My Wife

She lied in a varnish sealed wooden coffin, with her picture frame above; staring straight into my soul. My wife an I sat beside her parents but it was impossible for me to look into my own daughter's eyes and comfort him with the common phrase: “Whoever did this shall pay dearly”- for it was I that had done this unforgivable deed.

The evening settled in coolly as I sat with the huge gourd of Machakos Changa'a , the local brew that had grown so popular with the people and was now drowning me in my thoughts. My wife- Mama Njoroge was yet to arrive from her daily fetch of firewood with the women. She should have been here by now.

A knock on the door aroused me from my uneventful day with a sluggish manner. It was so unexpected of her to arrive this late, she always organised her schedule so that she would be here before sunset. Never later than that. After a while of struggling to get the key into the keyhole, I successfully managed to open the door and was about to give Mama Njoroge a large piece of my mind, only to be encountered by a refreshed, remade and redone Mama Njoroge. I would have barely noticed her if it was not for the glow in her eyes, the dimples in her smile and the unforgettable beauty spot at the bottom of her chin that denied her to feign someone else's identity. All the anger I had, transformed into pure admiration that I was even willing to help her with her basket of firewood; although it was all with a good intention I did create quite a mess, because of my uncoordinated, unbalanced, drowsy movement.

As she squat down slowly to pick up the firewood and place them back in the basket. From deep within an old, young, renewed ember began to erupt into a blazing fire with the infatuation of touching her body after all this while. How long had it been? Two-three years and now that she had made herself into the damsel she once was, it only seems right that I show my appreciation for her efforts by taking her into the past. After managing to collect all of the dropped firewood; I gave her way to walk through into the house, just to see her take the most spectacular walk.

My body fully seduced by the fresh, new and tasty aroma illuminating from my wife, was now sliding to her side in a male-peacock-kind of trance. She was still busy with placing the firewood in its rightful place and it was only when I pulled her hands away did she realise I was actually in the room.

“Please Grandpa, let me finish this work.” Mama Njoroge sine our marriage to this date still played hard to get by teasing me with nicknames such as “old man” and always making up excuses of having work to do. Ignoring her struggles to return back to her work, I swayed with her to the unheard tune playing in my head all the way to the room taking my sweet time in closing the door behind us, so that no one would interrupt our special moment.

“Grandpa! Grandpa! Grandpa!” My wife kept calling with distress on her face as I lay on top of her. No matter how much I tried she still cried out in a mixture of fear, pain and confusion, her hands on my chests were not welcoming but more of a rejection to get off.

“Waweru! Waweru! Waweru!” A voice sharp and completely unforgettable attacked me from behind, forcing me to leave my wife only to find my wife standing at the door with utter horror written all over her face. At first I thought I was imagining having my wife in two places, only to turn back to my wife in bed and see her mouth her last words.

“Grandpa please...” Her eyes and mouth wide open asking for help that came too late. Mama Njoroge rushed to the bedside, instantly pushing me off and looking over her twin who now lay limp beside. After several shakes, whispers, shouts and more vigourous shakes. Mama Njoroge wailed,

“Waweru what have you done my husband?”

“Waweru what have you done my husband?” Mama Njoroge whispered to me, taking me away from my torturous thoughts and back to a rosary that was now broken. My wife, my son and his wife's eyes were all blood red with tears that were being shed for the greatest lost they have ever had. Her lungs had collapsed from the pressure. My pressure. Her parents were unaware of the true death of their daughter and were only told that she fainted and the weight from the firewood killed her. The truth was- I killed her. I killed my granddaughter.

Bitten Pride

The rain fed the already filled murky, brown river that snaked around the circular, tiny island I was on.

My husband was near the bank testing to see how deep the shallow river had become, whilst I sat beside the large bunch of firewood we had collected.

“It's to deep,” My husband shouted over the rain to me.

“What are we going to do then?” He didn't reply but concentrated more on the river's flow.

He looked up to the fading blue being eaten by the opaque black shark; with worry in his eyes. I could see what he was thinking, as he took rapid glances at the river looking for any signs of the greyish-green scaly monsters they ad warned us of earlier on.

She had this bedraggled, dishevelled look that made her seem older than the years of knowledge she had gained sitting and watching others make mortifying mistakes. She sat there today, as I passed with my rusting machete in my hand and a worn-out bare basket on my head. An ascending tune buzzed through the air, hinting at the warning she was about to dictate. Her head languidly turned towards me, her eyes taking in every little detail before she unleashed her wise words.

“Young one, why all the weight in this burning sun?” She took her time to ask and I let Ma Udoka's question settle into the silence.

“Ma Udoka, my greetings. It is not weight I carry, but material I need to fetch firewood.”

“If there is firewood, how come many come back with empty baskets like yours?”

“Ma Udoka, it is not here that I fetch firewood these days but the Forest island beyond the river.”

“My dear, If you wish to see another day with your children, do not go near that island. For you know what lies in the water you cross,” She whispered faintly but enough for me to understand. How dare she think I was a fool! Her ancient dreams had finally turned her words meaningless. I dropped my machete and basket on the ground, picked some soil and threw it at her feet with fury.

“Throw as much as you want, but your own pride shall be your downfall,” She chuckled only infuriating me more. My hand tingled with the urge to meet her saggy, rotting face, instead I turned gathered my things and stormed off to find my husband.

Those word ate at my consciousness, as I watched my husband tirelessly walk back and forth across the bank in attempt to find a safe and simple way back. If only I had listened to Ma Udoka; my children would not be alone and starving, my husband would not be drained and we would not be out here in the wild.

As if noticing my edginess of the island, a rhythm of croaking ascending to a full ensemble like our young girls at our fire-nights trying to invite their mate. Branches snapped not once but several times, echoing and overshadowing the heavy rainfall's screeching with the river. The once dried and hard wood had become soggy and soft; no good for firewood now.

Wet, tired and strangled by a once comfortable dress, I rose to my tall, muscular an handsome husband's side, then it came. Slowly at first. Then it sprang out of the filthy soil, coiling round my legs as it climbed upwards. My husband still looking away, mesmerised by the river was unaware. I screamed but it was faster as it coffined my throat, leaving only my head visible as it took its time.

My legs forcefully squeezed together lost it's foothold and for moment I lay horizontal in the air, before the river opened its mouth to engulf me. I tried to free my fingers but it only embraced the movement to compress me even more. I was barely afloat, when I saw my husband speaking. He was shouting and jumping but the river zoned him out.

He turned pale like the dead. Alarmed at this, I looked everywhere I could with only my eyes able to move. In the corner of my eye I saw a tail disappear, then my leg tickled. The Python loosened its grip, I kicked hurriedly to the shore. Excruciating pain electrified my whole left leg and the Python hissed in all its mother tongues.

A glance back left me with the image of a wet, huge slab of rock chomping on my leg. Rings of darkness were dancing around my eyes. All the fear gone, it was hopeless to fight. My kids. My husband. My family. All that I would leave behind, abandoned and unable to stop grieving. Death's youthful hand was close, her mocking voice dragging me closer, closer. Close. My pride, my pride had locked me in Death's vices.

“I will not let you take her,” I faintly heard my husband roar. The rusting machete glistened in the invisible sunlight. I smiled, he had done everything he could but it was too late. My love, the father of my children had fought for my life and I would remember that. Numbness grew from my leg upwards; strangely enough the pressure had evaporated.

“Sifa, Sifa, Sifa,” He shook me. I wasn't there any more.

“Sifa wake up! Please Sifa! It's a nightmare you're safe now.” I could still hear him. He was louder, as if he was talking into my ear. My eyelids folded and my eyes were left to see my two sons holding my hands and their father; my husband seated right beside them. He lifted me up to see my children staring awkwardly at my leg - well what remained of it- I began to scream again it wasn't a nightmare I was re-living the past.

Home

Women cook.
Men drink.
Boys court.
Girls marry.

Women envy.
Men fight.
Boys rape.
Girls die.

It is the way of life here.
It wasn't always the way of life.
But that is all to do with,
where the body lays to rest.

For the body no longer rests.
Because men now fight like boastful, young, restless boys
Because women now pretty themselves like teenage girls,
all so they can gain the male attention.
Because boys now bring 'order' like the expected father figures.
Because girls now teach like their missing mothers.

For the heart no longer rests.
Whereby the elder is talked down to by the younger,
in the elders on home.
Whereby wives are forced to teach morality manners,
that have been taught from birth,
all over again.

For the mind no longer sleeps.
When all that men do is compete in drink.
When all that happens is competition for male dominance.
When all that men speak is rude, rotten, rubbish.
When all that expected respect is suddenly lost.
When all that responsibility that lays with man is ignored.

For the soul no longer rests in peace.
When all that women do is compete in looks
When all that happens is competition in better cooks.
When all that women speak is rude, rotten, rubbish.
When all that expected moral care is suddenly lost.
When all that mother's love that lays with woman is hate.

Home is where order begins.
Home is where responsibilities are taken.
Home is where love is shown.
Home is where unity, respect and morality are learned.
It is unusual to watch fathers take their sons place. And mothers take their daughters.
It is unusual to watch sons try to take their fathers place. And daughters try to take their mothers.

It is a disgrace upon ourselves.
I can not change things alone.
We start at home together,
for that is where life's education is taught.

Have we forgotten our ancestors?
The tears, pain and blood that they shed
for us to live a righteous life that followed
the moral love code?

Return to normal we must.
Let our children learn right from wrong.
Let men not see greed as being strong.
Let women be the role models of love.
Let home be our inner peaceful dove.
We are going backwards instead of forward.
If we are wise as we say the right path should be clear.
I can not change things alone.
For I am just one in a billion to change.
Help me. Help you. Help us. Help our Home.

There should be no sin, turmoil, war at home.
For home is where the body, heart and soul rests.

Suicidal Result

The wooden makeshift door faced me, barricading me from the rest of the world.
Behind the door my little brother could be heard distracting my dear father- who was
usually intoxicated by this hour of the day- with his fantasies and recollections of the
days events. The day was not done, the sun still scorched the now wetlands before the the night rainfall would appear to flood the land again.
 
“Njoki, kuja kula!” A quick rap on the door followed my brother's voice calling me to
eat. Anxiety overwhelmed my senses and at his loud, rough but young voice I
realised I was holding my breath.
 
“I am not hungry,” I replied meekly, not wanting to leave the phone on the stool as it
would soon ring and show dreaded or successful results.

A maths exam sum rang in my head, yet my mind flowed over its existence, preoccupied
by other torturous questions. When the first wave of thoughts disappeared, I
glanced to my right at the noose hanging from a hook in the mud baked wall and even
though the noose was above me, the knot tightened tighter around my guts.
 
“Cynthia! Cynthia!” I was bellowing and ramming at the door trying to get in to
change from my drab black clothes that was my uniform, before the sun cooked me half raw. My sister had been in there for almost two hours now and counting. At first it seemed as if the door was jammed and Cynthia was not around. Then a heavy sniffing began and along with it my own heartbeat, aching together not for the same purpose but
because of the same reason. Suddenly, a massive crack echoed through the house from inside the room, arousing my handsome father from his daily naps.
 
“Njoki, kwani you think everyone wants to listen to you? Stop making noise!” I
stared at him, blank with confusion at the sound and blame, managing only to show
that the noise had emanated from the barred room where Cynthia was . He leaped up
from his ancient worn out armchair, clearly fatigued by the wait for the results,
slammed into the door and straight into the frail legs of my sister.

For a moment I wondered if my sister had managed to defy the laws of gravity and
was floating but, like a sack of potatoes at Wakulima Market, it hit me that she had
purposefully left our world. Her body was limp and lifeless, with an air tight noose
around her neck. A paper lay below her with my name imprinted in large on it. At
first, I stood rigid and watched as my father move tremendously slowly to the bed.
Baby Tama, as if sensing the loss of our older sister mourned the tears that balanced
in my eyes. My hand moved unbearably slow towards the letter, picking it up from
the ground. On it in Cynthia's delicate handwriting was:
 
“I did not make it Njoki. I love you my little sister, but I failed father and you. I
don't want a life without happiness of passing KCSE and filled with a reckless marriage. Take care of our baby brother Tama, and our dear father. I am sorry.  Forgive me.”
 
By the end, the rivers I had held back were flowing in full force. Nevertheless my
watery eyes saw the phone glowing with rejection written all over it.
 
Father retired soon after from the tea farm and started a small kiosk nearby. The
drinks grew from one to two. To thirteen.

The sun was sinking rapidly, leaving just the brink of its whiskers visible. The phone
vibrated. Once. Twice. My heart rose through my throat and plummeted back down
into my guts. My Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education (KCSE) exam results,
were on this phone. I shut my eyes tight and dived for the phone, praying to God all
the while. At the same time as I opened my eyes the door flew open and I only
glimpsed:
 
“Dear Student Njoki, from Nyeri public school...” before my father saved me from
encountering death's arms by snatching the phone that held my results just like it did
Cynthia's. Tama being of the brink of tears, held me tight in a comforting embrace.

only One

The root stabilises the stem,

provides for the growth of the tree.

The sun warms up the Earth,

never leaving it frozen.

The wind sings to the land,

putting it to sleep with a lullaby.

The water protects the land,

from distant and nearby harm.

A beauty in its own making

the blankets that hug the bed-

affectionately.

The rains tears are wiped away,

by the winds gentle and comforting hands.

The irreplaceable, unbreakable

base of a cup, or binding of a book,

keeping intact its most precious item.

Me.

Although they are lovely things,

all of them are not things,

but one person-

that outshines them all.

I am not afraid to say

I love her.

Because I truly do.

She is my first friend,

She is my deadliest enemy.

She is my girlfriend.

She is my wife.

She is my daughter.

She is my sister...

But first. She is.

My mother.

Prefectship

The hall was filled with 850 children all uncomfortably slouched on aged rusty chairs filled with foam covered with dusted, deep-maroon leather. The blaring whispers reverberated off the walls of the drowsy hall, as friends revisited the same topics.

I myself was entranced in this boredom, as the faint voice of the headmaster tried to penetrate our attention, like a fox tries to lure its escaped prey back. However through through his endless trial and fail, as well as calling for silence, no one paid attention to him.

It didn't last though; the ignorance faded like the mist does when the sun finally rises, after he mentioned one word. Those that were slouched were now straight-backed that you could use them as an ironing board. The noise perished within a second, you could hear the plop of a water droplet hitting the floor.

Fear crept I and made heart beat like war drums, flooding my ears until it became unbearable. My neighbour said some silent prayer to ease off the mounting anticipation, while I hoped the name that would be called would be mine. The second ticked away and the silence tormented me.

I think I blacked out completely, for when my name was said, I sat up with a big fat smile and time stood still, shock making me rigid to the spot. As it wore off, I got up slowly trying to act placid and laid back, but inside I felt ecstatic with joy.

The dull hall bloomed up and the blood red walls became a shiny scarlet. Applauses rained down on me following my every footstep as I rapidly walked up onto the wooden dust-brown stage.

A line of students shaking the headmasters hand blocked the view of the one thing I wanted most. Finally it was me; I hurriedly shook the headmasters hand and grabbed the thin cobra like object that gave you extra-power, but a vicious stranglehold on your neck and even deadlier when you went down the wrong path. That extra-power is what I needed. What I wanted. It made me one of the chosen special ones.

The smooth, soft, silk made my hand ring with excitement of putting it on. I just restrained myself from shouting off the top of my lungs to show my rejoice of finally getting the one special thing that everyone else wanted to be a part of, the crimson red tie that highly respected prefects wore.

Help those

We live
We die
We rise
We fall
We love
We are loved
We hate
We are hated.
But...
what really counts is what you do in life:
The good
The bad
The all damn nasty.
Life is short.
But..
long enough
to change the world in someway
even if
its just one person you change.
Let us not be hypocrites
Don't try save people who don't want to be saved.
Instead help those who do.
All of you will be thinking what the hell am i doing?
I dont know to be honest.
I'M just trying my best,
Before i take my final rest.
To help someone other than myself.
What about you dear friend??