THE CONTINUUM CALLED LIFE

There is an Arabian story that goes somewhat like this. A man sent his beloved servant on an errand to the market in Mecca one morning. Shortly after he had left, the servant returned, running and in a state of great distress. “Master,” he said, “lend me your fastest horse that I may leave for Medina immediately.” The master, puzzled asked why. “As I approached the stalls in the market this morning, I saw Death and He looked straight at me and pointed menacingly.” The master gave the horse to the servant and wishing him well sent him on his way. Incensed by the actions of Death, the master decided to seek him out and went out to the market. He saw Death by the stalls and stalked up to him. “Why did you scare my servant this morning?” Death looked at him a while then replied, “It was I who was startled to see him here for I have an appointment with him tonight in Medina.” On Saturday morning, I received the news that everyone dreads – a death in the family. My 30 year old cousin, missing since the previous Thursday night had been found in a city mortuary, the victim of a hit-and-run car accident. He is one of the cousins I consider most blessed for my grandfather had chosen to allow him to live with my grandfather for the two years preceding his [my granddad’s] death. So for the two years when my Granddad was 105 to 107 or 107 to 109 years old, depending on which birth certificate you favour, my cousin got to care for him, talk with him, be with him, and in my book, that made him most favoured. Who knows what stories my grandfather, a great orator, told him of his own youth. What wisdom he imparted to this young, gentle, smiling boy. There is a legend in my family that my grandfather chose his time of death, and it is not without evidence. Indeed, his mother before him, my great-grandmother, is said to have been of such character that she had chosen her time of death. Yet my cousin, seems to have died needlessly, recklessly, negligently. I would like to think not. I would like to think that Death, having visited him earlier received the answer, “Listen, I don’t mind coming with you but if I must, then my last night will be a great party night. And make it quick. I don’t want some lingering death or a spectator event.” Perhaps Death, acquiescing [and knowing who my granddad is] gave him a few more hours. So my cousin went out pub crawling, bought his buddies a drink or two, stepped out into the night and said, “I am ready.” I have often heard it said that death is but a gateway, a continuation of what we call life but in another form. That in death, we do not cease to exist, but in fact, unfold into another facet of the continuum that is Life or Existence. Perhaps early Friday morning, my cousin woke up in a strange body, feeling odd and surrounded by bizarre looking beings who were baring what he would later find out are teeth, to the sound of something pleasant and light – laughter and shrieks of joy. Perhaps, he unfolded into another family, in another plane of existence. Of course there is always the version that he went to heaven and there, standing at the gate, he found not St. Peter, but a younger, more vital granddad holding a cane. If that is so, he probably got the ass whooping of his life before my grandma managed to restrain her man. Do not even consider the version that he may be elsewhere because such is the power of our Grandfather, he would probably hunt him down, wherever he is, and give him that ass-whooping before making his live with him [Granddad] just to ensure he does not get into any more mischief. Ah, but these are the stories in my head, stories I create to allay my grief. The undisputed truth is, the spirit that we once called Mburu Waweru, does not live in the body that goes into the ground this week. He is not there. Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die. –anon. (c) Renee Ngamau

BEYOND THE CLOAK

"Upon a Day Beauty and Ugliness met on the shore of a sea. And they said to one another, “Let us bathe in the sea.” Then they disrobed and swam in the waters. And after at while Ugliness came back to shore and garmented himself with the garments of Beauty and walked his way. And Beauty too came out of the sea, and found not her raiment, and she was too shy to be naked, therefore she dressed herself with the raiment of Ugliness. And Beauty walked her way. And to this very day men and women mistake the one for the other. Yet some there are who have beheld the face of Beauty, and they know her notwithstanding her garments. And some there be who know the face of Ugliness, and the cloth conceals him not from their eyes." Kahlil Gibran - Garments As with Beauty and Ugliness, so it is with Love and Lust. How often I confuse the one for the other. Falling for the sweet whisper of naughty delights, the dizzying excitement, the ‘high’ of emotion surging in my breast as once more, Lust approaches me with his delicious yet “reasonable” proposition, his promise of a ride on the fast last lane and pleasure unending – without pain, consequence or responsibility. Meanwhile, Love sits watching me quietly, smiling a sad smile for he knows that I shall be in tears shortly, vowing never to love again, never to trust, never to invest my heart or my emotion in another. Love waits , watching, hoping that I look beyond the superficial pazzaz of Lust, beyond the simple cloak of Love and see their souls. For then there will be no doubt in my mind, with whom I choose to go, and though the other may tempt me with fast cars, easy money and good living, my heart will be with Love. (c) Renee Ngamau

OF FRAGILE WARRIORS

I’m re-reading Oriah Mountain Dreamer’s, “The Dance”. A former client got me onto the author. Never having heard of her, I was surprised when he recited, word for word, the poem that gives the book its’ title. The bit that captivates me today ...” don’t tell me how wonderful things will be ... someday. Show me you can risk being completely at peace, Truly okay with the way things are right now in this moment, And again in the next and the next and the next...” “I have heard enough warrior stories of heroic daring. Tell me how you crumble when you hit the wall, The place you cannot go beyond by the strength of your own will. What carries you to the other side of that wall, To the fragile beauty of your own humanness?” Immediately, I think to myself, obviously this woman does not live in the normal world, does not have the normal kind of thoughts we humans do, and there is no way she can have dreams, desires , children or TV [or newspapers for that matter]. We all know these preclude “being completely at peace...now”. How can anyone be at peace with markets crumbling, countries breaking [or should I say, specifically, Britain breaking], children missing school because of corruption, people dying of starvation while government granaries are looted... As for the telling of how I “crumble when you hit the wall”... who wants to hear those stories? Who wants to hear stories other than warrior stories? We sent boys and girls “to the river” precisely to become warriors, to withstand the immense pain of circumcision without flinching. I think to myself, this woman must be out of her mountain dreaming mind. Then I read on, grudgingly. And I get to the crux of the matter. Am I willing to be happy no matter my circumstances? My knee-jerk response? Hell, no!! Then I pause and give it a second thought. Being happy no matter the circumstances would mean that my external circumstances or the immediate situation in my life would no longer have an emotional hold over me. Perhaps it means that I could do what I need to do to rectify what is wrong, to make the choices and take the actions I need to without worrying or suffering. It sounds too good to be true. Yet I long to divorce my happiness comes from accomplishments and live out of a genuine place of inner of joy – and that is the way it should be, isn’t it? A part of me says, no. Life is for strife, suffering, compromise and youthful dreams suffocated under the weight of bills, mortgages and “reality”. Yet, even as that part says so, some other bit, deeper within responds, “That’s not true and you know it deep within you.” If it was true, I would not be in conflict. I would not find this challenging. I would not long for that peace. And joy. And the truth is, I do. Somehow, I suspect, you long for it too. THOUGHT FOR THE DAY Omniscience is omnipotent and omnipresent. There’s no distance between the unknown and the known – the known is manifest from the unknown merely by the asking. - David Hawkins (c) Renee Ngamau

THE MOTHER MIND

I have a confession to make. In the style of AA, hi, my name is Renee and I am a news addict. I can usually hold off and control my urges to read the news and when I do, I find that I am at peace, relatively. Then something big happens, like the Haiti earthquake and I think to myself, “That is what happens when I don’t follow the news”, as though somehow by my lack of information, I caused the quake. And that gets me started on the news again. I browse every paper online, I tune the radio to news stations, I glance at newspapers and before I know it, I am waking up to the headlines, I am cussing over the state of Britain/Afghanistan/Haiti/Sri Lanka/Kenya. News of Sarah Palin’s palm scribbled cue words are forming my opinion of her and of Americans, the death of some Taleban in Pakistan is drawing me to delve into the ins and outs of a war I vehemently opposed. The testimony of Tony Blair at the Chilcot Commission of Inquiry makes me want to write them and tell them to take a cue from Kenyan Commissions into how to truly and properly waste taxpayers’ money... and I am angry. Inner peace is out. Righteous indignation is in. And the world is no longer a beautiful place. I want the peace back, but I also want the delicious feeling of being “current”. I want to know of the major events around the world but I do not want to be overwhelmed by the news. As these thoughts race through my mind, I catch a snippet of a radio interview playing in the background. The interviewee says...”Credo Mutwa...” I don’t catch the rest. I’m not really interested but I remember an uncle being so proud to have met him. I am intrigued by the name and google it. If you have not heard of him, Credo Mutwa is a famous South African Zulu sangoma – medicine man. “Awaken the mother mind within every one of you human beings. Our people believe that every human being, male or female has got two minds, the mother mind and the warrior mind. The warrior mind looks at things logically. The warrior mind says two plus two is four, but the mother mind says nothing of that kind. The mother mind, I don’t know how I can explain. The mother mind does not think in a line way as warriors do. The mother mind thinks sideways, sideways, and upwards and downwards. We must awaken the mother mind within us. We must feel what is going on in the world, we mustn’t just listen to newspapers. We must ourselves feel... it is said by our, the Zulu people, that women think with their pelvic area where children grow and are born. We must think that way. I must no longer look at a tree, but I must see a living entity like me in that thing. I must no longer look at a stone but I must see the future lying dormant in that stone. What minerals are there. We must think like grandmothers. That is all.” http://peacesanctuary.blogspot.com/2008/05/credo-mutwa-message-to-world.html Wow! That is all? How do I do that? How do I see the men who pass anti-abortion laws in Kenya while allowing 8 year olds to be married off to 40+year old men, through the ‘mother mind’? How do I see the devastation of Haiti through the ‘mother mind’? Can I accept that evil happens, fight it with my ‘warrior mind’ and still retain the perspective that the mother mind promises? I don’t know but I am willing to try. I look outside. It is so very cold, sunny but absolutely frozen. And I try to see the winter as the stillness of nature when she regenerates, recuperates and dreams the dream of spring – of new birth. It feels funny to think this way, almost fraudulent, but strangely, it brings some peace and some comfort. For a moment, all is well. Perhaps there is a place for that female mind my world, after all. (c) Renee Ngamau

GIGGLES IN MY SLEEP

It is about 8.30pm on a quiet weeknight. My boy’s in bed, his father away on work, the clothes’ dryer is humming downstairs, I’m lying in bed listening to music and reading a book, my ideal evening home. Then the floor boards creak and the bedroom door opens. For a second there, my heart jumps. I raise my head and look to the door but see no one as it swings back shut. I hear more creaking. It’s the floor boards in my room but I am not alarmed. Instead I wait for the little voice. Sure enough, a little head peeks over the bedboard and a little voice whispers, “Mum, can I sweep (sic) with you?” Even before I can say yes, he is clamouring onto the bed, diving under the duvet and working his way up to the pillow. His head pops out. Again, that urgent request, “Mum, can I sweep with you?” Big eyes imploring me to say yes. “Why?” I ask. “There’s a monster in my bedroom.” “Tell it to go away to its own bedroom,” I reply. “No. I want to sweep with you. Pweeze!” More big eyes. “Ok,” I say, closing my book and getting up to turn the light off, “but you must sleep.” “Thanks, Mum.” He lies down, then begins to fidget. This way and that. A knee then a sharp little elbow find my rib cage, then a foot on my chest, then strangely, a knee again, then quiet. A few moments pass. Then the fidgeting begins again. “Stop wiggling and go to sleep!” I whisper urgently. “I can’t. I’m too scared.” I scoot to the edge of the bed hoping that the increased space will afford him some comfort. He follows me and I feel his breath on my forehead. His cold nose travels down the side of my face until he nestles on my neck. But that’s not quite it. more fidgeting. More elbows. Then I say to him, “Hold my hand”. He clutches it, first with one little palm, then the other. Soon he is hugging my arm. It is an awkward hold and I want to pull my arm away immediately but he has settled down. Within minutes, I hear that deep rhythmic breathing that only sleep can induce. I try to move my arm but he clutches it even harder, wrapping his legs around it. I shift my weight and find a more comfortable position. I can see the outline of his face in the darkness. The distressed look that haunted it when he came in has been replaced by a peaceful angelic half smile. I marvel at how content he looks. Later in the night, I will be woken up by the sound of laughter. I will look to my side and see him laughing in his sleep and again, I will be awestruck, and a little envious. I will wish that I could still find things funny enough to burst into peels of laughter every day and have enough laughter left over for night time. I will wonder if I too used to laugh in my sleep, and when I stopped. Miguel Ruiz, in The Four Agreements writes that when we arrive here as children, we are wild, as yet untamed, living completely in the Now and finding pleasure in all we do, in all we see, in who we are. As we become ‘domesticated’ by our parents, our society, our environment, we lose that connection with the Now. We begin to accept what others say of us, we want to conform, we want acceptance and so we shun any deviance from social norms – at least to the extent that the deviance makes us unacceptable. That makes me think about the idea of Enlightenment. Of course there are as many definitions as there are teachers of Enlightenment but all of them seem to agree on one thing – that enlightenment has, as one of its components, that ability to be fully in the Now. I just wonder though, can one experience that joy, that peace, that contentment and be a mum with a little kid, with a fledgling business, with chores, and dinners to prepare? Is that peace of mind available to the man with bills to pay, a work deadline, a project to chase, a business to run and kids to tuck into bed before finding the energy to engage with his wife? Or is it the preserve of single hermit-like, dhoti-clad, kid free men and women? Later, I will pick my son up and return him to his bed. He will wrap his little arms around my neck and murmur, “Sorry, mummy”. Bewildered, I will whisper that there is nothing to be sorry for but as I come back to my bed, I will wonder whether he was apologising or expressing his sympathy that I have forgotten how to laugh like that. Right now, I just want to capture that contented look and hope that if I can burn it in my brain, then somehow, I can find such contentment too. THOUGHT FOR THE DAY ““Later, people would occasionally come up to me and say: “I want what you have got. Can you give it [that strong, almost palpable undercurrent of peace] to me or show me how to get it?” And I would say: “You just can’t feel it because your mind is making too much noise.”” – Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now (c) Renee Ngamau

LOVE AND MARRIAGE - HORSE AND CARRIAGE

AN OPEN LETTER TO MY COUSIN-SISTER You emailed me today to tell me that you are getting married. I could almost taste the happiness in your voice, feel the twinkle in your eye as you wrote all about him and how happy you are; about your parents and his parents and all the preparations. Finally, as you asked if I would be a bridesmaid at your wedding. I felt overwhelmed. You are the last of my “girl-cousins” and it would be my honour to bear witness to your happy occasion. You are so beautiful, so young, so full of vitality. In you, I see such beauty, it is breathtaking. I love you in the way a sister loves another, a friend loves a friend. If I did not, I would restrain myself and not say that which I will – that which I wish someone had told me, before I got married. I want you to keep that in mind as you read on. My darling cousin-sister, I urge you not to get married. I beg you not to go ahead with it. Yet knowing how young, how in love you are, I suspect that this will not only fall on deaf ears but may in fact cause you some pain. This is not at all my intention. Believe it or not, your happiness is the reason why I implore you to reconsider your decision. A couple of weeks ago, the members of the Parliamentary Select Committee on the Review of the Draft Constitution voted against the enshrining in the Constitution of clause 42 (4). The clause read, “Parties to a marriage are entitled to equal rights at the time of the marriage, during the marriage, and at the dissolution of the marriage.” What has this to do with you? By rejecting it, my love, they took away your and my and every married woman, indeed every woman’s rights, every female’s rights as relates to marriage. Any child who is “married off” under “customary law” – that notorious smokescreen for legalised paedophilia has not the same rights as her brother. The right to say “No”, the right to annul or divorce, the protection of the law against rape or violence, the right to her own body – to refuse to bear children that she does not want or cannot cater for. She has no such right by virtue only of having been born with a vagina. And my dear, the moment you say “I do”, neither will you. Oh, I have no doubt that your fiancé is a stand-up guy; well bred, from a good home, not one likely to hit you or demand sex with you when you do not wish it. I am sure that if you were ever to divorce, and heaven pray it does not happen, he would willingly give up an equitable share of the matrimonial property to you and any children you may have. But baby, we both know that had we asked our mothers, they would have said the same of our fathers. And in both your and my case, we know how that story ended. Death is sometimes a soothing balm to the aching battered wife. I have no doubt that he will care for and provide for your children. However, such is the strangeness of the Kenyan legal system – you may have to care for any children he sirs out of wedlock or by another woman whether he claims it to be a “traditional” marriage or simply a “misc” that derogatory word used to describe the other women that married men will keep - “miscellaneous”. But what if, just what if he isn’t as stand-up as you and I would both like to think. What if he in effect “sits down”. Then you could legally be raped in marriage and would have no recourse in law or in custom. Even if he was HIV+, herpes laden and gonorrhoea stricken, it would be his right to demand sex from you. His right to divorce you for non-compliance. His reasonable defence to beat you black and blue for the unthinkable – refusing him sex. And you? You could do nothing except endure it in silence, run away or hope that other men, your brothers and mine would beat him up. You could have no choice under law save to bear all and any children that you are impregnated, whether or not you wish to bear them at the pain of imprisonment. Effectively, the removal of that clause raises an ambiguity about the property rights of that which you owned before the marriage, that which you both acquire during the marriage and what happens if the marriage ends. By law and custom, he can inherit from his parents. You have no such right upon marriage. At least if you are unwed, you retain the right under customary law to inheritance. Once married, that right is taken away from you. After all, you have now been “sold” and your bed has been given away. You have no right to return home. You have, in law as in custom, no home to return to, save his. Yes dear, even in the second decade of this new millennium, we remain chattels. Oh sure, it is glorified in such words as “dowry” but consider the terms surrounding marriage in our language. “Kwendia mwari” – to sell a daughter. “Kuheana kiriri” – to give away your bed. If we hold ourselves to be Christian in every other way, this is the one way in which we are not. It is not the man who leaves his mother and father to be united with his wife as is prescribed in Genesis 2:24. You and I know well that in our case, we are delivered physically to our husband, handed over to our mothers-in-law and informed in no uncertain terms that there is no longer a place for us in our birth homes. And all this in the midst of ululation and great rejoicing. A few months ago, at my local church in Kenya, we ran a series of sermons titles “You Pretty Young Thing”. It was about marriages in trouble. During one of the sessions, the pastor invited three men to articulate what they felt were the important points that women should focus on within the marriage. The men picked were of different age groups but generally what in Kenya is known as “AA” and “AB” income groups. The top tier. Here are the issues that were underscored; “look sexy”, “dress sexy”, “anticipate my every whim and attend to it”, “do not bother me with issues such as the children, or the tribulations of your day”, “give me my food/drink”, “don’t bother me when the football is on”, “keep in mind every day as I leave the house that there are very many other women out there who want me and are working very hard to get me so try and keep up – lest you lose out”. Finances, raising families, imparting values, planning together, health, romance, in-laws, old age and pensions, investments – those were not even mentioned. Just catering to the men’s sexual and gastronomical “needs”. Now, I would like to believe that the men that day were saying what they did half in jest, that our men are not that shallow – at least not the one you are marrying or the one I did. However, you know that the highest rise in new HIV cases in Kenya right now especially in the urban areas is in marriages. Men feeling entitled to sleep around, and then to sleep with their wives. Women so sexually frustrated that they now risk health and reputation to have sexual partners. And you know how important it still is in our culture to be “chaste”. I hate to be the one to tell you this but in marriage, you will become not only a chattel, but in the sex crazed, machismo society we are living; a sexual object, a breeding mare and a housekeeper – with no salary and no automatic right to share in the property you help to accumulate. At best, you will be a tenant for life. At worst, an unpaid, unrewarded punch bag. I know what you are now thinking. Surely, marriage is more than who-leaves-whom, or who-cleaves-whom! Surely, Couz, you cannot be advocating that I live in sin, sleeping with this man, bearing his children yet never being unified with him before God and man? I am. No human being should be required to lay down their life, to sacrifice themselves for no other reason save that they are female, in love and God fearing. No one, male or female should be statutorily stripped of a fundamental protection against violence on the basis that they are married. No human being should ever be designated the sexual object of another by virtue of gender. We outlaw sex without consent in Kenya where it is between unwedded persons and call it rape or indecent assault. We outlaw sex with consent in Kenya, where it is in exchange for money and call it prostitution. We outlaw consensual sex between two willing adults of the same sex and call it an abomination. However, where it is in the loving devoted pledge of marriage, we presume the woman to have perpetually consented to sex, no matter what the circumstances and we call it the fulfilment of God’s command. And what of the woman who unfulfilled in her marriage, seeks sexual satisfaction outside of it, why she is a whore of course – and deserving of all that happens to her. I am sure, my love, that you have chosen a good man. You who saw the horrors of marriage in childhood should be spared the enactment of them again in adulthood. I pray that he is all that you hope and dream of; all that you need and lots of what you want. If he is, then he may still want to marry you and you him. He may hold true to his pledge to forsake all others, in sickness and in health, poverty and wealth. Then you will have the amazing opportunity to have that which God did ordain, and that which most can only dream of or read about in novels – a normal marriage. I pray that this is so, for you, more than anyone else, deserve this. And if he is, if he is an equal and treats you like the child of God that you are; mine will be the distinct pleasure to say, “I was a bridesmaid at her wedding, you know.” P. S. Had I heard these words before I got married, would I have still married? Probably. And I know that you will too. And so, I add a postscript which is this – no matter what happens, you can always call on me and I promise to be there – and never to say to you “this is the lot for women – toughen up”. For it is not. Something else is possible. Something beautiful. Something whole. Something divine. Something humane. And it is possible within and outside the institution of marriage. And it is possible for women like you, like me, like all the ones who live. It is called love. (c) Renee Ngamau

WAIST DEEP IN A RIVER - DYING OF THIRST

I come from the land of plenty, where people starve. I live in the land of little, where people die from excesses. The irony is or would be hilarious if, on both sides, people were not dying. Last year at this time, able Kenyans were buying relief food for transportation to drought stricken areas where the rains had failed. Images of dead livestock, emaciated children and listless women filled the large supermarkets where huge boxes marked “Donations” and “Red Cross” stood waiting to be filled with the one or two extra things that those who shop in such places would deposit on their way out for the supermarkets to transport away. This year, able Kenyans are buying relief food for transportation to flood stricken areas where the rains have arrived with a vengeance. Images of villages washed away, children and women on the tin roofs of flooded houses... you can see where this is going. And yes, the generosity of people knows no bounds for once again, they are donating food to be transported to these areas. Meanwhile, in a market somewhere in Europe, the planes will be delivering their daily consignment of flowers (according to the Kenya Flower Council, Kenya produces about 35% of Europe’s cut and ornamental flowers).(1) In the UK, more than 30% of Kenya’s fresh horticultural produce [French beans, snow peas, sugar snaps etc] will be up for sale.(2) This, by the way, is a good thing. Anyone will tell you that the farms, pack houses, airports, carton manufacturing factories etc provide vital employment for otherwise unemployed people. And it is that stark a choice for many in Kenya. Either work in the freezing conditions of the pack houses or starve. Now, just before you pull out either your cheque book or your hanky in indignation consider this; that while there are people starving in one part of the country, two hundred miles away, others are harvesting food that will not make it to the plates of the European consumer, and this is where the real irony is. The strict EU standards coupled by the aesthetic requirements of the discerning European customer combine to ensure that of all the fresh produce harvested, only about 25%-40% will make it to the airports. The rest will constitute “reject”. Produce which is unpalatable to the European largely due to looks – too stumpy; a day overgrown; too long; too wide... now what happens to this food? Most of it gets thrown away or given to animal rearers as fodder. The stuff that makes it to the supermarkets is way, way below the standards even of the rejects, yet it is often priced so high, it is still beyond the reach of the average Kenyan. Why not sell it cheaper? Well, for one, the African palate may not be used to snow peas and sugar snaps. In any event the high costs of storage, etc would not allow for a lesser profit margin. Now, let us get a little practical here. It is not a business savvy idea for the horticulture companies to pack and resell the produce to the starving Kenyans – the cost of packaging, transportation and marketing would far outweigh any returns, let alone profit. It does not make sense to give it away to those starving 200 miles away. The cost of transportation in the cool or refrigerated trucks that would ensure quality control would eat into the companies’ profits. That would simply not be sensible, now would it? What about the industry as a whole? Through its associations, why don’t the horticultural exporters organise for the food to be transported to these areas? Well, first like I said, there is the issue of profit margins. Secondly, that would require consensus, co-operation and a fair amount of logistical planning amongst a group not particularly well renowned for their co-operative abilities even when these threaten fundamentals such as pricing, airway contracts. It may help if they had some tax incentives but hey, that may itself create more tax evasion loopholes than actual people fed. Plus who would lead the initiative? Who would co-ordinate things? How would accountability be ensured? How would any sanctions agreed upon be enforced against those who did not pull their weight? Of course, a group could always volunteer. It would make for great marketing if nothing else. Plus a feel good factor. And of course let us not forget, lots more children would go to sleep with at least one meal. Still, is that not too utopian, given that we are talking about Kenyan businesses? Does it seem sensible? How about donating some of the food to the tens if not hundreds of little children’s homes scattered in the city, the many internally displaced peoples’ camps, the old peoples’ homes, even the slums? Oh dear, am I getting too impractical now? Well, if industry will not do anything, why doesn’t government? Ah yes, the government. That nebulous entity that ought to be the saviour of all people, panacea of all wrong. What should it do? Confiscate the snow peas from the pack houses? Mobilise trucks to take the food? Now does that seem sensible? And so, millions starve. Millions are spent buying food for the starving until the shoppers get “charity fatigue”. And I get to have quality French beans on my plate tonight while admiring my white and mauve variegated Kenyan carnations. To assuage any pangs of guilt I have? Oh, I have none. After all, I donate regularly to various international aid organisations and charities that assist poor starving Africans. Cruel? No, just sensible. Or is it? THOUGHT FOR THE DAY To doubt everything or to believe everything are two equally convenient solutions; both dispense with the necessity of reflection – J H Poincare ... and action – R Ngamau 1. http://www.kenyaflowercouncil.org/floricultureinkenya.php 2. http://www.epzakenya.com/UserFiles/File/Horticulture.pdf

Things that make you go... WHAT!? AKA It’s The Trees Whot Dunnit!

I have been watching clips on “TED... Ideas worth spreading”. [www.ted.com] For those of you still uninitiated, the website hosts short clips of talks by prominent people in the spheres of technology, entertainment and design... and everything in between. Well, here is what I have learned. 1. The reason why the rains are not coming in Kenya is because we cut down the trees, destroyed the forests and decimated the water catchment areas. [Well, at least partly if not largely]. Now I know that you know that this is the reason why. No need to watch a video to tell you that. What I did not know is that my form two geography teacher’s explanation for how the rain cycle works in the tropics is wrong. [Sorry Mrs. Maina/Mrs. Odinga]. The evaporation-condensation-precipitation cycle is modelled on the Northern and Southern Hemispheres where it is in fact correct. In the sunny bits of the world however, it’s apparently different. Between the condensation and precipitation bits, there is a call. Apparently, the trees let the clouds know that their moment in the sky is about to come to an end; call them over to the right high grounds to ensure that when it does rain, the rain goes to the right bit of dry ground. All a little confusing to explain [and probably a lot more complex than I’m making it]. Now, we all know that the reason that we are cutting down entire indigenous forests is because we need to live on the land and the land that we could live on, has already been taken. [and no, we will not get into the land redistribution debate.... save to say... ok, I won’t.... I can’t resist... ok, Land reform’s the key to peace in the Rift Vally, you g@d&* m politicians, when is that going to sink into your sh... filled heads... or do you just like seeing dead bodies.... there, I DO feel much better... now, the point...where was I?] Also, the reason we plant Australian eucalyptus and other non-indigenous trees is because in the few short years it will take them to grow, we are counting down our moments to millionaire status. After all, we’ll all be selling the trunks to the electricity distribution company and making a mint. Now before y’all get hot under the collar [or start uprooting said trees in a huff] there has been a successful scheme which has enabled people to make what is hailed as a very good livelihood from the combination of indigenous forests, animals, food and cash crops. From what I understand, and I am still studying this, it is based on permaculture but incorporates wildlife preservation [think, our own little giraffe reserve in Magutu, Nyeri]. It would therefore appear [a word I use often in this segment], that in fact, the way forward is not to destroy the forests, replace them with foreign trees and wonder why it doesn’t rain any more [while also hoping that in ten years the telephone and electricity masts will still be made of tree trunks... and the price won’t collapse under the sheer glut of available trunks]. The way forward is to replant the forests, repopulate them and farm under them. In other words, if we want the rain to come back, we may need to rely less on hope, prayer and the Red Cross alone and more on good old science. Confused? Probably best you watch the segment yourself. http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/willie_smits_restores_a_rainforest.html 2. The second thing I have learned is that traditional African architecture is based on fractals; that the math that tends to infinity ; that is the basis of all patterns in nature. I learned that the Internet and to the success of search engines like Google is founded on the Ajua board game and that braiding hair is based on complex formulae all of which are literally at the finger tips of most rural folk. Now I know that when we talk about African architecture, our suitably indoctrinated brains go directly to Timbuktu, Egypt, Monomotapa and Great Zimbabwe. Well, think again because the configuration of a Maasai homestead, a Kikuyu mucii, an Igbo or Ghanaian village all exhibits these fractals. In fact, it’s crazier than that, when the Mganga draws quick successions of short lines in the sand as you encourage him to hex that pesky cow that’s always wandering into your cabbage patch – well that uses the binomial system! Insane isn’t it? And get this. a. It is not universal to all indigenous communities. This is unique to Africans. b. It is not incidental or a fluke. Where the traditions are more preserved, the artisans and architects know exactly what they are doing and why, when they build these things! Now, suddenly, I want to know what fractals are. I know a little about them through the theories of chaos like fluttering butterflies and tsunami and sacred geometry, something that has been fascinating me especially when I visit gothic cathedrals, but to think that it is not only present back in my home village*, but being killed off actively in favour of new fangled four corner tin roof modernities while little Kenyan children struggle to understand the internet, geometry and fractals. [*well, not my home town, given as technically I can only lay claim to Nakuru – the hotbed of politics in the RV or to the ‘Holy Land’ Kijabe – the last dry (booze wise) town in non-sharia Kenya]. While we are looking westward for our salvation from the vagaries of hunger, disease, poverty; the foundations for the most advanced technologies on earth at present, are being slowly but effectively destroyed...by us. http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/ron_eglash_on_african_fractals.html c. The third thing that I have learned is that a little education, a whole lot of determination, and a nearby junkyard can transform a village. This is such a feel good story. William Kakwamba, this kid from rural Malawi, some place called, of all things Kasungu, peasant farmer parents, poor as a Sahel sand merchant, gets to about form 2 or 3 then has to quit because there’s a drought in Malawi, no food, no water... you get the picture. [You don’t? Drive straight out of Nairobi for no more than 200 miles in a direction of your choice]. Anyway, kid comes across a book or pamphlet about windmills. Has a read [mostly looking at the illustrations because his English isn’t good enough for him to read the explanation]. Has a bit of a think. Raids a local scrap yard and hey presto, he erects a not-very-aesthetic-but-a-bloody-lifesaving windmill. Suddenly, he can pump water from nearby waterholes to his father’s farm, they can grow food and he can go back to school. If that was not enough, people come from all over to have their mobile phones charged – tidy little side business. And now, he’s the local consultant on windmill building in his little village and the environs, Malawi. Oh yes, and he published a book titled “The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind: Creating Currents of Electricity and Hope. Oh... and the documentary on his life won loads of awards. I watch this clip twice, and then I lean back on my chair. Remind me again. Why are we sitting under the looming cloud of water rationing or the semi darkness of power rationing? Why are we allowing the drought; accepting the darkness; acquiescing to the starvation and death of Kenyans, men and beasts? [I can almost hear you say it, “Why are you asking awkward questions?”]....... Did I mention that young William is working on a full length feature film? http://www.ted.com/talks/william_kamkwamba_how_i_harnessed_the_wind.html On a different but equally inspiring note, kudos to you DJ Watcha-Ma-Call-It aka the respectable BBC correspondent Kevin Mwachiro, for a lovely piece on the BBC website on the Kenyan fashion show. Do they come in UK size 18? I’m currently celebrating being a woman of traditional African build ala Mma Precious Ramotswe. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/8353908.stm Hey, that’s enough internet voyeurism for now. Hope your butt hurts as much as mine from all the ass-kicking [aka inspiration], each of these clips bring with them.

Things that make you go... WHAT!? AKA It’s The Trees Whot Dunnit!

I have been watching clips on “TED... Ideas worth spreading”. [www.ted.com] For those of you still uninitiated, the website hosts short clips of talks by prominent people in the spheres of technology, entertainment and design... and everything in between. Well, here is what I have learned. 1. The reason why the rains are not coming in Kenya is because we cut down the trees, destroyed the forests and decimated the water catchment areas. [Well, at least partly if not largely]. Now I know that you know that this is the reason why. No need to watch a video to tell you that. What I did not know is that my form two geography teacher’s explanation for how the rain cycle works in the tropics is wrong. [Sorry Mrs. Maina/Mrs. Odinga]. The evaporation-condensation-precipitation cycle is modelled on the Northern and Southern Hemispheres where it is in fact correct. In the sunny bits of the world however, it’s apparently different. Between the condensation and precipitation bits, there is a call. Apparently, the trees let the clouds know that their moment in the sky is about to come to an end; call them over to the right high grounds to ensure that when it does rain, the rain goes to the right bit of dry ground. All a little confusing to explain [and probably a lot more complex than I’m making it]. Now, we all know that the reason that we are cutting down entire indigenous forests is because we need to live on the land and the land that we could live on, has already been taken. [and no, we will not get into the land redistribution debate.... save to say... ok, I won’t.... I can’t resist... ok, Land reform’s the key to peace in the Rift Vally, you g@d&* m politicians, when is that going to sink into your sh... filled heads... or do you just like seeing dead bodies.... there, I DO feel much better... now, the point...where was I?] Also, the reason we plant Australian eucalyptus and other non-indigenous trees is because in the few short years it will take them to grow, we are counting down our moments to millionaire status. After all, we’ll all be selling the trunks to the electricity distribution company and making a mint. Now before y’all get hot under the collar [or start uprooting said trees in a huff] there has been a successful scheme which has enabled people to make what is hailed as a very good livelihood from the combination of indigenous forests, animals, food and cash crops. From what I understand, and I am still studying this, it is based on permaculture but incorporates wildlife preservation [think, our own little giraffe reserve in Magutu, Nyeri]. It would therefore appear [a word I use often in this segment], that in fact, the way forward is not to destroy the forests, replace them with foreign trees and wonder why it doesn’t rain any more [while also hoping that in ten years the telephone and electricity masts will still be made of tree trunks... and the price won’t collapse under the sheer glut of available trunks]. The way forward is to replant the forests, repopulate them and farm under them. In other words, if we want the rain to come back, we may need to rely less on hope, prayer and the Red Cross alone and more on good old science. Confused? Probably best you watch the segment yourself. http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/willie_smits_restores_a_rainforest.html 2. The second thing I have learned is that traditional African architecture is based on fractals; that the math that tends to infinity ; that is the basis of all patterns in nature. I learned that the Internet and to the success of search engines like Google is founded on the Ajua board game and that braiding hair is based on complex formulae all of which are literally at the finger tips of most rural folk. Now I know that when we talk about African architecture, our suitably indoctrinated brains go directly to Timbuktu, Egypt, Monomotapa and Great Zimbabwe. Well, think again because the configuration of a Maasai homestead, a Kikuyu mucii, an Igbo or Ghanaian village all exhibits these fractals. In fact, it’s crazier than that, when the Mganga draws quick successions of short lines in the sand as you encourage him to hex that pesky cow that’s always wandering into your cabbage patch – well that uses the binomial system! Insane isn’t it? And get this. a. It is not universal to all indigenous communities. This is unique to Africans. b. It is not incidental or a fluke. Where the traditions are more preserved, the artisans and architects know exactly what they are doing and why, when they build these things! Now, suddenly, I want to know what fractals are. I know a little about them through the theories of chaos like fluttering butterflies and tsunami and sacred geometry, something that has been fascinating me especially when I visit gothic cathedrals, but to think that it is not only present back in my home village*, but being killed off actively in favour of new fangled four corner tin roof modernities while little Kenyan children struggle to understand the internet, geometry and fractals. [*well, not my home town, given as technically I can only lay claim to Nakuru – the hotbed of politics in the RV or to the ‘Holy Land’ Kijabe – the last dry (booze wise) town in non-sharia Kenya]. While we are looking westward for our salvation from the vagaries of hunger, disease, poverty; the foundations for the most advanced technologies on earth at present, are being slowly but effectively destroyed...by us. http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/ron_eglash_on_african_fractals.html c. The third thing that I have learned is that a little education, a whole lot of determination, and a nearby junkyard can transform a village. This is such a feel good story. William Kakwamba, this kid from rural Malawi, some place called, of all things Kasungu, peasant farmer parents, poor as a Sahel sand merchant, gets to about form 2 or 3 then has to quit because there’s a drought in Malawi, no food, no water... you get the picture. [You don’t? Drive straight out of Nairobi for no more than 200 miles in a direction of your choice]. Anyway, kid comes across a book or pamphlet about windmills. Has a read [mostly looking at the illustrations because his English isn’t good enough for him to read the explanation]. Has a bit of a think. Raids a local scrap yard and hey presto, he erects a not-very-aesthetic-but-a-bloody-lifesaving windmill. Suddenly, he can pump water from nearby waterholes to his father’s farm, they can grow food and he can go back to school. If that was not enough, people come from all over to have their mobile phones charged – tidy little side business. And now, he’s the local consultant on windmill building in his little village and the environs, Malawi. Oh yes, and he published a book titled “The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind: Creating Currents of Electricity and Hope. Oh... and the documentary on his life won loads of awards. I watch this clip twice, and then I lean back on my chair. Remind me again. Why are we sitting under the looming cloud of water rationing or the semi darkness of power rationing? Why are we allowing the drought; accepting the darkness; acquiescing to the starvation and death of Kenyans, men and beasts? [I can almost hear you say it, “Why are you asking awkward questions?”]....... Did I mention that young William is working on a full length feature film? http://www.ted.com/talks/william_kamkwamba_how_i_harnessed_the_wind.html On a different but equally inspiring note, kudos to you DJ Watcha-Ma-Call-It aka the respectable BBC correspondent Kevin Mwachiro, for a lovely piece on the BBC website on the Kenyan fashion show. Do they come in UK size 18? I’m currently celebrating being a woman of traditional African build ala Mma Precious Ramotswe. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/8353908.stm Hey, that’s enough internet voyeurism for now. Hope your butt hurts as much as mine from all the ass-kicking [aka inspiration], each of these clips bring with them.

TODAY, I'LL BE...

I don’t know if I have told you this story before but my son is at that age where he is sampling various identities. Now, that probably sounds more scientific than it actually is. It works like this. Every morning, he comes into my room and says, “Mummy, today I’m fireman Sam/Bob the Builder/Thomas the Tank Engine/Lazy Lion/the Itsy Bitsy Spider/Ki-pat [rainmaker extraordinaire of the Kapiti Plain]...” That declaration is invariably followed with the question, “Mum, who are you today?” At the pain of death, I am not allowed to be the same person he is so for example, if he is Bob the Builder, I cannot be Bob the Builder too. There are also some default personalities which I am never allowed to be even though that day, he is not being that person. A prime example which anyone who has met him will relate to is, no one is allowed to be Fireman Sam but him. There’s room for only one ladder-climbing, rooftop-rescuing, hero-next-door in town and the position’s been taken. The other thing is that once he has declared who he is, you absolutely MUST call him by that name. Actually, that is not true. You may call him by any other name including his given name. However, if you intend for him to respond, you are well advised to call him by his nom-du-jour. He’s very good at staying in character. Heck, he has even memorised bits of dialogue from his favourite shows which you and he must repeat sometimes ad nauseum, and definitely without error. So for example if he is Thomas the Tank Engine, terse instructions will issue as follows, “Mummy, say ‘who’s that chuckling [sic] down the tracks... It’s Thomas’ and I’ll say ‘choo, choo!’” Of course should I get it wrong, he insists and insists and insists in that way that only children can, until I get it right. All of this has got me thinking. What if we could change our identities? What if, every morning we could get up, declare who we are going to be and insist that everyone around us respond to us as our chosen identity. Now, I can already hear the Hallelujah chorus from the Kings Cole and the Queens Elizabeth characters but really, what if we could. I mean, you know how people treat you in a certain way. Once you had an anger management issue, they always default to, you will always have one. Once you got angry and yelled at someone, now you are treated like the Incredible Hulk. Once you lived a crazy life/fought an addiction drugs, alcohol, sex, whatever, now no one will believe that you are reformed [in fact, they are goading you to go back to ‘normal’ so they can say, “See, we knew it wouldn’t last” in self righteous smugness]... or even shake off some respectable but stifling titles and be someone else – no more Doctor So-and-So, Professor This-and-That, Pastor X, Wife-T-o-Pastor Y. It’s not like you couldn’t change back if you chose to. I am never confused about who my son is when he is not Postman Pat or Ki-pat on the Kapiti Plains. He’s my son. Maybe we should limit the characters you could be to the seven dwarfs a la Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. So you could be Smiley or Grumpy or Happy or Droopy. Okay, I don’t know many of the dwarfs. I figure everyone gets to always be Sexy and Lovely [are those dwarfs?] but in addition you could choose a character and everyone would have to call you that. Wouldn’t that be cool? Even for one day to shake off that old you, be someone new and have everyone recognise only That you? PS for the record, I’m Hot-ty... and Sexy... and Hot Mama-ey [ok, that last one might be stretching the fairy tale a little... but I insist!!]. THOUGHT FOR THE DAY “I do not believe in chance. I think here, we trade one life for one life. “ from The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski

LEOPARD VS DOG ROUND 2

 

 

I'm still on this Leopard vs. Dog theme. I've been thinking about it a lot. I can relate to the analogy. Where I come from, it was very common in the '70s, '80s and early '90s for leopards to come out to the farms at night. I used to go stay with my grandfather and he always had the same advice for me. If I was walking home at night and I got the sense that a leopard was 'walking' me, I had to keep going. No running. No outward sign of panic. Just keep walking homebound. The leopard, being feline, would probably want to play. Often what it would do is, it would trail you in the thicket as you walked on the path, then it would run ahead of you in the bush, then come out onto the path and lie across it, swishing its tail and waiting for you to come round. Now here was the trick. If you ever came across a leopard lying across the path, according to Guka [Granddad], you had to look it straight in the eyes and keep walking towards it. Just in case you are wondering, it is very easy to locate a leopard's eyes at night. They glow. At NO TIME were you to turn your back on it. AT NO TIME AT ALL. If you did, it would most definitely kill you. If it's any consolation, according to folklore in my village, leopards would rarely eat people because we taste so bad in comparison to sheep or goats. Without the benefit of having tasted human, I agree wholeheartedly.

Now, it's all very well to say, walk with the Leopard but let's face it, if you have ever been near a leopard in the wild or have ever been 'escorted' by one, there are some things that quickly become apparent. The first is the way it smells. If you like Eau de perfume de all the rotten meat in the world, you will love leopard. It smells of distilled rot. Good heavens!!!! Can the cat take a bath from time to time? Ok, I can see that you do not appreciate the concept but let me paint a picture for you. Take a fresh piece of steak, leave it outside for a week, then marinade it in intestine juice and wrap it with a used diaper of a weaning baby, and you are approaching the smell! Are we together?

Problem number two: if a leopard is waiting for you ahead on the path, and you, having forgotten your house keys at the village bar where you were drinking, turn back before reaching it, it will come find you. And if it has to come find you, you can rest assured; there will be an ass-whooping coming with it!!! So you gotta keep going on that path.

Problem number three: you may not want to be in the company of a leopard for obvious reasons. The smell does not endear itself to social occasions. This need to stick on a particular path, to walk steadily and show no fear does tend to make one look like a stiff or at least like PC Plod… it is just not cool. Yeah, yeah, I know. At my age, I should have gotten over looking cool but hey, I'm just keeping it real.

Now with the dogs however, there is the excitement of wondering whether this time you'll outrun them. Whether when you approach them, you'll find that in fact they are asleep so you can sneak by quietly and reach your destination unmolested. You can engage them in a fight [never a wise thing to attempt with a leopard]… you can yell "SIT!!!" and hope that they are trained dogs. [Those in the village rarely are and any sound with 'ssss' in it, usually translates to "seek 'em" which invariably leads to a dog chasing someone – in this case – you]. Dogs move in packs so you are always in glad, yapping company. Granted, a leopard will make short work of a pack of dogs, and usually does but let's face it, dogs are exciting.

Hold on! Before you start intercessory prayers in tongues over my soul, allow me to say this. I'm all for walking with the Leopard. However, I think there should be a rule. The rule should be that every fortnight or so, there should be a fight between the dogs and the leopard. It must be a spectacular fight. With teeth snarling, spitting, gnashing, yelping, growling…you know, something to reward the walker [or is it to remind the walker of what could happen if she walked off the path? Hmmm…]. Some sheep should be thrown in for good measure. Innocent, dumb, bleating, doomed… they can be the prize. I think there should be a referee and the bouts should be in three minute rounds. I mean if I am going to walk the solitary nocturnal walk with a beast as magnificent as a leopard, surely I should find some way to lord it over the dog owners…

This brings me squarely to another point!! Self-righteous, bible thumpers. Now I don't know if you know any, but recently, I had the not-very-great pleasure of being attacked by one. The attack usually creeps up in the form of a stealthy statement like, "Praise the Lord, Sister." Already, you are suckered. If you do not respond, "Amen" or some equivalent, you are already on your way to hell. If you do respond with an "Amen", it opens the floodgates for the next statement, which is "The Lord gave me a word for you".

Now, I hail from Kijabe, Kenya. The only town in all East and Central Africa where smoking and drinking are banned. Where you learn to read using the King James Version [no, "Peter and Jane" for us. Those are books of ndefo]. So I should have known better than to ask, "What is the word?" I should have known better. Now, I know you are wondering, what I should have said. Well, any child of misheni [mission] will tell you that the correct answer is, "I praise God that He has a word for me. I pray that as He did to Joseph, to Eli, to the father of Samson, I pray that He would send His Angel to reveal the word unto me in person, that I too may receive and believe." Now, the ardent ones may say, "I am the messenger of the Lord unto you". Or "God uses ordinary people who humble themselves [of course referring to themselves]. In which case you must swiftly respond, "How the Lord is mighty for He uses even dirty vessels for good works. Let us now pray that that which comes from your mouth may be sanctified by Him, that only that which He would have me hear would come forth. That your mouth is not a vessel of darkness unto me…." By which time you exhaust the messenger of the lord into shutting up.

BUT I DIDN'T!!!! I forgot!!!! That is a cardinal error and the reward was swift. The messenger of the lord informed me that he and his wife had been learning about submission and that he had had a revelation that in the past, there was I time when I had not been submissive to my husband as a wife should be. WHAT THE F..K? WHERE THE H…L DID THAT COME FROM?! Now already you can see that I am on my way to hell, if for no other reason, my language is not edifying. Anyway edifying or not, I wanted to turn the messenger of god into an edifice on a wall, preferably held up by nails!!!! WHO THE H…L? @!!$%&&~#^????!!!!

First of all, I think that no man, NO MAN should EVER talk to a woman about submission. One, they have absolutely no idea what they speak of. Two, I have yet to meet a man who can honestly say that he loves his wife as Christ loves the church i.e. unconditionally, takes care to honour her and cherish her and do all it takes to bring out the good in her while forgiving the bad; AND his wife agrees. Three, submission is used by men as a bludgeoning tool to force women to do what they want, at the supposed pain of disobeying God. Who made man the judge of woman? I reckon he should be working out his own chances with the Boss before he goes round trying to surreptitiously sell off his will as the will of God.

Now, it is a testament to my self control that I did not martyr the angel of light disguised as this obviously suicidal child. Instead, I did something even worse. In that oily voice of civilized, upright, moral hustlers, I said to him, "Please substantiate exactly what you mean by 'submissive' and give me specific examples of how I was not submissive that I may take correction for my error and reform my ways." Needless to say, the messenger of the lord beat a hasty retreat, promising to get back to me, just as soon as the spirit allows. I'm still waiting.

Now I have heard of wolves in sheep skins, but dogs in leopard fur? That's a first.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

Say NO to fur. [Couldn't resist].

LEOPARD VS DOG

 

 

On Sunday, I attended the local church [i.e. not St. Mattress of the Sleeping Ngamau]. As usual, the preacher was on fire! It was men's Sunday. Now for those of you who don't know, our local sets aside a Sunday when the men lead the entire service exclusively i.e. they lead the praise and worship, make the announcements and generally run the service. This may not mean anything to the non-Kenyans but to put it in context, generally, men in Kenya are not known for their enthusiasm in spiritual leadership. In fact, the population of the affiliate churches of St. Mattress consists invariably of more than 70% men. They have read and understood literally, the concept of resting on the Sabbath. It is therefore both unusual and very nice to have them attend churches where two or three [hundred in the case of our local] are gathered together and even participate. Now, men led worship usually means this. That the praise and singing will involve the bass guitar and the drums and a heck of a lot of dancing. Again, for the non-Kenyans, dancing in Kenyan churches is not the polite swaying from side to side in a subdued manner. Oh no! It's a shake-your-booty, swing-your-hips, wave-your-arms affair to the latest Lingala, benga and African rhythms. God bless them. By the time you are done singing, a cold Tusker beer [a la burudika-na-Tusker] would be in order, only, you are in church.

The preacher was one John Ng'ang'a. The name did not ring any bells but the pastor who introduced him said something very interesting, "He is the only preacher I know who gets the congregation to preach half the sermon for him." Hmmm! Interesting thing to say. A few moments later, I found out exactly what he meant. Now, Kenyans, bear with me as I explain this idiosyncrasy to non-Kenyans. I don't know if this happens in other cultures but in Kenya, there's a way of having a conversation that requires you to read minds. It consists largely of finishing the speaker's sentences. An example would be like this. "Today, I would like us to go to the market, so please prepare yourself so we go to the ma-?" To which the listener responds, "Market." Now, you have to listen very keenly and also apply a certain amount of ESP. A wrong answer will not only be met with swift correction but a look that will wither the most hardened soul. Make more than two wrong responses and the speaker will stop and ask you in a very irritated voice, "Kwani, you, you're not listening? Ala! Pay attention!"

This preacher was the quintessential ESP-Kenyan-speak man in the history of ESP-Kenyan-speak. "Today's topic is "the danger of compromise". The danger of co-?" to which the congregation dutifully replies "Compromise." The man smiles. He's got us already. In addition, he had even written out his bible verses and his points in MS PowerPoint so from time to time, he'd just refer us to the overhead projector! Yaani, this guy probably articulated about 70% of his sermon. The rest of it, we were preaching to ourselves.

• "God does not like co-?"
• "The Bible in Revelations 2: 1-7 says return to your first Lo-?"
• "First Love."

Of course like most distracted Sunday church goers, from time to time we got lost and made the wrong response to whit a swift correction issued from the pulpit, followed by the question, "Are we together now?" I was in stitches. I could just imagine the bewilderment on the faces of the congregants of Harrow Baptist Church, Harrow, Middlesex, England if one day the preacher went, "Today we shall take a reading from the book of John. The book of Jo-?" Most would probably be searching for a book by Joe which they had overlooked in the bible!

Now, like most storytellers who use this form of speech, he was superbly engaging with lots of fantastic similes, metaphors and stories which only gifted storytellers can pull off. There was one though that really got me.

Imagine if you will, that you have lived in the city for a long time and have not gone up-country to visit the people in the village for some years. A letter comes, asking you to go to the village because something has happened. The writer also tells you to pray for them. There has been a leopard in the area eating the local goats and sheep. [An unusual, though not rare occurrence in the parts of Kenya]. The people have called the local wildlife office to come over, trap and remove the leopard but they haven't come. In fact, your mother's neighbour lost a sheep a few nights ago to the leopard. However, the writer is trusting God that the "wildlife" will respond soon. Love, XYZ.

You prepare for the journey and take a matatu [a people carrier or mini bus used in Kenya for public transport] to your village but you arrive at the shopping centre nearest to your village at about 7pm. You have a few kilometres to walk from the shopping centre to your home. You would rather not walk in the dark but the alternative is to sleep at the local bar, boarding and lodging aka the local den of iniquity and debauchery [and very often, the repository of bed bugs and lice]. Now, being a person of some repute, you do not want it known that you spent the night in the local Sodom so you gather your wits, pray that the leopard takes the night off, and start walking in the direction of your mother's farm. As you near the neighbour's farm, you remember he has very fierce dogs that like nothing more than to nip at strangers. You start tiptoeing in the hope that the dogs will not hear you. As if on cue, the dogs leap over the wooden gate just as you approach it, and with fierce barks and mad drooling, begin running towards you. You turn on your heels and high tail it back towards the shopping centre. The dogs keep chasing. You keep running. Then you come round the bend and here, you meet with the leopard. Now, let us pause right here, our intrepid hero in mid flight, drooling dogs in hot pursuit, leopard about to begin the Hallelujah chorus, thus is its shock and amazement at this delivery by the Lord. Freeze! Let us consider the options available to our hero.

1. Keep running toward the leopard.
2. Stand still and pray for lightning to strike or the earth to open and swallow something or someone
3. Run back towards the dogs

And the answer, ladies and gentlemen is...? And the congregants like good and pragmatic Africans reply in union and without hesitation, "C!!" Correct-i-mundo!!! Un-pause. Our hero spins around in mid flight and in a cartoon manner, legs in towards the now confused dogs.

I was on the floor laughing! I could just see the poor guy. Aaiiyaaiiyaaii!! Yaani...!!!

Now here was Mr. Ng'ang'a's point. The person represents you and I. The dogs represent the pressures, trials and temptations to which we are subjected in a bid to force us to compromise. The leopard represents the fear of the Lord. The point being that however fearful you may be of the consequences of not compromising, you should be even more fearful of the wrath of the Lord if you do. Enough said. Enough sai-? Are we together?

Have a dog free life.

 

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

When a man takes one step toward God, God takes more steps toward man than there are sands in the worlds of time. – The Work of the Chariot

MIRROR, MIRROR...

In his book, The Zahir, Paulo Coelho repeatedly tells this story. Two fire fighters go into the forest to put out a fire. When the fire is put out, they walk to a nearby stream. They look at each other. One’s face is absolutely clean; the other’s is full of soot. Which one is most likely to wash his face? Apparently, the answer is, the one with a clean face for he will assume that his face is as dirty as that of his companion while his companion will think his face clean. And so it is in relationships, at least according to Mr. Coelho. I think about this story a lot. I don’t get it. The one with the dirty face should wash it. The one with a clean face should tell the one with the dirty face to wash his face. Ahh, but he with the dirty face may not believe his face is dirty especially seeing his companion’s. And he with the clean face will believe his face dirty and keep scrubbing. As I’m racking my brain, my friend calls me. He’s going through a really tough patch in his marriage [aren’t we all, at some point] and just needs to talk. We chat for a bit, then he says to me, “You make me feel so much better. Thanks.” We hang up. I find myself feeling weary, and my neck and shoulder begin to ache for no apparent reason. Then suddenly, I get it!!!! Oh my goodness, I really get it!!! I “looked into his face” while we were talking. I was so busy trying to interpret for him, what his wife is really going through that I inadvertently took the image he painted of his wife as my own. So I come off that call ugly, fat, unreasonable, irresponsible and he leaves beautiful, sensitive, caring, warm. Now I want someone to remind me that I am not those things, that I am who I am and not who she is, or even worse who he thinks she is. All of us look for mirrors in our lives. People who let us see ourselves exactly as we are, warts and all, and who say, “You are beautiful.” I think that’s what we enter marriage hoping the other will do. Someone who accepts us no matter what we do to ourselves, and to them. But that is an impossible standard. Perhaps instead we should be the mirror unto ourselves. See ourselves exactly as we are, warts and all and say, “I am beautiful.” I think I need a compact mirror. One with a convex, or is it concave mirror... ABSOLUTELY FLAWLESS Last night, I had an epiphany, that I thought I absolutely must share. I can never love another until I love myself. I can never love myself until I accept myself. I can never accept myself until I forgive myself. I can never forgive myself until I own all my experiences. I can never own all my experiences until I face the facts [not the story or what I made things mean] of everything that happened. I can never face the facts until I reject all other interpretations. I can never reject all other interpretations until I reject others’ opinions. I can never reject others’ opinions until I reject their importance in my life. I can never reject their importance in my life until I accept my own intrinsic value. I cannot accept my own intrinsic value until I accept my own right to live. I can never accept my right to live until I accept that I am perfect, just as I am. God did not make a mistake when She created me and breathed life into me. Like the song says, “no imperfection... I need no correction, I’m flawless, absolutely flawless.” Yes, even my weaknesses are flawlessly weak. SAVED PEOPLE, LOOK AWAY NOW!!! I once read a book titled Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand. One of the characters in it is described as having refused to be born with original sin. I thought to myself,[being a good Christian, and adequately seeped in self imposed judgement from having committed the cardinal sin of all – birth ie mine], how delusional. Then the other day I have the most irreverent thought. If Jesus died for all sin, past present and future. And I was born after he had dies and rose again, then how is it I was born with sin? At the very least, I was born without sin and started collecting some, as one might collect mud walking through a field, after I became conscious of myself. Hmmm... do you think I need to read the book of Romans once more? Or maybe I should explore Ms. Rand’s ideas. Could it be, I’m the delusional one? THOUGHT FOR THE DAY I can never be the slave to another man’s expectations of me, even if those expectations are so ingrained in me, I think them my own.

THE KING AND THE WHORE

 

"Apologise to her", his wife said.

"Apologise to her, not because you are wrong and she is right, but because you have what she seeks - love, belonging, acceptance, forgiveness."

"Apologise to her", his wife said.

"Apologise to her because love is generous. Apologise to her because loves sees beyond the words, beyond the actions, beyond the intent - love sees the heart."

"Apologise to her", his wife said.

"Apologise because love sees in the bleeding heart, the gaping hole that we all desperately try to fill, sometimes with money, with possessions, with status, with religion, with sex. That open wound that can only be healed by love."

"Apologise to her", his wife said.

"Apologise because love sees that all actions are motivated by a deep desire to love and be loved, to own and be owned, to accept and be accepted, to know that our lives are not just a shadow. To know that we too matter."

"Apologise to her", his wife said.

"Apologise because she too is a child of God. She too is loved by God."

"Apologise to her," his wife said.

"Apologize because she seeks that which God has so graciously given to you, someone who loves you, and always will no matter what."

"Apologise to her", his wife said. "

"Apologise because while love may sometimes leave a trail of broken hearts in its wake, it should never leave crushed spirits."

"Apologise to her," his wife said.

"Apologise that you may be free of the cry of a lonely soul who sought only to be loved, to belong, to be accepted for herself."

"Apologise to her," his wife said.

"Apologise that your standard may once more fly high and all will say, there goes a warrior king. A worthy opponent, magnanimous in victory, wise, just. A man no doubt, but more - a king."

"Apologise to her," his wife said.

"Apologize because in the parable of the unforgiving servant [Matt. 18:21-35], you are the king, not the slave."

 

And the man arose, and walked towards the whore. She lay where she had fallen when he struck her. She braced herself for another blow.

He looked down at her whimpering, shaking, broken body. Then he turned and looked at his wife.

She smiled the sweet, gentle smile of a soul who has known fear. She nodded ever so slightly. And in that moment, he knew love. So he reached down to the beautiful woman who lay at his feet and said, "I apologise".

 

The whore froze, and then began to cry hot silent tears. The blow, she could have taken. The apology… The king held out to her the handkerchief his wife passed on to him. She took it without looking up, wiped her tears, blew her nose then slowly, gingerly, looked up. "Thank you", she mouthed silently to the wife.

The wife shook her head and mouthed back, "No, thank you."

And in that moment, wife and whore were queens. And the grocer was truly a king.

 

WHEN I GET HOME FROM WORK, BABY…

I went to our local church last Sunday. I confess is a change from the church I usually attend, St. Mattress of the Sleeping Ngamau”, a very reverential church where we take the meaning of ‘day of rest’ literally and are usually sighted in deep meditation in a horizontal position. Nonetheless, I felt very strongly that there is a need to now attend a church with less limited membership and where worship is more lively. Now, our local church is fantastic. It consists of a series of little tents circling a big white tent much like the Big Top. Most of the tents are Sunday school classes where the children go to sing, read the Bible, make art and play while the Big Top engages the adults in song, prayer and sermon. For those who have never attended an African church service, the music is always very lively, more dance than choral, the drama [yes, we are fond of skits] are hilarious and the prayer, truly filled with reverence, intercession and pleading. We Africans don’t hold back when we get to the Boss. So here we were, my little boy in one of the satellite tents, and a friend and I in the Big Top. Now the music and the drama, I am always primed for, until we actually start singing. The leader up front was dancing and waving his arms and hopping across the stage. We were singing our little lungs out, at some point we were even playing the air guitar, and I mean half the church, grown men and women, playing the air guitar while the other half simulated playing the flute. We were swaying and clapping and waving and dancing to serious drum playing… All these people, all like me, many of whom I recognise from childhood or youth, all singing away on a Sunday morning, under a big white tent with long red flowing sashes… It brought tears to my eyes. I hadn’t realised how much I had missed being in a Kenyan church. It felt good to be back. Real good. Now the theme at our local church is “You Pretty Young Thing…. Families in Trouble”. Fair enough. So in keeping with the theme, three men were asked to stand up and share with the womenfolk, a few things they wish the women knew about how the men would like to be treated at home. HELLOOOO!!!! Ambush!!! It’s all very well to hear a sermon on this from the preacher, but some regular Joes getting up to lay it on us? I don’t think so!!! You can just imagine how as one body, all the women’s hacks rose in anticipation of having to commit ‘manicide’ in the church on a Sunday. Nevertheless, like sacrificial lambs, the men got up and one by one went through their points. They were basically; From Man A; When I get home from a hard day’s work, I want to come in to the sweet and savoury aromas of lovely food in the kitchen. I would love to be met at the door by you, looking lovely and holding a drink in your hand, for me. I would like to sit down and read my paper. It would be preferable if the children could line up one at a time, come and say hello then go away immediately to their rooms. Dinner at the table should involve very light conversation, very, very light conversation after which I shall retire to my paper and the children will be taken to sleep. I shall then come upstairs, we shall engage in lovemaking and I shall fall asleep a happy and contented man. From Man B; Please encourage and affirm me. Many of us are in business and it’s a harsh world out there. I need someone to be on my side. When I come home, pat me on the back. When I close a deal, congratulate and celebrate with me, when I am low, cheer me up. Even in bed, let me know that ‘I got it going on’. From Man C; We generally agreed as men that our women are fashion conscious, well groomed and stylish… except in the bedroom. Something strange happens and our fine looking women don stockings on their heads, multicoloured socks on their feet and then get into bed!!! We don’t expect femme fatale at every turn but please lose the stockings and socks!!! We’re a visual bunch and some visions bring about nightmares, sleep talking and other signs of deep trauma! Now, I can already hear my Sistas seething but hold up, girls, hold up because the MC pastor then asked us to turn to our neighbours, preferably a member of the opposite sex that you do not know, and ask what other points the man in the conversation may have to add. Now I was sitting between two men, one I know, the other I don’t so I turned to the one I didn’t know and he added, “When I come home from work, don’t greet me with a glum face and a big gripe. I know you probably had a hard day and sometimes it’s not possible to look happy but before you take your day out on me, let me come in, tell me how your day was and allow me to exhale.” The one I did know wouldn’t say anything save, “What brave men! We shall have to contribute towards a good funeral for each for they have said what we dare not.” Okay, let me put some comments in context for my non-Kenyan friends. First, this is a general observation and as with all such generalisations, there exist exceptions. Having said that this is the point. In Kenya, children from working class families, particularly urban families, are not brought up by their parents. They are raised by house helps, nannies and other hired people. FYI, by working class I mean anyone who can afford at least one car and/or has electricity in their home. So before you see visions of women bathing, cooking, feeding, cleaning etc, the reality is that one, but usually two people are hired to take care of the kids and the house. Now, Kenyans, this is not a value judgement, it is just the truth about the life choices by many Kenyans of the class mentioned. It is the same for the middle class and the rich. Secondly, men’s roles are still seen as bringing home the money then sitting back and not engaging in the family life save as an ATM, a driver to church on Sunday for those who attend, and occasional source of entertainment i.e. going out to eat roast meat, a favourite Kenyan pass time. When Man A, in his early thirties espouses a Von Trapp family lifestyle, it is because that reflects his view of his level of engagement with his children, a view much supported by other Christian and ’secular’ men. Having said that, women’s work is never done. Even when they get home, they still have to engage the children, help with the homework, have them ready for dinner and put to bed before they can rest. They then have to perk themselves up to be sexually alluring for their men. Inside all of that, they have to find time for themselves and a way to exhale from their own hard day at work. Many men are considerate about that and will help around but this is not considered ‘normal’. It is a ‘special’ man in Kenya who goes home after work to tuck his children in to sleep or help out with the homework. They exist though, I know because I know some. I know what you non-Kenyans are wondering. What about values and principles and moulding of the children? That is the responsibility of the house help and the school both under the supervision of the children’s mothers. The greatest majority of Kenyan families have two working parents, where by working I mean either employed or running a business away from the home. Being a stay-at-home mom is generally perceived as a waste of valuable resources and also as unnecessarily risky on the part of the woman. The laws in Kenya as relate to marriage, children and marital property are so antiquated that women are viewed at best as half human, at worst, as chattels. While recent judgements have tried to redress the inequalities and injustices that result from the laws, they cannot protect against men transferring family resources to second wives, extra marital children, mistresses etc, a practice very common in Kenya. A lot of married women in Kenya generally view it as risky to rely on your man and on the law to protect them, thus the need to have a job or independent money ‘just in case’. Now, this is not a treatise on the state of Kenyan marriages, so let’s get back to the men and their wishes. I’ve probably mentioned that Man A is in his early thirties, while men B and C looked more in their later 30s early 40s. It is interesting for me that all of them wanted to be treated like heroes and wanted to be stimulated, primarily visually. I started to really think about this and what hit me was Despite all protestations to the contrary, it’s not just the girls who want to live out fairy tales, the boys do too. They want to be the knight in shining armour. They want to be the hero in the story, coming home weary and worn from battle. Walking into the warm embrace of their beautiful damsel who welcomes him with a smile and a kiss [and hopefully a drink]. Take heart, girls, the boys still want the fairy tale ending. We just need to synchronise our endings so we’re all on the same page. Men are really not that different from women. They too want to be pampered, spoilt, babied even. The style may be slightly different but they want it nonetheless. Girls want flowers and chocolates and dinners and talk and good sex. Boys want dinner and cuddles and good music and silence and understanding and, from listening to a number of them, lots of sex. Right there, there’s a point both contentious and also quite similar in result. Men want lots of sex, women want good sex. Men, why not find out what she means by good sex, then do that. I guarantee that if you do, you’ll get what you want i.e. lots of it. Trust me, there is nothing worse than having to fake it, night after night after night because he is so flipping sensitive that if you say, “Why not try this tonight instead of that“, he will hold it against you for the next five years of your marriage. I actually think boys and girls should get ‘sengas’ the traditional Baganda women who teach women how to sexually stimulate men. Now I appreciate that in Kenya only a few communities still teach their young men and women how to have good game, but maybe the church could run some classes. That would debunk the myth about sex being evil or being outside the purview of God. Sex classes for married couples!! That’s my campaign. Like women, men like to be visually stimulated. I have got to confess this is great. I was so thrilled when he said that bit because I can now say this, Boys, get in shape and stay in shape!!!! We marry these broad shouldered, big chested, flat tummy hunks with fab legs and bristling biceps, then along the years, something happens. Now I agree that we women lose the plot too but in our defence, childbirth and child rearing demands a change in body shape, structure and size. So that’s our excuse. What’s yours? And no, I don’t expect my man not to gain pounds or soften a little, that’s expected. Heck, I like some meat on a man. It’s just when we both look 6 months pregnant, me because I am, you although you are not… it takes that much more will to find you attractive. Okay, I say no more. I reckon the point is made. Hit the gym, Boys. Girls may not say it but we love a buff man. Next week, three women get to stand up and tell the men what they would like. Bring out the recorders and note pads, Boys. We’ve been waiting a long time to tell you some home truths.

THE OTHER WOMAN

The restaurant was lovely, the ambience faultless. Lights were turned down and you got the sense that yours was the only table in the room. She looked across at him and thanked whatever gods may be for bringing him into her life. She’d had such a harrowing divorce that it was still difficult for her to believe that people like him exist. Still, she braced herself for the news she knew was coming. She’d known it was coming for some time. In fact, she’d encouraged it. She’d even prayed it would come to this. That at some point he would make the decision. Heaven knows though, she had dreaded this day. Still, like the condemned prisoner on her last hour, she felt some relief. “Baby, I have something I want to say to you and it isn’t going to be easy.” She smiled, looking at the myriad expressions on his boyishly handsome face. He paused. She stayed silent and smiled encouragingly. “Baby, I’m leaving.” There. It was done. Just like that. She wasn’t quite sure if anything had happened yet. In her mind, a crazy thought said, “maybe this is how a chicken feels just after it’s head has been cut off. Like something has changed but it isn’t sure what.” He reached across the table and touched her hand, tenderly if a little tentatively. “Are you okay?” She smiled again. Not a word. Just a reassuring smile of the just departed, as if to say to the bereaved, “Do not mourn me, I am okay now.” He went on. “You know I love you and you know that you’ve made me so happy during the time we have been together. It’s just, I made a mistake. She has my kids. I’ve got to do right by them. I’ve got to make it work, for their sakes, if for nothing else. Can you understand?” Again, silence. Another smile. This time just a little lopsided. “I’ll always take care of you and you’ll always hold a special place in my heart.” he went on. “It’s just…. I’ve got to go.” “But we’re supposed to be having dinner tomorrow”, she thought. “I’m cooking pork chops with bloody mary sauce.” Still though, not a word. Not a single peep of emotion. Just a smile. “You understand, don’t you?” he pleaded. “Please say you do. It’ll cut me up if you don’t say something.” She looked at him and smiled, thinking of what to say. She thought about what to do. Finally, the words came to her, and in the moment, she genuinely felt that way. “I’m happy for you, for both of you.” “I hope it works out, kiddo and that you are truly happy. I really do… and of course we‘re cool. It‘s the right thing to do, isn‘t it?” That was when he said the most cruel thing ever. “You know I love you, don’t you?“ She pushed her chair back with a sudden jerk. Then, before her heart burst into a million red shards, she leaned across the table, kissed him on the cheek, and walked out. And just like that, she lost her man, to another woman - his wife.

FISI

Anyone watch the program on hyenas, last weekend on the tele? Well, if you didn’t it was quite something. Hyenas are matrilineal. Okay, I don’t think you get it. Hyenas are the S. I. unit, the pH extreme of matrilineal. Apparently the packs are female headed, female run, female owned and the only males in the pack are the baby hyenas and a few adult males allowing into the pack for siring and [ahem…] purposes. The hierarchy is simple. No. 1. Big Momma hyena. No. 2. Other Sista hyenas No. 3. All the baby hyenas. What? Oh, you want me to go on to no.4? Okay then No. 4. Where is that male we keep around here? He can come number 4. Basically, if you are a male hyena and you are not a baby and not a great lay, boy, you need to reconsider your options because being in a pack is not one of them. Just watching this made me think, “Lord, if there is any possibility that I may have to be reincarnated, please, please let me come back as a female hyena.” Sistas doing it for themselves… There is a God. That was until about a third of the way into the program. Now I don’t remember the exact sequence of events but fundamentally what happened was that baby hyena went to play with daddy hyena. Daddy hyena wasn’t in the mood to play so he cowered away. Baby was having none of that so he went and told Big Momma. Then all hell broke loose. Big Momma was onto Daddy like a ton of bricks [literally, the females are larger!] She mauled him, nipped at him, slapped him and bit him until he was all bruised and battered. Then the Sisterhood, in the spirit of co-operation, decided to help out their Big Momma and teach Mr. Thang a thing or two. By the time they were done, Daddy’s nose was ripped off, his lower lip had a huge gash, his flanks were bloody and he was limping. Speak of anger management! Them girls have got serious issues! Someone needs rehab!! Looking for business ideas? There’s one - Hyena Anger Management Counselling Centre - Females Only. All this reminded me of contemporary Kenyan society. Now, let me start by confessing, I like Kenyan men. Granted, I like men generally and I ain’t ashamed to say so, but Kenyan men, I have a soft spot for them. I know, I know, as a Kenyan woman, it is my duty and responsibility to rag on men, say how useless, hopeless, drunken, cheating, abusive, foko-jembes [sic] (to borrow a friend’s phrase)they are. Still, I confess, I like them. To listen to the radio stations, though, you would be hard pressed not to believe that all Kenyan men are in fact, lying, cheating, drunken, chain-smoking, juvenile, immature, insecure, dogging louts [girls, did I leave anything out?] who are good for nothing but procreation and pocket money [the former without panache or even skill; the latter without reliability]. The magazines are full of ‘proof’ and ‘advice’. “How to keep your [cheating] Man”. “Loving a Modern Man”. “How to get your Thirty-Something Man To Move out of his Momma’s House”. Now, I am not going to argue that there are no lying, cheating…. Etc men but please, what about the other men? What about the divorcees fighting to see their children, the widowers changing their toddlers’ nappies? What of the decent, spiritual family men struggling to retain their masculinity in an increasingly androgynous world where all things male are viewed suspiciously? Who’s giving a shout out to the men who still see their kids even though they’ve broken up with their Baby Mommas? Don’t get me started on the ones seeking professional help for anger management, sex addictions, alcohol or drug problems or simply marital counselling so they can be better men for the women they love? What about them? Hey, men aren’t perfect, but let’s face it, girls, neither are we. And the men we are with, are the products of our fathers, and their fathers, and heaven knows, lots of the homes we grew in did not exactly have great male role models. With all the nit-picking, down talking, name calling, criticising about men, do we risk creating a hyena society? THOUGHT FOR THE DAY Your words create your world.

TAKE 2 PANADOLS & CALL ME IN THE MORNING

It’s happened! You can’t believe it but it has actually happened to you! Your worst nightmare! The one thing you thought would never happen. Your spouse has left you. You knew it was bad, but you always hoped against hope that somehow, you’d fix it. After all, this is you and her... or him. Divorce happens to those people, not you guys. You’re soul mates. You are a match made in heaven. You are… well, right now you are shell shocked. Somewhere at the back of your mind, you suspected it was coming to this but now that you are here, it’s.. well, it’s... how can you put words to what you are feeling? Pain searing across your gut so strongly that you feel like throwing up; anguish so deep you double over and let out an involuntary moan, misery so throbbing you can hear the blood pound in your blindingly aching head. Surely it is not possible to feel something so breathtakingly agonising and still be alive… or so you thought. You hope it isn’t true, it isn’t happening to you, but it already has. And you don’t have the luxury to engage the excruciating stabbing hurt, because the kids need to be dropped off at school, the boss needs the report on his desk, your business partner needs you to make a decision on the next consignment. People need you. Your feelings will just have to wait. The phone rings and startles you out of your nightmare on Elm Street. It’s your mother. You consider not answering but you know you’re just putting off the inevitable. You pick up. She asks. You answer. She asks again. You answer. She yells. You sigh and say ‘yes, mum’, ‘no, mum’, ‘can I call you back, mum?’ It’s hardly 7 am yet it has already began. Pretty soon, everyone will call you. You. Not her. Not him. You. Because you are the strong one. You are the responsible one. You are the one who everyone knows can fix this. In fact, it’s pretty near damned irresponsible of you to be allowing this to happen. How dare you do this to them. How dare you fail in your marriage? You, the successful so-and-so? You must be joking! Of course it is your fault. Who cares what your version is. Spare us the pitiful details. We already bought into her story. Now fix it! We want fairy tales with happy endings not woeful stories from a man so near broken he doesn’t know if he can make it to the end of today. You don’t bother defending yourself. It makes no difference. You are the strong one. You are expected to take the licks like a man, or like a woman. The best you can do is brace yourself. There’s definitely more to come. You sigh again and squeeze your eyes shut as a stray tear escapes from the corner of your eye. Then a little voice at the door says “Dad, are you awake?” You put on your best dad voice and say, “Yes, sweetheart, come on in”. She does. All bleary eyed and wrinkle faced from sleeping on her teddy bear. “Dad, are you okay?” she asks. You smile bravely. “Yes baby, I am.” She looks at you critically. You know she sees right through you. “Dad“, she says, climbing onto the bed, “Dad, don’t worry. You’ll be just fine”. Then she hugs you round the neck and nuzzles her chin into your shoulder. And just like that, you know you can face today. THOUGHT FOR THE DAY Even warriors cry.