Lord, give me a sign

Forward: I wrote this thing at three am last night. Long day, and  Netflix night, by the time I was ready to sleep there wasn't any sleep. So i showered and washed my hair. And got to bed at 3am. But there was no sleep. So I wrote. And finally, slept. 

People know it. In their deep inner lives, they know what they ought to be doing. And they know it would improve the quality of life. The challenge is to develop the character and competence to listen to it and live by it – to act with integrity in the moment of choice.

The people of Israel had been pestering Moses for a while. These guys, like me, were not too fond of hearsay. You know, some Guy, who we’ve never seen, keeps telling you stuff to tell us to do, and you know, we’re just supposed to like, do it. No questions asked. Sorry,but yes questions asked, yes lots of questions asked. Who is He? Why is He talking to you? If He’s everywhere why can’t we see Him? What’s this that’s so good about you; He just has to talk through you?

We wanna talk to Him ourselves, even us (disclaimer: this is a direct translation and obviously not my stellar grammatical prowess). We want Him to talk to us, coz you just keep telling us stuff, and you know, broken telephone, so we’d prefer if we could communicate directly with the Source. You can make that happen, Moses? Yeah, that’d be awesome.

So blah blah, rules about washing up and abstaining from drink and no lovey dovey stuff for three days before The Meeting. More rules about not touching the mountain, not touching someone or thing that touched the mountain whilst putting the someone or thing to death, not looking up at the mountain lest they see Him and die, and so on.

So on day three the clean and eager Israelites congregate at the base of that mountain. The Lord, as promised, comes down. I figure maybe two or three overeager chicken or persons get stoned or arrowed for touching the base of the mountain. He gives the Ten Commandments to a crowd shaking in their metaphorical and actual pants.

And finally, the bad word here people decide that these -a-tetes are way too intense. We just wanted some of that eating and drinking fun you and the seventy have every time you go up there and you come back looking like an angel. All this lightning, thundering, trumpets, smoke and booming voice from fog and darkness – that’s hardly what we had in mind. You know what, it’s totally cool with us, you just be going (see disclaimer above), He tells you, and then you come tell us, we’ll do. From now on, it’s cool, you can be our spokesperson.

Someplace else it said that God revealed Himself that way so that the Israelites would understand how fearsome He is, and not sin. But you’ve got to love the human psyche, not far after that and they were already at it again with the grumbling et al. Do you ever wonder what life would be like if stuff didn’t go forgotten? I wonder all the time.

When I was in first/second year dad was living in Eldy still, and we used to go to IVC – a church – on Sunday. Around that time dad was so busy with school he stopped commuting to Mumias; mum came over instead. This one Sunday, I was wearing black on black with my favorite black wedges, for some reason I remember that.

I think I was in second year, coz I was freaked out and looking for a sign, like frantically. I hadn’t met the boy yet so it wasn’t that. The only other  major freak-out I had was around the time dad got a transfer away from Eldy, which meant I’d actually live in campus aaaaaaalllll the time, and like it. Coz I’d go home Fridays and come back Mondays.

Anyway, whatever, point is, I had convinced myself that I wanted to hear Him speak. Not with the helpful platitudes from people I already knew, because I probably already knew those, but like in a way I would have no doubt it was Him. Like you know those where a pastor you’ve never met calls out your name and says things about you (this is before the 310 era, so it was still legit). That’s what I wanted.

So that Sunday we went to church, dad, mum and I, and found that there had been a conference running with the guest speaker and so he’d do the sermon. Usual stuff, praise and worship, announcements et al, and then he came. And the first thing he said after intros was “Who is Joy?” Now obviously it wasn’t me, I mean it could be me, but it had to be some other Joy, because come on, who talks to me?

Now, Joy was a pretty common name even then, unlike when I was born; but that day, there was no other Joy in the church. And of course mother kept prodding at me so I went na huko mbele. He said I was the one, and then said stuff. I’d gotten my answer, sort of. I left service with so much zeal, I figured I would live. It would turn out okay. Because God had spoken to me, me, meeeeee.

I don’t know why I remembered that this evening. Looking back, even that assurance was forgotten not too long afterwards. I still freaked out after the actual move happened, it’s took me a whole semester to acclimatize and start cooking. But I still pretty much hated it. God had spoken, and while theoretically that should have been THE POINT when all things became new, really, it just… faded, I guess.

I’m in my stressed mode, have been for a while. How do I know this? Well, there has always been a weird relationship between my sweet junky tooth and stress. On a normal day, I’ll go for weeks, months even, without wanting or eating cake, and eat fries only occasionally. But now, it’s like a mainstay in my brain. I always want more fries and real cake - none of this SupaMill Madeira stuff, the real decadent one with frosting.

I know why I’m stressed. I know it’s only going to get worse. Or it won’t go away. But I don’t know what to do. So here I am again praying for one of those signs from God Himself again. Except now I remember that even if it came, it may not change much. I think He knows it too, so He’s been rather silent.

Sometimes God sends signs, like real deal you'll-meet-a-girl-in-a-red-dress-who-will-have-no-front-teeth signs, but I think He likes to do that when He knows it will make an actual difference. Most of the time, almost all the time however, you know it. You don't need a sign. Deep down inside you know what you should do. Maybe you think you can’t, or just won’t, but you know. And you know that until you decide to do it then you’ll keep circling that mountain, like the Israelites. But you know, easier said; always easier said.

So you keep praying for a sign. 

you won't like this post...

I’m a bit of a lady, you know, with the many things on the shelf and the never ending quest for shoes and clothes. Most recently, bags have become a fad of mine. I’ve been thinking about closing down this blog. To start over.  A lot actually. Maybe once I do I might become a fashion blogger and showcase what’s in my closet. Or rather, the suitcase on the floor next to my bed.

I could do that, I have rather strange opinions about fashion and sensibility. But I don’t know much about makeup, or fads, or trends, or makeup, or makeup, or makeup. All those this-is-Ess-esque ladies who do this fashion blogging thing have a way with makeup. For me it ends with getting my eyebrows done once a month. I’d go for frequent mani-pedis, I love those, but I spend too much time in water and not enough in town. And chipped nail-lacquer just wouldn’t do.

So I guess I wouldn’t make the greatest fashion blogger. Unless we talk about bargain shopping. I love bargain shopping. I love shopping. Going into the market, spending endless hours leafing through weird looking things until you land that one awesome item and it’s Kshs. 30. My greatest achievement so far is this one dress I got for Kshs. 50. It’s so good it could do an interview.

If I were a fashion blogger, this would be the point at which I post three photos – front, back and side profiles. But really, all I’m doing now is keeping myself busy enough so that I don’t sleep before Colin gets here. He’s been gone two weeks, it’ll be nice to have him back in the house.

So, I can’t take three photos of my grey (gray?) dress to post and let you know that I got it from a guy in Kangemi who puts up a carton box stall in front of the mobile repair shop that’s next to the butchery that’s right where KMO Sacco javs simama to load passengers going to town. And cries out “Hamsini, hamsini!” in much the same way that sweet Molly Malone sold her “Cockles and mussels ‘alive, alive-oh!’ ”.

Were I a fashion blogger, once photos were up, I would go into excruciating detail about how I accessorized my dress, including where I found the three pairs of studs that stay in my ears permanently. It was that lady who has a tiny stall at the corner of Old Nation just before you get to the mats that go to Graffin’s College, BTW. Lovely lady, with cheap stuff. I mean that nicely.

Then I would say what should NOT be done while wearing a dress like the one I have on (the gray/grey dress worth Kshs. 50). How to dress it up, down, for the office, to a party, what shoes, what lipstick, what hair and maybe even underwear. Especially underwear. Somehow I am more peeved by bra prints – you know, how lacy bras’ textures show through someone’s clothes – than the all-annoying VPL.

I’d take a few pictures of coats and shoes that can be worn with the dress and write a post about “1 dress, 5 different ways”. But that usually only works if afterwards you add the name of a classy uptown boutique up on Mama Ngina Street (Avenue? Drive?) With a price tag that has a more than two zeroes after it.  You can’t go into those lengths only to talk about a carton box stall in Kangemi.

So maybe fashion blogging is not for me. But that cannot stop me from displaying my most recent and most awesomest bags ever. Which I got this weekend. Thanks to the generous contributions of the friends and partners of Let’s Make Joy Happy Ministries, aka my brother.

I’d been eyeing them for the better part of four months, I’d never imagined they could be mine, because you know, I could never spend that kind of money on bags. Even a set of five, royal blue, wet-look, classy, and all-round amazing handbags. And now they’re mine. Le sigh…

This is so not why I started writing today in the first place. The bags were supposed to be a by-the-way point – three lines tops. Now I’ve gone  and gone with it I have no idea what I wanted to say.

This is why I need to close this blog and start over. I started this blog in October 2010 after reading my brother’s blog. He’d been going at it for four years by then, he still writes occasionally. It’s still awesome as usual. Because I didn’t know jack about blogging, except that it was a web diary, I most wrote about my life.

Wrong move. My life is very boring. Those days I was in campus and at least there would be one or two exciting (stupid) things campus folk did that I could talk about. Now my life revolves around my editor Martin, my laptop, the kitchen, school and repeat. It’s easy to see why there’re so many gaps. The beautiful thing is that my posts don’t show dates, so that you can’t judge me.

I feel stuck, not in life, just in blogging. Okay, maybe a little in life, but that’s not what I mean. You know how the way you write sets the tone for your future writing? I started a certain way, and now I don’t like that way anymore and I feel like changing but I’m not sure to what. We’ve already seen fashion blogs are not the thing pour moi.

And I don’t have a kid. I don’t mean to sound like that person, but you know, when you hang around a toddler, man, you can never run out of stories. And they are always funny. Just ask Bikozulu, or Jackson? Wasonga – the guy from Wednesday Nation with a wife called Tenderoni. I forget the girl’s name – Peaches? Cuddles? Munchkin? Imekataa kuja.

I dunno, in the meantime I’ll keep doing this in my foolish little ways, like I’ve always known. Soon I will write something I’m ready for the world to see. And then I’ll scream it on the rooftops.

that genius woman Imelda and my version of adult school

I am blogging now. And because I have decided to write, all those fancy ass thoughts I always have floating around have disappeared. Sucks when they do that no? I wake up in the mornings and get started on my allotment for the day from Martin. If I’m lucky he sent them yesterday which means I got started. Not writing, thinking. Sometimes though I am unlucky, and I have to wait until the morning to think, research and write.

Somehow I don’t like that. I like to stew with work  at the back of my mind, get it mellowed down like fine wine that’s been allowed to breathe (I dunno since I teetotal totally and all, but I hear that’s what people do) and then sit down and print those 4000 words in less than three hours. Unless, again, they’re 1000-worders and above, then I just get bored and cry instead. I don’t cry, but I feel like it.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, so after work it’s time to fix dinner for Colin and then head out to school. Accounting school. Don’t ask how I got there, because the best answer I can come up with is usually a shrug. First I was doing it for the guys as DT&T, but after they totally snubbed me the answer changed to “*shrug*, because why not”.

It was easy in Sec 1 and 2, probably because I did no reading at all until the last month. But this time I thought I might do things differently, so I registered for class. That helps I guess, but Sec 3&4 are real work; the threats from everyone don’t help. I keep telling myself it’s just for fun and I shouldn’t worry, but easier said.

I’ve always gotten through school by sheer adrenaline. Allow me to explain. I’ll attend class (skive a few for no reason at all other than who attends 100% of classes. Or it’s Friday, or Tuesday), and proceed to forget about it until the exam is in a day or two. Then I’ll pick up my book, leaf through the first few pages and wait for the night before the exam. Then I’ll read and understand everything, only to discover that there isn’t enough time to read and understand everything. So I’ll cross my fingers and hope to pass. And thankfully, pass. Not with flying colors, because that’s for those guys who go to the library and stuff, but good enough to maintain the family standard.

I’ll explain further. My mother recently graduated from campus. She enrolled in a distance learning program to do Psychology Counselling (Counselling Psychology?), because you know, self-actualization. The bairns are out of the nest so what’s a girl to do? She had First Class Honors. Nobody in the family got that before. Even us guys who did full-time studying. But I have decided not to walk down that road. Because that woman Imelda is a genius. Or a lucky non-genius.

For four years I watched her come home from school with modules, grumbling about how the exams screwed her over a good one, and how ‘this time’ she’d start reading early because she never wants to go through it again. Once last year when dad was still in hospital and she had exams she punched a tout inside a Latema Sacco. Right in the face. It was an awkward girl punch, but she absolutely did.

Anyway, soon, she would abandon all good intentions until she was due to be in school in two weeks. Then she would magically remember the seven term papers she had to write and stay in the office until 8pm every night. And then go to school having completed five. Mbili atamalizia Nairobi. The following week was exam week, so generally speaking, aside from when she opened the module to do homework, she’s read nothing. The night before exam, the girl leafs through the module, if there was one, scan a few questions from past papers and goes for exams.

And dammit she would pass. All A’s and B’s too. In my campus I think I got a couple of A’s in some non-issue common courses like Zoology and Communication Skills. So that’s how that Imelda person got through campus, and got first class honors. You know how we always say campus lecturers don’t mark papers; they just broadcast them randomly into piles that will later be assigned grades? My theory remains that she was prayerful, and God was gracious, so she always landed in the correct pile.

She got a C once, and raised hell in the house about that mean lecturer who gave HER a C, HER, HEEERRRR, and in the computers common course no less. As I listen I remember that time I came from SAM Conference in Nakuru in 2010, praying so very hard for a D in this Calculus unit I took in sophomore year, because I just couldn’t stomach the thought of retaking another semester of Calculus and the integral of ‘ a^u ’. It is, by the way, 1/u, just so you know. Quietly, I postulate that perhaps this was the paper that was actually marked. She says I’m just jealous. I say she knows it’s true.

Again, where was I going with this? Oh yeah, that’s how I did school too, and I’m just peeved that I can’t do that anymore. This thing where you have to study every day, I don’t get it. Who does that, studying every day? It’s very new.  Which is why my exams are in six weeks and I haven’t started studying. And I have to pass, because I won’t allow myself the option of failing. Keeping up the family standard. Maybe I idolize Colin a little bit, but as well I should; he’s done very well for himself.

It’s new, this working for success. I hope it turns out okay. Especially those two courses I haven’t actually started reading for. And the four I have started reading for, and discovered that all the things I thought I knew, I actually know nothing about. KASNEB has a funny way of turning things around. We’ll do examples in class, and I’m like, yeah, I totally see how that makes sense. Then the teacher takes a question paper, and all of a sudden it’s just new things. How do they expect me to think about all those things within half an hour in an exam room?

Huh, when this is over I shall seriously reconsider whether that “*shrug*, because I can” will propel me into part III. Though I imagine that if I’m lucky enough to pass I’ll still do the same thing come next sitting. Because dammit, old habits.