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!

ALL STREET AND CHIC

Well, it is Father’s Day! I have a lot to share with my dad; I  promised to write him a letter on this day. Have you ever felt like you have so much to say such that you lack the words to express yourself? That’s exactly how I feel right now. Nevertheless, someone once said that fatherhood is not limited to he who plants the seed but he who raises a child qualifies as the real dad. So, happy Father’s Day to all the fathers out there. A special shout out to the dads who once in a while prepare meals for their kids!

It’s cold and rainy…and sunny too. The day seems not to be in the mood, Am I the only one who is confused? I bet not. Well today’s look is for the warm beautiful sunny days. I love to keep it easy, simple and comfortable. Here is a simple way to style your high waist pants.

 As for me,a white tank top; white is a neutral color and it can pretty much match with any color of pants, and a navy blue pair of high waist jeans can help fix the mood of the day.

I am not big on accessorizing but once in a while I don’t mind a long pendant neck piece. I didn’t plan on wearing a wrist watch but I tried it on with this look and it turned out just fine. No, perfect.

I must have been drawn to them by the straps! My small silver octopus shaped earrings are not very conspicuous but they sure came through.

My favorite part of this look is the shoes. Strappy heels never disappoint. They are versatile and comfortable.

To complete the look, I settled on these navy blue babies! Till next time, enjoy!

Earrings and necklace from Accessorize with Elle

DATE WITH DEATH

Technically, my life is stalling; majorly because I am very particular about how I would love to die. It’s not practical to choose how to die, but I do so when I have the chance. I had several things to do in town last week. Several meetings to attend and many more places to go, and just a quarter of them were accomplished. Everyone is demonstrating about something and every turn you make you meet a young man or woman carrying a white handkerchief, and a few blue and brown ones, and a bottle of water. Well, I don't want to die by the bullet, or from teargas; itchy eyes can get your soul exhausted and make your heart very weak from fatigue, (my wild imaginations).

I don't want to die a brutal death; I would be very glad to die of too much happiness, I want to die in my sleep, I want to die of laughter, I want to die of eating too many chocolate bars. I would love to die of eating too much food, from drinking a lot of water; I most definitely want to die because of smiling a lot. I want to be swept away into the ocean while lieing on the sandy beaches; I want to die from the calming feeling brought about by the alluring beauty of a sunset. I want to die in someone's arms; I want to die on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro (this could hurt a great deal though) I want to die in the arms of lovely mother nature. All in all, I want to die a very quiet death, I want to be killed by the beauty of life.

So, last week my grandma called pleading with me with a lot of concern not to get involved in the ongoing demonstrations. Well, I think she should read this. Other than the demonstration woes, last week was rough; one young man probably had too much to drink, and since I was seated right behind him in a matatu, I shared the consequences. I think this is the kind of unity that our National Anthem pitches. He was seated next to his boss, who was drunk too (some people are lucky). He was just a little tipsy because his speech and actions were well coordinated, at least better than those of his subordinate. He was going to get home safely, but I can't say the same for his friend, no colleague, and no I think this was more of friendship than work place acquaintance. So I got home smelling like a changaa den with my power suit decorated with patterns of food particles. Funny enough, I was not angry at all; I was amused and shocked at the same time.

Back to the disarray that our country is wallowing in, I am reminded of one time in high school when a very malicious rumor broke out that a group of students was planning to stage a strike. I can’t exactly remember what the discontent was about but topping the list of their agenda was to burn down a few
buildings. There was a lot of tension, and we were always on the lookout for the anticipated strike, for smoke! My high school was sectioned into three blocks; the junior block, the central block, and the senior block which hosted all the form four streams. The senior block was lucky to have a generator which would be powered up to illuminate the block whenever there was a power outage. On this particular night, there was a heavy downpour and the generator could not start. I am not sure if the rain had anything to do with it; don’t blame me; I dropped Physics in form two, and History too. What with macadamized roads and the evolution of man. History was boring, right? So rumors started going round of how the alleged strike planners had siphoned fuel from the generator and whoever the source of this rumor was, she must be skyrocketing in her journalism career. It was dark; it was raining, and there were rumors that arsonists had marked the seniors’ block. The administration was not aware of what was happening then, but the amount of fear within the student fraternity was enormous, it was intense. I had packed a few clothes and books in a backpack, and set aside a few coins for my fare, just in case things got murky. I guess most people did. It felt like this was the night the plan was going down-the silence, the darkness, the fear, the anticipation, the smell of death, I have never felt so much in touch with reality as I did on this day; the inevitable reality of death, well I have, but this was different, it was
ardent. I said a thousand prayers; I tried to write a note to my best friend, I recited a few bible verses, I saw myself at my funeral, in a purple casket. Who gets buried in a purple casket?! I was wearing my favorite dress, and I was very infuriated that the mourners attending my burial ceremony were served with githeri. No, that is not what I would love my mourners to eat at my funeral. I want them to be treated to a three course meal because it is a celebration of life. No, this is not how I wanted to die. You think I’m a coward? You are wrong; I am just a girl who wants a quiet death. My mind rolled in a wild race, I was scared, I felt sick to my core, and then nothing happened. What a waste of emotions!

WORLDS APART

Under the moonlight

In the silent of the night

Dancing to the song of the knights

To the tune of mirth and might

In movements clear and tight

No words, but silence in part

The gentle breeze brushing past

Dragging along dust from our pasts

Racing to the horizons

Hurling the pain and hurt

With might onto the bosom of oblivion

Setting us free, making us light

Lighter for the journey

Journey to the unknown

Unknown depths of life and love

Love so pure and so true

True as the rising of the sun

True as the promises of the father

Silhouettes and shadows so clear

Dreams and hopes so dear

The beginning of the end so near

Fear and fate so real

Thirst for love so intense

Intense as the night of the full moon

Cruel as the inside of a prison

Tonight we drown it all in the sea

Feeding it all to the fish

Giving it all in a leash

Sad is the moon

Bewildered is the wind

Enraged is the sea

In a wild rush

The dust of the earth is whirled

Nature is sad

On this night of the full moon

MY MYSTERY MAN

There's something enticing about mystery, that’s why abstracts are special artistry,

Something about his mastery, something that will go down in history,

As a big thing, that was in his story.  

He calls me Atis; he makes me feel at ease, He likes to play and tease, to joke, laugh and please,

He's my knight and shining armor, none can beat his sense of humor,

In his arms I feel so safe, or so I imagine I would.

The way he laughs, the way he smiles, we can talk and walk for miles.

His laughter, the highlight of his person, a thrill, a scorn, a question,

All in a quick succession, He's blessed with a heart of compassion.

When he's mad, all I wanna do is laugh,

That twitch he makes with his mouth, makes him look funny – all a bluff,

He has a baby face, and a laughter that’s never hampered,

A body so well built, a face so perfectly sculptured,

When we talk, I can hardly hear anything he says, 'cause I'm always stuck, staring at how his face plays.

There's something about those eyes,

They are bold, the kind of eyes that see through your lows and highs,

The kinda eyes that can burn you to ashes; leave you saying all ayes.

Eyes that can pierce through your heart; eyes that would make the moon shy,

Oh tell me, would you concentrate if he had such eyes trained on yours? YES? No you lie,

He's not your ordinary guy. He walks with the pride of a lion,

His head high like Zion. Just like a painter loves his caricature,

He loves to delve into literature, He crafts with the pen, that’s why I call him Ken.

He's proud of his den; you can bet he loves Heineken.

He's smart, he's handsome, and He’s not your weekend awesome.

Knowledgeability so priceless,

A sense of humor so matchless,

When I see him tonight, I'll let him know, I'll tell him everything,

I'll tell him how I can't think about Eurobond, not even tithing,

'cause I'm thinking about him, my mysterious thing,

I'll tell him how I wake up tired in the morning,

'cause when I sleep, he’s all over my mind strolling.

I'll tell him how I burnt my githeri,

'cause I was busy glaring at his photos; oh poor nyar gi Jerry,

I want to tell him everything, spill all like MS Moshene Terry,

But I'm afraid that when our eyes meet, there will be no merry,

‘Cause my eyes will bulge, his eyes will pierce through mine, my throat will run dry and words will disappear from my tongue. It will be all a tale fairy.

…………………. J ………………………………

BLACK OR WHITE

 Spread not sweet smelling roses on my face,

While splattering blood on my back

Choose one dear ally, blood or roses

Send not sweet messages

While smearing my life with dirt elsewhere

Choose one dear ally, sweet or dirty

Don’t call me darling while calling me foe

Elsewhere with a heart so cold,

Choose one dear ally, darling or foe

I look into your ever so deceiving eyes

All I see is fire and grey eyes

You’re so evil, you’re so spiteful

Your black heart so full of hatred

But you strive to paint it sacred

I know deception when I see it

From the alleys of my soul I can feel it

Your tongue is laced with poison

Spitting words of hate and corrosion

While pretending to be walking in consecration

Tomorrow you’ll say in sweet adoration

I love you without condition

When I know for sure, that you lie with precision

Choose one dear ally, friend or foe?

DEAR DAD

Dear dad,

Did I wake you from your sleep? Do you sleep wherever you are? 18 years is a long time, are you famished? Do you miss us? Do you work? Do you have hospitals there? How is your career? Did you get to put up that world class hospital you always dreamt of? It will interest you to know that I grew up with dreams of becoming a medical doctor. Something happened along the way though, I am not sure what it is but I can’t even stand the sight of blood anymore. Well we miss you; I particularly miss your special millet ugali…and your voice when you sung ‘Lord in the morning we lift our voices on high.’ That voice still resonates in my head once in a while. It has stuck with me all these years. Do you recall the hymn that we would all sing to during the morning prayers?

A lot has happened since you departed. The baby of the babies is in his third year of study and Bev no longer stuffs groundnuts into her side pockets. She’s all grown and have you heard? She graduated from university last year. Too soon, right? Well the government introduced into the education system an animal called double intake. I didn’t drop out of school, I graduated too; a year before she did. You know what? Some people think we're twins…we have the same body size, same body weight and almost the same height. She has taken so much after you though. Presumably the only difference between us is that Bev doesn't smile as often and as heartily as I do. Last week a good friend of mine made a rather weird comment about that smile. I have made so many friends by the way; and I have lost a few along the way too. So this particular friend asked me if I would still smile at the point of my death. Well you can guess what my response was; “oh yes I would.” Bev and I no longer quibble over bed space. She has her own bed and I have my own house. Talking of bed space fights, I am reminded of one night that mum beat me senseless for not being the bigger person. I didn’t know anything about being the bigger person then, but she did well. Dad, in this age and time parents don't spank their kids, they just ground them and deny them the opportunity to watch Nickelodeon or Jim jam or visit Facebook. Well, you probably have no idea of what that is. It’s something that looks like a gigantic hall full of people; people of all races, people of all colors, people of all shapes and sizes. Here everyone has an equal chance of speaking into the microphone and he who speaks the loudest gets famous. You can talk about absolutely anything; you can rant about your cheeky cat or tell the world that you got a new job. It’s just like twitter; oh I don’t think you know what twitter is either. You’ve been gone for so long papa. I’ll tell you about that some other day. Trust me dad, if you were here today, you would be very proud of your girls.

The boys have transformed into men; some of them have beautiful families and cute little versions of themselves. Have you seen Toi? He left us too and sooner or later, you two are going to meet and he'll narrate to you just how much you missed. He was the quiet one; he never said much, never did much. I would have shared his dreams with you but he never let anyone in on things so dear to his heart. For some awkward reason, he always told me that he hated popcorn. When you finally meet him, give him a fatherly hug, tell him things will be alright, make him believe in himself, talk to him like a father would to his son. He is dearly missed. Tim and Ric have a striking resemblance, except Ric is a little taller. Teddy is a man of very few words and he is as quiet as always. Did I mention there's a little man named after you? We call him "Doc". He is Baba Wesley’s son .He has an infectious smile and his teeth are perfectly arranged. He’s growing pretty fast and he thinks there's no other woman out there who is prettier than Aunty Lynn. He knows and he is convinced beyond reasonable doubt that Aunty Lynn is the standard measure of beauty. The last time we talked on phone he asked me to get him chocolate flavored ice cream and a racing car. Yes dad, in as much as things have changed, boys still love cars! Doc has two younger handsome brothers. How time moves fast!

Mum hasn’t changed much either. She is as resilient as ever, she’s still a fighter, still a warrior, still the same hardworking woman you married. She’s had to bear the burden of two and she is still fighting to give us the best. She still worries about all of us. She looks a little older than she did when you left but the gap between her beautiful teeth is still intact. She still looks lovely and her heart is as young as ever. She prays for us, however far away we are from her. She is still cooks perfectly and whenever we visit, she slaughters the fattest chicken she owns. She loves us and she is doing her best to keep the family together. People love her, her friends adore her and her house is always overflowing with guests. In another life, I would advise you to marry her...again.

I know how anxiously you've been waiting to read about me. There isn’t much to tell, just lessons and dreams. One thing is pretty obvious though; I don't look the same way I did in 1997.I wonder if you would recognize me at all. Well, some people still call me Mom, some call me Atis, a few others call me Lynn, and Doc calls me Alino while others call me Nyar Daktari. A lot has changed but my smile has stood the test of time. I look so much like grandma Nyogembo. My head looks rounder, although sometimes it feels shapeless. And this forehead dad, I'm still wondering where I inherited it from.it compliments my sometimes shapeless head so perfectly. Whenever I visit mum and leave home to go see a friend, mum grills me to know just how well i know this friend. God, I adore this woman. When I was younger it felt like she was being unfair, but now, I know it’s just how much mothers care for their children. Adolescence can turn your world upside down and have you looking at things from a weird perspective. You know that time of your life when everyone is wrong, except you. I have learnt a lot but most importantly I have discovered that life takes more than it gives.

Dad, I have met men; men from all walks of life; Tall men, short men.  In my journey of life I have seen men with bruised egos, men who are confident of themselves. Men who have it all figured out, men who are groping in darkness and still trying to find their way, men whose lives depend on soccer, men who would have wished to be women.I have met men like this one Dad I have met men who believe in working hard and those who would rather be kept and taken care of by women. I have met men who know God, and those who doubt His existence. I have met men who love with all their might and those who think love is a game of chess. I have brushed shoulders with hopeless men, others who are lost; Men who cook like professional experienced chefs and those who can only cook water. I have met men who have mastered the art of telling lies and men who live honestly. And not so long ago dad, I met a man. He is just a man. No, he's not just a man; he's a man you'd be pleased to meet. He possesses the agility of a hunter, and he has a firm handshake .I will definitely tell you more about him in my next letter, on father’s day.

BIRTHDAY SPECIAL

It was 12:01 A.M. when I was woken up by a phone call. “No one ever calls me this late,” I mumble to myself. I struggled to open my eyes only to see that it was a strange number. Well, it was days after the lion roamed the streets and you could never know who was cornered. I hesitated for a few seconds before I eventually decided to take the call. The caller on the other end sounded very sober; he had no sense of panic in his voice.
"Hi, Lynn."
"Hi"
"It's so and so"
"Oh hi, what's up? Long time."
"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Lynn, happy birthday to you "

I was still trying to piece everything together when the caller rudely but unknowingly interrupted my thoughts.
"Sorry to call you so late, and for waking you up. I just wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday " At this point I gathered everything that makes up Lynn to ask them if it was our birthday. No.
Our birthday was still months away.

If someone has ever wished you a happy birthday on a day that's not your birthday, then you'll agree with me that it's traumatizing. They didn't just send a text or a Facebook message, or a WhatsApp voice note. They actually called to wish you a happy birthday, no to sing you happy birthday. From their tone, you can actually tell it's from deep inside their heart it's genuine, and it's honest; well I'm not sure about this part. Nevertheless, it makes you feel special. Rewarding all this "sweetness " with a "no, it's not my birthday" statement is just rude or at least I think so.

So tell me, would you interrupt them and say it's not your birthday? Would you play along? Would you hang up? Back to our caller, after exchanging a few "catch up" pleasantries he finally wished me a good night and hung up. For close to two hours I couldn't get myself to sleep. I kept asking myself why someone would wish me a happy birthday on a day that's not my birthday. At some point, I even told myself that this is the day I say goodbye to this world. Shhhhh! Witchcraft is real. I finally "gathered " some sleep and I woke up at 6.30 to a sweet text message from our late night caller. It read;

"I'll have someone deliver something for you later in the day. Confirm if you'll be home. "
The urge to text back and tell our caller that it's not my birthday is getting stronger, but there's another little voice asking me to be a little considerate of other people's feelings. Ha! The little voice wins. People get mad when their friends forget their birthday, right? This one was sweet. I can't tell if he forgot or recalled.

Remember my Ray Ban sunglasses?