Upya Fresh

  Likinifika kubwa, nisilolitaraji Nijaze nguvu, nilistahimili Nipe nguvu upya, ili nilikubali Gumu kwangu, nyepesi kwako, barafu maji. (When great tragedy visits Give me strength to overcome Give me the serenity to accept As ice is to water, hard to me is easy to you.) It is not easy to bury a child. This wide-eyed, wondering angel that gives the mother and the father reason to be. Reason to wake up early, in hustle and bustle, turning a house into a home. And so, Ken was interred. Then, my little mind couldn’t comprehend as to where my dear playmate had gone to. The details were sketchy – someone had cut off his legs and he had died as a result. How mean, I thought, a great terror visiting me. Diabetes. I attribute this to my attachment avoidance, such a loss too great to relive. Elsewhere, a woman goes for a routine medical check-up. She is on her second pregnancy, first trimester. She was wedded a virgin, did a big church wedding to boot. Big, brown, beautiful. She has

  (Photos courtesy of Mary/Pen Adventures) Parkie! In full, Parklands Baptist Church, Westlands. Pen Adventures, a marketplace ministry under the Ministry Identification and Leadership Development (MILD) Department. The morning is chilly, but it will give way to bouts of sunshine. At the gate, I am directed to the tent where the day’s event is taking place (in English too, which means I need to be formally attired more. Or, perhaps, the spotless Oxfords were the game changer.) I am there on time, five minutes past 10am. For an event slated to begin at 10am, I am five minutes late. In true Kenyan fashion, though, I am early for the event. As often happens when I am early at an event or meeting, which is most of the time, I think of time. As a resource… of our (Kenyans’) relationship with it. Of the European’s relationship with time. That, though we appear to be late, our time is full… work, business, family, relations, shopping, handling an emergency… all bundled up in one continuum o

https://colorsynq.pixieset. com/diaconateordination-1/p/ OTI0NDcyNjM4Nw==-OTc4MjkxMDc/ https://colorsynq.pixieset. com/diaconateordination-1/? pid=9244728310&id=185&h= Mjg3MzE0MDgyNg https://colorsynq.pixieset. com/diaconateordination-1/? pid=9244679112&id=143&h= NjIyNzM3OTc1 https://colorsynq.pixieset. com/diaconateordination-1/? pid=9244624526&id=101&h= MTM0NTAwMjM5NA (Photos/Links Courtesy of Stano) The man, 70 years plus, stands up to address the crowd, somewhere deep in the village of Obimbo. His face, old-smooth: anti-aging face lotion. His hair, jet-black – dye does wonderfully for one’s political career, forever young. A Young Turk, in Kenyan political parlance. ‘When I was in Alliance…’ Carey Francis is quoted too, to a mild chuckle from the congregated villagers. Alliance being Ivy League for public schooling. We are gathered in Langata. The day is dreary, grey and drizzly. It’s the midst of July. The Father is quoting scripture, of how the child ought

Covid-19 was come. Uhuru had closed Nairobi. It had begun as a joke. On the periphery of KOT (Kenyans on Twitter), Wuhan and something something Corona, happening in far-away China. Like Ebola, Swine Flu and Bird Flu, localised diseases that would soon pass. And so, we had gossiped and bantered on matters politics and the tribulations of one William Ruto, isolated and estranged, a Deputy President in name only. His was a tragic picture; a double orphan and widowed, is the apt description by one Kenyan of his then unpalatable situation. 2020, February, I had then begun a job as a restaurant manager. One of those jobs you finagle into with absolutely no skills or expertise in the true Kenyan grind that is hustling. Anyway, through sheer drive and a bit of luck, the restaurant was doing well, considered that it had closed for a long while, then rebranded and reopened under new management (yours truly). 2020, mid-March – schools closed, restaurants closed, churches… On Twitter, that we

  Everybody had written him off, this person whom we shall call Jagaman. He had been an artiste of great promise – social, political issues, a bit of gospel. Then bad company came calling with small small easy money. Now, his songs turned into wine, song and smoke – Mary Jane. His eyes, full ‘nyanya’ –   red ripe tomatoes coloured. Morning till eve. He broke our hearts. Now, nobody called him to concerts and shows. His producer changed to dealing with gospel artistes only, for Jagaman had become full trouble – difficult in every which way: rehearsals, recording, bad breath and hygiene that made the whole studio stink when he was around, cuss words… his company was as desirous as an STI, which he confided to another artiste that he was being treated for. Already, parents in the neighbourhood were complaining as he had four children with three different girls barely out of their teens. It is like Jagaman was cursed. And the person who had cursed him had been buried, as we say, for no

News reporter: First, you lost your job, your mother died, your wife fell sick, your children have been sent away from school, you’ve been adversely mentioned in the sugar scandal… Do you feel that God has abandoned you? Job: Why would you think that? News reporter: Yours was the story of the decade. The blue-eyed boy who rose from obscurity to the helm of the country’s security as minister. Job: It was all God. (‘Ni God manze!’ – when later interviewed in another radio station that plies its broadcasts in Sheng .) News reporter: Even the sugar scandal? Job: Those are my political detractors. They just can’t fathom how the son of a nobody has risen to such great heights. You know, the police have been weaponised… News reporter: But this is the life of Klowns we are talking about. Innocent Klowns being exposed to the dangers of mercury-laced sugar. If it was another country, you as the minister would have already resigned. Job: Well, God has not told me to resign.

  Probably, you have seen the concise job resignation letter doing the rounds on social media. Date. Reference. Salutation. Body (just two words: bye bye ). Signature. That could never be me. I wrote a two pager essay, listing a myriad of complaints (either unsweetened or too sugary tea, now missing at 4pm; breach of trust; unpaid NHIF (medical premiums) dues; micro-management – in all, giving specific dates and instances). On revision of the same, I thanked the company for my time there and noted that it was time for new challenges. Anyway, I was just sick of the job. Literally sick… a chest X-ray (nothing wrong with my lungs), slightly exaggerated blood pressure, fatigue heading to mild depression… My colleagues were exceptional, but it is true when they say that employees don’t leave a bad job, rather, a bad boss. On close and dispassionate reflection now, I am partly to blame. I could have been more assertive, spoken out sooner against infringement of my rights as an industrious