I appreciate...

It is 4:10 am. I love writing but not enough to wake up at such an hour to do so. I woke up because I could not sleep. I could not sleep because I could not breathe properly. I could not breathe properly because lately, my lungs have formed a habit of going berserk in the dead of night and wee hours of the morning. They only regain sanity as the day progresses, behaving properly as temperatures increase till the midday sun, and then they prepare for go slow once evening sets in. Tonight, I tossed and turned. I coughed and spat. I laboured to get some much needed oxygen into my lungs. However, it seemed that my lungs had had enough of this daily bread and desired something else. Hence, I woke up, frustrated that I could not access something as freely available as oxygen. Nonetheless, it is in such moments that one appreciates the things that are usually taken for granted. I could not help but think of such as these.

I appreciate the wonder that is air, oxygen, to be precise. If we had to pay for such a valuable commodity, then new phrases would have to be created to replace similes such as “broke as a church mouse.” It is amazing how our intricate bodies rely on oxygen for their existence and functioning. I appreciate the men and women who have dedicated their lives to protect this commodity from pollution. They are a breath of fresh air-literally. I appreciate the inventor of the oxygen tank. It is my hope that I never get to use it. However, in the unfortunate event that I do, I shall remember­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ Stephine J and whisper a prayer in thanksgiving.

I appreciate the men and women who have not let physical disabilities and maladies get the best of them. I appreciate the men and women who have excelled in sports; men and women who defied all odds and proved to the world that with a belief in a good God, sheer determination and a sprinkling of talent, all is possible. I appreciate their friends and families who stood by them when no one else would. I appreciate the long nights they spent in preparing them for their respective stations in life; the impeccable patience they exhibited when their own lives came to a standstill that the lives of their loved ones may be kept in motion. I appreciate the men and women who believed in them and in what they could accomplish; men and women who did not laugh in their faces when these beloved turned up in their offices asking to be trained. 

I appreciate the men and women who have redefined policies at their work places along with the mindsets of their colleagues. They are the men and women who refused to be identified by their physical limitations but instead chose to be recognized for their merits. They are the ones who refused the notion that holding out a begging bowl to the world is the only option available to them. They are the ones who sought the improving of their minds through thick and thin. They are the ones who overcame obstacles that would have shaken the otherwise “normal” men and women. I appreciate them.

I appreciate the men and women who have proven that leadership is not hindered by physical disability. I appreciate those who went ahead to show that they too can lead. They are the ones who stood before us a few months ago and convinced us that they deserved our votes. We gave it to them. Now, we are proud to see them representing us in the manner that we expect of them. 

It is now 4:50 am. I feel so much better. Perhaps, it is therapeutic to take time and appreciate the things that we usually take for granted.

The queen less hive

Reading Leo Tolstoy’s novel “War and Peace”, his comparing of empty Moscow pending its being taken over by Napoleon, to a queen less hive, I could not help think of its remarkable similarity to a life without Christ or even worse, one that has Christ but has lost its lustre or fervour and the painful purging that must come in the end.

“In a queen less hive no life is left though to a superficial glance it seems as much alive as other hives. 

The bees circle about a queen less hive in the heat of the midday sun as gaily as about other living hives; from a distance it smells of honey like the others, and the bees fly in and out just the same. But one has to only give a careful look to realize that there is no longer any life in the hive. The bees do not fly in and out in the same way; the smell and sound that meet the bee-keeper are different. A tap on the wall of the sick hive and, instead of the instant, unanimous response, the buzzing of tens of thousands of bees threateningly lifting their stings and by the swift fanning of wings producing that whirring, living hum, the bee-keeper is greeted by an incoherent buzzing from odd corners of the deserted hive. 

From the alighting board instead of the former winy fragrance of honey and venom, and the breath of warmth from the multitudes within, comes an odour of emptiness and decay mingling with the scent of honey. No sentinels watch there, curling up their stings and trumpeting the alarm, ready to die in defense of the community. Gone is the low, even hum, the throb of activity, like the singing of boiling water, and in its place is the fitful, discordant uproar of disorder. Black oblong robber-bees smeared with honey fly timidly, furtively, in and out of the hive: they do not sting but crawl away at the sign of danger. Before, only bees laden with honey flew into the hive, and flew away empty; now, they fly out laden. 

The bee-keeper opens the lower chamber and peers into the bottom of the hive. Instead of black glossy bees tamed by toil that used to hang down, clinging to each other’s legs, in long clusters to the floor of the hive, drawing out the wax with a ceaseless murmur of labour- now drowsy shriveled bees wander listlessly about the floor and the walls of the hive. Instead of a neatly glued floor, swept by winnowing wings, the bee-keeper sees a floor littered with bits of wax, excrement, dying bees feebly kicking their legs and dead bees that have not been cleared away.

The bee-keeper opens the upper compartment and examines the top super of the hive. Instead of serried rows of insects sealing up every gap in the combs and keeping the hive warm, he sees the skillful, complex edifice of combs, but even here the virginal purity of old is gone. All is neglected and befouled. Black robber-bees prowl swiftly and stealthily about the combs in search of plunder; while the short-bodied, dried up home-bees, looking withered and old, languidly creep about, doing nothing to hinder the robber, having lost all desire and all sense of life. Drones, hornets, wasps and butterflies flutter about, knocking awkwardly against the walls of the hive. From here and there among the cells containing dead brood and honey, comes an occasional angry buzz; here and there a couple of workers, faithful to old habits, are cleaning out the brood cells, a task beyond their strength, labouriously dragging away dead bees or drones, without knowing why they do it. In another corner, two old bees indolently fight, or clean themselves, or feed one another, themselves unaware whether with friendly or hostile intent. Elsewhere a crowd of bees squashing one another fall on some victim, attack and smother it. And the debilitated or dead bee drops slowly, light as a feather, among the heap of corpses. 

 The keeper parts the two centre frames to look at the brood-cells. In place of the close dark circles bees in their thousands sitting back to back and guarding the lofty mysteries of the work of generation he sees dejected, half-dead and drowsy shells of bees in hundreds only. They have almost all of them died unawares, sitting in the sanctuary they had guarded and which is no more. They reek of decay and corruption. Only a few of them stir, rise up and idly fly to settle on the enemy’s hand, lacking the spirit to die stinging him: the rest are dead and spill down as light as fish-scales. The bee-keeper closes the hive, chalks a mark on it and presently, when he has time, breaks it open and burns it clean.”

I am sure

My Sunshine

I have heard that many couples get jittery on the eve of their wedding. I have heard that many have second thoughts.  They doubt the choices they have made. I have even heard that this is normal and with time the doubts pass. What I have not heard is that many are certain of the one they want to marry. Some have claimed that there is no such thing-that peculiar certainty is only fodder for the movies. If this is so, then my life is a movie.

I knew that she was the one I would marry. I had not popped the question. I had not begun courting her. Heck, I had not even met her! Yet, I knew without a doubt that our paths would cross someday. And so they did in Uganda, where we were studying for our A-levels. She was the Christian, and I the wretched sinner. She was the sober one, I the brewery. She was the epitome of all that is good. I on the other hand, was the very dregs of all that is rotten. I envied her. Her life was simple. She did not concern herself with all the drama around her. She seemed unruffled by them; they were below her you might reckon. Not I. My life was full of drama, from dusk till dawn I was immersed neck-deep in them. Rumours flew over my head as bees over pollen. Glances and whispers were exchanged every time I stepped into a room. Diabolically, there was a part of me that relished it all and even fuelled it. Piously, there was a part of me that wanted out, that wanted to live like her, my future wife. The latter won. Hence, in my senior six (read form six), I started seeing life from her point of view. It was much clearer and liberating. I loved every bit of it. It was in these changing circumstances that our discourses progressed from hallo to how are you doing? I could have made my move then, but something (or someone) held me back. “No rush,” it (or he) seemed to say, “She will be all yours at the right time”. I held my horses. I completed my A-levels and we had to part ways. She was one class behind me. The parting was not painful. Once again, that stubborn assurance lingered. I would see her again. It would be several years before I did.

We met again in Campus. I nearly broke her nose-call it a prank gone bad. This was followed by a most intimate of hugs, the first in a series of more to come. We saw each other regularly after that but often in the company of other Christians. Nonetheless, we grew closer by the day till eventually we became inseparable. Our friends noticed and giggles could be heard here and there. Nothing malicious, they wished us the best of happiness. 

It has been a while now since we have been together. I am not sure of the exact figure-she is the one who is good with dates. However, one thing I am sure of is that she is the one, always been and always will be. Lately, we have been dwelling on the subject of marriage quite a bit, and rightly so. I have not popped the question. Perhaps I have not seen or felt the need to. When we started out, it was quite clear to both of us that this one was for the long haul, no trial and error, no dating (guess we kissed that good bye), no what if, if only,..but till death do us part.  When the time comes, and we find ourselves before the altar, we will be saying those vows for the umpteenth time. We will make known to the world what has been known to us since the moment we said, “Good to go...” We truly love each other so. I will look into her eyes and hear...  

  

            “My beloved is mine and I am his”.

She will look into mine and hear...

            “How beautiful you are, my darling! Oh, how beautiful!”

Bullies of my life

I had a dream the other day-the kind that transports one back in time- visiting day in Form one to be precise. There were plenty of goodies to savour later in the evening. The only problem was that most of the savouring was done by the senior students. The role of Form ones was to pay libations to their ancestors-the senior students. Failure of payment led to dire consequences for the defaulter. Well, on this particular day, I wasn’t ready to pay. I stood my ground to the astonishment of my colleagues. I saw them beg me through clenched teeth to relent-for all our sakes. I resisted-for all our sakes.  A tussle ensued between a senior student and I. Word of it reached the headmaster, an Irish man of short stature with the flaring temper of a Russian. The senior student purported that I had insulted him. I retorted that I had not but if I had, he would not have understood the insult anyway. He was slow in grasping the Queen’s language. The headmaster let a quirky smirk slip through his stern demeanour. 

“A Form one standing up to a Form four, right under my nose...there’s a first!” he must have mused. 

Nonetheless, we both got a good thrashing. I suppose, it was the Irish way of settling disputes. If it is one’s word against another due to lack of witnesses, let both parties suffer. However, something good came out of the whole saga. The headmaster asked me to set up a task force to investigate cases of bullying and report to him personally. I embarked on the task zealously. Notorious bullies were brought to account and reprimanded in ingenious and humiliating ways. Soon stories of our success spread across, the district, the province, and even the country too. Our strategy was emulated in boy schools all over Kenya. The end of bullying was in sight. We envisaged that in a few years, never would one have to go through the horrifying experience that is “monolisation”. Indeed I was on a good run; appearing in school magazines, turning girls’ heads in symposiums, featuring in TV and radio...then I woke up.

It is such a sinking feeling when dreams take you to the loftiest clouds but reality brings you back to earth with a loud thud. I sat on the edge of my bed thinking long and hard. I was a puny fellow back then. I still am. I was tossed here and about. My food, my time, the uniform on my body...weren’t mine. I should have stood for what is mine but no, timidity always got the better of me. When I needed it most, courage failed me miserably. I still remember the faces of my bullies; some dark with bloodshot eyes, some light with dark scars that scared the living daylights out of me. I still remember them. 

I am older now, wiser and braver too. I still meet bullies of all kinds; those who want to swindle me off my hard earned sweat, those who want to hold me back from chasing my dreams, those who want to force their opinion on me, heck, even those who want to entice me for a rendezvous in between the sheets! Sometime I think to myself, “If only I knew then what I know now, life would be so different”. However, life does not play out like that. We learn from our past, do right in the present to avoid regrets in the future. I have learnt from my past-my high school days to be precise. I have learnt that bullies would always be there in my life. It is how I respond to them that determine whether they linger or not.

I rose from my bed, read my Bible, freshened up and stepped out-ready to tussle with bullies that the world would bring my way.

Understanding women

There are days when I wish I could be a neurosurgeon. Many share this ambition but the source of my ambition is intricately different. It is not money, passion, scientific curiosity, or even a worthy challenge. It is to understand women.

Women are a species shrouded in mystery. Whoever sets on a journey to decipher what saunters in their mental faculties faces a most daunting task to. He would need the thick skin of a rhino and the strong constitution of an ox in order to survive the rarely charted waters of understanding women. I believe no man has, and those who think they have, are the most deceived. Perhaps, we were never meant to figure them out. Perhaps, we were wired for the chase; always hunting, never killing. And if, like most men, you think a kill means a randevú between the sheets. I think you are dead wrong.  There is much more to this species than the canyon down under. Men perceive themselves the stronger sex, yet most cannot persevere half of what women go through. Men think they are ahead of the game, yet women, almost invariably, are ten steps ahead of them. Men think they are the more suave, yet a woman’s hold on a man is achieved in the most subtle of manners. Yes, I am intrigued by them, sometimes infuriated, but often intrigued.

This is why I am making it my lifelong ambition to understand women in all ways. Life would be so much simpler when I do. My hair may turn grey before its time, wrinkles may spread across my face, my laughter may turn into a groan, my back may bend some more but my discoveries will go down in the annals of human history. When I tread the verge of Jordan and I cross into worlds unknown, I will look down and smile upon reading the words on my epitaph... 

                “Here lies the first man who unravelled the mystery that is woman”