PAUSING TO REFLECT

Hey there!

Been a minute.I have been up and down with a lot of things,tying loose ends and pausing to smell the roses.I trust you're well!
It's random catching up today!

I am watching....Outsiders and Reign.I can't stop thinking about Mary Queen of Scotland's Alexander Mcqueen black bodice dress.It's a show stopper.Acquiring that just became a life goal!Stupid life goal?No?

For the upteenth time,I am reading.....The Secret Lives of Bees

I am currently obsessed with....keeping short hair...lol.I promise I won't though.

I am loving...... the weather!

I am taking...a hair break!This is probably the best part.

I just added...Zip lining to my bucket list.

I am marvelling at...just how good God has been good to me.His grace is sufficient.

I am thinking about...taking on dancing classes.

I am wearing...... a simple cream high-low dress and navy blue strappy heels.I would comfortably step out like this to a wedding;on a sunny day,or to a dinner date.
Till next time,don't let your life pass you by!
Au revoir!

AWUOR WAS HER NAME

My grandmother passed on sometimes in the early nineties. I was young then. My father was a decorated “sugarcane cutter” in Muhoroni; one of the sugarcane blessed regions of Western Nyanza. 
He was not only our sole bread winner, but also someone who the entire Kagan villageentitled to irrevocable eminence. As a matter of fact, he was the chairman of all funeral and harambee committees within 5 kilometer radius. Occasionally, he was elected to serve in the position of a chairperson of some women groups.
It was in mid-July, when he received the telegram. The words, vividly embedded in my blank mind, were terse and pithy. The message was shorter than the time a senior sponsor takes on these yellow yellow beauties. Or maybe, more brief than the tail of a goat. It read: 'DANI DEAD, COME.' “DANI” is a mononym that grandmothers are commonly referred to in our parlance (Luo phraseology).
Later, I learnt it was written by the headmaster of Onyege Primary School; the one and only Mr. Basanga. This was after several scholars in the village and those from yonder villages of Kanyaluo, Kodera and Gongo couldn't make the message as brief as the elders could approve.
Back then, unlike today, you could choose how much to use in sending a message. Today, with the emergence of these tariffs that change call rates more than how Diamond releases his songs, you can't tell what's in store for you. The telegram, to me, seemed like the message the family of Lazaro sent to Jesus. A beckoning call of duty. A loud request for Him, Jesus, to rush and restore the life of Lazaro.
'LAZARO DEAD, COME'
***
So, on a Friday dawn, we woke up at two in the morning. Prepared and ransacked the wardrobe for the best that there was. We, the kids, wore Tokyo trousers, with some vitenge-like shirts that had laces (like shoes) around the front neck. My father wore a brown faded Savco jeans, 05 T- shirt and an oversize black leather jacket. The journey to Kagan was long. Longer and more tiresome than what the Israelites might have faced, from Misri to Canaan and back. We, thekids, stood along the corridors of Kisero minibus en route to Oyugis from Muhoroni. Too short to hold the support rail at the roof of the bus, we swung left and right, like the genetically modified hips of a socialite wannabe.

I will not talk about the face-me 'Jakadem' matatu we boarded from Oyugis to Onjinyo; the four-hour journey we endured squatting. Those who were lucky, sat on sacks of cabbage and omena. This was amidst insults from the owners. Mostly black, chubby market women.

Finally, we alighted at Onjinyo. Home away from home. The walk from Onjinyo to Onyege can be likened to the time you take to trace a missing mark from a public university. Especially, in a course that you were part of the pointed edge of a love triangle with a lecturer and the lucky lady at the other two points. Here, there were no roads ahead. Just paths in labyrinths.

There were bodaboda men though. They commonly carried luggage, pregnant women or ones who recently delivered, the elderly or the sick. If anyone outside the above mentioned boarded a bodaboda then he must have been a very wealthy man, like my father. If she's a woman, soon you'll hear rumours about her affair with the 'pilot'. Rumours that most often turn out to be true.

My father boarded one of the bicycles and left us with the luggage. He's a typical African man, who doesn't pester kids. I still remember his words, as the 'pilot' kicked the pedal..."Mad akwongnu dala!" (May I (not) get home before you).

We had to run, a sack of chopped sugarcane on your head. A big bag of clothes, hanging from your left shoulder and a five litre jerry-can of kerosene, held in your right hand.
Onyege is not our home! It's the nearest primary school from our home. As near as the dreams of Moses Wetangula, of becoming Kenya's fifth president. Nearer than the long awaited second coming of Christ. As my people say, whatever begins is bound to end. Finally, we were at Onyege and at long last, we got home.
***
The homestead was full of people, livestock, and dogs. I've never seen such a crowd of animals and humans, together. The body of my grandmother, was laid, prostrate on a mat on the earthen floor. It was covered in a white sheet. She looked fatter than when she was in real life. I later learnt that she had begun swelling. You know how leavened dough does? Yeah, I think in heaven, she'll be served as mandazi. That night we didn't sleep. Stories were told, in cohorts, of her life. Others talked of seasons, animals, people and other non-funeral related matters.
***
The following morning, a Saturday, we were assigned with innumerable duties. We erected a shed that was covered in maize stalks and banana leaves. We ferried desks from Onyege primary school. Fetched gallons of water from river Awach. My father invited Aguga Nyang' and his entertainment crew. A music disco comprising of two loud speakers, one big box speaker and a radio cassette.

The biggest eucalyptus trees were cut, the village carpenters begun making a casket. The entire homestead was a beehive of activities.People camped, ate, drunk and made merry-in the traditional ululation mode. Dogs travelled from as far as Ponge to grace the occasion with their masters.
***
It was on a Saturday night when the village was lost in the frenzy dances of the night vigil that I met Awuor…to be continued.

ANKARA GLAMOROUS

I love breaking the rules, so I experimented with maroon on red and the outcome was awesome.What do you think?

For this look, I am wearing a maroon turtle neck sweater top and a pair of Ankara pants with red, green and yellow prints. Well,that is a lot of color,so added a beautiful pair of black, handmade African themed earrings to tie everything up.

This would be a great way to step out during this cold season,keeping it classy and warm...easy like Sunday morning.Enjoy!

WHO WANTS TO MISS OUT ON LIFE?

Just where is the line drawn between maturity and keeping up with trends? Or is it being savvy? Or should I call it keeping up with the changes? It’s a cold Wednesday morning; I am standing by the roadside waiting for a 'matatu. I can hardly feel my fingers, they are numb. The young man standing beside me looks beaten by the weather…he is mumbling a song I cannot recognize, but from the tone of his voice it sounds like a sad song, a song that is meant to implore the heavens to have a little mercy on his skin, a song that is supposed to clear the mist in the air and warm the atmosphere, a song that is meant to speak to the heart of his Mhindi boss to give him the day off so that he can spend some more time under his blankets and warm the thin legs of  his newly married Tanzanian wife. I have waited for almost forty-five minutes and there is no sign of a matatu. A rosy Toyota Prado is approaching, it slows down and the driver enthusiastically hoots. He proceeds to pull over at about a hundred meters from my standing position. I briskly walk to the car,with my heart in my mouth and secretly thanking the heavens for answering the young man’s supplication. The driver hastily inquires of my desired destination. 
“Town,” I answer while anticipating the most obvious statement that a man of his status subscribe to whenever there is a stranded lady involved. 
“I'm driving there; do you mind if I drop you?” I did not mind at all. No, I did not have a choice because I was running late for a meeting. So, I hopped in without second thoughts. I know what you must be thinking! You are imagining how weird it is, but not after waiting for a matatu for more than thirty minutes. Meanwhile, the pleasantries continued.

"My name is Gilbert, “he said as I was reaching for the seatbelt. “And you are?"
"I am Lynn," I responded, though feeling somewhat embarrassed for not taking the first step to initiate the introduction. Seriously, I was in his car, and the least I could have done was be chivalrous and get the conservation going, or so I think. I can’t remember the last time I heard someone introduce themselves like that; we are getting lazier by the day. You’ll probably hear someone say “Lynn”, or “I’m Lynn” just like I did. The young man who was standing beside me stayed put, he did not move an inch. His legs must have been too numb to move, or he must have decided to finish his prayer first. Gilbert’s car looked spotlessly clean and neat. His cologne made the air conditioner useless and his well-trimmed beard could make a pass for a Gillette commercial. He was clad in a white t shirt and a pair of jungle green shorts. He looked calm and one would be forgiven for imagining that he was driving away from his troubles, running away from his woes to a place where he was assured of eternal peace.

The first fifteen minutes of our encounter was like an interrogation session at one of those CID offices. Q & A if you like. Where do you live? Do you work in town? For how long have you stayed around here? Invasive accurately summarizes this session. After which, he told me that he is a petroleum engineer, a father of three, married and on paternity leave. Somehow, this was relieving; don’t ask me why. Throughout the drive, he kept making one call after another. What a recipe for disaster. I felt terrified because the highway had so much traffic and just one mistake would have costed us a lot. When he mentioned that he was married, I didn't say anything. I just smiled, and he asked me if I was. "Yes just married, no kids yet" I retorted, amid winning smiles and devious smirks. He made a joke about warming up for kids and we laughed about it. Meanwhile, I was tormented with thoughts of which finger on which hand bears the ring when one gets married. Anyhow, I settled on the left hand and all the way I had to ensure it was well hidden from Gilbert's prying eyes because there was no ring! I didn't want him asking any more questions about my "marriage,” though I had an answer for the missing ring, I sure did!

Gilbert appeared to me like a bossy person, and at some point he called one of his subordinates to ask why the sales were going down. I kept asking myself if this call was ever necessary at all. I mean, after getting to wherever he was driving to, he would have all the time to make calls; I did not sense any urgency in what he said. Or he desperately needed to prove a point. Anyway, Kwa raha zake! The most important thing for me was to get to town in time. We talked about the weather, the financial markets, Nairobi traffic, parenthood, and somewhere in there I remember him asking me about where I grew up! I have never divulged so much information to a stranger within such a short period in my entire life. He was asking the questions like a boss and I didn't chicken out; I just wanted a peaceful morning. So, I answered in truth and deceit. I was hoping that he doesn't ask me about what I had had for breakfast.

At some point, we went back to conversing about our home town, turns out Gilbert lives just a few kilometers from where I do. He was complaining about a certain hospital, which up to this point I had no idea existed, so he went through the trouble of explaining to me its exact location. If he had more time, then I am sure he would have given me the coordinates of the place. "Is it next to such and such a restaurant?” I asked and before I could complete my sentence he interrupted "Oh yes, next to Club X. That club belongs to my friend, yes, my friend owns that club” he repeated with utmost pride. At this point, he probably felt that I should get out of the car, look for a gift shop and buy him a trophy to reward him for having a friend who owns a club. When he said it the first time, it was okay, it was no big deal, but he kept repeating it, in a way to make me see just how prestigious and lavish it was.

There was a humongous blanket of disappointment on his face. He hoped that I would exclaim, scream with excitement or do something that would show how thrilled I was that he had a friend who owned a club. Well, I wasn’t. This father of three was not a young man and judging from his looks; he could be in his late forties or early fifties. I hope now you understand my stance and amusement for his style. So, Gilbert went on and on about how it is the best club around and how he spends seventy-five percent of his weekend club hopping with his friends. Good Lord! I would love to meet these friends and his family too; I project that they must be very understanding and patient. Life must be very fair to some people! It could be true what they say; that life begins at forty. Just before I alighted he asked me to take his number, he didn’t ask for mine, and only the ladies will understand that this is a good thing!