From Doubts and Fear to Faith and Action (A Funeral Dress for Nyasuguta)

‘God bless the work of my hands… I have done my part, I leave the rest to you…’ Thus begins my prayer as I go to print. First, some excerpts:

Sally
I killed my landlord. He had been stressing me out. Like that day he locked me in with Sally as I was behind in rent payments. Let me tell you about Sally and you’ll agree that killing the landlord was a noble idea…

A Woman Scorned: Part I
Nakuru. The city, recently incorporated, of a hundred adjectives rushing on to a thousand. Nakuru. The city of peace, war and presidential fiats. Handshakes and political proclamations. Suspect samosas, pussies, meats and their traders. Gangs and police brutality. Nakuru. The city for a con seeking a fresh start at life. The zealot sweeping the roads of Jerusalem as the highest of the Lord’s priests prepares to make a triumph entry to the city for some hired miracles. This time, on a convoy of fuel guzzlers and a phalanx of bodyguards and chase cars, for the ass is become obsolete…

For the longest time, I have had self-doubt, leading to self-sabotage, even when others – the kind ones – have told me that I am good. Call it the imposter syndrome. Then again, this is the year of doing. The year of action. The year of shipping out. So, as a precursor, I did the hardest thing for me, something I’ve always wanted to do: stand in front of people and make them laugh. And I did, and the reception was promising.

So, next week, unless otherwise, this book, an anthology of short stories, will be out, probably on Nuria Bookstore. The cost, 1500/-. 1500 bob. KES 1500. Kshs 1500. I promise it to be a worthy read. A treasure trove of new thoughts and memories. A priceless memento and gift for those nearest and dearest. Most importantly, I want you to walk with me in this creative journey. Then, one day, we’ll look back in triumphant at what we’ve been able to accomplish together – you, the reader; me, the author – at the world stage. Perhaps, then, you’ll cash this your first edition of ‘A Funeral Dress for Nyasuguta’ for a million dollars on E-Bay.

And so, I end my prayer:

Baba tembea, tembea nami
Usiku wa kiza, tembea nami
Jua lichomozapo, lituapo
Kusini, kaskazini, magharibi, mashariki
Katika misimu yote Baba
Elohi nakusihi, tembea nami.

(Father walk with me
In the dark of night, walk with me
As the sun shines and sets
In the South and North, West to East
In all seasons Father
Elohim I beseech, walk with me)

Comments

My-Once Molly (Praying for a Rainbow),

Dear Molly, I hope you are ok and are keeping safe in these floods. As for me, I am heartbroken. I am in pain. My mind, my body, my spirit aches. I am numb with grief. As is the nation of Kenya. The picture just won’t get out of our minds – the father, trudging stoically, his dead, muddy son slung over his shoulder. It’s a devastating image… the screams, elsewhere, as a boat capsizes, the swollen river swallows a lorry… Izrael has visited the land. Dear Molly, a while back, the nation faced drought. Then, images of dead livestock, emaciated men, women and children, parched, cracked earth, haunted our screens. Elsewhere where there was a glut in food production, the farmers cried for their fellow starving countrymen. They demanded for lorries to traverse the rutted roads and take the produce to their brethren… collectively, we prayed for rain. Dear Molly... will we ever catch a break as Kenya? The Covid-19 pandemic that paralysed lives and livelihoods in 2020 as we recovered from th...

My-Once Molly (thinking of Valentine),

My-Once Molly… the girl who broke my heart, the one who got away, the one who promised me the world and left me to survive alone – typical of our Kenyan politicians… I hope you are good. Now, as February – the month of love – lurks about, I find myself thinking of you. Thing is, my dear Molly, I have new neighbours. A young couple, very much in love like we once were. The young lady, her name is Val… maybe Valentine… I don’t know. This Val, a spirited girl with rich, deep, heaving laughter - almost like yours. Her smile… ah! You should see it. The shine of the morning sun distilling the dew upon cool meadows… I am totally in love with her. Alarmingly, she teases me much and I am getting ideas… Molly, dear, wherever you are, please pray for me… the temptation is too much. If you don’t, the frail creature that I am may fall. This, despite having numerous songs in my playlist to warn me. Invariably, Majengo – that infamous locale – does a dishonourable appearance in most of them… ‘Maj...

My Once-Molly (A Theft),

Hi Molly. How are you? The floods are here and I almost drowned – should have gone for swimming lessons as you often times suggested. Anyways, I now walk with a motorcycle tire’s tube and pump in my backpack. DIY lifesaver gear as instructed by Grade 3 CBC cohort. Dear Molly, as I informed you last time, I shifted. Partly, the floods, partly, change, partly, finances. This Creative Writing journey is taking a bit of time to yield fruits, but I hang on, consoled by the words of one Ernest Hemingway, whose ending was horrible: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Where I shifted to, is a downgrade. ‘Mabati’ rooms – plenty of stories, though as living is communal and one’s business is everyone’s business. Such as the recent theft – a woofer, charger, ‘meko’ gas, a bar of soap, and a bucket of maize flower - that’s how ‘flour’ is pronounced, FIY. Must have been pretty hungry, them thieves. How it unfolded. A bit of commotion early mor...

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