of sundays, voices and utilitarianism

 Disclaimer: A random post if ever there existed one! I'd read on anyway... :))))))))

I haven’t written in a very long time. Not for other eyes anyway. I think part of it may be attributed to the fact that I decided a long time ago that my blog was not going to be a whine page. It was, naturally, soon after I had turned it into a whine page. So the last few weeks have gone by in a blur. Some have been happy, some not so much; most of them have been busy though. And all I need is one week away from writing and pretty soon I’m all about the keeping quiet.

It’s Sunday night. It will be Monday morning very soon. It was a good Sunday, a really good Sunday. Certainly the best Sunday since before that Sunday I was back in Busia with the main man of the hour (that would be the guy leading Sunday service with the mic right outside my ears (not really, but it certainly felt close enough to them)) woke me up with a series of choruses he would sing for exactly one minute at a time. He wouldn’t even allow the congregation to be done with the response, before he juxtaposed (see how I put that there oh-so-naturally) the next ‘number’. He continued to do this for close to an hour. Even mum, who had been trying to sing along as she went about her tasks, got frustrated.

I know I should have been attending service rather than asleep, but I had just travelled 600km roughly, jolted awake every hour or so during the trip by some mishap on the road that forced our driver to employ all his magical emergency braking skills. I was tired. So naturally all sounds that were not of soothing music lulling me sleep-ward were scowled upon. Nonetheless I woke up to contribute to my share of the things that needed doing, after I figured there would be no more sleeping that morning. Mum would prefer if I said it was because I hadn’t after all travelled 600km and survived biting cold for an hour in a cold dark room with strange men to come and sleep. Nary, I had not. Yes, I know that wasn’t a nary situation.

That turned out to be an okay Sunday, despite how it began. But everything about this Sunday was perfect. Mostly though this Unchained Voices double album launch thing I went to at Alliance Francaise. Teardrops and Mufasa, launching their album, Sarabi, H_art the Band, Stacy (whose voice is so gloriously sophisticated, and whose style reminds me of something between Adele and India Arie). Sarabi’s rendition of Amandla was way cooler than what they have on their album. Somehow now I can’t imagine what it would be like if they performed Msalimie live, I think I might swoon. That’s a distinct possibility. I looooooooove Msalimie.

And there was the MC. His name is Elsaphah Njora. Also known as Benjamin from Village Christmas 2010. Youch! He was hilarious. And deep. And hilarious. I’m still smiling. For real he should be the next Groove Awards host. I certainly know if I’m ever placed in charge of planning any event I will be frantically looking for him. Oh, he was amazing.

So back to why I haven’t written in a while. To illustrate my point, I’m going to share a paragraph I got from my research of the first article I ever wrote for Martin: "How to write a good article". By the way, #someoneTellMartin to change that topic, yaaaye. Anywho, paragraph, if I can find it:

I was the language crank, the one who swooned over sentences. I could forgive much in a book if it was written with force and beauty, if its story was told in a voice unlike anything I’d heard before, if the writer was finding new and mesmerizing ways to employ the same words that have been available to all American writers for hundreds of years. I tended to balk if a book contained some good lines but also some indifferent ones. I insisted that every line should be a good one. I was—and am—a bit fanatical on the subject.       ~Michael Cunningham~

Yaaaaay, found it! You can read the full article , and if you hope to ever be any good at writing, I’d strongly suggest that you do. Not that I have done much of what the good people say, but it’s got some valid points one ought to go back to from time to time (added to list of pinned tabs). 

When my mother was in college she wrote an essay on Shakespeare once in her English class. She scored 18 out of a possible 20. The lecturer was known to be quite stingy with marks (I know what you’re thinking; parents say things like that all the time). Well, dad corroborates the story, and thinking that they sat down thirty years ago and plotted to mislead us with such tales seems to be too much trouble. Ergo, I believe them. Also I saw the essay. Yes, she kept it. Not just for the marks, but because after giving her that mark the lecturer went ahead to write “I am tempted to give you a much higher mark blah blah”. 

The point was not that my mother was a brilliant writer, even though she is. The point is that those are the people who raised me. When you get used to a certain standard of grammar, finesse and quality in writing, you cannot help but become an editor. So I am one. Unfortunately it’s the reason I’m also afraid of writing. I have written a few okay pieces in my day. I consider this one to be one such, flowing with the ease of a river moving downstream. 

But more often than not, I feel ill equipped to maintain the standard I have set for my writing. I know that if I open my mouth, I may score a few great sentences, but most of them will be “bland, slack utilitarian” sentences that “serve no other purpose than to transport the reader from point A to point B”. Michael again.  Therefore I keep quiet. Until the urge hits again like a bathroom break, and I cannot sleep for all the itching in my fingers. And I go at it on a Sunday-almost-Monday night-stroke-morning. 

And all of a sudden, the universe in no longer so skewed upon its axis. The reason I wanted to write this piece in the first place was to talk about things you cannot change. I won’t be doing that. Because these are 1000+ words. It is sufficient. But now you have a reason to return next time. I’ll go read that editorial so my sentences can remain as intriguing. Hopefully.

peace, I leave with you...

I am writing this post for two reasons: The first is that I want to (I mean, duh! Right?) No, not duh! I’ve found myself running towards this blog every time I am sad, or tired, or generally exasperated with the world. Or when I have a thousand articles to present before my boss tomorrow and I don’t know where to start. Incidentally today is one such day.

I had overcome this feeling of all-encompassing tiredness, because I was sure that finally things were moving in the right direction, and my set of variables was about to be altered. But it seems again as though we’re going back to the beginning. For a little while longer I shall have to contend with this uncertainty. So I feel tired. More in my mind through my body than vice versa. I promise in my head that makes sense.

The second reason I’m writing is that I gave Mukiri the link to this blog last night, and I don’t want the last two unhappy posts to be the ones she sees first. She’s a luminescent ball of optimism in my life, still sounding gracious even when she’s bone tired. She’s also a brilliant writer, her blog is here.

I was trolling through Facebook while trying to convince myself to get started with the working, rather than blogging, when I saw her glowing tribute to our Flo, the one I have to thank for my friendship with Muki and Dinah and a bunch of other girls who mean a lot to me. And I finally found the photo I’ve been hoping someone would put up so you can finally attach a face to this Flo I’m piping about every two seconds.

I’m sharing Mukiri’s sentiments through this screenshot, because she so aptly describes it for us. I was the youngest at her wedding party meaning I wasn't quite close to the older girls,  I got a lot closer to Dinah and by some magical design Muki herself. By the time I got to campus Ng’eno and Mary were done. Flo was in the middle of us, so she was a lot closer to the older girls. I knew her from interaction with this fourth former Joy Mwende who had made a prayer group out of us. So when I got to campus, and behold a familiar face, I clung to Flo. And her arms were always wide open.

They are laying her body to rest tomorrow. Such finality. Today, I’m praying for my friends Muki and Ng’eno and Mary and Dee, for whom she was more like a sister. And who shared the bulk of Flo’s final journey. For them I pray comfort and peace, true peace. It is our Lord who heals, and it is our Lord who restores. He will do in perfect time too.

I recall the words of Cornelia Ten Boom, the lady whose family sheltered Jews during the Holocaust and got caught. They were taken to the same concentration camps preserved for the Jews, and there she watched her father slowly suffer to death. Later on, a soldier who was particularly cruel within the camp came to ask for her forgiveness, and this is when she confessed:

Even as the angry vengeful thoughts boiled through me, I saw the sin of them. Jesus Christ had died for this man; was I going to ask for more? Lord Jesus, I prayed, forgive me and help me to forgive him....Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give me your forgiveness....And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world's healing hinges, but on His. When He tells us to love our enemies, He gives along with the command, the love itself.” 
― Corrie ten Boom, The Hiding Place

He makes all things beautiful in His time. So simple, but so true. It is well…. It is well…

Where feet may fail (to sir, with love II)

My earliest memory of my dad is him coming from school and me running up to him, all dirtied and barefoot and jumping onto him. He’d throw me up several times – and actually let go – it felt like flying. I wasn’t the lightest four year old either. I guess this is like that thing mum says: no elephant is tired by its tusks. We lived in the school compound of the school he used to teach in. Soon after that, mum had to move to Nairobi for work, after the company she worked for went under. Then it was just dad, Aunty Beaty, Sylvia and us. And I remember him sitting over me daily to make sure I ate Weetabix before school, which I hated. Eating in the morning has never been a strong point.

Through the better part of my nursery school and class one at that school where apparently these guys were too, it was dad who was there, when I was sick, naughty, or needed anything. He took me to the doctor and placed in me the fear of God when I was being me. Mum always came at the weekend, with fries she bought from Nairobi, and I used to cry for the last bit, so my brothers started giving me my own plate.

Then mum changed jobs to Western and she took us with her, and now it was he who came over every weekend. With sweet bananas and milk on two bodaboda bicycles. When it was still those hug-me-by-force matatus, every Friday without fail, and he still lifted me, but the throwy-throwy no. We looked forward to the weekend, up until Sunday evening, when we had these devotions led by him, okay we had them daily, but this Sunday one, if you had been bad, it wasn’t good for you.

Why am I saying all these? I wasn’t the exemplary child. I was any typical stubborn child. But I didn’t struggle much through adolescence. I didn’t have many peer pressure issues. I was Christian as soon as I understood what that meant, and I’ve been since. And it’s been hard, but I think it would be harder if I wasn’t. It dawned on me, much later than it should have, that I learnt to accept the love of Jesus because I saw that in my dad. He was no joke when I needed berating, but right after, he was done and back to his zesty jesty touchy-feely self. I learnt to lean on God as a Father because my father taught us how fathers should behave. He did well, considering. He did more than well… I know what I want for my own children’s dad.

It’s his birthday today. Some would know he’s been sick for slightly over five months now. Last month I could finally summon up the courage to make my requests known to God, and I asked that his birthday find him home with us. God has been so faithful. He did what He’s been doing all my life; He worked for our good behind the scenes. And I am so thankful. I have to say I am so thankful. that he is home, and on the mend. My father gave me the one thing I treasure above all else – my relationship with Christ. That train up a child verse, I think it’s true, because I have seen it work for us, through our crises and wild phases. Somehow God was always there. And this man.

So I am grateful. Because he really is getting better. And our family is stronger than it was. I’ve learnt trust anew. I’ve learnt to love anew. I have seen miracles happen before my eyes. I know probably mum and Aunty Beaty can tell a better story. But I only have this. I know He remains faithful. He cannot deny Himself.

You call me out upon the waters

The great unknown where feet may fail

And there I find You in the mystery

In oceans deep

My faith will stand

And I will call upon Your name

And keep my eyes above the waves

When oceans rise

My soul will rest in Your embrace

For I am Yours and You are mine

Your grace abounds in deepest waters

Your sovereign hand

Will be my guide

Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me

You've never failed and You won't start now

So I will call upon Your name

And keep my eyes above the waves

When oceans rise

My soul will rest in Your embrace

For I am Yours and You are mine

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders

Let me walk upon the waters

Wherever You would call me

Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander

And my faith will be made stronger

In the presence of my Savior

[x6]

I will call upon Your Name

Keep my eyes above the waves

My soul will rest in Your embrace

I am Yours and You are mine

it's just another birthday, and i am fine...

#np: Just Another Birthday - Casting Crowns

TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY. I turn, well sixteen(ish). I’m old enough. I have loved this birthday more than the last few birthdays because I was forced to sit down and not think about myself today. I had an exam. The paper was in the afternoon, so thankfully, there went my plans for a quiet dinner in town, granted, that’s still gonna happen like it or yes, but not today. Today was a calm day. In the past I’ve made such a fuss of the day, by evening I really didn’t know what being a year older meant. Today I came from my paper, and just sat in my room and thought. And decided to write.

This year has been about the craziest year I have had in my life ever. I suppose it gets crazier as one grows up. I’ve had days I wished could be thirty hours long, I’ve beaten deadlines in the true Kenyan fashion, at the last possible second. Why, just immediately after writing this I should set about writing this practical report for a trip we went on three weeks ago, because it is due tomorrow, and after the report read for the paper that I’m sitting for tomorrow. Like I said, najivunia kuwa Mkenya. Also I love the ease with which things get done when you’re at the now or never point. But I digress.

Within the year I have lost quite a few things I’d rather not have. I’ve lost a few people I wish I didn’t have to. I have come face to face with rock bottom, I have known what it must be like for things to get so bad sometimes death seems like a worthy reprieve. Perhaps not for me, but I know a little of what that is. My friend lost her brother because he took his own life, it was incredibly sad, also annoying, because he was fourteen and in that season suicides in Kenya were like flies, everyday in the news there were about two. And he became a statistic, just like that. 

I’m just about to finish campus, what a relief that is for me, it has been a hectic ride, it still is… Sometimes I wish someone would lend me six hours from their day, sometimes I wish I could bring back all that time I had idle in January, cause I need it now, and then some. But the Lord is faithful. I am here today because God kept me. I’m alive only because of His grace. And these are not just words; I mean alive in the literal sense of the word. Breathing.

There are just things that no one can ever teach you, there are lessons one must learn for themselves, mistakes one must make so that they can learn. There are thing only Time teaches, wounds only Time heals… I’ve learnt a few lessons this year...

I’ve learnt that being right is not nearly as important as we make it to be. And I wish I wasn’t right so many times, because when I got to be right, sometimes I lost someone I cared about, and I would sit on my bed and fume about how I was justified, but my justification wasn’t there for me when I needed a shoulder to lean on, someone was. Other times I was wrong, but I was too stubborn to make things right, so I made myself right. Some relationships actually did end, some got scarred and broken, and I’m still trying to pick up the pieces thereof, and some I don’t even know where to begin. What's that they say about starting afresh, is that even possible? Say if I broke a cup’s handle, can I just put tea in cup and tell cup let’s start afresh, you were never broken? I have to learn how to hold cup again without a handle, where to place my hands so I don’t get burnt, or maybe use cup for a different thing altogether. But I can’t say let’s start over… And so somehow I’m still trying to figure out where to start mending those relationships. Cups are easy going, people, not so much…

I have learnt to hold my head up high, no matter how beat up I really feel... Everyone's fighting battles of their own, not just me. Everyone is struggling and dealing with baggage under the weight of which I could easily suffocate. But we faint not  hold our heads up high, we make ourselves available for our friends, because maybe even if we can't solve our own, we can help them work through their baggage. Even though we can't pray for ourselves, we can cry out to God for our friends, and maybe, maybe in searching for answers to someone else's problems, in being answers to someone else's prayers, we may find what we so desperately look for. And meanwhile we walk tall. I am not Atlas, I do not bear the weight of the world on my shoulders. So I treat myself kindly, I've learnt to say no to commitments I feel are too much for me. I've learnt the beauty of delegation, and with that the grace to accept less than perfection, and appreciate honest effort. I've learnt that people are not donkeys, they don't need to be pushed to live. And I've learnt to allow people to be who they are, to be with who they want, and do what they feel is right for them at the time. Many lessons I have learnt not by my friends' nagging,but by my choosing my own path. I have learnt that true  friendship involves mastery of the art of silence. But I also learnt not to get less than I deserve. I learnt to politely but firmly refuse to be pushed and walked all over. I have come to admire the quiet dignity and gumption I see in my older friends, the boldness that makes my mum walk into a bank and demand from the manager what is rightfully hers, on a matter of principle. And I want that...


And I’ve learnt that it’s not that serious. If it is not about my God, then it just is not that serious. I’ve learnt not to break my back for things that will never truly satisfy. I’ve learnt not to worry about things I have no control over. I’ve learnt not to borrow from tomorrow its evil to mule over today. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. In less than one month I am going to be a Kenyan. My folks have this thing about how I should start making the transition from bread-eater to bread-earner, about sooner rather than later. So I thought about it, and about how I don’t see myself in a lab for the rest of my life, and how I don’t know where I’ll end up, and what if I don’t like it there, and why did I do biochemistry anyway… I thought about many things without answers, I talked to people who could only smile because they don’t know either, eventually it was too much. And the worries wouldn't stop piling on. I couldn’t focus on now worrying about tomorrow. A tomorrow I don’t even know I have, and you know what, it just is not that serious. When the time comes for me to sit and work through that, then I will. But I won’t borrow trouble from tomorrow as if I’ve got all of today’s sorted out. Give it Time, you never know what’s coming. Half of the things I worried about getting into campus never happened, and the ones that could have happened already did, and I’m still here. Nothing is ever that serious. Nothing is ever forever and thank the Lord that it’s not.

So I thank God for last year, I thank God for this new year. I’m 23 now, who knows what that holds... all I know is that I cannot wait to find out!!!.