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.

Why I’ve Quit Watching TV

There are some things that one can’t imagine how life would be without them. I recall of a time when these were virtues; integrity, industry, truth, love, fidelity and so on and so forth. Then gadgets and gimmicks came along and crept into this precious list. Unbearable, a word that was used to describe a marriage in the rocks, now describes time spent in the country side; away from the internet, TV and the likes that are associated with the “good life”. It is not an unusual sight to see couples (even on their first date) fidgeting away on their mobile phones, each lost in their own little worlds. It is usually our family tradition to spend the Christmas season over at the farm and the recently ended festive season was no exception. The menu consisted of good food, pleasant conversations, enchanting music (tweeting birds) and God’s presence abounding. To say that I miss those few days is an understatement. I burn to re-live them! Surely that is how life is to be spent all year round-not just on special occasions. Do we need an occasion to have a hearty laugh with our loved ones? Most definitely not! Do we need to mark our calendars that on such and such a day, I will tickle the ribs of a loved one? Most definitely not! Do we need an occasion to share an out-of-the-usual warm meal with a loved one? Most definitely not! Oh! Those days will linger in my memory for some good time to come. However, one thing sure fueled this most cherished period. We had no TV, we had no computer and we had no radio. We had each other. It was then that it dawned on me how much these gadgets have taken over our dear lives. Think about it. How are our living rooms arranged? Who, or rather what, takes the center stage? The faces of our loved ones or some bunch of foolhardy people in an electronic box (read TV) out for attention, fame and a quick buck? How about the dining table? Forgive me but if my memory serves me right, there was a time when eating away from the table was a most grievous sin. Now we put food on the plate and run back to worship our small gods in our living rooms and bedrooms. Where are the times when “ DTTs” (Dining Table Talks) were a time to catch up, impart life-giving knowledge and hear the good ol’ stories of our loved parents in their hey days? Ah! My heart sobs! We have lost something. I look at the social skills of the older folk compared to my generation, and it occurs to me that we have most definitely lost something. We can regain it but first, we have to know what we have lost. And if by reading these few sentences you haven’t realized what it is we have lost, then you are a clear statistic we need help. Help from above to open the eyes of our hearts that we may truly see.

I have another reason why I have quit watching TV-a more personal one but not private. Several times Jesus exhorts us to watch our steps with the Almighty cautiously. He reminds us that the eyes are the light of the body. If our eyes are good, then our whole body is full of light. If our eyes are bad, our whole body is full of darkness. Simple logic yet there is nothing simple in its application. He goes on further saying that if the right eye causes us to sin, we should gouge it out and throw it away, for it is better to lose one part of the body and go to heaven than save the whole body and be thrown in hell. Okay, after the utterance of such from one with the highest authority, any sane person would halt in their tracks and ponder for a while. If I was to take this literally, I would have been totally blind right after birth! However, the “SSS” rule saves our skin from such imbecility. Scripture Supports Scripture, hence Paul exhorts us to throw off everything that hinders and the sin that easily entangles so that we can run well the race marked out for us. There is the major reason for my quitting watching TV. I am a Christian i.e. a follower of Christ (hence the name Christian). That comes before all else; my family, my career, my public outlook, my second name and most of all, my self- my old self to be precise. If anything makes me less of a Christian, it’s not worth keeping. And TV is not worth keeping. I have fought with this for quite some time. How am I going to relate with family and friends? How will I respond to the kind gesture of a host who wants to watch TV and asks for my company? I do realize this will ruffle some feathers. I also realize that I might be alienating myself from others. This is not pleasant at all. Then again, the Christian walk has never been pleasant. It may be full of mirth but this is not wrought from without but rather from within. How will my family (parents and siblings) feel when I sit alone on the dining table, munching away? Well, as cold as this may sound, I am not responsible for how they will respond. However, I am responsible for my Christian walk. I will not be crippled by TV. And boy, there is nothing more crippling than lust birthed by watching TV. It is a starving leech that sucks the joy out of the Christian experience. One day I will appear before my Lord and give an account of how I lived. Be far from it that He should find me unworthy of His presence because I preferred TV to Him in this life. He paid a dear price to redeem me. I should not take that lightly.

Secondly, there are too many trivialities on TV. Look at all the series that make murder look like a walk in the park. There was a time when tragedy was just that-tragedy. It would birth compassion for the bereaved but now, thanks to TV, tragedy amuses us. We sit long hours in front of this god and derive pleasure from criminal investigations regardless of how our hearts are becoming increasingly cold. Forgive me but I do recall the words of the wisest that our hearts should be guarded jealously for from them flow the issues of life. Then again, maybe I am growing old-not flowing with the times. Well, if it means losing my heart in the process, Count me out!

This is how things are going to be. I will eat my food in the dining room. Whoever needs my company, they know where to find me. I will not share my love for them with TV. I will enforce this in my home. The dining room is a sanctuary where we relax, let down our defenses and be our very true selves. It is the one place where a rebuke can be given without the stroke of the cane. Someone give me a reason for exchanging this divine providence with gadgets and gimmicks? This is one priviledge I will not allow to be taken away from my family (wife and children). I pray for a like-minded wife otherwise we would be having world war three at every meal. I will put my Lord before me at all times and should He impress upon my heart to quit another thing, then by His good grace I will. I sure will.

NB: I wrote the above article when self control was not a friend. Hence, it was important to take such a drastic action until I learnt how to use TV for good.Now that I have, I now watch TV but only what edifies and draws another to Christ and not from. God bless you all.

Through It All

Evil and suffering has been a theme that has baffled as well as afflicted many. All of us have experienced some form of suffering and have been at the receiving end of evil at one time or the other. However, for some, the knife of suffering seems to cut deeper and evil stalks them more often than not. Akeno was one of these. News of flash floods covered the Kenyan media and scenes of destruction were captured on print and aired on national TV. Many watched these from the comfort of their living rooms but Akeno with her two months old baby, Becky, bore it’s brunt out in the cold streets. Some nights security guards chased her from the verandahs into the chilling rain and then lean back on rickety old chairs, snoring heavily. Going back meant selling the only asset she possessed- her body. Her faith could not allow her to do so even though the thought was never far away. Over time, she learnt to protect Becky from the extreme weather using rags and carton boxes. Becky would cry endlessly after a rude awakening by the thunderous rain. This frequently wrought tears in Akeno’s eyes. Absentmindedly, she would thrust her left nipple into Becky’s mouth and ponder what the future held. Hopelessness always crouching at her door, her mind wandered near and far in search of elusive peace of heart and mind. The future seemed grim and the recent past was ghastly. However, there was a time when things were different.

She once had a roof over her head and friends and family to savour life with. The dinner table was always a hive of activity. Dishes were passed across as another politely asked for the salt. Ribs were tickled as stories of how the day was spent unfolded. Family gatherings were cherished as glee abounded much. It was a joy to see Akeno’s parents gleaming over her and her two brothers. She was sure they loved them-they did not lift a finger in trying to hide it. This love was once tested when Akeno erred and got pregnant. The young Casanova denied his own child. Her parents hung their head low in shame but they did not chase her away as many of the relatives advised-Akeno was still their daughter and they made sure all knew that. A generous lot they were too. Numerous times, they shared the dinner table with friends and family and occasionally, with a stranger lost in travel. Of course, this cost them a few times, but it was never an excuse to drop the noble habit. Their home was welcome to all- friend or foe. All was well until they came-fellow human beings with hearts of stone. Loud screams from the boys’ quarters jolted Akeno’s father to his feet. He reached for his spear and even though his palms grew sweaty with fear, love for his family fueled him on. Bullets rang through the still air of the night. He engaged the “beasts” in combat but his efforts came in a little bit too late. The bodies of the boys laid in between the sheets, riddled with bullets. A hoarse loud groan sent Akeno’s mother out of the house screaming, only to catch a glimpse of her husband fall at the end of his own spear. In seething rage, she lashed out at the attacker. Scarring him on the right cheek, she cried out to Akeno, “Run! Akeno! Ru...” Her words were cut short by a bullet through her head. Akeno ran as fast as her little feet could enable her. However, with a growing child in her womb, her speed was no match for the experienced cattle rustlers. Tripping her with a soldier’s boot, one rustler ripped her skirt into two while beating the living daylights out of her. Another opened his fly in readiness. However, just before this inhuman act was executed, a shot in the air brought the goons to their senses. Their leader, a seemingly spiritual man, reminded them of an age-old custom that prohibited the harming of a pregnant woman. The rustlers left Akeno to live another day but sometimes she wished they hadn’t. The pangs of suffering had only just begun. Greedy relatives took over the home and chased her away. She was a disgrace to the community and banishment was a most justifiable punishment. The many friends that her father had entertained rejected her diplomatically. Their petty excuse being a pregnant orphan would strain their already overburdened budget. She was left to fend for herself and the streets that she once walked hand in hand with her father window-shopping, became her humble abode.

In trying times there is always something that reminds us of God’s love;the beautiful blue ocean, the sizzling African sunset, enchanting woods, a friend’s loving pat, the holy writ, a scene from a movie … for Akeno, it was the charming chuckle of Becky. It rang with an angelic tone. It reminded her of the times she used to chuckle to herself. Her father thought she was going senile but to her, it was probably the beginning of a sane life. A missionary couple had visited her family. It was during the same period word had gotten round that she was pregnant. They talked of the son of God that left the heavens and entered the world through a virgin birth. Akeno stooped in shame. This son dwelled with His earthly parents until the age of thirty after which He wandered across the country for three years doing good and telling the masses of His home on high. He was then killed on a tree by the very same people He loved. Akeno’s father seethed with anger-he hated betrayal. However, all of this was God’s plan to save the mortals from the wages of sin-death. Hence, the guilt and shame of sin was paid once and for all and everyone who believed in Him would be saved. Akeno’s heart tingled as it dawned on her that she didn’t have to live with guilt anymore. All of these sounded new and interesting until Becky, the white Lady, prompted them to accept and serve this God-Man exclusively. At this, Becky lost Akeno’s father. A responsible man who did all to ensure his family was taken care of, it seemed odd that accepting and serving was all that was required of him. It was too simple. He kindly rejected the offer to follow Jesus Christ. The boys followed suit. However, Akeno and her mother hung on to every word the couple spoke that day and accepted to be Christians. They didn’t have much time to go to church but the little time they got, they read the scriptures and sung hymns together.

Yes. She knew what it felt like chuckling to self. However, pain and suffering have a way of clouding one’s view of the joy set before them. She recalled of God’s promise that one day He shall wipe away every tear from her eyes and she will know suffering no more. How she longed for that day. She wondered if God was present in her suffering. A hymn her mother used sing with her quietly slipped into her mind. It reminded her that God would never leave her nor forsake her. She smiled. Becky now slept soundly in her arms. As she gazed at her, a strange tingly warmth swept over her body and for a moment, she knew she had experienced the embrace of a loving God. Like a bulb had been lit in her head, she knew where to go for help. The sun was rising up yonder and a cross on a steeple could be seen from afar. She arose from the cold verandah, tied Becky onto her back with the little clothing she had and with short, firm and sure steps she “followed the cross”. The sight of the church building grew larger and larger with every step. Embers of hope were kindled in her heart and the sight of a young woman sweeping the entrance fanned them into flames. She could no longer help it. She ran towards her with all her might while clutching at Becky. Momentarily, she forgot her empty stomach, her foul body odour and the tatters she wore. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she slowed down, nearing the now astonished lady in blue. She approached Akeno and held out her arms to hold her. Akeno fell into them and sobbed her heart out. She held on tightly as if her life depended on the woman’s embrace. Finally, she pulled herself away in embarrassment. “My name is Sister Rebecca,” the woman introduced herself with a lump rising in her throat. At this, Akeno leaned on her shoulder as she was led inside the church. Though it all-Akeno knew, that God had been with her through it all.

The Unsung Souls

“When mama prayed, good things happened.
When mama prayed, lives were changed.
Not much more than 5-foot tall,
But mountains big and small,
would crumble all the way when mama prayed.”

Such was the song playing in the car as they drove along Iten-Marakwet road enroute to Kapsowar. It had been a while since his mother had last seen the old lady and she yearned to do so. She requested his company and he gladly obliged. This was the new kosgei-ready and available for any errand. However, not so long ago, obstinate, rebellious and prodigal were but a few words one would use in describing him. Yet even these could not lucidly capture the degree to which he was lost.

Young and wild with no care in the world except for self, they went from club to club, town to town, savouring every new drink in the name of “living to the fullest”. The boys meant more to kosgei than family and whenever choices had to be made on how to expend time, energy or resources, “brotherhood” came before blood. It was during such times that father and son rarely met eye to eye and frequently mother could be heard making petitions on behalf of the son. The siblings could often be caught gazing into the air, wondering what had become of their elder brother. A cloud of tension hang over the home as each wondered (aloud and silently) what trouble he would run into next. They seemed to have seen it all; locked in police cells, extreme impudence at school, dead-drunkard ness and disorderliness, selling of home stuff for a quick buck...they couldn’t take in any more drama. Scolding and spanking didn’t seem to amount to much. They seemed to have reached a dead-end in dealing with him. They didn’t know what to do… but one did.

“Yote kwa Yesu…”

She could be heard singing as she went about her morning chores. This was probably her favourite time of the day; No noise in the house or neighbourhood, birds chirping away merrily, the morn sun’s rays kissing the brown earth but most of all, the quite time where she could practise the presence of the Lord. Therein, she prayed for the family and most especially for Kosgei. She is his mother. A most gallant lady whose faith has seen her through times when throwing in the towel would have been a very logical option. As kosgei looked back over his shoulder into that dark and poignant past, his heart grew in appreciation for noble souls as she. Women who unreservedly gave their all to see the prodigals they love come back home.

The late Ruth Bell Graham, wife to legendary evangelist Billy Graham, beautifully weaved the stories of such women in her book “Prodigals and Those Who Love Them”. You may have read or heard of Saint Augustine. However, have you read or heard of Monica, his mother? The one who persisted in making petitions for his son to the good Lord even when Augustine seemed given over to heresies and immorality? How about John Newton? I bet the words “amazing grace, how sweet the sound” are playing in your mind right now. Have you read or heard of his mother? John once said of her. “My mother stored my memory, which was then very retentive, with many valuable pieces, chapters, and portions of scripture, catechisms, hymns and poems. When the Lord at length opened my eyes, I found great benefit from the recollections of them.” Let’s try John and Charles Wesley? Ruth does not mention them in her book but am sure their names ring a bell. But does Susannah Wesley? Known to a few minds, a brief description of her in “The Journal of John Wesley” deserves to be read in its entirety.

“The mother of the Wesleys was a remarkable woman, though cast in a mold not much to our minds nowadays. She had nineteen children and greatly prided herself on having taught them, one after another, by frequent chastisements to—what do you think? To cry softly. She had theories of education and strength of will, and of arm too, to carry them out. She knew Latin and Greek, and though a stern, forbidding, almost an unfeeling, parent, she was successful in winning and retaining not only the respect but the affection of such of her huge family as lived to grow up. But out of the nineteen, thirteen early succumbed. Infant mortality was one of the great facts of the eighteenth century whose Rachels had to learn to cry softly over their dead babes. The mother of the Wesleys thought more of her children’s souls than of their bodies.”

The list could go on and on but before its closure, there is one more much closer to home. One that has touched many a hearts. The late Phillip Keller was internationally known for his devotional commentaries. He traveled worldwide as a field naturalist, conservationist, wildlife photographer, author and consultant to governments and organizations. He was born in Kenya to missionary parents and is widely remembered for his efforts in conservation of the environment among the Masai people. In one of his most personal books, “Wonder O’ The Wind” he did not dwell much on the environment and the conservation cause. The relations in his life came to the fore. And the influence that his mother had on his life is sprinkled through out the pages of this gem. Later on in his prodigal years, Philip aptly reflected, “It is a fortunate person whose life and work is safeguarded by the outpouring of some unseen, unsung soul behind the scenes.” I have been and am this fortunate person. 10th of July, 2005 was the date I returned home. This would not have been possible except by the outpouring of a woman whose life may never be read in print or aired on national TV but whose influence is indelibly marked in my heart. It is such unsung souls as she that I salute not only on the second Sunday of every may, but more so after the festive season when so many prodigals have wandered farther and farther away from home.

Of Fathers and Sons

All was silent as the car sped along the highway from Nairobi enroute to Eldoret. All except for these series of phone calls that daddy kept receiving. I did not make much of them. None of us did. “He is a busy man and rarely is his phone silent for more than a minute”. That is how we justified these unusual calls. However, our ears pricked up when it came to our understanding that all the callers were from Marakwet district where daddy hails from. “It must be some wayward relative causing trouble”, I thought to myself. It wasn’t unusual for such to be brought to daddy’s attention. He is a strict disciplinarian and my young backside testified to this very well. Granddaddy had been sick for sometime and daddy kept going back to check on him. However, I didn’t dwell so much on the thought. I didn’t allow it to progress- didn’t want to even though it lingered at the back of my mind. My young mind drifted off to the things that young minds ponder on-food was number one on the list. Daddy finally put the phone down and an eerie loud silence filled the car. Not even mum dared ask what was wrong as she would have usually done. In a low husky voice that was full of pathos, Daddy broke through the silence in our native Marakwet language…

“I think father has rested.”

Very little was spoken after that. I glanced back and forth across my parents’ faces. I couldn’t help notice daddy blinking away impending tears. This was one side of him I had never seen before. I knew him as the tough dad. If I knew of one person on the face of this earth, who could face up to any challenge, no matter how insurmountable it seemed, it was him. Seeing him grieve for one who had lived to the ripe age of 104 years struck a cord in my heart. Like a light bulb that had been lit in my head, it all dawned on me how much he loved granddaddy. I recalled of the many stories he had told with much fervour concerning him; his historic trip to Uganda where he had a road accident that left him with a characteristic limp, his business ventures in Northern Kenya (buying and selling goats), his music band and their famous performance before His Excellency, the Late Mzee Jommo Kenyatta in Iten, the respect accorded to him as being the first one to build a "posho" mill in Aror nearby Kapsowar centre-it was run by water energy. The list is endless. He loved him and a picture that rests above the fire place testifies of this. An old man in a wheelchair, where he spent his latter days, smiles broadly revealing teeth that have stood the test of time. The more I think of it all, the more I see a little bit of him in daddy every other day; his hard work and sharp wit for new business ventures, his concern for family and the stretching of the available resources to ensure that his loved ones get the best of formal education. As I ponder on this father-son link, my young mind goes ahead of time and asks itself, “Will my son see a little bit of granddaddy in daddy?”

Father-son link. It is universal. It transcends tribe, nationality, race and yes, even religion. Two particular scenes come to mind. All from the movies. Movies that were inspired by true stories. Though they may have been exaggerated by Hollywood, the truths put across are so real in our day to day lives. Carl Brashear in “Men of Honour” shows bravery and courage that is not commonplace. He goes against the grain to prove that he is good at what he does-navy deep sea diving. One time, his career is at stake all because he is coloured (read black). His trainer in a bid to try and break it down to him that he will not be allowed to qualify, ends up in confrontation. This brings to the fore what fuels Carl on. His father exhorted him to be the best. Never quit even when the going got tough. And just to make sure that he won’t forget those pertinent words, he inscribed the initials “ASNF” on a wooden home-made radio and gave it to Carl. Nothing could hold him back. Not a low standard of education. Not his skin colour and definitely not even an accident that rendered him disabled. All because a father had dared inspire his son to a higher notch in life.

James farmer Jr. in “The Great Debaters” was the son of a local preacher. He went to the local college. Racial segregation was at its peak and from time to time, he had to endure seeing his father go through some embarrassing moments just to ensure that his family was safe. Fear and shame were the two foes that James longed to see fall. He didn’t have to wait for long. He saw it on the day his debating coach was illegally arrested, and his father-that local preacher-led a local farmers union and students in protest. James saw his father use the power of words and a sprinkle of civil disobedience to stand up against the sheriff. The coach was released amidst cheers of victory by the farmers and students. I couldn’t help wipe away a tear when father and son met eye to eye and without words but with mirth that I could understand, both nodded and acknowledged the love and respect they had for each other. It was a beautiful moment.

A moment that should be shared more often between fathers and sons. I don’t mean to sound mushy. It is not my prerogative to encourage senseless expressions of feelings between father and son. I think we have too much of that already. We do not need more boys growing up into wimps rather than men. The female folk have complained enough. It is time we listened to them. They have a point to put across. Going easy on the words, allow me to state my heartfelt intention for this treatise. I think, and I know there are many out there who would agree with me, that fathers should teach their son the issues of life-both now and hereafter. Privileged is the son who learns these virtues from his father; the importance of hard work; respect for the ladies; good management of resources; choosing of friends wisely; discipline in time management; respect for authority, …and definitely fearing God. Privileged is the son indeed. Many have failed in their roles as fathers. Many have failed in their roles as sons too. However, there is one who gives both a fresh start and the prodigal son knows that too well.

I am now at campus. A picture of daddy adorns the wall with the words “Prov 15:20a” and initials “ASNF” above and beneath it respectively. A wise son brings joy to his father and I intend to do just that if I have not already. Besides…A Son Never Forgets!

4 years old!!

I wrote the following article on 10th July,2008. This was after taking the afternoon off on KK beach in Kampala, Uganda. Share this joy with me.

I went to K.K beach yesterday.I don't know what the initials stand for. Kikumi Kikumi, Kitu Kidogo, Kuku Kubwa...I don't know but I was there. Yes, that's right. It was a thursday. Not exactly the kind of day you would choose for hanging out. But this thursday was a special one for me.It was here at K.K beach that I met the Lover of my soul or was it Him who met me? This was the 4th anniversary of my salvation. You can call it Holy Thursday. So there I was sitting under a lonely palm tree (it really needed my company) ;looking at all the kids playing, insects flying low, white seagulls picking their daily bread from the vast grains of sand, two young boys trying to fish...the place was buzzing with life! Just like it was 4 years back.

What I have learnt in 4 years, I couldn't get from the world in a thousand years. It is true that one day in His house is like a thousand elsewhere. Ask me about it. 'Ave been in it for four years. No regrets whatsoever.

There are days when I didn't enjoy my salvation much. This was beacause I was living a double life;spending the day with God and going out at night with the devil. My life was a wreck back then. A sweet young lady during such times once described me as,

"the guy who smells like a brewery at 11 am in the morning"

Those words cut through my heart. I knew they were true and I knew I had to go back into the loving arms of the Father. So on 10th April, 2005 I did. It was on the same day that I got baptised too. Since then, its been intimacy, beauty and adventure.

The legandary comedian Bill Cosby in one of his stand-ups,once told the story of a young lad in a passenger flight. The kid kept disturbing the passengers and no matter how much the mother tried to stop him, he still kept at it. This was what he was telling the passengers on board,

"Hi? My name is Jeffery and am 4
was 3 yesterday but now am 4."

There are still areas of my life that need some finishing. I ain't a finished product yet. So some days He takes me back to the Potter's wheel. It is painful but the sweet fellowship that follows thereafter takes away all the memory of the pain. I guess that is how a loving Father deals with the wayward child. The future is bright! There are still places to go, people to talk to and many more lessons to be learnt. After all...

"Hi? My name is Toro and am 4
was 3 yesterday but now am 4."

I love you all!