YELLOW, MELLOW, MELODY

She suggested my favorite color first try.
But between me and you, I didn’t even have a favorite color until she yelled out yellow! She was hella excited and smiling like a little kid. So I told her she was right, and I haven’t seen yellow the same since. It is in everything. I could probably live in it now.

She brought the colorful kindergartener doodle of sunshine to life. In all honesty, as time flew by and she let down her walls, mine went up around her in an attempt to shield her from everything wrong in life. When around me, she let go. I’m tempted to say she switched off her brain so we could use mine. She trusted me: a childlike kind of trust. It was the kind of trust that could trigger the protective aspect of any man.

I think she even adored me. I promise I am not overreacting because the button eyes never lie. The intense and focused gaze she had when I geeked out, the softness and warmth in them as I told her about my day, and the brightness and sparkle they held as soon as she saw me. Listen, man, they never lie.

The first time I saw her, she sat shyly in a corner sipping some hot cocoa. And boy! Wasn’t she some hot cocoa herself! She gave me reserved, one-word answers as though I was from an intelligence agency gathering intel to arrest her. If I were one though, I would arrest her. Her offense? A voice that could kill. Over time the words built to paragraphs, and soon she talked non-stop. Did she see a cute bird on her way to the shop? Yes. How did I know this? She sent a voice note as soon as it happened.
She was amazing!
Of course, I fell irrevocably.
I mean, have you seen her? Who wouldn’t?
This is the kind of love that can annihilate anyone when it ends.
But something must kill a man.

A HUNDRED THOUSAND BIRDS

Photo credits: Pinterest

The good moments in life can be sheathed in songs and poems. They can be in penned in Haikus and Odes, or within the confines of the 14 lines of a sonnet. They can be whispered in midnight confessions, away from the prying daylight eyes. Ironically at that time, darkness is safety.

The best moments, however, always leave someone speechless. This is why you can stare at that which you adore and lack words to vocalize its perfection. Speechless enough that I cannot confess how I felt as the sonnet delicately pierced my soul. I equate the feeling to walking barefoot on dewy grass, as the blades cradle the sole gently like silken thread. It’s like a tactical voyage triggered by each blade, where each step is a brush stroke on the fresh canvas that glistens as the earth awakens. It is like the gentle melody that permeates the air when the birds whisper the tale of a new life with no past regrets. It is on dewy grass that barefooted souls find a poetic refuge.

Eventually, every perfect thing must come to an end. And so when the high from the best fades to the good and words find you, it can be summarised in a sonnet like this…

A Hundred Thousand Birds by Christopher Tin

“A hundred thousand birds salute the day:
One solitary bird salutes the night:
Its mellow grieving wiles our grief away,
And tunes our weary watches to delight;
It seems to sing the thoughts we cannot say,
To know and sing them, and to set them right;
Until we feel once more that May is May,
And hope some buds may bloom without a blight.
This solitary bird outweighs, outvies,
The hundred thousand merry-making birds
Whose innocent warblings yet might make us wise
Would we but follow when they bid us rise,
Would we but set their notes of praise to words
And launch our hearts up with them to the skies”

APRICITY

For the first time in weeks, Nala was happy. I could tell by the rosy sheen on her cheeks, which replaced the pale, sometimes sallow, hue that earlier rested on them. The soil on her husband’s grave should have dried out by now, but the rains made it seem like he was laid there just yesterday.
But again, that’s exactly how she felt.

He made her a widow at 70, and although Nala knew his end was near, she wasn’t fully prepared to let go. The house that was once warmed by the fire of their love grew cold. His hearty laughter no longer echoed through the house, a laughter that was an answered prayed for the redamancy she had always hoped and wished for as a girl. But that is how grief is: It is a door that opens unceremoniously, filling the room with cold air that we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.

“Whatever is on your mind better be worth you ignoring me!” she said chuckling, breaking me from my train of thoughts. I could see that Nala’s door of grief had been shut, because there she was sitting pretty, sipping on her mocha while staring at the roaring and unforgiving storm that was loud on the window. We chatted the morning away, washed the stories down with bottomless mimosas and cemented it in with the creamy salted caramel cake slices that were offered as part of the brunch.

As the rain subsided, we staggered our way out. For the first time in a while, the sun lazily peeked over the clouds in a dazzling orange cast. With closed eyes, Nala broke into a smile, and opened her arms to take it all in. As if on cue, the apricity covered her in a soft embrace, reminding her that even on the coldest and darkest of days, hope is still within reach.
And in that moment, that’s exactly how she felt.
Hopeful.

THIS BOY IN MY DM SAYS I’M PRETTY…

This man says I look really nice in my pink glasses. I think they border mauve, depending on your proximity when observing them. He says wearing small shoes, and having tiny feet are both incredibly cute.

He says I’m pretty.
He’s different, so very different. He is a knight.

Most boys tell you you’re gorgeous in the PM, when the loneliness triggered by darkness strikes, but he starts the day right in the AM by serving affirmations in the DM. When he calls, I blush pink, as the stars blush a speckled yellow. It might be in my head but, the stars do twinkle a dappled yellow when he calls.

He thinks scars are beautiful, Wabi Sabi. It’s like he sets up a home among the ruins in the heart. He says the broken pieces are unique, like art. He says they didn’t break carelessly; they broke beautifully. I guess that’s why he steals glances because all the individual pieces are not fathomable at once; he gotta take it in one at a time.

This boy in my DM says I’m pretty. Except, there is no boy in the DM. That’s just how I feel every time I listen to Tank and the Bangas. She is fluid; poetic. Her pieces are what I’d imagine sitting by the fireside feels like. Sitting on the fireside when its stormy outside. When it’s stormy outside and the only thing separating from that fierce, yet calming downpour is a glass wall. When the rain licks the glass desiring to devour and drown you, but there is no way in, because you’re safe inside. That’s Tank. Her pieces are what I would envision safety to feel like. There is no boy saying I’m pretty, and maybe, just maybe, I want nothing short of the guy that tells her she is pretty. Because, if he makes the stars in her heart blush, imagine what he does to the galaxy in her head…

Tank and the Bangas

WHO TOLD YOU THAT YOU WERE NAKED?

No, no, dearest reader… there is nothing graphic about this.
We always use “the heart is deceitful” as an excuse to abandon our hearts and justify the brokenness that happens after a fall, when the real villain all along has been the head. Let’s look into our dear ol’ buddy Adam. Even by our standards, he was living the life that Kilimani boys could never! We all know his story, so let’s view it from another POV. Adam’s heart was content with God’s providence before the snake did his thing. Upon eating the fruit, his heart shifted, and his head took over, making him conscious of his nakedness.

Nakedness.
A form he was never insecure over before, and now he scrambled to cover it, just like you. See, some experiences made you so self-conscious of your shortcomings, of your wrongs.
A broken heart made you stop listening to your heart and instead turned to your head, going cold.
Death of loved ones hardened you, and you became afraid of showing affection. I mean, c’mon, we both know you’re passionate and tender, and you burst in the warmth of endearment. But religiously listening to your thoughts robbed you of the thrill of doing things that once brought you joy.

And so when you went down on your knees and presented this version of yourself to God, He sought to understand :
What moved you from where He placed you?
What made you second guess how He made you?
What made you self-conscious of the most irrelevant details and derailed you from your path?
He asked, ” Who told you that you were naked?” 

Personally, self-doubt did…
What about you, friend?
Who told you that you were naked?

These words are as depicted in Genesis 3:11a, NIV Bible

THAT’S WHY JESUS HAD TO PASS THROUGH SAMARIA

Jesus and the woman at the well

The Samaritan was void and empty despite being heavy and full.
It was another Sunday to find an excuse as to why she wasn’t attending church. Mostly, she woke up, concluded she hasn’t found a spiritual home worthy enough to nourish her, and go back to sleep right after.
In other instances, she was sick, well just mild fatigue from Insomnia but it counted as an excuse didn’t it?
This time, however, her sickness led her back to the cross. She was ill, her heart was ailing. Not once had she thought of requesting her doctor to prescribe her another dose of Xanax, since the first time they would knock her, her insomnia, and her brain right to sleep, into darkness, into limbo. She failed to consider one thing though, Xanax is only for the night, pain comes in the morning.
This particular Sunday, however, her tears woke her up. At first she was losing it, but now she had lost it.
Void, empty, that’s what she was.
The Samaritan cleaned her temple, where due to negligence the tenant, who was the Holiest of Spirits, fled. She wore pink, a bright color to distract any prying eyes from staring into her dull ones, and maybe seeing her empty soul. A thought crossed her mind, and she obeyed it and bought a new handkerchief.
She strode into church, and sat by the wall. The first two songs that were sang were barely familiar to her. She took that as her cue to contemplate walking out.  She broke down instead.  She took out her new handkerchief, and sobbed into it. Around her everyone was staring, but the Samaritan was too tired to care. She laid herself bare, all she wanted was an ease of her baggage. She no longer wanted control. She was unworthy, insignificant, minuscule, inconsequential; or so she thought. She had tried to quench her unending thirst for comfort, love, significance, to no avail. But at her lowest, with over 400 people around her, Jesus spoke to the Samaritan. He had seen her suffering, her quest to quench, and asked to trade her sorrows and baggage in return for ultimate contentment, and she did.
She surrendered all. No one understood her sobbing, but only Jesus, the Samaritan and the handkerchief know the story. 
She still couldn’t understand why He chose her. With a smile, and the softest, calmest and surest of voices, Jesus reminded her He passed through Samaria for her, and would do it all over again without fail, without doubt, only with love.
And in Samaria, by the well, the Samaritan was quenched, and made whole.
She folded neatly folded her handkerchief, and kept it as a reminder that no matter what, she was redeemed, and assuaged.
She came in with a heart struggling to beat, a heart heavy it sank to the pit of her stomach and left with a heart beating to the sound of the drums and tongues spoken.
She was rebranded at the well.
She was light and free.
She was the Samaritan.

LOVE LETTER: WONDER WOMAN.

Unbeknownst to many, I’m an introvert. I’m the girl who is too shy to make friends, and is mostly adopted by extroverts, and that’s what happened with Rachael. She had washed carpet and needed help hanging it. Being outside, I offered to help, carried my 40-something kgs to the hanging line, and almost broke our backs ensuring the carpet was kissing the sun properly. That’s it imagine, hivyo tu ndio I bagged a baddie for a friend💅🏿. For me, she was like a compatible piece of a jigsaw puzzle. My jigsaw piece just turned 23, so allow me to pen my love.
You’re a wildflower, a stunning wildflower. No matter how harsh the season is, you blossom regardless. That’s power.
You’re a trampoline. Your kind words, your warm personality and gentle heart make you a safe place to land. That’s love.

You’re a wonder woman. I can’t even begin to describe how great you are.
You’re strength.
You’re loving.
You’re resilience.
You’re laughter.
You’re warm, you’re a cup of tea.
The voice of my soul knows your name, and that’s everything to me.
Happy 23rd birthday, Rachael❤.

COCOA, TEA, & LIGHTING

The past 2 months or so have forced me to fix my sleeping pattern; being up by 4:30 am, and out of the house by 5:40 am to catch the morning bus before rowdy Nairobians bring out their cars and cause the infamous traffic jam. If you’re a traveler at these ungodly hours; that should never catch any baby girl outside; you know the matatu’s stereos are either tuned in to Classic 105 or are playing a reggae playlist. Now dearest reader, I’m not a fan of reggae and I’d describe my relationship with the genre as a love-hate kinda union.

This post, however, is to describe a song that largely contributes to the ‘love’ aspect of the relationship:

Lighting by Mortimer

I first heard this song in a nganya and to date I still do. Every single time, it sounds and feels like a warm hug, like safety, like how world peace would sound. It sounds* like a cup of hot tea in that metal cup used in sherehes in shagz, like how I’d imagine a treehouse with glass windows in a rainforest would feel. It makes me feel like a military wife who finally gets to see the love of her life after months, heck even years, of uncertainty. It sounds like sitting in a rocking chair after retirement watching the sunset like we will wake up one day saved from this ulcer-inducing, migraine triggering country with everything being fine, and we are no longer hurting. It sounds like the peace and quiet we would enjoy if Alliance alumni were to keep quiet for a week, and Manchester fans were relocated to mars.
And when I run out of words, it will still sound like a soft forehead kiss, like love.

All love to Alliance alumni, we wouldn’t have anyone to pick on if it weren’t for you.

*Sound has been used to imply the same thing as feel

STAINED GLASS MASQUARADE

You know, the worst part about hurt? the nights you’re off your phone, the delusional distraction that makes you feel like you have it all together but you don’t. It’s a perfect facade, that only masks your ground, broken pieces. But you’re broken, and you know you are.

It’s the realisation that you may never be able to believe that people think highly of you. That they care. That they love you.
It’s the burden that you always have to carry, the weight of overcompensation you endure just to prove to your circle that they will never regret making you their friend, when in essence, they are swimming in the joy of your existence, and love you for who you are. But you will never experience that, cause you are broken, and you know you are.

It is the suspicion that everything is out to destroy you: preferring to bear the weight of your problems because you don’t want to weigh it on others, or is it because you don’t trust anyone? It ever sent you under, right?I guess we will never really know.  You though, you know what it is. Because you’re broken, and you know you are.

It is the lonely nights, days even. You know how great your day has been, but you can’t share it. How a stranger harassed you  but you would rather sleep on it because you don’t want to be selfish, by making it about you. You’re always giving and never receiving, because you deem yourself not worthy. Because you are broken and you know you are.

But again, aren’t we all?

Aren’t we all hiding behind stained glass masquarades?

THE TRAIN

Credits: Pinterest

I’m on a train. I started traveling by train three days ago. At first, out of curiosity. Now though, it’s somehow peaceful. I get to watch movies without getting motion sickness because it’s slow and soothing. It swings slowly as it goes, and dad says “inakubembeleza na kukupoesha tu kama uji moto”. Love that. I’m listening to Deborah Lukaku, cause I identify and associate with greatness and she is exactly that. 

In this exact time and space, my heart is lighter than in the morning. I’ve watched a cloud move along with me, somehow like an angel keeping an eye on me. On the train, we sit facing each other. The guy opposite to me is reading a book, “The Richest Man in Babylon”. He is smiling at his book, either because the unique smell of the pages is activating his serotonin receptors; there is just something about the smell of pre-loved pages; or he is enjoying his read, can’t tell. He is enjoying and that’s all that matters. The train is a good distraction. It reminds me there is a whole world outside me. I get to talk to strangers. Yesterday I got to talk to the guard, a decent human being and I hope the best for him. 

I listened to a sermon by Priscilah Shirer in the morning. She talked about how our life-changing moments sometimes lie in the most mundane things. She referred to the story of Saul. Saul was sent to look for donkeys, punda zilipotea bana, and he didn’t know at the same moment God had sent Samuel to inform him he will be a king. He left home as a son doing errands and came back as a king. See, greatness is not always achieved by doing great things, but sometimes it’s in the chores we despise; sipendi vyombo mimi, shoot me in the leg instead; In the small interactions we think are not important. That may just be your breakthrough. The word did something in me, and I hope it does to you too. 

I am almost getting to my stop. And as I alight, I am content.