This Cup of Tea

I love tea. Sometimes, I think this is fueled by my passion for all things English; the language, the green picturesque countryside, the movies, the monarchy… In fact, it has been my longtime wish to be invited to the Buckingham Palace for a “cuppa tea” with the queen. I wonder what our discourse would be about. Swirling the deep brown tea in our silver cups, perhaps we would reminisce how “A girl went up the tree one evening and came down the next a queen.” Then again, maybe we would dwell on a subject that we both love-literature; the enchanting children’s stories of Rudyard Kipling; Shakespeare’s captivating plays; the arresting prose and interesting characters of Charles Dickens. That would most definitely be our cup of tea. To top it all up, we would then attend a church service at the Westminster Abbey where the preacher would be none but that Brilliant Bible expositor, John Stott. Now that would be something! However, deep down, I know my love for this much-enjoyed beverage comes not from England but a Faraway land and was brewed by an anomaly earlier in life.
How can I forget those days? When mother would hold women meetings, popularly known as sindikiza, at our home? The image that forever lingers in my mind is that of the women’s exuberant faces, holding cups of tea and engaged in hearty conversations. From time to time, roars of laughter would erupt ensued by sighs of breathlessness. I honestly used to think the tea must have been laced with some powerful laughing gas. How else could a 14 year old explain such mirth among those women-folk? It was in search of this mirth, which led me to perilous places. I spent more time with friends than I did with siblings and parents. Clubbing and drinking became my first priority. My life was quickly going down the drain and I didn’t know how to stop it. I did not see eye to eye with my father. My siblings thought God must have erred in making me a firstborn. My mother was heartbroken but kept on praying that I may change. She seemed to know that one day I will, or just simply believed to sooth her aching heart. All in all, I was caught up in a web of dramas and mine heart longed for some sanity. However, none seemed to be in sight.
During the sober moments, which were rather few, I did some serious soul searching. Glimpses of mother singing with her friends would oft come my way. I would then recall their laughter over a cup of tea. Overtime, I rightly came to associate tea with genuine friendship and true joy. Hence, if I got an invitation to one for the road or a cup of tea, I chose the latter-the “Karibu Chai” synonymous with many a homes, was not just a gesture of hospitality but an invite to a saner life. In spite of this positive step, there were times when I drunk myself silly. At every drinking spree, I would convince myself, “just this once!” How naive I was. I sunk deeper in the quagmire of alcohol and eventually hit rock bottom. It was here, a dismal sight I must have been, that I warmed up to God’s love. It is amazing how one can find relief at the lowest of places.
Now every time I hold this cup of tea, I perceive the love and patience that was taken in its brewing. I hear the soothing words of a true friend encouraging me in this path of life. I see the angelic faces that stood by me through thick and thin. Most assuredly, I feel God’s arm over my shoulder and I know all is well. That is why I love this cup of tea.

What Easter Means to Me

The Easter holidays have fast drawn to an end. “A little bit too fast, some may say-those are the fun-lovers. Few, may complain that it was too long-those are the workaholics. It is regarded as the most important time in the Christian calendar. Christianity as a way of life hinges on this historical fact; that Jesus died and rose again. Some have tried to refute this only to end up believing and defending it zealously (Read Frank Morison’s who moved the stone?). Anyway, it is not my intention to delve into the intricacies surrounding His death and resurrection. This has been done by many intellectuals (even though it is my personal view that some phenomena are to be perceived rather than comprehended). Nonetheless, there is one thing that I cannot simply come to terms with. I may once in a while perceive it but only for an endowed holy moment. Such knowledge is far too high and lofty for a mere mortal such as I. Time and time again, I come across individuals who seem to have grasped it. They carry an aura of nobility about them that is simply alluring. Yet sometimes, as they reflect on this quality that astounds many, they as well are baffled. Forgiveness-God’s Forgiveness.

Some things come easy for me, like Generosity. In fact, I have been fairly warned that one day, this might be my undoing. I tend to overdo it, or so am told. However, I have dismally found that I am not so generous in forgiveness. A wrong done unto me tends to linger in my mind and heart. I do not seek revenge but I grow cold. I disappear into this shell and any hints whatsoever that the same wrong might be repeated are dealt with in the most efficient and expedient manner. It is a shame that at such times I forget- or at least want to forget- that I am Christian. You have heard that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned but now I tell you hell hath no fury either like a lover betrayed.

Jilted Lover Stabs Wife to Death

Such are the headlines that grace our dailies quite often than not. Whenever, they do, I tend to go, “there go I…” Why? Because I know firsthand how it feels to be betrayed. I have been down that treacherous path several times before and boy, it is nasty. All manner of feelings conjure up inside you and in a moment of insanity, anything is possible. You then choose to walk away before you do something that might earn you a corner in Guantanamo Bay. And then someone asks you to forgive! Forgiveness my foot! How dare they? Were they there when I gave my precious time, energy and resources? Were they there when we dreamed of life together only to find out this better half has been cosy in another’s arms? Were they… (Breath in, breath out). Okay, maybe that is my old nature talking but you get the drift.

Believe it or not, it is through such betrayals that mine heart warmed up to God. I came to see the frailty of men and the greater frailty in trusting them. Better still, blinds fell off from mine eyes and I saw my true self before Him who sees all. What wretched sight! I turned my back on Him, not once twice but time and time again. If He would have smitten me every time, I would have been beyond oblivion. However, He did the grander thing. He forgave me over and over again. Why? Because I am His beloved and He is mine. Now, it is easier to forgive not because I understand men better but because I have perceived Him. And that, dear reader is what Easter means to me.

Pursuit of Happiness

Happiness, that ever-elusive lass,
Men, tall, short, young and old alike,
Pursue her, here, there, till they pass,
Yet she remains that needle in a hay-stack.

I did my share of chasing,
Sweating, panting, I kept reminiscing,
What sent me down that perilous path?
Pursuit of happiness, Ah! It is no mirth.

Then I thought, perhaps am doing this all wrong,
I should hold my horses, wait, she would come along,
Alas! It wasn’t long before I saw her up-yonder,
A rare beauty she was, it made my heart ponder.

Could such mirth be freely given men?
No strings attached, just a simple amen?
The chase abated, I had found purpose,
Happiness abounded, in that old rugged cross.

A Tribute to the One I Love

Life, it seems, has its best and worst of times. These times can be traced back to but a few moments. Therein, the actors as on a stage, awe the watching world with their unfolding drama. From time to time, most take a walk down memory lane and revisit such moments. Some moments they would rather quickly forget, impossible as it may seem and some they would cherish ceaselessly and give anything to relive them over and over again. Looking back over my shoulder, I cannot help but reminisce of the latter kind.

There she was looking lovely as ever. She was the finest specimen of the human race that mine eyes had ever laid upon. It was that time of the year when that university on the great hill was opening its iconic iron gates to its students. By an unseen hand of providence,we travelled in the same bus and sat side by side. A hearty conversation ensued. We virtually talked about everything under the sun; our past-its failures and successes, our hopes and dreams for the future, family and friends, power and politics… First in low tones and then in charming crescendos as we excitedly found we had a lot in common. I tried very hard to avoid our eyes meeting. The emotion was just too much. It is the sort that a child feels at the kindness of a stranger, only this time it was much more intense. The warnings melt away and that distinctive intuition tells the child, “this “stranger” is the long-time friend that I have never met.” And there, a bond is created that is forged into a marvellous relationship. I have always enjoyed a good book on a long journey. It was my way of travelling to worlds beyond through the lives of men and women written therein. However, on this day, I was enchanted by this living book that I just couldn’t put down. Every word she spoke rang with an angelic tone. I couldn’t get enough of them. In the few moments of silence-like when she gazed at the African sunset-I stole surreptitious glances at her. She had unparalleled grace and poise. Her shiny black hair was well bundled at the back of her head and her rosy cheeks revealed slight dimples when she smiled. Several times she caught me and several times I blushingly looked away. However, this one moment our eyes locked. Time stood still. I recalled all that I ever wished for in a woman. I recalled the few moments we chatted in high school and why I had grown to respect her and yes, even fear her. In that slice of time, that mesmerizing moment, I knew this was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. When and how that was to be realized, I was soon to find out.

I will never forget that terrific Tuesday as long as I live. Sitting in my room, chatting with a neighbour, my phone rang. On seeing the caller’s name, blood rushed through my veins. After calming my silly self down, I picked it up trying to sound casual as if I was expecting her call.

"Hallo there?"
“Hi Evans, I’ve just arrived. Are you at your place?”
“Yep and am doing a lot of nothing except catching up with my neighbour.”
“Can I come over?”

I looked towards the heavens and moved my lips inaudibly, “Thank you!”

“Sure. I’ll be waiting.”

I put the phone down and did a Shaka Zulu dance around the room to the amazement and pleasure of my neighbour. After a while, a soft knock came through my door. Knowing who it might be, I took a deep breath and opened it. She smiled coyly. I almost forgot my manners by not asking her to come in. We hugged and got down to some catching up. It had been a while since we last met. At the back of my mind, I knew there was something delightfully different about this evening. I could not quite place my finger on what it was until she popped the question. No not that one! It was too early for the M-word. Besides, should it have been, the onus was not on her but on me.

“Evans, What are we?” She asked ever so tenderly.

Now there are certain times in a man’s life when he wishes the earth would open and swallow him alive; when caught in an adulterous affair, when declared bankrupt, when named in the Ocampo list, when sleeping and drooling in a public transport vehicle with his head resting on a stranger’s shoulder in the next seat, …or when on the verge of something beautiful that it is too good to be true.

“We are friends, though deep down we know we are more than just friends. I would not be too quick to call us lovers but I have to admit that the thought of you and I together has crossed my mind. Once, twice…well, maybe every other time. I was hoping that this evening might be the beginning of something beautiful-you and I”

How I wish those were the smooth words that came out of my mouth. Instead, I spewed out a deluge of incoherent gibberish that left her in stitches. She had not understood a thing I said. I could not blame her. Neither had I. God must have sympathized with the predicament His boy found himself in. That was why He made her understand my heart. That it was in the right place and we (her and I) were “good to go”. That marked the beginning of a most fulfilling commitment.

I travel ahead of time and see us sitting in the front porch of our humble abode. We are happily married. We have raised our children in the way of the Lord. They have grown, flew out of the nest and are testing their wings in a cold world with their Maker watching over them lest they stray. In retrospect, I muse over the series of moments that led to this grand finale. As I do, a tear rolls down my left cheek. I quickly wipe it away; tug the one that I love closer and thank God that He dared give me Lucy.

Up Yonder

After spending a better part of the day indoors, he decided an evening walk would do him good. He took a path less trodden and thereupon, heard an eerie tune. Initially, it was low and far off. Then it got louder and more melancholic. He turned around facing the direction whence it came. It was then that he saw its source-a group of women aboard a truck in a funeral procession. They sang in moan full tones and their faces expressed much pathos. Red ribbons dangled from the side mirrors telling the onlookers that someone had crossed the river. The question that lingered in their minds was, “who could it be?” Time stood still as the motorcade made its way to an unknown destination. Death is indeed the common foe to all: young and old, rich and poor, wise and foolish…six feet under, we would all be. Death is the maiden who wiles and beguiles the unwilling suitor. Death is the iron curtain that opens and closes, never to open again. A dark cloud of despair hung over all for a moment, then it disappeared with the passing of the procession. The few curious bystanders went their way, pondering over the businesses ahead. However, for Richard, what was to be a usual evening walk, turned out to be a soul-searching endeavour.

He had worked in a hospital before, and in spite of its high profile in provision of healthcare, death was a common occurrence. Eventually, Richard came to accept it as a way of life- we are born, we grow, we marry, we bear children then we die. He thought it the inescapable vicious cycle. Those who embraced it lived in serenity. Those who did not lived in quite desperation. However, what astounded Richard most was the response of patients to this age-old monster. There were those whose bodies exhibited a struggle. Their eyes popped out, their muscles were more tense than usual and their throats as dry as a bone. They looked as if they had just seen a ghost. Many struggled. Then there was the rarer kind, whose bodies exhibited grace and ease. Most had their eyes shut and those who did not gave the impression they had just seen an old friend. Their muscles were relaxed and their arms rested on their chests or peacefully on their sides. They seemed to have a smile on their faces. One could almost say they saw it coming…and embraced it.

As Richard pondered over these things, a theory on death was formulating in his mind. He thought it a portal into another realm. One realm that is of unending bliss and mystical mirth or the other, that is of untold suffering and perpetual pain. How one lives on this earth is a pre-cursor into either of the two realms. If he is good, then the former awaits him. If he is bad, then the latter is his inevitable destiny. Looking back over his shoulders, Richard thought himself a relatively good person. He lived at peace with most people (his mother-in-law tried him on this one). He had a stable marriage and educated his children to such levels that many esteemed him highly. He occasionally went to church and gave generously to its projects. “Yes” he thought to himself, “I am a pretty good bloke…but then, so was Francis.” They had gone through the University together and grew to be very good friends. Francis was a man of the people. His charisma was enviable-he had a way with people from all walks of life and oh, how contagious was his laugh. Half of his six-figure salary went to philanthropic projects within the community and beyond. In fact, several professors in the local university owed their distinguished positions to his generosity. His wife simply adored him. “A better husband and a loving father, I would never find,” she would often quip at the thought of him. His children looked up to him and strived to surpass his achievements. As for his peers, well, let us just say they thought him a genius of life. Many sought his counsel and put it to good use. You could say Francis was a lucky man. However, on that tragic day, hooked onto a dialysis machine, Francis was anything but lucky. His fingers dug deep into the sheets. His muscles tensed. His throat was parched. He had a look in his eyes that Richard would never forget. He was petrified, as one who had just seen a ghost. On that day, Francis died. On that day, good Francis struggled. Richard’s theory crumbled like a house of cards. It was at this point that the story of little Rodger (supposedly true) heard in one his sporadic visits to church, came to mind.

Roger’s father was an unusually godly man. Every day, it was his custom to gather the family after dinner and ask them ever so tenderly, “Are you still friends with Jesus? Have you hurt his feelings today or have you made him glad?” Each member of the family would then relate how they spent their day in reference to the question. On that day, little Rodger with a gleam in his eye and excitement in his voice, gave his account.

“Daddy, I took a nap after lunch and dreamt I went to heaven. There was this big angel with a big white book. He called out your name and you said, “present.” Then you entered heaven. He then called out Mummy’s name and she said, “Present” and followed you…finally, he called out my name and because I am so short he could not see me, I jumped up and down saying, “Here! Here!” The gates opened and I entered heaven where you were all waiting for me”

Rodger’s father laughed heartily as did the whole family. He then leaned over, pulled Rodger to his side and said triumphantly, “Jesus is smiling.” Several days later, Rodger was involved in a tragic accident. He went into a coma. Friends and family gathered at his bedside praying. From time to time, they would sing a hymn (to the comforting of other patients too) accompanied by the regular beeps of the clinical monitors. Suddenly, Rodger’s lips moved. He was mumbling something under his breath. His father moved closer and leaned his ears towards his mouth. “Here! Here!” Little Rodger whispered. The monitors stopped beeping. His eyes teary and a lump in his throat, Rodger’s father turned and smiled saying, “It seems Rodger would be the one waiting for us up yonder.”


It then dawned on Richard what he must do. The question is, did he?

The Mirror

There is something about Christians that I can never fully grasp-at least not on this side of heaven. A part of me understands it but this pales in comparison to the other that does not. Some things are foreign to me. A grown man crying is one of them. This is not just crying out of grief but before a crowd like say students in high school. I vividly remember that Sunday morning when this preacher (who was a teacher in the school) was trying to elaborate on God’s love. Whatever got into him must have been immensely powerful. How else can you make sense of a grown man bursting into tears right in the middle of a sermon-his own sermon? My lower jaw dropped to the floor. I was astounded. How could he ever command respect in class again? As I was pondering over the shame that he had wrought upon himself, he, on the other hand, was on different page altogether. He could not care less. Ironically, he was overjoyed that God would choose to use him in such a grand manner. I do not know about you but a man who does not care about what others think of him is mysteriously alluring. He struck a cord- a cord that would later find harmony in an unlikely company. For the time being, my heart wandered.

Nightclubs were a favourite. Spending my energy on the dance floor was never a waste. I took pleasure in every moment. I was good and I knew it. This knowledge mixed with a little bit of charm, melted the hearts of some lasses and hanging out with blokes who could pass for modern-day-Romeos, was a big plus. There was an aura of romance about us and we took advantage of it. I was having the time of my life. “This must be the very summit of human pleasure,” I naively thought to myself, “It cannot get better than this”. However, this was very short-lived. One moment you are at an all time high and the next in pitch-blackness. Somehow, this wears the soul. These roller-coaster rides were not fun anymore. Sure, I wanted to be where all the action was, but it was not on the dance floor any more. A Power from without had opened a gap in my heart and it gnawed me. My soul was restless. It was at this time that a good friend hinted that if I was to dance then at least dance to what I believe in. That very statement was engraved in my mind for some good time to come. From then on, I became unconsciously sensitive to lyrics in a song. Several times, I found myself swaying to the beats but that inner voice would constantly question the moral integrity of the lyrics. I began opting out of very contagious tunes just because my conscious could not allow me to “get jiggy with it”. I believe it was this Power from without that kindled a flickering flame in my heart. Oh, how this flame desired to be fanned into blazing flames. It was then that I became incessantly drawn to church.

The church folk were different. I enjoyed dancing. However, most a times I never had the courage to go at it forthrightly. Hence, I borrowed some from the Dutch. It was a habit to spend a few hours in a local pub before hitting the club. In contrast, the church folk got into song and dance spontaneously. They did not have to pass by “mama pima”. It was as if they were wired to do this sort of thing. They lifted their hands. They clapped. They cried. They laughed. They jumped. They did the merry-go-rounds in perfect unity-none trying to outdo the other because it seemed, they gained nothing in trying to do so. In the club, the last man standing won enviable accolades from the blokes and suggesting glances from the lasses. I did not have to be a rocket scientist to know that these church folks had something that I did not have. To say that they intrigued me is an understatement-I envied them. Whatever it was they were on, I wanted in. It was this longing to be in that drove me to a music concert dubbed “Jesus Festival”. Now, I have had some memorable dancing experiences before, but on that day, I had one that was out of this world. It felt right. It was non-competitive as in the club. It was not out to lure some lass across the dance floor. If my mother had been there, she would pleasantly nod in approval. My feet shuffled; my shoulders swayed; my hands clapped; my hips wiggled and best of all, my smile lingered. The cord that had been struck by that teacher way back in high school, had found harmony in an unlikely company. Indeed St. Augustine was right-our souls are restless until they find rest in the Lord. On that glorious day, it did. I was in. I became a Christian.

Admittedly, I have a long way off from understanding myself. However, I now have the privilege of a mirror that tells me the truth-the Bible. “Mirror mirror on the wall…who is the fairest of them all? No. “Mirror mirror on the wall, who am I?” Most a times I get answers like, “You are but a poor wretched worm in need of God’s grace.” Always I get, “You are my child and I love you very much.” Whatever the answers…

“Now I see but a poor reflection as in a mirror;
then I shall see face to face.
Now I know in part,
then I shall know fully.
Even as I am fully known."

Reflections

18/08/10 marks 27 years of my existence on this earth. It was then that my mother bore me. 10/07/2010 marked 6 years of my living on this earth. It was then that my Lord met me. In both years, I have a gift that some do not possess-the gift of time. I can choose to spend it wisely or foolishly. In the former, I enjoy the benefits. In the latter, I suffer the consequences. I am no longer a child. The privilege of another cleaning up my mess or that of being coerced to make a beneficial choice is long gone. I believe I have reached that time in a man’s life when he yearns to take his place in the issues that affect humanity. I also believe Ralph Waldo Emerson observed this in every man’s life and penned it so candidly… “There is a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that though the wise universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried”.

Martin Luther King Jr. experienced this power when the righteous defiance of Rosa Parks gave him a platform that fanned his gift of speaking into flames. It is in pursuing this cause that his life demanded examination for as Plato noted, a life that is unexamined is not worth living. Men examined him and he won much accolade from a majority. However, if he did not take time to examine himself before the Lord, then his life was a waste. As surely as men will examine our lives, we ought to examine ourselves before the Lord. It is a much greater honour to receive praise from the lips of God than from those of men. It is in this regard that we ought to have “pit stops” - times and seasons when we break off from the hustle and bustle, and reflect on our dear lives. Every 10th of July offers me this period of reflection. This year, the most sensible thing I can do is to renew my vows to the Lord…

The true Lover of my soul;
Who picked me from the pit of sin,
A helpless worm in a dark hole,
And crowned me with love and compassion.

The one whose face I long to behold,
Whose embrace I long to relish,
Whom I long to be found in His fold,
And hear those words I cherish,

…”well done good and faithful servant”.

To Him I vow to be humble and to fear,
For therein lie wealth, honour and life.

To Him I vow to serve faithfully with all my heart,
To not turn away after useless Idols,
For they can do me no good nor can they rescue me
Only Christ could rescue me from the clutch of sin
And usher me into the Father’s glorious presence.

Now my life has meaning and purpose.

To Him I commit these vows.
He who calls me is faithful
He will sanctify me through and through
He began this good work in me
He will carry it to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

Amen.