The everyday sound of traffic is no surprise as I stop just outside the McDonald’s entrance to zip up my jacket after a cold wind blows by. ´This is no Africa` I say to myself as turn left and then right some meters away. This Sunday is unusually sunny and warm for a winter Sunday. The reflection of the sun by the glass walls of a buss stop shelter ahead, forces me to shield my eyes with the palm of my hand.

As I near the bus stop, and just as am about to walk past it, something catches my eye and the ´´jambo bwana“ freezes in my head! I stop and move a few steps backwards to have a better view and sure enough a photo of a black (read African) boy is plastered in the glass wall of the bus stop shelter. His sad big eyes staring almost accusingly at me. In the boy’s little hands is a huge empty bowl. I don’t need do read the text or be told, I get the message. Hungry children in Africa need help.

I force myself to look away and walk away embarrassed. The African pride is replaced by a very uncomfortable feeling as I arrive back to reality. The lion boy is long forgotten as my soul is haunted by the calamities that face Africa, the lion kingdom. The lion kingdom is replaced by Darfur, faces and bony bodies of screaming children. These are not in line for a face painting. No. They are just not in line.

I start to think of a way to end this nightmare, but then am not a Madonna who could easily: with no complications from the law (the queen is law and procedure free), fly down and scoop a David off to her Disney land. Good for the David now the son of Madonna. Who knows maybe he will turn out to be a Malawian Barrack Obama in future .One saved, millions to go.

But still am not happy when I think of Madonna and how the whole deal went. I also remember reading in the papers that the same Madonna does not like what Angelina Jolie is doing as a UN goodwill ambassador. She sees it as idiotic to build a home somewhere for the poor. The same Jolie who is said to have come up with the original idea and even presenting it to the queen of pop, when the two were good friends.

I picture Madonna doing her naughty, or sometimes Jesus, imitation choreography and am glad that I can raise my own child. I remember reading somewhere in the same magazine of another star, Hale Berry, saying ´´ I wish I could be as boney as the kids in Sudan but I hate the flies all around them“. The big eyed boy with a big empty bowl. I am not happy at all.

Though the world all over sudden seems to realize the needs of the African child and the stars are now looking seriously into grabbing an African child from the seemingly futureless continent, I feel a shadowy figure creepily creeping behind this helping hand. The same feeling I get when I see pictures of Maasais all over the world while their state never improves. Or when I hear Oprah bragging about helping African children, yet when she continues gathering billions, none of the children look like a Kenyan million shillings. The feeling of being taken advantage of. But we remain grateful for the much they do. Could we do without them?

Soon, am back at my working station and flapping through the pages of Svd, one of the principal newspapers in Sweden. On the cultural section of it is a coverage of books written on how Africa was torn apart by western super powers as they scrambled for a piece of her. Books telling of the abuse, mistreatment slavery and worse. I make a ´remember note` to myself to read these books or some of them. Maybe by doing so, I might come to a better understanding of how it all started. From the white man to Madonna; the white woman.

I will read the books not expecting to learn anything new since we already have heard the stories. Just to get the terrible details, refresh my memory and see if I could possibly have missed something.

Meanwhile, I’ll dream of an African boy, fighting to be the first in line for a face painting. An African traditional face painting session, somewhere in the lion kingdom. I’ll dream of the mother continent rising as her sun, her rays penetrating every part of the “Dark Continent”, her motherly warmth of love, reaching every country, spreading a smile to every African child.

Their milk white teeth reflecting a healthy care, they musical laughter, audible over the African plains, mountains and valleys. And not a David, in need of a Madonna. Maybe if we all have this same dream, it might get big enough to come true, after all only we Africans can save Africa.

By Njoro.