Kamende

A Misfit by Birth

by Creative StoriesFictionGhost WritersMy AdventuresPersonal AdviceReal Life StoriesUncategorized

By Guest Writer

Yesterday someone stepped on my toe in a matatu in Nairobi, I said sorry. Later in the day, as I was cycling along outer ring road, a driver accidentally touched his horn and I thought I was in his way. I squeezed myself close to the guard rail and let him pass. A few metres ahead, he stopped and waited for me to approach so that he could apologize. He said sorry and I said it is okay. That it was not a problem and I planned to stop anyway. I lied and he drove off, satisfied that he had hurt no one. I helped a man to cross the road by putting my bike right across the Zebra crossing so that vehicles had no choice but to stop. Immediately he crossed, I jumped on my bike and sped off. I did not want to hear him say “thank you” because those words do not make sense to my ears. If anything, “thank you” and “sorry” are the three words I love to use on people but hate it when they are used on me.

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Growing up, I lived in a broken family. My father was a business man (in my village, this was anyone who owned a kiosk that sold anything to the people especially household stuff like sugar and salt and kerosene to the villager) and my mother was a chef in a school mile away. I do not know if I was born in or out of wedlock and never have I bothered to find out because I do not see the value in it. Whether I am a daughter of fate or a product of a mistake remains a mystery I do not intend to solve or even hear anything about. The fact is, I never saw my parents married and have never seen them in conflict. Whatever happened to them or between them better remains in the past. I was brought up mostly by my father and my late stepmother, Nelly (May her soul rest in peace). Nelly was an incredible woman. When I was still a baby (hardly five), I have memories of Nelly washing me and washing my clothes alongside those of my father and my younger brother, Philip, who was her first born. I remember Nelly insisting on teaching us household chores together. I knew how to do dishes before I stepped in a class and knew how to cook before I could learn how to write. She was a virtuous woman, for most part, and a religious one (a little).

For most part, she was incredible. She taught me everything that I know today. She gave me my first sanitary towel and explained to me what was happening when I had my first period. She insisted that I go to school and take my academics seriously. Whether it was her design or my father’s pressure, she did the best a mother could do. She taught me to be a woman before I was old enough to be a girl. She taught me respect and service and showed me patience and love. She protected me and gave me parenting that modern children can only read in classic.

However, it was not all rosy. My teen years defined something of a nightmare in my life. I was made to apologise for everything whether it was my fault or not. I learnt to say thank you whenever she gave me anything because that was my punching ticket to whatever she would have next. I observed that this was not the case with my brothers and sisters but I had long learnt that survival was the path I was walking. Everything that enabled me to survive was my forte. I became withdrawn and introverted because I feared saying something that would be hurtful or cause me trouble. Whenever I opened the door, I said sorry just in case there was anyone behind the door who would feel like I “intentionally” wanted to hurt them. I started eating last and finished first because I did not want any of my siblings complaining that I had eaten “their share” of the food. Sometimes, I kept myself busy as the rest of the family was eating so that I would only eat what was left. All I wanted was peace. I could have contacted my mother and told her that I was “suffering” and she would have come for me the next day but I did not. To date, I do not know what informed that decision.

Life became harder when I joined high school. I went to a school 4 kilometres away from home. Our school had a 45-minute remedial lesson that ran between 5pm and 5:45pm, which meant that for five out of seven days a week, I arrived home at 7pm or later. My siblings were still in primary school, 100 metres or less from home. However, when I arrived home, there were chores like fetching water that I needed to undertake. For my stepmother, her cooking time and that of my siblings ended when I arrived from the river to fetch water. If I did not fetch water, I would not be allowed to drink any water or even wash my face in the morning because “my share of water was not there” and I had no right to eat other people’s sweat. I remember a day when I arrived home at 7:30pm, wet from being rained on and I could not fetch any water. The next morning, I washed my face at the river on my way to school because I was not entitled to any water in the house. When I came back in the evening. I apologized for having not fetched water although it had rained and apologised again for washing my face at the river on my way to school. I apologised for having not taken breakfast although I was not allowed to because the water that cooked it was not my sweat. Then I thanked my stepmother for allowing me to sleep in the house because she had all the right to send me out for not doing anything. I did not know why I had to but I said thank you and sorry anyway.

Soon after I sat my KCSE examination in 2007, I got pregnant with my on. I said sorry for the last time and then thanked my stepmother for everything and fled. The next time I saw my stepmother, she was dead. I cried over her lifeless body and felt no weight in my heart because I did not hold it against her. At the funeral, I hated everyone saying sorry to the family. It was at that moment that I noticed I hate being thanked and sympathised with.

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I don’t know how many exist that are like me in society. I do not know how many people were brought up to know that they were wrong before they were right. That everything was a mistake before it was an effort. That every effort was a failure before it was a success. That before they become anybody, they are nobody. That is my childhood. Do not expect me to ask for help from you because that is not who I am. I would rather go down fighting it on my own than ask for help because I know how you will look at me. I will help you whenever you need it without you asking but I do not want your help. And after I have helped you, do not thank me. Just go on your way. After you hurt me, do not apologize. Just go on your way. I am a vase whose content neither you nor anyone else will understand because that is how I was moulded. That is the clay that made me.

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The Distress Call

by Creative StoriesFictionPersonal AdviceReal Life StoriesUncategorized

“Hello Douglas. Where are you?” this was an unusual question from Douglas.

Douglas has been my friend for over eleven years. When I first met him, we were on opposing teams in a soccer tournament in a certain Gavudia Primary School stadium in Sabatia constituency playing for a certain Musalia Mudavadi Cup. I was a defender for my team, then known as Hard Boys while he was a midfielder for his team, Nacet. Back in the day, a half of football ended when the referee decided to end it. There were no minutes. Some halves took 20 minutes and others took 65 minutes. During the early minutes of the second half, I got injured and was substituted. I elected to go and sit near our goalkeeper to chat with him as the game wore on. After all, he was my former classmate in primary school. Minutes later, I was distracted only for Nacet’s striker, Agesa (RIP) to hit a fierce shot that went off target and straight into my face. That was the first and last time I fainted in my life. When I regained my senses, an hour or so later, I was told that Douglas helped bring me back. That the game was abandoned and everyone ran because they thought I was dead. All of them, except Douglas.

“I am somewhere between Isinya and Kitengela. I have been cycling all day and I am heading home now,” I answered. This response was casual. Being a Saturday, I thought all Douglas wanted was to grab some tea or catch a game or play chess. How wrong could I have been?

“I want to talk to you bro. As soon as possible,” he said.

“Okay. I will call you immediately I get home. Hang in there.”

As I got back on my journey home, I could not help but wonder what prompted this call. Douglas’s voice grew louder, more persistent, and more insistent in my head. As soon as possible. As soon as possible. As soon… I wanted answers immediately but waiting was all I could do. Well, not all. I could also cycle faster and get home sooner.

“Can I ask you something Douglas?” He started as soon as I handed him a cup of tea. I did the listening as he did the talking. “Are there some people who are just born to be unhappy?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. His question may have been rhetoric but I felt my question was reasonable.

“Yesterday, I arrived home with enormous stress. I learnt that I will be jobless in a month because my company is resizing and I am one of the casualties. However, being the first born that I am, I soldiered on. I had hope that I would get a new job and everything would be okay. However, at this point in time, I needed support. I needed someone to talk to.”

He paused and looked up, perhaps hoping to find me browsing or watching the soccer match on the screen. However, I was all ears.

“I know what you are thinking,” he continued. “My wife. I told her about the whole story. I don’t even know what she thinks. My daughter will be sent for school fees soon, my rent will be due soon, my father relies on me, and many other things that have been overwhelming while I was employed. They will still be here while I am unemployed. Everyone looks at me and thinks I am managing well but I am not. I am messed up Douglas, I really am.”

I looked at my friend straight in the eye without showing any emotion. I wanted to tell him that he was not alone in this but it hardly sounded right in my own head. I wanted to tell him to calm down and take a rest. That sounded crazy as well. I wanted to ask him whether he would fancy the “work-from-home” ideas and self-employment but even that did not sound right. I sympathised with him from within but my face showed no emotion.

“No. You are not messed up Douglas,” I said at last, feeling stupid immediately after saying it.

“You really believe that?” he asked.

On a normal day, the answer to this question would be a no-brainer. Of course I believe in it, I would say. I would then accompany it with a long speech full of motivation and reasons why my friend should see the good side of this bad situation. However, it was not a normal day and I did not think Douglas was done.

“You know what is worse, Idiot?” he continued. “This is not an isolated situation. For the past two years, my life has been moving in reverse gear. I have stagnated at work. I cannot seem to get a promotion, training, pay rise, or even a new sitting station. I started my Masters degree and then stopped because I could not afford it. I started a business and it failed because I could not put in the time it needed. Worst of all, my family has been drifting further and further away from me. All over a sudden, they are all too busy for me. They no longer visit and when I visit, they no longer seem interested. My friends. Do I still have any friends? Okay, those I call friends. I can no longer ask for help from most of them. No one supports me. Everyone who claims to is only pretending.”

Douglas paused and took a few gulps of tea. He seemed deep in thoughts but unable to think. I could not help but relate to his story. I have heard so many of these stories that whenever I hear one, I think it is a past one being replayed. I wondered what the statistics would be if an honest survey of stress levels was carried out among my peers. Would the rate of stress be closer to zero or a hundred percent?

“Look here buddy. I hope I am not boring you but I did not know anyone else I could talk to.”

“No no no,” I interjected. “You are not boring me. You are speaking my language more than you may realize it. You are not alone,” I said. I felt disappointed in myself for saying this. It sounded wrong to say such at this point in time.

“Are we ever supposed to be understood?”

This question caught me unawares. For the first time in this conversation, I did not understand what Douglas was asking me. I did not understand what “we” meant just as I did not know what he wanted whom to understand. For the first time in the conversation, my face betrayed my emotion. Such had been my expression that he must have thought I was disinterested. At the moment I wanted to ask for clarification, the question replayed itself in my head louder and clearer. Really?-I thought. I could not help but wonder how many people asked themselves this question on a minute by minute basis. It must feel absurd to be in a bubble where you are a certain anomaly.

“Yes. There is someone who understands everyone,” I answered.

There was a long silence that left me thinking about how heard people like Douglas are. I wondered whether there were hundreds if not thousands that live in “silent depression” in Kenya. My thoughts wandered to the rising cases of “crimes of passion” of “murders-for-love” as people call them. I wondered how many of those may be results of silent depression. Then I wondered how many people believe they live for others. I wondered how many people thought their only purpose in life was making others happy at whatever cost.

“Would you like to play chess?” I asked, offering a distraction. It did not seem to work as there was some more silent before Douglas stood up to pick the chess board.

“Some of us have to be stressed for others to be happy, right?”

It was rhetoric, but a question either way.

“No. I don’t think so,” I responded.

As we played, I wondered about other people. How often do we listen to those who are suffering from different situations? How supportive are you? Do you think he or she is depressed?

Kala3

OPINION: Read Your Work to Yourself

by EnergyMy AdventuresPersonal AdviceUncategorized

Why do writers write? Why do actors act? Why do players play? In short, why do artists display their art? The answers to this simple question are diverse and different depending first, on whom you ask and second on the circumstances under which you ask it. For some people, there is simply no answer because they do not even know why they do what they do. Strange, right? Molly, a performing poet from Uganda, shared with me her journey in Poetry. For her, Poetry was a liberator. She performs because she feels free when she is on stage. She feels in control of herself, away from the oppression and torture she felt in her marriage, now a long memory. When she quit her marriage, she needed money to feed her 2 year-old girl, could not find a viable option unless a friend wrote to her, and asked her whether she could compose some poems for school competitions. She made good money from it and decided to try making it a job. Today, she is a performer in events and different functions in Kampala. She is a poet for hire.

“I don’t really know what I would have done or where I would have gone if the opportunity did not come. I was so close to giving up. I am not sure but I think I was so close to depression too. My life felt static and I even contemplated suicide. One day, when I thought life had lost meaning, I bought poison and made a strong concoction of it. Then I sat down to write a suicide note. I was folding it when I heard my daughter call from my back. ‘Mama, come to bed. I am scared of sleeping alone.’ At that point, I realized that may be she was a reason to live. I still have the suicide note I wrote on that night,” she says.

As she admits, it is not always green. There are some very tough times and some very good moments. There are months when she makes Millions of Uganda Shillings and there are months she makes nothing. “What keeps you going?” I ask.

She looks at me and laughs before continuing. Her daughter is definitely a motivation. But that is an external motivation. She has more to her will than her daughter.

“When I watch myself perform, I am uplifted. When I read my work back to myself, I feel like I have affected a life or two. If my work is intriguing to me, how much more intriguing must it be for the reader or audience?” She says.

Mark, a writer from Nairobi, seems to agree with Molly. Mark wrote his first novel in 2011. In the first year, he only sold 27 copies. Yet for him, he was happy. He was satisfied because he has managed to share his mind with 27 people and 27 people would think differently because he took the initiative. Financially, this was a burnout. However, as he says, reading his novel back to himself made him fall in love with the author.

“I wonder how many of my initial 27 readers felt the same. Whenever I read my book back to myself, I couldn’t help but wonder. ‘What was this author thinking? This guy must be crazy. What a twist! And things like that.’ I won’t lie to you; I thought about giving up. I thought it was a lost course. I thought Kenyans were just good for politics and books were meant for a different audience. Perhaps, this was just a consolation. Perhaps I was reading my book to myself to feel better and massage my ego. Regardless, I learnt a valuable lesson from that. Nothing feels better than reading your book back to yourself,” he remarks.

The signs are there that art is improving in the modern African setting. However, there still linger times and situations that can discourage artists. Many artists look for someone to blame. However, the bulk of the blame falls on the artists. Jessy, a rapper from Kenya, wonders whether Kenyan musicians listen to their own songs. He wonders whether African artists play their own music in their houses.

“What do they think of themselves when they listen to themselves? Do they think they make sense? Sometimes we blame the media and the event organizers for lack of opportunities for local talent but we have an innate problem as artists. We are no creative enough. The world is capitalistic and everyone is looking to make their part of life better or earn more money for himself or herself. No one is looking to give opportunities when they know that such is likely to leave them in a worse place in terms of branding or financially. I know promoters and event organizers can take a small financial hit to put forward an upcoming artist with a great promise. But how many such artists exist? It is not that there are no talented artists. The problem is lack of patience, greed, lack of principles, and moral decay,” he opines.

It is an easy thought to look at the solution as a simple arithmetic. It is easy to think that the constant message will change the way people in the art industry work. What is hard is imagining that you, as an artist, are supposed to sit down and have a meeting with yourself and question yourself on whether you are a brand that you would love. Ken, a dance teacher and instructor in Abuja, agrees with that assertion.

“It is the same case here. I think it could be the same for every country’s upcoming artists. There is so much greed for fast money and people no longer want to contribute on building themselves, learning, shadowing someone, and then breaking out. Young artists should teach themselves how to listen, be mentored, be teachable, build their brands, and have some values. That also puts pressure on those of us who have been around for long to mentor these young ones. The question is whether they are willing to be mentored. No matter how you look at it, the upcoming artists in all fields need to look themselves in the mirror and ask, ‘Would I love the person I can see behind the mirror?’” he says.

For the foreseeable future, we should encourage more young people into art. Encourage them to write, perform, sing, dance, act, draw, paint, or do anything you feel capable of. However, also encourage them to show their art back to themselves. Read your work back to yourself and ask whether you would like what you see.

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How to brew the most delicious coffee home

by with No Comment Creative StoriesUncategorized

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Where better to go for a delicious coffee?

by with No Comment Creative StoriesUncategorized

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