By Joy Wanjiku Barasa

Communication experts will tell you that about 65 – 70 percent of our communication is non verbal and that in instances where there seems to be a clash between the verbal and non verbal, we should always take the non verbal to be the unsaid truth. So for instance, [...]]]> Of Language and Hearts.

By Joy Wanjiku Barasa

Communication experts will tell you that about 65 – 70 percent of our communication is non verbal and that in instances where there seems to be a clash between the verbal and non verbal, we should always take the non verbal to be the unsaid truth. So for instance, if someone insists that they are fine but their body language – facial expression, posture, eyes etc say otherwise, then we should believe the non verbal. In fact, the non verbal is often used in catching out the many lies said in the verbal. Experts will tell you that if someone is lying you can tell by their eyes. Well, it is not as easy as the movies make it seem but this is based on some significant scientific research about our eye movements.

According to an experiment done by Richard Bandler and John Grinder in their book “Frogs into Princes: Neuro Linguistic Programming (NLP) ” about Visual Accessing Cues, when asked a question, a normal person who is right handed looks in different directions, depending on the images they are being asked to construct (that is from your view point). So if someone looks up and to the left, it indicates a visually constructed image e.g. to imagine a white lion. Up and to the right indicates visually remembered images such as what was the colour of your first car.

To the left implies auditory constructed e.g. try and create the loudest scream you can in your head and to the right implies auditory remembered for instance what was your father’s voice like? Down and to the left is for kinesics, that is the feel of something, taste or smell while down and to the right is for intrapersonal communication when you are having an internal dialogue.

This is best illustrated in the following example: Let’s say a child asks you for a cookie, and you ask them “well, what did your mother say?” As they reply “Mom said… yes.” they look to the left. This would indicate a made up answer as their eyes are showing a “constructed image or sound. Looking to the right would indicate a “remembered” voice or image, and thus would be telling the truth (http://www.blifaloo.com/info/lies_eyes.php).

Enough of the academic discourse; the point is that ideally we should be able to get along very well with non verbal communication but in reality we rely heavily on the verbal. And boy, isn’t language a complicated thing and especially when we bring in its nuances, tonal inflection, context, environment not to mention the non verbal. Add love to the mix and you have successfully created the tower of Babel as far as creating understanding is concerned.

So what is the language of love? That thing that is said to make the world go round; that thing that drives people to heights of insanity or motivates them to ingenuity hitherto unexpressed by them in wooing their loved one; that thing that will turn plain old Kamau into a genius, Omondi into a philosopher and the professor next door into the laughing stock of society when it goes sour. What is the love language? Is it when I say ‘I love you’ ‘You complete me’ ‘You are the only one for me, my soul mate?’ And herein the problems start of love and language.

Language is a communication tool that is meant to aid the creation of understanding between two or more persons; it is a tool and by the very nature of being a tool, functional but impersonal. A spade will be a spade and work just as well in any hand that knows its intended functionality. And when it comes to communicating love, language doesn’t share the sentimentality of the lover, it is but a tool. And I guess that is why it becomes very difficult to communicate love, that undying feeling to any other lover apart from your first and in the case of a cheating spouse.

When you said ‘I love you’ to your first boy/girlfriend, you had never said it to anyone else, at least not romantically and you could back up the language you were using, the tool, with the endorsement of, ‘I have never said that to anyone else before’. You could confidently tell her she has a hot body, you love his husky voice etc. But as relationships are more often than not prone to end, and most of us do not end with our first love, then we must use the same tool, the same language to communicate our deepest feelings. We will need, indeed we must, say I love you to the new lover, but do these words communicate the difference we feel? But more importantly, how do we convince the new lover we love them just as much, preferably though, more than the last? How do we do this when we must resort to the same tool, the same language?

And if it is that difficult for a new lover? What about an affair? If your partner has an affair, they use those precise words on the chips funga (take away chips) as I have heard they are called today – he will tell her he loves her body, her smile, she is beautiful, she makes him smile – she will tell him he makes her feel loved, he knows how to handle her heart, he is one in a million – and as affairs usually do, it comes to light and if reconciliation happens then the couple is left with the question – how do I ever trust his ‘I love you, you are the one for me, you are beautiful?’ How do I trust her words? And you are caught in a quagmire, a catch 22 situation because saying raises distrust, wounds of how could he have told her that and not saying festers the insecurity, the pain. The harsh reality dawns that there are no sacred words between the two of you.

But we are stuck with this tool of language and I think the lesson herein is that we need to really think hard before we make use of this tool, for it is an impersonal tool and it will dance to the tune of any piper, without regard. So maybe flirting, joking may be harmless but we will need to use the same words on someone we really love and when we mean it. Maybe there is a reason after all why 70 percent of our communication is non verbal, because we should only speak when it is absolutely necessary and when we completely mean every word we say.

wanjikujoy@gmail.com
http://www.simbavision.com

By Clifford Oluoch.

The women came back from the river much happier than when they had left in the morning. The singing had resumed, the vocals blending harmoniously with the chirping of the early birds. They went about their normal chores as if nothing had happened. They milked the cows [...]]]> Split The Eye (3)

By Clifford Oluoch.

The women came back from the river much happier than when they had left in the morning. The singing had resumed, the vocals blending harmoniously with the chirping of the early birds. They went about their normal chores as if nothing had happened. They milked the cows and goats, swept the compound and prepared morning porridge for their men. The mood was certainly ecstatic.
The very old women who had not been to the river that morning were each talked to separately and convinced of the importance of the women showing unity among them. None had problems agreeing as each of them had at one time been, and still were, a constant target of their over-aggressive men. A few of the much older ones were simply not told. They would be tugged along with the rest of the group when the time for leaving came.
By late afternoon, all the grown up women and girls were aware of the plan and it was not to be discussed at all. For once the women of Lotok had a secret and kept it to themselves.
“The sooner we leave the better it will be for us,” Kolo told one of her co-wives. “Otherwise the secret will leak out and we will all be dead meat.” The fears of being torn to pieces hang heavily behind the minds of the women. Kolo kept an eye on Nyangi, who for some strange reasons, looked extremely happy and easily excitable, an evil glint of mischief lurking in her eyes. Kolo was tense.
Come evening and everyone was back in his or her home. The boys were back from grazing and the men with their catch from the forests. No man suspected anything as things just looked normal, except restless Kolo who kept out of her husband’s way.
The sun set and night was ushered in uneventfully, the crickets welcoming the end of the day with their traditional song. At around midnight, when the moon was partly covered by the dark clouds and the crickets chirped the least, a young girl coughed, “Mama, I want to go for a long call. I am very pressed. May you please take me out?” she asked. Girls often slept with their mothers or aunts while boys slept with their older brothers or male relatives.
When outside, the young girl started crying, “Oh Mama, my stomach is aching terribly.”
“Hush my child. We should not disturb the others in their sleep,” said the mum rather too loudly. But the young girl continued crying louder and louder. The signal was well received by the light-sleeping women who together with their daughters woke up to go and relieve themselves outside in the pit latrines, which were lined near the village’s wall. And so they went out with their belongings and met Kolo, Karo and Nyangi who were already outside waiting for them.
Slowly and nervously, the women started their march towards the unknown. Kolo stood by, as she counted to make sure that all were there. All, from the young to the old, were fifty-three in numbers, not a small group. Nyangi was there, the smile and evil glint still there in her eyes. Kolo was relieved, though she could not count on Nyangi at all. Karo double counted the old women who had to be reminded to keep quiet.
The destination was not yet known. It was to be decided by the riverside where the women were to take their first break. Once the women were some comfortable distance from the village, torches were lit.
When they reached the gushing Yando River, they all halted and Kolo told them to gather around her. They all looked scared, as none of them had ever been to the river at such an odd time. Nonetheless, the torches they had gave them some sense of security, as they all knew that wild animals and fire did not get along.
“We have to decide where we are going to set our village. It has to be a place where our men cannot come to attack or disturb us,” Kolo told all who were with her, the reality of leaving the village yet to sink.
Most women had no great knowledge of the forest, as they never got involved in hunting, so they just kept quiet. One old woman spoke and the rest strained to hear what she was saying, “The only place where men cannot reach is the Sacred Mountain next to the Great Hills, Got Agulu. This is a sacred place where no-one ever ventures into at all!”
All kept quiet and their faces showed great fear and extreme doubt. Kolo spoke to dispel their fears. Her voice boomed taking a totally different dimension.

“He flies elegantly looking for a place to comfortably perch. He goes past the raging Yando River, flies higher than the tallest Yago tree, scanning the environment. Then he spots the hills, and squeals excitedly. He flies to the Sacred Mountains and lands on one of the trees. Then slowly and surely he swoops down and parks on a molehill. He scans the area and seems happy to be where he is.”

They all listened as Kolo described her vision, her eyes distant and her thoughts concentrated on the bird. They all knew it now, the trance told it all: Kolo had The Eye, just like her mother before. The powerful eye would guide them. Kolo was the chosen one.
The women were tense and some openly opposed the decision of venturing into the Sacred Mountains. Again it was left to Kolo to convince the superstitious women.

“He sings our victory songs. He beckons us to move. He is waiting. The Sacred Mountains are our only hope.”
Where are those cowards
Where are those beasts
Where are those animals
Where are those who scare my people

The group listened as the song tore into their hearts, seeping effortlessly through their bones. They felt the energy. They felt the heat. They loved the courage and they found themselves singing along, despite not knowing the song.

Step by step we go
We go! We go! We go!
We go to our new home

Step by step we conquer
We conquer! We conquer! We conquer!
We conquer our fears!
We conquer the men!

As they sang along, they felt a peace and tranquillity that was not there before. Their minds were clear: the mountains were going to be their abode. The women took early morning food made of cooked sweet potatoes and arrowroots. They were strong and determined to reach their destination.

To be continued.

By Clifford Oluoch

The anger and agitation in Kolo was clearly rising. She felt that she had the attention of the women, and that she had started something that had to be completed. The sound of the flowing river offered inspiration to Kolo. The waters, meandering round objects and hurdles, always found its [...]]]> Split The Eye

By Clifford Oluoch

The anger and agitation in Kolo was clearly rising. She felt that she had the attention of the women, and that she had started something that had to be completed. The sound of the flowing river offered inspiration to Kolo. The waters, meandering round objects and hurdles, always found its way out of the forest to unknown destinations. The endless rustling of the leaves due to the morning breeze sent a message to the women that nature around would never bend to men’s rules.
Whatever words Kolo uttered in front of the women could not remain secret for long. In the village, word travelled fast, too fast at times. Whatever she said would either be the end of her life, or the beginning of another life. Now that she had started, she had to complete the task ahead. Kolo knew who would squeal, and her eyes moved around the group of women, settling finally on Nyangi. The two women briefly held their gaze, their thoughts communicating in silence. They shared a past and, probably now, a future. If handled in the right way, Nyangi could become an asset. If treated wrongly, she could turn out to be a liability. Kolo looked at her and understood how to play safely.
From behind, Nyangi cleared her voice, thus averting attention from Kolo to where she was. “What do you want us to do?” Nyangi asked her voice quite grave with concern that shocked those around her. She was that unpredictable. There was a moment’s silence as the two women’s eyes locked and Kolo instantly knew and strongly felt that Nyangi could be trusted. It was a gamble she was willing to take. Two can sometimes be better than one.
All eyes turned towards Nyangi, an erratic character who was capable of rubbing anyone the wrong way. All the women knew her too well
Kolo’s tirade went on. “Here come our men, worse than animals in beauty and also in intelligence. Our men beat their women day in and day out. Even the cowards who cannot capture any wild animals from their hunting expeditions come and vent all their frustration on their tired and over-worked wives.”
By now some women were shouting and urging Kolo to keep on exposing the ills of the men. It was the first time someone had gathered the courage to talk about the issue in public. And as it seemed now, it surely wasn’t going to be the last time. Women in the village were accustomed to blindly following orders and routines that governed their lives. The beatings were generally accepted as a way of life, and the deaths that resulted from the same were taken as bad luck. No one questioned orders. No one fought back. No one spoke neither in the dark nor in the open. Until today. Kolo had now given them a chance to speak and be heard.
“More! More! Give us more!” the women demanded while moving closer to Kolo the way chicks, on spotting the dreaded enemy called hawk, move closer to Mother Hen for protection. The cacophony was uncoordinated reaching an almost deafening crescendo. A few of the older women, notably Karo and Katos, watched admirably, their years’ experience playing to their advantage. They remained calm but happy at the events unfolding.
Kolo thrust harder. “More of us are going to die soon if nothing is done. More and more of us will forget how to walk straight, how to look beautiful, how to love ourselves. Most of us have even forgotten our real names and all we remember are the insulting and demeaning names that our men refer us with: idiots, imbeciles, useless, leeches, asses, cows, whatever. We cannot even tell the difference between a cough and name calling.”

The winds blew stronger and Otenga seemed to struggle against the oncoming current. The leaves rustled and the trees swayed strongly. Finally in an act of desperation to beat the wind’s strength, the precious and unique one streak red tailed feather was mysteriously blown off, detaching itself from its parent body. Otenga slowed in its flight and started screeching. It’s the first time that Kolo heard its shrill, a sharp and piercing sound.

“Tell me my dear womenfolk. For how long will we continue with this sham? For how long will we count the days before our ashes are entombed in the village calabash? For how long are we going to be treated worse than the cows and goats that our young boys tend? For how long, my dear sisters? For how long?” Kolo asked, her soothing voice seducing the womenfolk who were gathered around her and glued to her speech. Kolo knew each of them personally and privately. Some married to the village before her, some way after her. They knew each other well, the beating and all.
“No!” roared the women in unison, the determination and anger in the chorusing almost knocking leaves from the surrounding trees. The gushing water seems to agree with them, as it knocked wildly against the gigantic rocks around with passion and zeal. The winds seemed to concur as well, the draught almost becoming a gale of whirlwind around the forest.
Kolo smiled to herself. She knew she had their support and it was now clear that the women were unhappy. Kolo now moved in for the kill.
“Enough is enough!” she thundered, her voice rising a notch higher. “The sun rises on the men as well as the women. The rain also falls on both women and men. The air we breathe is the same, the ground we step on is the same, the water we drink is the same, and the things we see are the same! Yet our men claim to be better than us. They eat the most, they choose the sweetest things and their life is full of more comfort than ours.”
Kolo smiled again. “Even hens do not lay eggs throughout the day, cows do not produce milk the whole day. Yet women are expected to work the whole day.
“No!” boomed Kolo, the anger coming back like crashing waterfalls. She raised her right fist and shook it vehemently. “We shall not be pushed any further. Fists and kicks will not talk any longer. Shouts and screams will not intimidate us any further. The pyre will not cow us any more.” The torrent of words from her mouth shocked all around. Despite knowing Kolo very well, the women never for one day thought that she was capable of speaking so eloquently and passionately for so long on such a thorny issue.
“For the first time women will move things in the village.” Kolo paused. She looked into the eyes of each of the woman around, the old who had served the village faithfully for years; the young woman whose future was uncertain with all the violence. She understood their fears and dreams. As a young woman, she had spent all her life avoiding getting into trouble. She had even forgotten the finer things in life.
Kolo resumed her speech, this time slower and more of a whisper. “We will change the whole village. We will make men go down and beg. We shall rule!” There were gasps from the women, as Kolo seemed so convincing and reassuring despite the dangers of her words.
Karo maintained a constant intent look at Kolo. Karo regretted not doing this many moons back when the beatings were at the highest. She cleared her voice and as she spoke, the women could not but help in admiring the strength behind it. “Yes, we shall rule!” Karo simply and authoritatively seemed to pass the message to all the women. The power and conviction behind the voice told it all.
Kolo’s voice dropped to a whisper as the women moved even closer to hear what she was saying. “Today all you women have to decide what to do with our men. We either stay or continue suffering and dying or we leave and start afresh somewhere far. Choose,” she whispered hoarsely, the first part of her mission complete.
The arguments and exchanges started straight away, growing louder and angrier by the moment. The married women were pitted against the unmarried women, who did not seem to mind the current state of affairs.
“It’s a matter of time and you will be in the same spot as us,” one married woman was heard trying to convince her daughter that there was hardly any option but to leave.
The argument prolonged as Kolo looked around. There were his two co-wives trying hard to come to a decision. Being the chief’s wives, they bore the hardest of the beatings as the chief had to lead by example. There was Karo, the oldest woman in the group. She looked at Kolo and nodded at the chief’s wife, thus sending a message simple and direct. There was Mayira, one of her daughters, a young girl approaching a marriageable age, but without a happy future. Then there was Nyangi, the childless widow who was suspected of having poisoned her husband many seasons back. She was amongst the least liked people in the village, mainly because of her quarrelsome and meddlesome nature. Kolo did not trust her. And there were many more, all bound by one common enemy: beatings.
“So,” whispered Kolo, taking the silence from the women as approval for leaving, “we shall leave the village.” Her voice adapted a finality that left no room for negotiation or doubt. “Today evening all you women will pack your essential belongings. Tomorrow very early in the morning before the first cockcrow, get ready to leave. We shall go and start our own village. Those who have children will have to choose girls only. All boys must remain behind with their fathers, however difficult this might be. Any questions?” Kolo asked, her tone spelling finality.
There were many questions the women wanted to ask but for the moment it was sufficient that they had to move out first. The rest would be sorted out later. The women were on the move! They moved back to the village humming one of the victory songs that they always sang for the victorious men coming back from battles.

Otenga looked helplessly as the red feather was blown away. It attempted to follow it, but the current of air was far too strong sending the feather in all directions. Finally, Otenga, trying to beat the draught, moved from tree to tree, then swooped down before contently landing on a small molehill, the height of a fully-grown goat. The area was green with grass and a few wild fruits had dropped down.

…..to be continued.

(C) oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk

By Clifford Oluoch

Menjo did not come to school the following day and that sent shivers down the spine of each class member. Menjo had never missed school since std.1, he had never fallen sick. Word went round the class in the morning about Menjo’s absence and the encounter with Jioni the [...]]]> FGM – the aftermath (2).

By Clifford Oluoch

Menjo did not come to school the following day and that sent shivers down the spine of each class member. Menjo had never missed school since std.1, he had never fallen sick.
Word went round the class in the morning about Menjo’s absence and the encounter with Jioni the previous day.
Otero, who was Menjo’s neighbour and good friend, explained to his attentive audience, “Menjo’s face was swollen and he had tiny swellings all over his body. He was shivering violently at night and saying his own things. His teeth continuously chattered and rattled against his mouth, sounding like a Russian AK-47gun spewing forth bullets, ratatatatatata!” The over dramatization and exaggeration seemed to work on the class, and fear crept into their hearts and lives. If Menjo was down, how many more to go?
Said another boy, “It is that girl, Jioni. Did your hear her hiss while pointing at Menjo yesterday? Did you see the evil in her eye, her trembling lips and shaking fingers? If that is not witchcraft then I am not the son of my mother!” The rest listened, the fear growing and reaching panicky heights.
“Now Menjo has AIDS!” exclaimed an equally terrified girl. “You get AIDS when someone with AIDS touches you or hugs you.” There was panic in her voice, as she put her hands on her head to signal total desperation.
Presently Jioni walked in and there was total silence as she strutted into class, well aware that her popularity had taken a serious nose-dive, after the previous day’s confrontation with the two class bullies.
One of the girls unable to contain her terror took off screaming at the top of her voice, “AIDS is killing us! AIDS is killing us!”
There was panic and pandemonium broke out as the thirty students who had reported early to class took off, some falling and others crawling under the tables to get away from Jioni. There was a jam at the doors and wooden windows as all tried their desperate best to rush out of class.
Jioni sat down and looked on as the class screamed and ran away from her, the scampering and screaming getting louder and louder. Even Nyota whom she had rescued the previous day did not stay back. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her.
It is only the stern and angry look of Mr. Kuria that brought the screaming students to half their senses.
By this time the whole school had gathered around class 5P and the situation would have been much worse had Mr. Kuria and the teacher on duty not intervened, waving their canes in the air and cracking them to show the students what would happen to their bottoms if they disobeyed the teachers.
“Where do you think you are going?” Mr. Kuria asked his class, his cane ready to strike. “Go back to class!” he ordered the shrieking students.
There was drama as all the students stopped and then meekly walked behind Mr. Kuria, no one having the guts to stay ahead and ‘catch’ AIDS from Jioni.
The teacher on duty cleared the rest of the school as Mr. Kuria marched his class back to their room. Seated at the extreme end of the class was Jioni, her head resting on her hands and lost in deep thought. The commotion brought her back to her senses.
Jioni looked sadly as Mr. Kuria walked in with the class trailing fearfully behind, some stealing glances at her. No one moved near her.
“Sit down!” the teacher thundered and most of the students got into their rightful places, one or two were left standing, debating whether or not to move near Jioni. Njeri, who shared a desk with Jioni, refused to budge. “I don’t want to ‘catch’ AIDS like Menjo did,” Njeri declared firmly, her big eyes looking bigger due to the fear in her.
Mr. Kuria tried being diplomatic by explaining one or two things about AIDS. “You do not ‘catch’ AIDS by touching people or sitting next to someone with AIDS.” This nice approach did not work, so the teacher resorted to threats, but Njeri was too scared to move towards Jioni.
The cane landed on Njeri’s bottoms and with that Njeri took off, not towards Jioni but towards the door screaming her head off about not wanting to die of AIDS. No one knew where she headed.
There was grave silence in the class, most of the students on the edge of their seats, ready to follow Njeri out of the class. Mr. Kuria had to act fast, and he did so by turning all his pent up fury towards Jioni, the cause of all the problems in the class.
“Come here, you rat, cause of all the problems in the class,” the teacher spat out. Jioni stood up, her one eye focused on the teacher.
Mr. Kuria was quite uncomfortable with the gaze, so he continued with his shouting and intimidation, “Bend over and do not move!”
Obediently Jioni bent over, her tortured face gazing towards the class, which was unsure whether there was evil or sadness on her face.
The cane landed hard and accurate on Jioni’s bottoms. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! The sound of cane meeting flesh was loud, painful and sharp. Jioni did not flinch even an inch, her eye steadily focused on the class. There was pitiful silence in the class as Jioni walked slowly to her place, not a tear from her.
“She’s a witch,” whispered one of the boys who knew very well the devastating effects of the mighty cane. The others were too shocked to even move or comment. They had never seen anyone endure five strokes of the cane, on the bottoms!
The teacher went on with his lesson, having forgotten about Jioni and the AIDS incidence. The class, however, did not forget and they took advantage at break time to run as far as possible from Jioni.

*********

Classes ended at 3.30 pm and Mr. Kuria, who operated a shop near his rural home, was happy that he was going to his shop. He was relieved to get out of the stressful Jioni problems. Since that girl had joined the school it had been nothing but trouble and more trouble in the class; different kinds of trouble, not the usual children’s naughtiness.
Mr. Kuria kept wondering. Did Jioni really have the evil eye? The more he thought about it the more convinced he became that the girl really had an evil eye. She looked weird, acted weird, had no friends, never laughed, and the worst was that no one seemed to know her background, her parents, grandparents. Where did she come from? She just appeared every morning and disappeared in the evening. Who was she?
“I don’t need this,” Mr. Kuria whispered to himself, as he gathered his books and made to the staffroom where he normally parked his bicycle. His cousin, who also worked at the school as a cleaner, was waiting for him, as they usually went the same way, on the same bike.
As they rode, Mr.Kuria’s thoughts were still on Jioni and her eye. He decided to talk to his cousin about it, and as he got engrossed in the story and the fears, he did not see the pothole ahead. His bike dipped heavily into the hole and the bike catapulted into the air, throwing both inhabitants completely off balance and to the ground.
Mr. Kuria, a heavy man, landed awkwardly on his left shoulder and there was a scream and a loud cracking sound as he fractured the shoulder instantly while his cousin hit his head heavily on a stone, losing consciousness immediately.
There was immediate rush from the people around the shopping centre, most of them recognizing Mr. Kuria who kept muttering over and over again, “Jioni! Jioni! Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” His cousin, meanwhile, lay still making it hard to tell whether or not he was dead.
The accident happened as many of the students were on their way home. Amongst those who witnessed the accident was Jioni, and being around she decided to go and lend a helping hand to her teacher.
Mr. Kuria saw Jioni coming towards him and he instantly became very hysterical shouting at the top of his voice, “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”
Jioni coiled back and was pushed away by some imposing adults who immediately took charge of the situation. She was hurt, even the class teacher whom she thought was unlike the rest of the class, seemed to repulse her as well.
A mini bus carrying passengers to the district headquarters made way and the two patients were rushed to hospital, two teachers accompanying them.
At the hospital, Mr. Kuria and his cousin were immediately admitted, one in critical condition, the other writhing in agony and muttering his own things. The two accompanying teachers stayed the night and left in the morning satisfied that the patients were in good hands. All night Mr. Kuria talked to the teachers about Jioni and the evil eye. The other teachers looked horrified that they had an evil-eyed student in their school.

By Clifford Oluoch

The flame-red feather twirled against the raging winds, a unique and conspicuous colour dancing wildly and erratically to the furious and uncontrolled raging winds of change.

“Auuuuuuuuuuuuui!” a scream shattered the stillness and tranquillity of the starry African night. From their wooden coops, hens stirred, cows twitched from their round fenced [...]]]> THE LOST FEATHER.

By Clifford Oluoch

The flame-red feather twirled against the raging winds, a unique and conspicuous colour dancing wildly and erratically to the furious and uncontrolled raging winds of change.

“Auuuuuuuuuuuuui!” a scream shattered the stillness and tranquillity of the starry African night. From their wooden coops, hens stirred, cows twitched from their round fenced bomas and from the various mud-walled, grass-thatched houses around, children fidgeted nervously while women shuddered in great fear.

The scream came again, louder, sharper and clearer this time. From a nearby grass-thatched hut another scream answered it, the uneasy and uncoordinated symphony sending an eerie message across the settling Lotok village.

Tonight, however, one of the women being disciplined was Kolo, the chief’s eldest wife. She was a matronly woman who had over the years learnt how to avoid the wrath of her aggressive and imposing husband, Chief Adera. But tonight luck had eluded her, and she had, after many dodging, landed on the wrong hands of the Chief.

After placing the food at the feet of her husband, Kolo retreated a few steps back. She remained on her knees, bowed, awaiting her husband to complete his meal. Only then would she move. A woman’s role during meal times ended when the husband finished his meal.

Chief Adera twitched his nose trying to smell something. He stood up abruptly, his stature hardly imposing but his anger scaring. He exploded with emotions and kicked the clay bowl that was at his feet. He watched gleefully as the bowl and its contents flew across the room, missing Kolo by inches. The bowl smashed onto the nut-brown walls of the house, smearing the wall and making an uneven map on it.

“How can you bring me burnt food?” the chief roared. He moved towards his wife, his eyes blazing with fury and his fists clenched ready for a fight.

Kolo, who had been kneeling down serving her husband the evening meal, ducked as the bowl came hurtling towards her. Having missed his target, the Chief responded by landing on his wife with venom and violence. Kolo shortly found herself on the floor, kicks, blows and insults being rained mercilessly and endlessly on her. The damage would have been far more extensive, if not fatal, had some elders not interrupted the early evening debacle. The chief heard the knock on the oak door and reluctantly stopped his ritual to attend to the intruders.

“Some donkey had the audacity of bringing me burnt and smelly food,” Chief Adera was heard saying, as he opened the door, excused himself from his first wife’s abode and went out to join his fellow elders in traditional beer drinking at the Elders’ Courtyard. He was still seething in anger.

Kolo was left lying down breathing slowly and unevenly, her left side aching greatly. Each breath she took was painful and reminded her of death. With each intake ruddy flames and thick black smoke flashed through her mind. She heard the distinctive crackling sound of the firewood, the flying sparks and the dancing flames. The medicine-man’s out of tune prayers and intonation came back freshly loud and intimidating. Finally, unable to bear the pain any longer, she passed out.

Kolo was awakened by something extremely cold and wet. It was water being poured on her. “Get up, lazy goat and go to sleep. You are neither decorating the doorway nor doing any one any good by lying there,” said the rough and unsympathetic voice of her husband. Kolo dragged her bruised body and very slowly went and coiled herself on the mat at the corner of her one-bedroom hut. She tried to coax sleep but none came, and she just lay on the mat listening to the chirping of the crickets at night. Her husband did not spend the night in her hut; he must have gone to one of his two younger wives.

Eluded by sleep and peace at night, Kolo found herself playing games with her imagination. She let it run wild and loose, moving from one corner of the expansive sixteen-boma Lotok village to the extreme end of the Oroma forest, the dwelling place of Otia, the god of hunters. Otia seemed to protect and favour men who hunted in the forest, yet the women who stayed home to wait for the meat from the forests always seemed to get a raw deal.

“Tell me Otia, when all the women in the village are dead, who shall bear children?” Kolo found herself in conversation with a god she could not see but only feel his effects. The forest leaves rustled violently a sudden wind tore through the trees. A wild laughter escaped Otia’s lips. Kolo looked hard trying to make out the form of the god, but she was unsuccessful.

Kolo’s images and visions took her to Wuate, the god and protector of the waters, rivers and lakes. She heard the roaring sounds of waves buffeting against the riverbanks and smashing into wayward logs. River Yando made its presence known. Kolo swam with Wuate. She journeyed to the sacred and forbidden mountains, Got Agulu, where the gods of life and death dwelt. Kolo found herself holding conversations with these gods, her argument with them taking a turn she had not expected.

“What place is this?” she asked Wuate, a cloudy form in the mountains making the image of the god. Kolo did not hear the reply, but she thought she understood what the god meant.

“Your new dwelling place! Follow the bird.” This was repeated severally, the sound getting fainter and fainter by the minute. Kolo’s dream did not reveal any bird and she frantically turned round to look for the bird to follow.

Then she saw the bird. The image was clear. The features were unmistakable. Otenga!

Impeccable white with the easily recognisable red tail, the big furry bird was perched majestically on a low branch on the bank of River Yando. It looked around, a glint of fear and concern in its eyes. It rose quickly and urgently and flew away, its wings flapping loudly and gracefully against the furiously blowing wind.

As fast as it had come, the vision disappeared. But Kolo was positive that it was Otenga, the legendary bird that only those with the gift of ‘The Eye’ could see. This time the features were clear. No mistaken identity.

The escapades took Kolo till early morning when she heard the first cockcrow. A strong wind blew outside against the trees outside the village. Kolo knew it was time to get ready for another eventful day in the village. Strangely enough, she felt no trace of fatigue due to any lack of sleep.

The morning saw nearly half the married women with swollen eyes, battered limbs and bruised bodies. They looked miserable, talked minimally and walked disproportionately as they carried pots on their way to the river to fetch water for the day. The river was quite far, so the women had to wake up early, normally before the second cockcrow. They had to be back early enough to prepare porridge for their husbands and sons, who also woke up early to go and till the land or take the animals for grazing. The younger girls, who knew about the prevailing situation, walked glumly, accompanying their mothers and aunts to the river.

The early morning silence tormented the women as they dragged their limbs slowly to the Yando river. They were too hurt to sing, the energy in them clear lacking. The uneven plodding of their feet and the early morning silence served to churn their thoughts towards the battering most of them had received the previous night. They lived in mortal fear.

When they reached the river and settled to start drawing water, someone at last broke the long and tormenting silence. It was Kolo, the one who always led them in songs and dances. She was not her usual cheerful self. She looked smaller, darker, and her left eye was completely shut. Her characteristic beauty was evidently absent; instead an ugly mask of scars covered her otherwise black smooth skin. She was ghastly.

“Women of Lotok village, open your eyes and see the light of the world,” she started in a whisper, choosing one of the resting stones to make herself seen to the thirty or so women and girls who had accompanied her to the river.

“Open your ears and hear what the ancestors have to say. Open your hands and feel the warmth of the sun. Allow your minds to wander freely, and mingle with roaring yet sometimes quiet waves of the rivers, the gushing yet aloof winds of the north, the rustling yet sometimes still leaves of the trees. Think my fellow women. Think women. Think!” she almost screamed, the pain in her head searing again, as the Otenga bird flashed by. Kolo could not make out where the bird was heading to, but its journey fascinated her.

All the women, except Nyangi, the widow, stirred and suddenly felt like talking and screaming at the same time. All the silence and patience that had been bottled up in them for so long suddenly found an avenue of being channelled. They felt like they had to strike back then, or hit at something to get back at the people who had made life one continuous nightmare. The dam had finally been broken. Decades of accumulated silence and frustration had finally been let out by one word from one person. They murmured loudly amongst themselves about a subject that had never been broached before. Kolo’s voice drew their attention once more.

Nyangi, the widow, stood stoically gazing directly at Kolo. “What do you want us to think about, Kolo?” Nyangi asked cheekily.

Kolo ignored the question and continued with her rhetoric. “For years our men have declared war on our humble beings and they have never shown any signs of stopping. Beatings have been the order of the day and even the deaths of our beloved sisters have not deterred them.”

Kolo smiled and as she did so her eyes seemed smaller, thus reminding the women of the beating she had received the previous night. “Even animals are better than our men. Cocks do not fight hens, bulls do not fight cows and even the wild male animals do not fight their females. This barbaric behaviour is only observed in men. In the animal kingdom, the strong and dominant males do not fight the weak and docile females. They do not!”

Otenga flew higher and higher to a vaguely familiar place that Kolo struggled to identify. Its wings flapped smoothly and impeccably against the gushing winds. There were a few scattered and unevenly spaced hills around, a forested area with no dwellings. The fear in the bird’s eyes seemed to have gone. The bird seemed to be looking for something, maybe company. Maybe. Maybe not.

By Clifford Oluoch

There was a familiar creak from the old rusty door, which allowed a draught of the cold July wind to slowly waft into the class and send shivers down the class.

Instinctively all the 42 heads in the class rose and shifted their gaze towards the end of the class [...]]]> FGM – the aftermath (1).

By Clifford Oluoch

There was a familiar creak from the old rusty door, which allowed a draught of the cold July wind to slowly waft into the class and send shivers down the class.

Instinctively all the 42 heads in the class rose and shifted their gaze towards the end of the class for the longest time possible. At the door was one of the strangest sights the class had ever seen, a tall thin and emaciated girl standing at the door. Her lower lip dangled loosely, a few inches from her chin with an old ugly scar on it showing that the girl had been involved in either a serious fight, accident or both.

What caught everyone’s attention, though, was her eye, or lack of it. The children were not sure whether or not there was an eye in the socket or just a black hole. Then the girl focused her gaze towards the class and they all looked away. Some even shivered. Even Mr.Kuria, the class teacher, stood rooted at his desk; though, he eventually composed himself and welcomed the girl.

“What’s your name?” Mr. Kuria, known for his lack of courtesy gathered all the good manners he could.
There was a tense moment of silence as the whole class waited to hear whether her name matched her looks. The girl hoarsely replied, “Jioni”. No second name was mentioned and the class looked disappointed that whatever they were expecting did not come.

She had no uniform, no shoes, her clothes were tattered and her body was full of small swellings, possibly scurvy. She was quite a sight.

“Welcome to std. 5P,” Mr. Kuria continued in his fake sweet voice. The class chuckled trying to remember if they had ever heard their teacher being so courteous. Mr. Kuria cleared his throat loudly and the whole class got the message. He proceeded to show Jioni her seat, sharing a desk bench with the unwilling Njeri, but one look from the teacher was enough to convince Njeri that the cane was not very far away.

There was deathly silence in the class as the students continued stealing glances towards Jioni, while Njeri tried her level best to make sure that their bodies did not get into any contact. Even the naughty duo of Otero and Menjo the great bullies of the class were quiet for the first time in a long time, wondering what possible mischief they could play on the new girl to officially welcome her to the class and school.
The rest of the lesson was uneventful, most students dying for a break to run away from the weird girl or to pull some practical jokes on her.

The break bell rang, saving the tense situation as the children rushed to either go for a short call or join their friends in playing. The relief on their faces was just too evident.

“You will have to go outside and play with the others,” Mr. Kuria was at his worst ordering the lost looking Jioni out of class. The girl attempted to say something and then changed her mind and slowly walked out of class to join the rest in the playground.

There was loud screaming as children played all manner of games, chasing and dodging, weaving past their classmates obviously enjoying each moment of their break time.
Jioni walked towards where her classmates were playing and as she did so, the pupils squealed and fled away from her. Even the girls ran away from her.

Jioni sighed. It was always the same wherever she went the children always called her names, making her life miserable. Even in the estate the other children never wanted to play with her. “Kajicho, one-eye” they called her, referring to her ‘eye’

The bell signalling the end of morning break rang, bringing an end to the children’s fun. There was more noise as the students walked to their classes and settled in. Still Jioni had not talked to anyone or made any friends. It was after break that Jioni realised that her only pencil was missing from her desk. Menjo and Otero had made their mark.

“Teacher, someone has taken my pencil,” Jioni told Mr.Kuria in her husky voice, making the classical mistake of interrupting the teacher’s Math lessons. If there’s something that really annoyed Mr.Kuria, it was two things: someone interrupting his lessons and a student without a pencil.

The class waited tensely for Mr. Kuria to explode, but the teacher this time decided to introduce Jioni to the class in a formal way and have his revenge on some of the naughty boys. Mr. Kuria turned and faced the class and addressed Jioni, “Feel free to search the class.”

There was instant panic in class as Jioni focused her one eye on the whole class. She slowly and methodically moved towards Otero and Menjo, the two class bullies. She hissed as she moved from her desk to theirs. Every eye in the class followed her graceful movement, the excitement leading to bubbling and murmurs in the class.

“Where is my pencil?” Jioni asked the two bullies, as she bent down to search their desks. The two boys sobered up immediately went ahead and produced not only Jioni’s pencil, but many more stuff that they had taken from others in the class. There was uproar from the girls in the class who were very pleased that for once the two boys had been tamed.

Jioni had made her mark, though through making enemies. Menjo and Otero had also marked her. She was going to pay dearly.

**********
If Jioni thought that the day before had ended in her favour, she was wrong and was not prepared for the onslaught on the second day in school.

Atieno, one of the girls in the class, was talking excitedly to three of her friends. There were talking about Jioni. “My mum knows her aunt. Jioni has that disease called AIDS and if she touches you, you can die! Look at her skin, it has ugly spots.. uugghh!”

Jioni, on her way to the class, heard her name being mentioned and stopped and hid behind the wooden window to hear what the girls were discussing.

“No, no!” retorted Mwikali, one of Atieno’s friends. “My mum says that Jioni comes from a family of witches. Her mum was a witch and so was her grandmother. When you turn two, one of your eyes is sacrificed.”
“Did you see how the she looked at Otero and Mwenjo, and how the two boys were terrified?” asked Atieno again.

Jioni did not want to hear any more of it, so she slowly walked to the pit latrines and hid herself, waiting for the bell to rescue her. How was she going to face the class and tell them that yes, she was HIV positive and that it was not her fault? How was the class ever to realise that she did not have long to live with the AIDS virus? Who was ever going to listen to her, just once and let her tell her story to the world that AIDS is not only sexually transmitted?

She had changed schools more than once, hounded out from one school to another. This was her third school in as many years, and this time she was determined not to give in.

The bell rang and Jioni walked out of the latrine and slowly trudged towards the class. There were small groupings in the class as Jioni arrived and they were all discussing the writing on the board. In big and bold were the words “AIDS KILLS” and beneath it were the words, “ so does Jioni.”

Jioni walked in and read the writing on the board. It stung her. Though she had AIDS, she was completely harmless. Who said that she killed? She had to do something about the misinformation, running away and keeping quiet was not going to help. Sooner than later, she would have to talk and explain to the class and school about herself.

Jioni was just about to speak and defend herself when her actions were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Kuria. Students scampered to their seats, ready for the day’s action.

Mr. Kuria read the message and scowled, “What is this?” he asked as he turned his fierce gaze towards the class, especially Jioni and the two mischievous boys, Menjo and Otero.

“I didn’t do it,” Jioni whispered, her one eye focussed on the teacher.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the teacher hissed, obviously uncomfortable with the one eye look, and then went on to lecture the class about HIV / AIDS.

“Who knows how people ‘catch’ AIDS?” Mr. Kuria asked, his gaze sweeping across the class. Feet shuffled, there were a few giggles and there was tense amusement as someone volunteered an answer, “When a man and a woman do bad manners.” The class erupted in laughter, only to be brought back to sanity by the clearing of Mr.Kuria’s loud throat.

Jioni felt a pang of pain as the laughter died down. She knew that AIDS was not a laughing matter and she was going to tell the class about it. Unfortunately, Jioni did not gather the required strength to talk and Mr. Kuria went on with his lecture.

When the break bell rang, Jioni was relieved to leave the class and wander anywhere. She found herself heading towards the pit latrines looking for elusive peace. Her search for peace was not rewarded for she heard some voices and she was going to walk away when she thought she heard some muffled scream coming from a nearby bush. She ran as fast as her thin legs could carry her and found herself face to face with Otero, Menjo and a group of three other boys. The two boys were twisting Nyota’s hands, and she was trying her best not to scream.

The bullies were shocked to see Jioni who ran straight at them, breaking the ring that had been formed to shield the girl.

“You will leave that girl alone!” she commanded the boys with such authority that they had no choice but to leave Nyota. Menjo hesitated, but the look on Jioni’s face and her trembling finger and lips convinced him that things were very serious.

Menjo wanted to have the last word, “You will pay for this!” he told Jioni as he walked away, ashamed that twice Jioni had humiliated him in front of his gang.

“Thank you for saving me,” a very appreciative Nyota told Jioni, as she ran away, obviously not wanting to touch Jioni.

Jioni sighed. She wanted friendship, at least one person she could talk to and share girlish secrets with. She thought Nyota would be one, but it turned out that no one was willing to be near her.

I have always been of the mindset that all human beings are inherently good. Yes, the tenets of the idealists do hold firm with me, even if only in a utopian world. In Utopia, people love one another for who they are, flaws and all. In Utopia, friendships are made easily, and enmity [...]]]> By Mercy Ojwang’

I have always been of the mindset that all human beings are inherently good. Yes, the tenets of the idealists do hold firm with me, even if only in a utopian world. In Utopia, people love one another for who they are, flaws and all. In Utopia, friendships are made easily, and enmity is rare. In Utopia… only in Utopia.

Living in the city all my life has made me a robust and fast-paced individual. This allows me to make friends easily. At a party i’m the girl who’s mingling and talking with everyone.

Because of the many friends, no, acquaintances that i have made, I’ve always been invited to parties or events that require that ultimate party girl because that is who i was. I’m not that person anymore. But wait, I get ahead of myself.

It was the month of June two or three years ago when I met him. Tall and willowy, boasting a crew cut that would put a soldier’s to shame. I met him quite by accident at a party. Ideally we would never have talked, but the fact that he was standing all alone near the radio sipping his drink caught my attention.

“Hi,” I said to him.

“Hi,” he replied.

“Forgive me for being so direct but what is a fine brotha like you doing standing all alone in a room full of beautiful, mostly single women?”

He laughed out loud. Let me take a moment to describe his laugh. It was a hearty one; one of those that come from the bowels of the stomach. And he had really white teeth one could almost think that he had them professionally cleaned. He also had a dimple on his right cheek that made him seem really young.
He said, “Well this is not my kind of scene. I’m only here because my cousin dragged me out because she said i’m too much of a recluse.”

“Hold that thought. Let me get a refill of my drink. Would you like one?”

“Yeah sure, please I’d like a Coke.”

“Just a Coke?”

“Yes please. I don’t drink.”

If his shyness had caught my attention, his apparent lack of interest in women and the fact that he did not drink definitely captivated me.

“So far, so good. You are interesting,” I said when I returned, a Coke in one hand, a beer in the other. “So what is your kind of scene?”

“Definitely not this one,” he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“Evasive, aren’t we?” I shot back.

“No, I’m not being evasive. I just think you’d probably find it a bit strange.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“What’s your first impression of me?”

“Well… You are definitely outgoing and you seem like someone who loves fun.”

I giggled. “Well that’s very true. But on the flip side, I’m introverted in some ways.”

He snickered. “Yeah right. How?”

“I love having alone time. Many times I just like to sit and listen to music and write or read a book.”

“That sounds cool, but how often do you do it?”

“Four out of every five opportunities I have to go out,” I replied, smiling slightly.

He looked taken aback. “Wow,” he began, and took a sip of his Coke. “I would never have figured. I mean, I know we’ve just met, but really, I wouldn’t have imagined that.”

“Well, there you are. So what is your kind of scene?”

“I like the arts. I’m into plays and cultural things and I like to go for such events.”

“Really? That’s so cool! I love plays as well! My favorite theater group is Festival of Creative Arts. What’s yours?”

“I love FCA as well. I think they are awesome and really funny. But I also like Phoenix and Heartstrings as well.”

“I love this! I rarely have someone who I can talk to about that aspect of my life.”

“I won’t lie, right now I’m impressed. I would never have figured you for an arts person.”

“Ha, I’ve even subscribed to an arts news letter that tells me what’s happening every week in the arts world.”

“That’s really cool.”

“Again, forgive the boldness, but may I have your number?”

Shyly smiling, he said, “Sure thing. You really are forthright.”

I smiled back. “Not all the time. But I like you. I definitely will look you up sometime.”

“Yeah, that would be lovely. Maybe we could go for a play or something.”

“I would love that.”

It has been a year and a half of pure bliss. Moses and I kicked it off instantly that day we met at my friend’s party. I guess it was inevitable that we would indeed date. I mean, we had become inseparable. Moses. My Moses.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to celebrate life. Life indeed is beautiful. What blessing and honor it is that the good Lord, in His infinite wisdom, chose us to be here today. Even so, still with love and in love, He called Moses to His bosom…”

I closed my eyes. A sharp pain, like a stab, kept torturing me beneath my breast. I concentrated on the pain and the erratic beating of my heart.

“… And so it is not our place to question why the Lord chose to call Moses so young, and leave behind a grieving family and a fiancee. The Lord…”

Again, I switched off and tuned off the pastor’s voice. I was not ready to confront the good Lord on this issue. For now, He had won.

Moses and I had been planning to start a family soon. For me, I was enthralled with the idea. I had discovered this maternal and caring side of me that I never knew existed. Moses, in his own gentle and caring way, had weaned me off partying and clubs. Some of my friends were green with envy; others thought I had just become plain boring. My ideal night out was watching movies with him and sipping wine. I was content.

“One should strive to live his life in a worthy manner. Worthy before the eyes of the Lord, and an example to all men. When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life in such a way that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice at the sight of your Maker.

Moses was one of those who we truly can say his life was nipped in the bud. He loved his family so much and was always dedicated to them. His friends always knew they had a true friend in him. Cindy, his girl friend, knew she had a rock in her man.”

I jumped at the mention of my name. I barely was paying attention to the sermon; so lost was I in the pain of my memories. My cheeks were wet with tears that I did not know I had shed. I wiped them off furiously and tried to focus on the pastor.

“And so we pray for comfort for the family and friends. We pray that the Lord may abide with them and carry them through this difficult period. You are the Father to the fatherless; a Brother to the brotherless; a Son to the sonless…”

He proposed to me in Coast. Retrospectively, I realized that he must have gone through so much trouble; simple man that he is. Was. I will never get used to talking about him in the past tense. We had gone with a group of friends for a short holiday. Everyone, except me, knew the agenda of the trip. So on that Saturday, we all went sky diving save for him. He claimed not to be feeling too well, and refused to hear any reasons I put up to stay with him.

Three and a half hours later we returned to the hotel, exhilarated and excited. I went straight to Moses’ room, only to find he was not there. A few minutes later, he sent me a message saying that he was feeling better, he had taken a walk and that he would see me in a short while at the hotel.

I went to the pool for a luxurious swim to while the time away. At around five, Moses came to the pool side and found me asleep on a beach bed, book in hand. He gently woke me up and told me that he had reserved a table for us for dinner at a floating restaurant in Malindi. He requested for me to go to my room and change into “something pretty” as he put it, so that we could leave as soon as possible.

The drive down to Malindi was scenic. Watching the sunset from the highway, I felt so blessed and lucky to have such a man in my life. My friends were cracking jokes and having a really good time. Wow.
We finally reached the restaurant. It was a sight to behold. The restaurant was actually a ship.

Tiny lanterns hang lit at regular intervals casting a soft glow in the fading day light. At the bow ran tubes of light illuminating tables of food, many of which were delicacies. At the stern was a disco ball hanging from the roof over what was presumably the dance floor. There was a band playing soft jazz music right next to the dance floor. The furnishings gave the whole place a somewhat rustic ambience. In a nutshell, it was beautiful.

We sat down to a three course meal that was sinfully delicious. A bottle of white wine. Prawns served with lemon wedges, chicken served with pepper sauce, and a tossed mixed salad. And for dessert, chocolate cake with whipped cream and strawberries.

At the end of the meal we sat back and relaxed, enjoying each other’s company. At one point, I turned to Moses in excitement, exclaiming, “They are playing our song!” This was Brian McKnight’s The Love of my Life.

I was jolted out of my reverie when I noticed people walking out of the chapel. I had not even noticed that the service was over. I wearily got up and joined Moses’ family behind his coffin. Simple mahogany. A tribute to him.

Outside the chapel, we all got into the hearse car and made our way to his final resting place. I looked around me. Before me sat his mother, stoic now as she had always been. His sister, her eyes swollen with crying. His brother, his features so taut from fighting back tears. They all expressed all I felt, yet they seemed to be completely alienated from the on-goings…

Moses got up and shyly asked me to dance, to which I demurely accepted. On the dance floor it was as if no one else existed or mattered. It was just the two of us. Looking into his eyes I could see his love for me shine through.

Suddenly, he pulled away from me and fumbled in his pocket for something. I looked on at him quizzically. My expression quickly changed from that of puzzlement, then curiosity, then disbelief. He went down on one knee and uttered words that would forever change my life as I knew it.

“Cindy, will you marry me?”

Tears running down my face, I could only smile and nod vigorously; so overwhelmed was I. Cheers went round the room as he got up and slipped a beautiful ring on my finger and then gently kissed me.

We got out of the car and walked a short distance to the grave. The pall bearers had already arrived and had set up everything for the burial. The pastor began with a prayer, then his body was slowly lowered into the grave. I felt as if I too was being buried with him…

I burst through the doors of the hospital, having received a call from one of Moses’ friends that there had been a bad accident. Moses had been workin late and as he was driving home, a drunk driver had hit him. He lost control of the car and had rolled several times. Good Samaritans had rushed him to the emergency room where he was taken to the intensive care unit.

I took one look at him and almost fainted. Swathed in bandages, he looked so lifeless. Tubes ran in and out of his body trying to feed him vital liquids and pain killers. He was scheduled for an operation to ease the pressure on his brain as a result of the accident. I sat there and prayed to God, pleading for his life and telling the Lord about all the plans we had.

At one point I must have been talking out loud, because I felt Moses’ hand twitch then his eyes opened. I called for the nurses for I thought that this was a good sign, but it was not to be. He looked at me straight in the eyes and mouthed the words, “I love you.” With that, he took his last breath.

The mourners were called to throw clods of earth into the grave. Each time the soil hit his coffin was a nail into my own coffin. The wails and moans of those around me made me feel his absence even more acutely. The pastor intoned, “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” The ceremony was over and I turned and walked away, devoid of any emotion.

http://cocomalaika.blogspot.com

© 2009 Mercy Ojwang’

The two girls met outside Julie’s compound, the stone fenced Flat B of the recently renovated New Ngara Flats. They were almost the same height; same built, and looked the same age of 11. Julie, the neater and more presentable of the two was riding her old rickety bike and had [...]]]> By Clifford Oluoch.

The two girls met outside Julie’s compound, the stone fenced Flat B of the recently renovated New Ngara Flats. They were almost the same height; same built, and looked the same age of 11. Julie, the neater and more presentable of the two was riding her old rickety bike and had ventured outside the gate. Rule number one had been broken.

“I am going to tell on you!” Julie’s younger sister, Wayua, shouted as Julie’s bike clattered outside the gate, making a continuous creaking noise that did not seem to bother Julie.

Julie had to brake hard using her legs on the ground to avoid hitting the girl who had suddenly appeared in from the thicket that was opposite the fence. Julie had seen the girl so many times before. She came from the neighbouring ‘kijiji’ (slum) and always joined in a group of children who hovered around Julie’s block of flats.

The slum was growing at an alarming rate. What started as innocent kiosks out to sell food had mushroomed to illegal residential which now housed families. The presence of Nairobi River just adjacent to the slum complicated security matters: quite often muggers hid under the bridge only to strike at unsuspecting victims. Hence Julie’s mothers strict instructions about not venturing outside the gate.

“Hi Julie,” the girl said in a clear voice and an inviting smile. She was alone, which was rare because the slum kids always walked in a horde.

“Hi,” Julie replied, surprised that the girl knew her name. Julie extended her hand and the two shook hands, the girl surprised at the gesture. Julie’s hands were soft and tender while the girl had rough hands.

“My name is Susan,” she said, her eyes firmly on Julie’s bike. She was dressed in tattered green quodroy trousers that had not only seen better days but was a bit too short for her.

“Do you want a ride?” Julie asked as she dismounted from the seat which definitely needed replacement. It was too hard and used to hurt Julie’s back.

Julie knew what the answer would be but before Susan could answer, Julie’s sister screamed from the balcony. And that girl could really scream.

“I am going to phone mom right away and tell her you are out of the gate playing with chokoras!” Julie ignored her sister’s tantrums. Threats, blackmails, coaxing, making up was part of their daily life. The two sisters could not stand each other, and neither could they stay away from each other for more than an hour. Their fights kept them extremely busy.

Susan hesitated before taking the plunge and mounting the bike. She fitted well and her nervousness was quite evident from the tightness with which she held the bar. Her refusal to put her feet on the pedals was further demonstration of her fear. Her eyes, however, had the determination of one who out to conquer the world.

“Confidence comes first. Focus on the road and not on the handle bar,” Julie instructed Susan.
Julie held the back seat of the bike to help Susan with the crucial stage of balancing. A group of curious ‘kijiji’ children gathered to witness the two girls take the baby steps of cycling – one as a learner the other one as an instructor. There were giggles and laughter from the group of the curious kijiji children as Susan tried her desperate best to at least ride 5 or so meters without falling.

“You can do it! Go Susan, go girl!” Julie’s shrilling and assurance gave Susan hope that she could really do it. After about 15 minutes of balance drills, falling down, getting up to resume, the two girls decided to take a break. The other kids waited to see whether they could be invited to join in the lessons but Julie had her hands full with Susan.

“Tomorrow is Christmas day,” Susan said, sweat dripping down her forehead. “I am going to wear my new dress!” The smile and joy on Susan’s face melted Julie’s heart. For the first time, Julie noticed Susan’s tattered clothes.

Another shout from Julie’s sister brought the two girls back to reality. “Julie, mom is on the phone and she wants to speak to you!” Julie obliged and head downcast walked towards the gate where her sister was proudly holding the house phone.

“Hi mom!”

“How many times have I told you not to go out of the gate?”

“Many time, mom!”

“So what are you doing outside the gate?”

Silence.

“I am talking to you!”

“Mom, I was teaching Susan how to ride a bike.”

Silence.

“And she says that tomorrow she will have a new Christmas dress.”

“Ok Julie, keep teaching her but make sure you don’t go far. I will see you in the evening!” Julie’s mum knew her daughter too well.

“Thank you mom. You are the best!”

Julie was elated. She handed the phone to her sister and managed to stick her tongue out. She was leading in the game. As Julie’s sister took to the stairs, Julie decided to follow her.

“Wait here for me, I am going to get water to drink,” Julie told the perspiring and elated Susan who was determined to learn how to ride.

“Okay,” Susan murmured as she protectively held the bike and shooed away the other kijiji kids.
Julie rushed past to the gate and took to the stair, the watchmen looking at her with suspicion. “Where is the bike?” he asked harshly. “Do you know those kijiji kids are thieves?” Julie ignored him, after all he also came from another kijiji so who was he to pass judgment on other kijiji kids?

Julie went straight to the fridge where she pulled out her ration of soda for the day. The housegirl noticed Julie in the house and also took up the issue of the bike.

“Where have you left the bike?” she asked Julie who was busy filling another bottle with water.

“It’s with Susan, my new friend from the kijiji!” Julie announced proudly as she walked out with her bag of goodies, a bottle of soda, a bottle of water and five biscuits. She found Susan alone waiting for her. The other kids on realizing that they would not get any ride, decided to go somewhere else and look for fun.
“Sorry for taking so long,” Julie apologized as she handed her friend a bottle of soda and the biscuits. Julie took water and one biscuit.

“Thank you very much,” Susan said as she gulped the ice cold soda. “Ahhh!” she exclaimed in deep satisfaction of one whose thirst had just been quenched.

The two girls, now rejuvenated with energy, enthusiasm and a bond of friendship embarked on the second session of their lesson with amazing vigour. Susan showed more sense of balance and she was able to ride longer distances without faltering. After about an hour of furious riding and hard knocks, Susan was able to ride confidently for almost 5 or so uninterrupted minutes.

“The rest is practice,” Julie assured her as Susan dismounted from the bike and Julie turned to tighten the bike’s chain.

“Meet me here tomorrow in the morning. I will have something for you,” the appreciative Susan told Julie. The two girls shook hands and each turned to go home and wait for the big day.

In the evening, Julie’s parents came with loads of shopping and Christmas presents. Julie’s eyes widened at the new mountain bike she had always dreamt of. She hugged both her parents and thanked them profusely. Julie’s younger sister got her expected full set of Barbie dolls. The two girls had also prepared something for their parents. For mum, they had bought her a necklace, earring and bracelet set. For dad, they got him a Chelsea FC towel, since he loved football. Both parents were very shocked about the thoughtfulness of their children.

“What will I do with two bikes mom?” Julie asked as she admired the gleaming red bike, full with all the regalia one needed for riding.

“You can give one of them away.”

Julie let out a loud whooping “YES!” She went round the bike one more time and gave it a hug. “You are beautiful,” she whispered to the bike.

Julie and family settled for the evening prayers and meal as they waited for the clock to strike midnight. They sang carols and joined their neighbours in exchanging cards and gifts. The spirit of Christmas always brought out the best in their neighbours.

That night, Julie did not sleep a wink. She turned and tossed in bed the whole night. Very early in the morning before taking breakfast or showering, Julie rode her new mountain bike to the gate and outside. She wished the watchman a merry Christmas. He responded with sadness, maybe he was angry that he was working on such a day.

Susan was waiting for her. She was wearing her new sparkling white dress. She looked like an angel.
“Merry Christmas,” Susan told Julie. She gave Julie a hug and a small hand made card and a plastic paper bag which she told Julie to open. Inside was an old medium sized doll beautifully dressed. One eye was missing and the hair was unevenly spread. Bite marks could be seen on different parts of the doll.

“My mother got this doll for her 1st birthday,” Susan started as she turned the doll around and gave it a sad long look. “And she kept it for me. I got it on my 1st birthday.”

“But why give it away?” Julie asked. It was obvious that the doll was part and parcel of the Susan’s family.

“My mother said that I could give to anyone I like.” The two girls smiled as they admired the doll.

Julie dismounted from her new bike. “Take it, it’s yours! My mom said I could give away one of my bikes!”

“Merry Christmas Susan.”

“Merry Christmas Julie.”

Tears of joy served as a sign of goodbye as the two girls went back to their families to catch up with the rest of the day.

© 2007 Clifford Oluoch oluochcliff@yahoo.co.uk