Hi Molly. Hope you are good. So, hurting from your Sunday kind of lovin’, I went to church. You remember how Sunday afternoons were special? Me and you finding exciting places to see, savouring fresh tastes that were newly discovered culinary delights… walking down the aisle that was the jacaranda leaves in autumn as the sun danced on your cheeks and lips…
So, my body was in church, but my spirit
was elsewhere… Sunday afternoons as your loose blouse conspired with the
whispering wind as we hiked the Ngong Hills, the teasing peek of ebony skin
underneath… I know, I know. I shouldn’t be thinking these things in the holy precincts
of church.
Anyway, it’s like the preacher hear my
unholy thoughts. His sermonin’, the book of Samuel… How the Lord called Samuel
three times, with him waking up Eli. At last, Eli asked him to answer. This
preacher, lovely stories, he tells. Asks us married folks if we planned them
babies or they just happened.
Samuel and his parents, he tells. They had
trouble getting a child and people were talking, as they always do when married
folks aren’t getting kids. So, they pray – maybe fast – if they were coloured
like us. Anyway, they get a baby boy, straightly ship him to the House of the Lord.
That’s where he get his callin’.
The preacher, he asks, what brings us to
church? He is new – visiting. Says, the choir is all lovely, the drumming
lending a soulful taste to the proceedings. Is this what brings some of us to
church? To enjoy a moment of livery in our otherwise humdrum lifin’? He would
come to our church for this.
Them married folks, he asks, do they come
to church to forgot their quarrels? He then tells this story. That he had a
dog, Tommy, his name. So, there he is on his farm, Tommy for company. Tommy,
charming dog he is, he has all the neighbours’ dogs around for a good play.
Tommy, he sees a rabbit far-away and gives
chase. Simba, Tiger, Jack… Tommy’s friends, they are soon chasing after him,
though they can’t see the rabbit. Up and down, Tommy chases for a lovely snack…
soon after, the others tire and give up on the hilly section. Is this how we
live our lives? Without purpose? Without a calling?
Anyway, Molly, I felt personally attacked
and didn’t give offering this Sunday. Petty of me, I know, but love does make a
man do petty things. Anyway, after church service, I went back to the house, my
heart pained by your absence and I did a piece. Hope you’ll get to hear it
someday.
Again, I still have my book launches to do
in February. The news is bleak… out of a total of Kshs 100,000 for the two
launches: ‘A Funeral Dress for Nyasuguta’ and ‘Love Told, Poetry Souled, Family
Bold.’ I’ve raised a wonderful Kshs 300 in total through my ‘#20BobSanaa.’
Maybe, I should pray very hard like Samuel’s parents for a miracle… The miracle
can happen by you donating here:
Buy Goods Till
Number: 9080911, Gatere Mwangi
Send Money: 0708 276 622, Mark Gatere
My Once-Molly, I miss you… that’s my signing
out. Hope the piece below will convey what the preacher said, love, dreams, and
all:
Your
beat? Your dance?
The orchestra picks up, the beat strong
On the dance floor waltzing, you belong
Gaiety all around, you spin and tap along
Steps, chimes, flirting and swirling to
the gong.
But, is this beat of your choosing?
Are the steps – quick - your making?
Are you dancing the life of another
This trip embarked, are you lost a sojourner?
Do you hear the music or yours is mime
Do you hear the echo or yours is hollow
Do you lead or you’ve been seconded to follow
When it ends, do you say – that song was mine?
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