Big fat drops. Big fat raindrops fell from the sky in a rhythmic pattern. All around me big fat raindrops embraced different surfaces. I paused and glanced up at the sky. The big fat raindrops showed no signs of relenting and giving me an opportunity to recollect. I sighed with a mixture of acquiescence and resignation, dragging my torn suitcase out into the rain. I had no solid plan; only to get into a cab and find my way to the hostel I was booked into.
Nothing prepared me for the assault on my body. They said that the temperature was 6 degrees Celsius and the wind chill minus 30. Wind chill meant nothing to me as it was my first time in Holland, in Europe and in a country that experienced winter. The wind penetrated my faux pas winter jacket, deep into my bones in a way that made me feel like I was standing naked. My toes curled in an attempt to stay warm. I felt my breath condense every time I breathed, and my lungs burned from the extreme cold.
I stood there, outside of Schipol airport, unsure of what to do.
“Excuse… madam… taxi? Here. Enter.” A hooded man to my left, seemingly a cab driver, ran to grab my things. He took one look at my battered suitcase and paused, as if contemplating whether I would be able to afford his fare. I clicked in exasperation. How many times would I have to explain that the damned airline had damaged my suitcase and refused to compensate me?
I showed him 100 Euros and an address written on a slip of paper. “Kindly could you take me to this hostel?” I asked, barely masking the irritation that I felt.
“Here. Enter,” He said after opening the car door for me. He lifted my bags and put them into the trunk of the cab. I got into the back left and was immediately grateful for the cab’s warmth. I rubbed my fingers to get the circulation going. My teeth at this point were chattering so violently I thought I would eventually unhinge my jaws.
We began pulling out of the parking space. The driver was a tall, young man with a mop of dark unruly hair that stood up in tufts where his hood did not cover.. He ran his hands through his hair and muttered something in what I assumed was Dutch. I gazed at him blankly. He tried again in his halting English. “Madam. This place. Where?” I felt the stirrings of fear in my stomach. If the cab driver, a local, did not know where I wanted to go, how on God’s green earth would I know and manage to communicate with our obvious language barrier?
I felt that I was going to hyperventilate, when he said magic words that calmed me down. “I check GPS. Aaahh. Den Haag. No problem. We go.”
to be continued...
Monday, March 21, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Lessons
Someone once told me that you will forever be in a situation until you learn the lesson in it. I look back at my life and try to reflect whether I have learnt all my lessons, as there is nothing as frustrating as feeling as though you are stuck in a senseless rut.
As I ponder, I remember some of my trying moments in life and wonder how I even managed to get out alive. Situations in which you wish you could curl up and die. Betrayals and lies that run so deep you feel like you could never possibly recover from that blow.
The process seems to be the same. The shock, anger, and pain. The screaming and fighting. The disbelief and absolute denial that someone you love could ever hurt you in such a manner. Then the tears come. You weep like your heart would break. The apologies and self-absolution. "Oh my God" and "It wasn't me".
The tears finally run dry, and there you are. Spent, but no closer to the truth. Your brain begins its feeble attempt at rationalizing the whole issue. Your heart cowers every time the mind speaks, afraid of getting hurt again. It's at this point you look in front of you and realize that you are at a junction. To your left lies the truth. Investigations, so to speak. Harsh words exchanged. The truth must out, so help me God. "Silence, dear heart of mine! You are too biased to be involved." I find out the truth. But what do I do with it?
The other road, the one to my right, looks less trodden. Why? I ask myself. It is the road of blind faith; the road that lets go with no question. It is the path that demands of you absolute faith - sometimes more than that the mind can have. It speaks to the heart, and the heart listens. The mind rejects all notions that the road suggests; it is, after all, contrary to what it believes. The heart responds gladly, for it believes in the goodness of mankind.
And after contemplating, after fighting the battle between mind and heart, I am walking down the road. Some look at me and think I am foolish or naive for making this choice, but the road less traveled gives me peace.
As I ponder, I remember some of my trying moments in life and wonder how I even managed to get out alive. Situations in which you wish you could curl up and die. Betrayals and lies that run so deep you feel like you could never possibly recover from that blow.
The process seems to be the same. The shock, anger, and pain. The screaming and fighting. The disbelief and absolute denial that someone you love could ever hurt you in such a manner. Then the tears come. You weep like your heart would break. The apologies and self-absolution. "Oh my God" and "It wasn't me".
The tears finally run dry, and there you are. Spent, but no closer to the truth. Your brain begins its feeble attempt at rationalizing the whole issue. Your heart cowers every time the mind speaks, afraid of getting hurt again. It's at this point you look in front of you and realize that you are at a junction. To your left lies the truth. Investigations, so to speak. Harsh words exchanged. The truth must out, so help me God. "Silence, dear heart of mine! You are too biased to be involved." I find out the truth. But what do I do with it?
The other road, the one to my right, looks less trodden. Why? I ask myself. It is the road of blind faith; the road that lets go with no question. It is the path that demands of you absolute faith - sometimes more than that the mind can have. It speaks to the heart, and the heart listens. The mind rejects all notions that the road suggests; it is, after all, contrary to what it believes. The heart responds gladly, for it believes in the goodness of mankind.
And after contemplating, after fighting the battle between mind and heart, I am walking down the road. Some look at me and think I am foolish or naive for making this choice, but the road less traveled gives me peace.
Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.7
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Oh, the pain...
Pretending that life is ok,
At least when you are around.
Inside of me I am crumbling but I will
Never let you see my tears.
Part of me just wants to lie down
And never open my eyes again
I could only hope and pray that a
New beginning awaits me somewhere.
Please understand I do not have strength
As I go about my daily day
If this is the plan I
Need an uplifting of my spirit.
Poverty of good will and love
Absinence from the pleasures of life
Intricacies of heart and mind
Neglect of body and soul.
At least when you are around.
Inside of me I am crumbling but I will
Never let you see my tears.
Part of me just wants to lie down
And never open my eyes again
I could only hope and pray that a
New beginning awaits me somewhere.
Please understand I do not have strength
As I go about my daily day
If this is the plan I
Need an uplifting of my spirit.
Poverty of good will and love
Absinence from the pleasures of life
Intricacies of heart and mind
Neglect of body and soul.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven - William Bulter Yeats
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Where do we go from here?
Let me tell you a story.
Long ago, I learned that the easiest way to avoid heartbreak was to guard your heart. And guard it I did. Slowly but surely I erected this brick wall around my heart. An impenetrable fortress that stood against the tides of flirtation, proposals and romances. Until you came along.
I thought I had tried that love thing and given up, but brick by brick you took down my wall. Soothing words, concern, and friendship won me over without my consciousness, until the day I woke up to your voice and realized I was naked before you. We had become more than friends and I let you in.
I know you might feel guilty babe
Don't let the mind do the speaking
Just let the heart do the leading
Cause we gave each other what we both wanted
Look what we've started
After all that has been said and done, even if my heart feels so much fear, where do we go from here?
Long ago, I learned that the easiest way to avoid heartbreak was to guard your heart. And guard it I did. Slowly but surely I erected this brick wall around my heart. An impenetrable fortress that stood against the tides of flirtation, proposals and romances. Until you came along.
I thought I had tried that love thing and given up, but brick by brick you took down my wall. Soothing words, concern, and friendship won me over without my consciousness, until the day I woke up to your voice and realized I was naked before you. We had become more than friends and I let you in.
I know you might feel guilty babeDon't let the mind do the speaking
Just let the heart do the leading
Cause we gave each other what we both wanted
Look what we've started
After all that has been said and done, even if my heart feels so much fear, where do we go from here?
Friday, June 4, 2010
Colors of Hate...
The cold in her body,
chilling blue.
The hate in her brain,
scorching fire.
Her dripping hair,
velvet black.
Jealousy in her heart,
unripe green.
She's colder than ice,
yet too hot to handle.
She'll strike with a passion,
so strong and intense;
her heart stone;
her blood fire;
her soul coal;
she'll revenge...
chilling blue.
The hate in her brain,
scorching fire.
Her dripping hair,
velvet black.
Jealousy in her heart,
unripe green.
She's colder than ice,
yet too hot to handle.
She'll strike with a passion,
so strong and intense;
her heart stone;
her blood fire;
her soul coal;
she'll revenge...
I do
All I ever want is to be a part of your heart,
And for us to be together, to never be apart.
No one else in the world can ever compare,
You are perfect and so in this love we share,
I love you more than I ever thought I could.
I hope you realize how perfect you are,
When you are seen through my eyes.
I love you.
And for us to be together, to never be apart.
No one else in the world can ever compare,
You are perfect and so in this love we share,
I love you more than I ever thought I could.
I hope you realize how perfect you are,
When you are seen through my eyes.
I love you.
By Oriah Mountain Dreamer - copyright © 1999
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The most difficult phase of your life is not when no one understands you; it is when you don't understand yourself
Of late, I have been having what I thought was major writer's block. It turns out that, after long days and periods of soul-searching and taking a step back from life, I have not been at peace. Something is amiss in my life. I still do not know what, but I do know what the symptoms are. They include a feeling of lethargy all the time; a blatant disregard for things that used to make me happy; a sense of confusion over when, where and how; a consistent fear of the unknown; a discomforting feeling that I have lost control over my life and that everything is rushing past me; constant mental self-flagellation.
I have been sick for about three weeks. I have been plagued by a cold so vicious that it seems to be crafted only by the Devil. I had ulcers that made me believe that my insides were slowly being turned out. Yet, through this time, it was not so much the physical infirmity that brought me down, it was the mental strain that took a major toll on me and caused me to have some form of depression brought about by insomnia.
I am better now, at least physically I am. Mentally, it has been a struggle. A struggle understanding that I am not being irrational. A struggle not to silence that voice within that was warning me that something was seriously wrong. A struggle accepting that things have changed; that I have changed, and that this is not necessarily a bad thing; a struggle to decide that though I may be my biggest critic, I should also be my own greatest fan. And in my darkest hour came that epiphany that I had been fighting to get: He was not in the wind, the fire, or the earthquake; He was in the quiet voice. Be still.
THE SITUATION
In Washington , DC , at a Metro Station, on a cold January morning in 2007, this man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, approximately 2,000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After about 3 minutes, a middle-aged man noticed that there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds, and then he hurried on to meet his schedule.
About 4 minutes later:
The violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.
At 6 minutes:
A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.
At 10 minutes:
A 3-year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head the whole time. This action was repeated by several other children, but every parent - without exception - forced their children to move on quickly.
At 45 minutes:
The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.
After 1 hour:
He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed and no one applauded. There was no recognition at all.
No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100 each to sit and listen to him play the same music.
This is a true story. Joshua Bell, playing incognito in the D.C. Metro Station, was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities.
One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made . . .
How many other things are we missing as we rush through life?
I have been sick for about three weeks. I have been plagued by a cold so vicious that it seems to be crafted only by the Devil. I had ulcers that made me believe that my insides were slowly being turned out. Yet, through this time, it was not so much the physical infirmity that brought me down, it was the mental strain that took a major toll on me and caused me to have some form of depression brought about by insomnia.
I am better now, at least physically I am. Mentally, it has been a struggle. A struggle understanding that I am not being irrational. A struggle not to silence that voice within that was warning me that something was seriously wrong. A struggle accepting that things have changed; that I have changed, and that this is not necessarily a bad thing; a struggle to decide that though I may be my biggest critic, I should also be my own greatest fan. And in my darkest hour came that epiphany that I had been fighting to get: He was not in the wind, the fire, or the earthquake; He was in the quiet voice. Be still.
THE SITUATION
In Washington , DC , at a Metro Station, on a cold January morning in 2007, this man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, approximately 2,000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After about 3 minutes, a middle-aged man noticed that there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds, and then he hurried on to meet his schedule.
About 4 minutes later:
The violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.
At 6 minutes:
A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.
At 10 minutes:
A 3-year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head the whole time. This action was repeated by several other children, but every parent - without exception - forced their children to move on quickly.
At 45 minutes:
The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.
After 1 hour:
He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed and no one applauded. There was no recognition at all.
No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100 each to sit and listen to him play the same music.
This is a true story. Joshua Bell, playing incognito in the D.C. Metro Station, was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities.
One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made . . .
How many other things are we missing as we rush through life?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Impossible by Christina Aguillera featuring Alicia Keys
It's impossible
It's impossible to love you
If you don't let me know what you're feeling
It's impossible for me to give you what you need
If you're always hiding from me
I don't know what hurt you
I just, I wanna make it right
I'm sick and tired of trying to read your mind
It's impossible
Oh baby it's impossible for me to love you
It's the way it is
It's impossible
Oh baby it's impossible
If you making it this way
Impossible to make it easy
If you always trying to make it so damn hard
How can I give you all my love, baby
If you're always, always putting up your guard
This is not a circus
Don't you play me for a clown
How long can emotions keep on going up and down
It's impossible
Oh baby it's impossible for me to love you
It's the way it is
It's impossible
Oh baby it's impossible
If you keep treating me this way
Over and over
Impossible baby
If you making' it this way
Oh baby, it's impossible
If you making it this way
It's impossible to love you
If you don't let me know what you're feeling
It's impossible for me to give you what you need
If you're always hiding from me
I don't know what hurt you
I just, I wanna make it right
I'm sick and tired of trying to read your mind
It's impossible
Oh baby it's impossible for me to love you
It's the way it is
It's impossible
Oh baby it's impossible
If you making it this way
Impossible to make it easy
If you always trying to make it so damn hard
How can I give you all my love, baby
If you're always, always putting up your guard
This is not a circus
Don't you play me for a clown
How long can emotions keep on going up and down
It's impossible
Oh baby it's impossible for me to love you
It's the way it is
It's impossible
Oh baby it's impossible
If you keep treating me this way
Over and over
Impossible baby
If you making' it this way
Oh baby, it's impossible
If you making it this way
You shot your arrow through my heart - written by Brian McKnight, performed by Az Yet Share
Quietly I watch you sleep
Hopefully you won't hear what I say
Wondering if I turned the clouds
Happy the moment I tasted your rain
Tonight was the night
That I saw my first sight
Of how pleasure wins over pain
Now I know what I know
Don't wanna ever let you go
I just hope that you feel the same
You shot your arrow
Through my restless, shaking heart
You came down on me slow
Drew back your bow
My lady, you shot your arrow
Straight through my heart
I kiss your mouth and stroke your hair
Intently I hang on your every breath
I know what I'm feeling right now
Is more than just lust
For the sake of your flesh
Girl, I need you now
I'll try my best to learn how
To be all that my words might say
Caressing your skin
I never imagined
That I'd ever feel this way
Girl, I need you
I'll try my best to learn how
To be all that my words might say
Caressing your skin
I never imagined I could
ever feel this way
Hopefully you won't hear what I say
Wondering if I turned the clouds
Happy the moment I tasted your rain
Tonight was the night
That I saw my first sight
Of how pleasure wins over pain
Now I know what I know
Don't wanna ever let you go
I just hope that you feel the same
You shot your arrow
Through my restless, shaking heart
You came down on me slow
Drew back your bow
My lady, you shot your arrow
Straight through my heart
I kiss your mouth and stroke your hair
Intently I hang on your every breath
I know what I'm feeling right now
Is more than just lust
For the sake of your flesh
Girl, I need you now
I'll try my best to learn how
To be all that my words might say
Caressing your skin
I never imagined
That I'd ever feel this way
Girl, I need you
I'll try my best to learn how
To be all that my words might say
Caressing your skin
I never imagined I could
ever feel this way
Diary of a disillusioned woman - Feb 1st
OMG!!!! I can't believe Sally is getting married!!!! Jack proposed to her last night!!! I mean, I am so happy for her!!! Though I must say she has to be a bit careful with that man; he's known to have a bit of a roving eye. Nonetheless, this is good news! Now Tony will start feeling the pressure of the need to get his house in order as Jack is soon-to-be a married man. I hope they don't pick my dream wedding month, February. That would be catastrophic considering that I want to be totally involved in her wedding, which is not possible if I am getting married around the same time. By faith I am going to be getting married this time next year.
Note to self: Valz plans!!!!
Ask Sally what Jack says that Tony said about the wedding issue
Doctor's appointment tomorrow
Note to self: Valz plans!!!!
Ask Sally what Jack says that Tony said about the wedding issue
Doctor's appointment tomorrow
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Diary of a disillusioned woman - Jan 12
Ok. I know many will get so mad at me at this point, but here goes. Tony and I are back together. There, I said it, and I'm not making any apologies for it. I can't help myself; I love him so much. I understand that the alcohol got the better of him, and who am I to pass judgment considering the state I myself was in?
I met him today in Westlands and he looked such a mess. He told me that he was so sorry and that he had not managed a wink of sleep since 2nd, when he realized what he had done. I thought it was really sweet seeing him tormented and distraught all on account of what he had done. Besides, I really had missed him. I told him that we could try again, but on condition that something like that never happens again. You should have seen the relief on his face; it was as if I had just handed him a life line.
I met him today in Westlands and he looked such a mess. He told me that he was so sorry and that he had not managed a wink of sleep since 2nd, when he realized what he had done. I thought it was really sweet seeing him tormented and distraught all on account of what he had done. Besides, I really had missed him. I told him that we could try again, but on condition that something like that never happens again. You should have seen the relief on his face; it was as if I had just handed him a life line.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Diary of a disillusioned woman - Jan 6th
Should I even listen
Should I even try
Will I just be hearing the same old lines
Baby
See it doesn't matter
What you say this time
Cause our whole relationship
Is built on one lie
You say things aren't the way they seem
But still you can't come straight with me
I mulled over those words. I felt that Toni Braxton was speaking to me in her song Love Should Have Brought You Home Last Night. I took another sip of the chilled Simonsig white wine and sunk a little lower into the bath tub. The water had become tepid but I didn't notice until much later.
How can you think that you're in love
When you don't know the meaning of
Love shoulda brought you
Brought you
Home last night
You shoulda been with me
Shoulda been right by my side
Baby
If you cared anything for me
Then love woulda brought you
To me last night
I still was not talking to Tony.
Should I even try
Will I just be hearing the same old lines
Baby
See it doesn't matter
What you say this time
Cause our whole relationship
Is built on one lie
You say things aren't the way they seem
But still you can't come straight with me
I mulled over those words. I felt that Toni Braxton was speaking to me in her song Love Should Have Brought You Home Last Night. I took another sip of the chilled Simonsig white wine and sunk a little lower into the bath tub. The water had become tepid but I didn't notice until much later.
How can you think that you're in love
When you don't know the meaning of
Love shoulda brought you
Brought you
Home last night
You shoulda been with me
Shoulda been right by my side
Baby
If you cared anything for me
Then love woulda brought you
To me last night
I still was not talking to Tony.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Diary of a disillusioned woman - Jan. 1
Happy f***ing New Year. A toast to the worst beginning in history. I can't believe that I am here all by myself. Yet again, why am I even surprised? Anthony is capable of anything.
I'm sitting in K1, looking around me, watching couples kiss and hug and wish one another love in the coming year. I am all alone. In K1. I have been trying to call Anthony for the last two and a half hours but nothing. He is drunk and passed out somewhere in Westlands with his "friends". Some tramp actually had the guts to pick up the phone and tell me to stop calling him "coz I will wake him up." Wake him up? He has passed out in a club! What amount of noise could his ringing phone make so as to rouse him, compared to that din in the club?
Earlier today, Tony called me and asked me to meet him in K1 for dinner and then we would later go out. It was his way of apologizing for the shouting match we had several days earlier. My initial reaction was to refuse, but after much pleading and cajoling, he managed to convince me to meet him. I insist I agreed, albeit reluctantly.
Dinner was to be at 9 p.m. I arrived at K1 at 9.30, knowing very well that Tony did not have a punctual bone in his body. True to form, he had not arrived. I decided to find a table and order a drink as I waited for him. A live band was playing jazz on one side. On the other, a chef was vigorously tossing and turning some pieces of chicken in an attempt to keep up with the orders coming his way.
At 10, I called him and impatiently told him that I had been waiting and I was already fed up. He apologized and promised to be here in the next twenty minutes. "And not a minute more," were my snarled words as I hang up.
Eleven o'clock. The optimist in me was slowly losing hope. I ordered a meal and told the waitress to keep the martinis coming. Seeing as I was so mad at Tony, I may as well be plastered by the time he got here.
Midnight, January 1st: Happy f***ing New Year. I lifted my glass high in the air and said, "I love life and loathe men! A toast to all the single ladies," as I took a swig of my martini and promptly threw up on the pool table.
Nat and Vierra, two high school friends of mine, just happened to walk in and witness me making an absolute fool out of myself. Vierra took me to the ladies and left Nat negotiating with the club bouncers who wanted to throw me out. In the ladies, I broke down and told Vierra that I wanted to go home.I had had enough.
I'm sitting in K1, looking around me, watching couples kiss and hug and wish one another love in the coming year. I am all alone. In K1. I have been trying to call Anthony for the last two and a half hours but nothing. He is drunk and passed out somewhere in Westlands with his "friends". Some tramp actually had the guts to pick up the phone and tell me to stop calling him "coz I will wake him up." Wake him up? He has passed out in a club! What amount of noise could his ringing phone make so as to rouse him, compared to that din in the club?
Earlier today, Tony called me and asked me to meet him in K1 for dinner and then we would later go out. It was his way of apologizing for the shouting match we had several days earlier. My initial reaction was to refuse, but after much pleading and cajoling, he managed to convince me to meet him. I insist I agreed, albeit reluctantly.
Dinner was to be at 9 p.m. I arrived at K1 at 9.30, knowing very well that Tony did not have a punctual bone in his body. True to form, he had not arrived. I decided to find a table and order a drink as I waited for him. A live band was playing jazz on one side. On the other, a chef was vigorously tossing and turning some pieces of chicken in an attempt to keep up with the orders coming his way.
At 10, I called him and impatiently told him that I had been waiting and I was already fed up. He apologized and promised to be here in the next twenty minutes. "And not a minute more," were my snarled words as I hang up.
Eleven o'clock. The optimist in me was slowly losing hope. I ordered a meal and told the waitress to keep the martinis coming. Seeing as I was so mad at Tony, I may as well be plastered by the time he got here.
Midnight, January 1st: Happy f***ing New Year. I lifted my glass high in the air and said, "I love life and loathe men! A toast to all the single ladies," as I took a swig of my martini and promptly threw up on the pool table.
Nat and Vierra, two high school friends of mine, just happened to walk in and witness me making an absolute fool out of myself. Vierra took me to the ladies and left Nat negotiating with the club bouncers who wanted to throw me out. In the ladies, I broke down and told Vierra that I wanted to go home.I had had enough.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for another chance. In all honesty, it can't even be called a second, fifth or even tenth chance, because they have been so many. Nonetheless, I just want to say thank you.
That time that I fell, you picked me up. The point at which I was so weary, you carried me. Nights that I cried myself to sleep, you held me so close and whispered that it would be ok. Even when I messed up, turned away and against you, you still loved me.
Now, I'm back on my feet and I have no one but you to thank. I'm so grateful for the stability you brought back into my life. Thank you.
That time that I fell, you picked me up. The point at which I was so weary, you carried me. Nights that I cried myself to sleep, you held me so close and whispered that it would be ok. Even when I messed up, turned away and against you, you still loved me.
Now, I'm back on my feet and I have no one but you to thank. I'm so grateful for the stability you brought back into my life. Thank you.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Like the waves from the shore
I must now ebb
the time has come
to sail my oceans
Rolling away from you
like the waves from shore
rippling out to the vastness of the sea
that beckons my ship to folly.
I'll not ask you
to stand the night vigil
on the shoreline
of memory
You are here on the beaches of my memory
even though I drift the tides
If you should look
into a starlit night
and see a reflection of me
know only that
I will one day
come crashing again
to the shore
swept homeward
by the pull
of the tide
and you.
Marge Tindal
the time has come
to sail my oceans
Rolling away from you
like the waves from shore
rippling out to the vastness of the sea
that beckons my ship to folly.
I'll not ask you
to stand the night vigil
on the shoreline
of memory
You are here on the beaches of my memory
even though I drift the tides
If you should look
into a starlit night
and see a reflection of me
know only that
I will one day
come crashing again
to the shore
swept homeward
by the pull
of the tide
and you.
Marge Tindal
A compilation of thought...
the compelling forces that lie deep within all humans are muted into a muffled cymbal hope seems to trickle away and be replaced by despair when peace fritters away leaving anarchy in the mind but.
Still waters run deep.
Seek the oasis.
Still waters run deep.
Seek the oasis.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Ba Hamba
Go on now, I'm tired of crying. You can leave now, I won't stop you. I'm so tired of crying. Many times i've pulled you back in my arms and stopped you from leaving, but now no. Go on now.
If this is love, then it's not real. For every smile i have, two tear drops take its place. Enough now baby, I can't take it anymore.
You saw me as your queen; you treat me now as your servant. You talked to me as your equal, your partner; now you ignore me. I was your friend; now I'm just your subordinate. Leave, my love, I cannot take anymore.
As I watch you walk away, proud and never looking back, my heart breaks. But I will not cry. For I know no man is worth my tears, and the one who is will never make me cry.
If this is love, then it's not real. For every smile i have, two tear drops take its place. Enough now baby, I can't take it anymore.
You saw me as your queen; you treat me now as your servant. You talked to me as your equal, your partner; now you ignore me. I was your friend; now I'm just your subordinate. Leave, my love, I cannot take anymore.
As I watch you walk away, proud and never looking back, my heart breaks. But I will not cry. For I know no man is worth my tears, and the one who is will never make me cry.
Angel eyes...
Notice the color of your eyes when you cry,
and the smiles you let pass by, and
how your eyes hurt
when your angel weeps.
And instead of asking why, or when this will be,
love truly and deeply
the language never to be understood by men.
Maybe then, there'll be one more winged life in the world...
from miles to miles
we were apart
ever since our
relationship started.
day to day
i pray
but all i get is loud silence
I've gotten used to the
sounds of my heart beating
really loudly every time I
hear your voice behind me
and realize that it is not you
but the sound of some other man's laughter
gazing deeply into his love's eyes
and I sigh and continue walking
thinking all the time to myself
"don't think about it"
Tripping over my thoughts and
my emotions
hugging my pillow so tight afraid
that if i actually listen i
will actually break down and cry and
totally lose it.
Time
has stopped.
Eternity
as I do not know it
has begun.
day stretches out and I
feel every second of every
minute of every hour
and the night becomes even
longer i'm cold
and alone
and i miss you
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Mirages - Part two
It has been a year and a half of pure bliss. Moses and I kicked it off instantly that day we met at my friend's party. I guess it was inevitable that we would indeed date. I mean, we had become inseparable. Moses. My Moses.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to celebrate life. Life indeed is beautiful. What blessing and honor it is that the good Lord, in His infinite wisdom, chose us to be here today. Even so, still with love and in love, He called Moses to His bosom..."
I closed my eyes. A sharp pain, like a stab, kept torturing me beneath my breast. I concentrated on the pain and the erratic beating of my heart.
"... And so it is not our place to question why the Lord chose to call Moses so young, and leave behind a grieving family and a fiancee. The Lord..."
Again, I switched off and tuned off the pastor's voice. I was not ready to confront the good Lord on this issue. For now, He had won.
Moses and I had been planning to start a family soon. For me, I was enthralled with the idea. I had discovered this maternal and caring side of me that I never knew existed. Moses, in his own gentle and caring way, had weaned me off partying and clubs. Some of my friends were green with envy; others thought I had just become plain boring. My ideal night out was watching movies with him and sipping wine. I was content.
"One should strive to live his life in a worthy manner. Worthy before the eyes of the Lord, and an example to all men. When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life in such a way that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice at the sight of your Maker. Moses was one of those who we truly can say his life was nipped in the bud. He loved his family so much and was always dedicated to them. His friends always knew they had a true friend in him. Cindy, his girl friend, knew she had a rock in her man."
I jumped at the mention of my name. I barely was paying attention to the sermon; so lost was I in the pain of my memories. My cheeks were wet with tears that I did not know I had shed. I wiped them off furiously and tried to focus on the pastor.
"And so we pray for comfort for the family and friends. We pray that the Lord may abide with them and carry them through this difficult period. You are the Father to the fatherless; a Brother to the brotherless; a Son to the sonless..."
He proposed to me in Coast. Retrospectively, I realized that he must have gone through so much trouble; simple man that he is. Was. I will never get used to talking about him in the past tense. We had gone with a group of friends for a short holiday. Everyone, except me, knew the agenda of the trip. So on that Saturday, we all went sky diving save for him. He claimed not to be feeling too well, and refused to hear any reasons I put up to stay with him.
Three and a half hours later we returned to the hotel, exhilarated and excited. I went straight to Moses' room, only to find he was not there. A few minutes later, he sent me a message saying that he was feeling better, he had taken a walk and that he would see me in a short while at the hotel.
I went to the pool for a luxurious swim to while the time away. At around five, Moses came to the pool side and found me asleep on a beach bed, book in hand. He gently woke me up and told me that he had reserved a table for us for dinner at a floating restaurant in Malindi. He requested for me to go to my room and change into "something pretty" as he put it, so that we could leave as soon as possible.
The drive down to Malindi was scenic. Watching the sunset from the highway, I felt so blessed and lucky to have such a man in my life. My friends were cracking jokes and having a really good time. Wow.
We finally reached the restaurant. It was a sight to behold. The restaurant was actually a ship. Tiny lanterns hang lit at regular intervals casting a soft glow in the fading day light. At the bow ran tubes of light illuminating tables of food, many of which were delicacies. At the stern was a disco ball hanging from the roof over what was presumably the dance floor. There was a band playing soft jazz music right next to the dance floor. The furnishings gave the whole place a somewhat rustic ambience. In a nutshell, it was beautiful.
We sat down to a three course meal that was sinfully delicious. A bottle of white wine. Prawns served with lemon wedges, chicken served with pepper sauce, and a tossed mixed salad. And for dessert, chocolate cake with whipped cream and strawberries.
At the end of the meal we sat back and relaxed, enjoying each other's company. At one point, I turned to Moses in excitement, exclaiming, "They are playing our song!" This was Brian McKnight's The Love of my Life.
I was jolted out of my reverie when I noticed people walking out of the chapel. I had not even noticed that the service was over. I wearily got up and joined Moses' family behind his coffin. Simple mahogany. A tribute to him.
Outside the chapel, we all got into the hearse car and made our way to his final resting place. I looked around me. Before me sat his mother, stoic now as she had always been. His sister, her eyes swollen with crying. His brother, his features so taut from fighting back tears. They all expressed all I felt, yet they seemed to be completely alienated from the on-goings...
Moses got up and shyly asked me to dance, to which I demurely accepted. On the dance floor it was as if no one else existed or mattered. It was just the two of us. Looking into his eyes I could see his love for me shine through.
Suddenly, he pulled away from me and fumbled in his pocket for something. I looked on at him quizzically. My expression quickly changed from that of puzzlement, then curiosity, then disbelief. He went down on one knee and uttered words that would forever change my life as I knew it. "Cindy, will you marry me?"
Tears running down my face, I could only smile and nod vigorously; so overwhelmed was I. Cheers went round the room as he got up and slipped a beautiful ring on my finger and then gently kissed me.
We got out of the car and walked a short distance to the grave. The pall bearers had already arrived and had set up everything for the burial. The pastor began with a prayer, then his body was slowly lowered into the grave. I felt as if I too was being buried with him...
I burst through the doors of the hospital, having received a call from one of Moses' friends that there had been a bad accident. Moses had been workin late and as he was driving home, a drunk driver had hit him. He lost control of the car and had rolled several times. Good Samaritans had rushed him to the emergency room where he was taken to the intensive care unit.
I took one look at him and almost fainted. Swathed in bandages, he looked so lifeless. Tubes ran in and out of his body trying to feed him vital liquids and pain killers. He was scheduled for an operation to ease the pressure on his brain as a result of the accident. I sat there and prayed to God, pleading for his life and telling the Lord about all the plans we had.
At one point I must have been talking out loud, because I felt Moses' hand twitch then his eyes opened. I called for the nurses for I thought that this was a good sign, but it was not to be. He looked at me straight in the eyes and mouthed the words, "I love you." With that, he took his last breath.
The mourners were called to throw clods of earth into the grave. Each time the soil hit his coffin was a nail into my own coffin. The wails and moans of those around me made me feel his absence even more acutely. The pastor intoned, "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust." The ceremony was over and I turned and walked away, devoid of any emotion.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to celebrate life. Life indeed is beautiful. What blessing and honor it is that the good Lord, in His infinite wisdom, chose us to be here today. Even so, still with love and in love, He called Moses to His bosom..."
I closed my eyes. A sharp pain, like a stab, kept torturing me beneath my breast. I concentrated on the pain and the erratic beating of my heart.
"... And so it is not our place to question why the Lord chose to call Moses so young, and leave behind a grieving family and a fiancee. The Lord..."
Again, I switched off and tuned off the pastor's voice. I was not ready to confront the good Lord on this issue. For now, He had won.
Moses and I had been planning to start a family soon. For me, I was enthralled with the idea. I had discovered this maternal and caring side of me that I never knew existed. Moses, in his own gentle and caring way, had weaned me off partying and clubs. Some of my friends were green with envy; others thought I had just become plain boring. My ideal night out was watching movies with him and sipping wine. I was content.
"One should strive to live his life in a worthy manner. Worthy before the eyes of the Lord, and an example to all men. When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life in such a way that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice at the sight of your Maker. Moses was one of those who we truly can say his life was nipped in the bud. He loved his family so much and was always dedicated to them. His friends always knew they had a true friend in him. Cindy, his girl friend, knew she had a rock in her man."
I jumped at the mention of my name. I barely was paying attention to the sermon; so lost was I in the pain of my memories. My cheeks were wet with tears that I did not know I had shed. I wiped them off furiously and tried to focus on the pastor.
"And so we pray for comfort for the family and friends. We pray that the Lord may abide with them and carry them through this difficult period. You are the Father to the fatherless; a Brother to the brotherless; a Son to the sonless..."
He proposed to me in Coast. Retrospectively, I realized that he must have gone through so much trouble; simple man that he is. Was. I will never get used to talking about him in the past tense. We had gone with a group of friends for a short holiday. Everyone, except me, knew the agenda of the trip. So on that Saturday, we all went sky diving save for him. He claimed not to be feeling too well, and refused to hear any reasons I put up to stay with him.
Three and a half hours later we returned to the hotel, exhilarated and excited. I went straight to Moses' room, only to find he was not there. A few minutes later, he sent me a message saying that he was feeling better, he had taken a walk and that he would see me in a short while at the hotel.
I went to the pool for a luxurious swim to while the time away. At around five, Moses came to the pool side and found me asleep on a beach bed, book in hand. He gently woke me up and told me that he had reserved a table for us for dinner at a floating restaurant in Malindi. He requested for me to go to my room and change into "something pretty" as he put it, so that we could leave as soon as possible.
The drive down to Malindi was scenic. Watching the sunset from the highway, I felt so blessed and lucky to have such a man in my life. My friends were cracking jokes and having a really good time. Wow.
We finally reached the restaurant. It was a sight to behold. The restaurant was actually a ship. Tiny lanterns hang lit at regular intervals casting a soft glow in the fading day light. At the bow ran tubes of light illuminating tables of food, many of which were delicacies. At the stern was a disco ball hanging from the roof over what was presumably the dance floor. There was a band playing soft jazz music right next to the dance floor. The furnishings gave the whole place a somewhat rustic ambience. In a nutshell, it was beautiful.
We sat down to a three course meal that was sinfully delicious. A bottle of white wine. Prawns served with lemon wedges, chicken served with pepper sauce, and a tossed mixed salad. And for dessert, chocolate cake with whipped cream and strawberries.
At the end of the meal we sat back and relaxed, enjoying each other's company. At one point, I turned to Moses in excitement, exclaiming, "They are playing our song!" This was Brian McKnight's The Love of my Life.
I was jolted out of my reverie when I noticed people walking out of the chapel. I had not even noticed that the service was over. I wearily got up and joined Moses' family behind his coffin. Simple mahogany. A tribute to him.
Outside the chapel, we all got into the hearse car and made our way to his final resting place. I looked around me. Before me sat his mother, stoic now as she had always been. His sister, her eyes swollen with crying. His brother, his features so taut from fighting back tears. They all expressed all I felt, yet they seemed to be completely alienated from the on-goings...
Moses got up and shyly asked me to dance, to which I demurely accepted. On the dance floor it was as if no one else existed or mattered. It was just the two of us. Looking into his eyes I could see his love for me shine through.
Suddenly, he pulled away from me and fumbled in his pocket for something. I looked on at him quizzically. My expression quickly changed from that of puzzlement, then curiosity, then disbelief. He went down on one knee and uttered words that would forever change my life as I knew it. "Cindy, will you marry me?"
Tears running down my face, I could only smile and nod vigorously; so overwhelmed was I. Cheers went round the room as he got up and slipped a beautiful ring on my finger and then gently kissed me.
We got out of the car and walked a short distance to the grave. The pall bearers had already arrived and had set up everything for the burial. The pastor began with a prayer, then his body was slowly lowered into the grave. I felt as if I too was being buried with him...
I burst through the doors of the hospital, having received a call from one of Moses' friends that there had been a bad accident. Moses had been workin late and as he was driving home, a drunk driver had hit him. He lost control of the car and had rolled several times. Good Samaritans had rushed him to the emergency room where he was taken to the intensive care unit.
I took one look at him and almost fainted. Swathed in bandages, he looked so lifeless. Tubes ran in and out of his body trying to feed him vital liquids and pain killers. He was scheduled for an operation to ease the pressure on his brain as a result of the accident. I sat there and prayed to God, pleading for his life and telling the Lord about all the plans we had.
At one point I must have been talking out loud, because I felt Moses' hand twitch then his eyes opened. I called for the nurses for I thought that this was a good sign, but it was not to be. He looked at me straight in the eyes and mouthed the words, "I love you." With that, he took his last breath.
The mourners were called to throw clods of earth into the grave. Each time the soil hit his coffin was a nail into my own coffin. The wails and moans of those around me made me feel his absence even more acutely. The pastor intoned, "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust." The ceremony was over and I turned and walked away, devoid of any emotion.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Mirages - Part one
I have always been of the mindset that all human beings are inherently good. Yes, the tenets of the idealists do hold firm with me, even if only in a utopian world. In Utopia, people love one another for who they are, flaws and all. In Utopia, friendships are made easily, and enmity is rare. In Utopia... only in Utopia.
Living in the city all my life has made me a robust and fast-paced individual. This allows me to make friends easily. At a party i'm the girl who's mingling and talking with everyone.
Because of the many friends, no, acquaintances that i have made, I've always been invited to parties or events that require that ultimate party girl because that is who i was. I'm not that person anymore. But wait, I get ahead of myself.
It was the month of June two or three years ago when I met him. Tall and willowy, boasting a crew cut that would put a soldier's to shame. I met him quite by accident at a party. Ideally we would never have talked, but the fact that he was standing all alone near the radio sipping his drink caught my attention.
"Hi," I said to him.
"Hi," he replied.
"Forgive me for being so direct but what is a fine brotha like you doing standing all alone in a room full of beautiful, mostly single women?"
He laughed out loud. Let me take a moment to describe his laugh. It was a hearty one; one of those that come from the bowels of the stomach. And he had really white teeth one could almost think that he had them professionally cleaned. He also had a dimple on his right cheek that made him seem really young.
He said, "Well this is not my kind of scene. I'm only here because my cousin dragged me out because she said i'm too much of a recluse."
"Hold that thought. Let me get a refill of my drink. Would you like one?"
"Yeah sure, please I'd like a Coke."
"Just a Coke?"
"Yes please. I don't drink."
If his shyness had caught my attention, his apparent lack of interest in women and the fact that he did not drink definitely captivated me.
"So far, so good. You are interesting," I said when I returned, a Coke in one hand, a beer in the other. "So what is your kind of scene?"
"Definitely not this one," he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"Evasive, aren't we?" I shot back.
"No, I'm not being evasive. I just think you'd probably find it a bit strange."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"What's your first impression of me?"
"Well... You are definitely outgoing and you seem like someone who loves fun."
I giggled. "Well that's very true. But on the flip side, I'm introverted in some ways."
He snickered. "Yeah right. How?"
"I love having alone time. Many times I just like to sit and listen to music and write or read a book."
"That sounds cool, but how often do you do it?"
"Four out of every five opportunities I have to go out," I replied, smiling slightly.
He looked taken aback. "Wow," he began, and took a sip of his Coke. "I would never have figured. I mean, I know we've just met, but really, I wouldn't have imagined that."
"Well, there you are. So what is your kind of scene?"
"I like the arts. I'm into plays and cultural things and I like to go for such events."
"Really? That's so cool! I love plays as well! My favorite theater group is Festival of Creative Arts. What's yours?"
"I love FCA as well. I think they are awesome and really funny. But I also like Phoenix and Heartstrings as well."
"I love this! I rarely have someone who I can talk to about that aspect of my life."
"I won't lie, right now I'm impressed. I would never have figured you for an arts person."
"Ha, I've even subscribed to an arts news letter that tells me what's happening every week in the arts world."
"That's really cool."
"Again, forgive the boldness, but may I have your number?"
Shyly smiling, he said, "Sure thing. You really are forthright."
I smiled back. "Not all the time. But I like you. I definitely will look you up sometime."
"Yeah, that would be lovely. Maybe we could go for a play or something."
"I would love that."
Living in the city all my life has made me a robust and fast-paced individual. This allows me to make friends easily. At a party i'm the girl who's mingling and talking with everyone.
Because of the many friends, no, acquaintances that i have made, I've always been invited to parties or events that require that ultimate party girl because that is who i was. I'm not that person anymore. But wait, I get ahead of myself.
It was the month of June two or three years ago when I met him. Tall and willowy, boasting a crew cut that would put a soldier's to shame. I met him quite by accident at a party. Ideally we would never have talked, but the fact that he was standing all alone near the radio sipping his drink caught my attention.
"Hi," I said to him.
"Hi," he replied.
"Forgive me for being so direct but what is a fine brotha like you doing standing all alone in a room full of beautiful, mostly single women?"
He laughed out loud. Let me take a moment to describe his laugh. It was a hearty one; one of those that come from the bowels of the stomach. And he had really white teeth one could almost think that he had them professionally cleaned. He also had a dimple on his right cheek that made him seem really young.
He said, "Well this is not my kind of scene. I'm only here because my cousin dragged me out because she said i'm too much of a recluse."
"Hold that thought. Let me get a refill of my drink. Would you like one?"
"Yeah sure, please I'd like a Coke."
"Just a Coke?"
"Yes please. I don't drink."
If his shyness had caught my attention, his apparent lack of interest in women and the fact that he did not drink definitely captivated me.
"So far, so good. You are interesting," I said when I returned, a Coke in one hand, a beer in the other. "So what is your kind of scene?"
"Definitely not this one," he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"Evasive, aren't we?" I shot back.
"No, I'm not being evasive. I just think you'd probably find it a bit strange."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"What's your first impression of me?"
"Well... You are definitely outgoing and you seem like someone who loves fun."
I giggled. "Well that's very true. But on the flip side, I'm introverted in some ways."
He snickered. "Yeah right. How?"
"I love having alone time. Many times I just like to sit and listen to music and write or read a book."
"That sounds cool, but how often do you do it?"
"Four out of every five opportunities I have to go out," I replied, smiling slightly.
He looked taken aback. "Wow," he began, and took a sip of his Coke. "I would never have figured. I mean, I know we've just met, but really, I wouldn't have imagined that."
"Well, there you are. So what is your kind of scene?"
"I like the arts. I'm into plays and cultural things and I like to go for such events."
"Really? That's so cool! I love plays as well! My favorite theater group is Festival of Creative Arts. What's yours?"
"I love FCA as well. I think they are awesome and really funny. But I also like Phoenix and Heartstrings as well."
"I love this! I rarely have someone who I can talk to about that aspect of my life."
"I won't lie, right now I'm impressed. I would never have figured you for an arts person."
"Ha, I've even subscribed to an arts news letter that tells me what's happening every week in the arts world."
"That's really cool."
"Again, forgive the boldness, but may I have your number?"
Shyly smiling, he said, "Sure thing. You really are forthright."
I smiled back. "Not all the time. But I like you. I definitely will look you up sometime."
"Yeah, that would be lovely. Maybe we could go for a play or something."
"I would love that."
Friday, May 15, 2009
PLAYING FOOTSIE
Playing footsie. That’s what we have been doing all this time. By footsie I mean toying around with one another and acting all coy. You know, like with your first crush, or like with that friend who’s not really a friend because you both know what you have going on is more than just friends? Ok, I’m rambling now.
So, as I was saying, we have being playing footsie with each other. I don’t remember when I first realized that we had become more than just friends. I think it was probably that day when we went for lunch at this strangely exotic restaurant. A friend of mine had referred it to me when I asked her where I could go for a different dining experience. “I’m so fed up with always eating fast food or Chinese food,” I said to her via e-mail. She responded with the suggestion that I try out Cosmic, a restaurant that dedicated itself to no particular cuisine, and was located in Parklands.
So on that Sunday that was what we did. In retrospect, I realize that the signs were all there: the casual brushing of hands, the slightly lingering looks, the silence of two people comfortable in each other’s presence. Anyway, at Cosmic we had the Chef’s special; a mélange of several meats and starches. The food was good, the ambience even better, and the conversation divine. We talked about everything and anything, and before we realized it, it was dark. Commitments await us early on a Monday morning so we had to leave.
We took a taxi, planning to head to my place first to drop me off then he would be dropped off after. The taxi had definitely seen better days, but at that hour and in that part of town, the beggars that we were could not be choosers. Getting me home, and eventually him, was laborious. The taxi stuttered and coughed, and lurching forward violently, it broke down, much to our frustration. Luckily for us we were close to a petrol station and so walked there, hand in hand, with the taxi driver in tow profusely apologizing to us. We eventually got another taxi, and made it home without any more incidents.
Our relationship continued on pretty much an even keel. We went on lunch dates and the occasional dinner, we visited each other on the regular, we attended concerts and other forms of social fora. Never once did I imagine mentioning how I felt. I did not want to ruin what had revealed itself to be the perfect friendship.
Up until yesterday.
So there I was last night lying on my bed, enjoying a cup of hot chocolate while listening to the soothing tones of Lira, afro-jazz goddess, belted out in her sultry voice. I put on my laptop, and connected to the Internet. As I checked my e-mails, a message popped up: “Jazzy would like to chat with you. Accept?” Jazzy was his online avatar and mine was Coco. I accepted happily.
Coco: So what’s up?
Jazzy: Nothing much… I was watching news.
Coco: Boring!!!! I’m listening to Lira now… she’s just so awesome. I can’t get enough of her.
Jazzy: I know!! Leme put it on the comp. Gimme a sec.
(Five minutes later)
Jazzy: Sorry, ma was talking to me.
Coco: No that’s cool. BTW Youtube Prelude to a kiss by Alicia Keys. I’M IN LOVE!!!!
Jazzy: LOL! Dramatic!!!
Coco: YA OF COURSE!!! That song is so beautiful. She also rocks.
Jazzy: Ok cool I’m looking for it.
Coco: Wish you were here… I’m in dire need of a massage… hint hint ;)
Jazzy: LOL why is it always me who’s supposed to be there to give you a massage?
Coco: Coz I’m the one always asking for one! Have you ever asked me?
Jazzy: Ok cool… but that will only lead to trouble.
Coco: What do you mean by trouble?
Jazzy: Nothing, just ignore that. I’m now listening to that song. It’s nice… really nice.
Coco: Stop changing the topic!!! Come on Mark what did you mean by that? I think you know me well enough to know that I will not let go until you explain.
(A short while later, which, to me, translated as an uncomfortable silence)
Coco: Well?
Jazzy: Gosh, don’t make a big deal out of it. I just meant that me giving you a massage would just put me in a tricky situation.
Coco: Tricky? What do you mean?
Jazzy: Jessica, stop playing dumb. You know what I mean.
Coco: No I do not. I wouldn’t be asking if I knew what you meant ok? Ok, I just don’t want to misunderstand you.
Jazzy: I think you know how much I like you… as in I like you more than a friend.
Coco: Uh huh…
(At this point in time, I was shocked because I couldn’t believe that we were having this conversation.)
Jazzy: Yeah.
Coco: How long have you felt this way?
Jazzy: A while now… Can we please change the subject?
Coco: No… So why didn’t you say anything to me?
Jazzy: What really would I tell you? You always looked at me as your really good friend.
Coco: How do you know that?
Jazzy: Well, if the opposite is true, why haven’t you said anything to me?
Coco: Because… ok, I understand where you are coming from. I also thought you considered me a close friend.
Jazzy: Uh huh…
Coco: Ok this is so weird… I can’t believe we are having this conversation.
Jazzy: Me too… I think some things are best explained face to face.
Coco: So you’ll expound on all these tomorrow?
Jazzy: Yes I will… I’m off to sleep now.
Coco: Have a good night and sweetest dreams… of me ;)
Jazzy: LOL you too… hugs and kisses!
I closed my eyes and smiled; shivering in delicious anticipation.
So, as I was saying, we have being playing footsie with each other. I don’t remember when I first realized that we had become more than just friends. I think it was probably that day when we went for lunch at this strangely exotic restaurant. A friend of mine had referred it to me when I asked her where I could go for a different dining experience. “I’m so fed up with always eating fast food or Chinese food,” I said to her via e-mail. She responded with the suggestion that I try out Cosmic, a restaurant that dedicated itself to no particular cuisine, and was located in Parklands.
So on that Sunday that was what we did. In retrospect, I realize that the signs were all there: the casual brushing of hands, the slightly lingering looks, the silence of two people comfortable in each other’s presence. Anyway, at Cosmic we had the Chef’s special; a mélange of several meats and starches. The food was good, the ambience even better, and the conversation divine. We talked about everything and anything, and before we realized it, it was dark. Commitments await us early on a Monday morning so we had to leave.
We took a taxi, planning to head to my place first to drop me off then he would be dropped off after. The taxi had definitely seen better days, but at that hour and in that part of town, the beggars that we were could not be choosers. Getting me home, and eventually him, was laborious. The taxi stuttered and coughed, and lurching forward violently, it broke down, much to our frustration. Luckily for us we were close to a petrol station and so walked there, hand in hand, with the taxi driver in tow profusely apologizing to us. We eventually got another taxi, and made it home without any more incidents.
Our relationship continued on pretty much an even keel. We went on lunch dates and the occasional dinner, we visited each other on the regular, we attended concerts and other forms of social fora. Never once did I imagine mentioning how I felt. I did not want to ruin what had revealed itself to be the perfect friendship.
Up until yesterday.
So there I was last night lying on my bed, enjoying a cup of hot chocolate while listening to the soothing tones of Lira, afro-jazz goddess, belted out in her sultry voice. I put on my laptop, and connected to the Internet. As I checked my e-mails, a message popped up: “Jazzy would like to chat with you. Accept?” Jazzy was his online avatar and mine was Coco. I accepted happily.
Coco: So what’s up?
Jazzy: Nothing much… I was watching news.
Coco: Boring!!!! I’m listening to Lira now… she’s just so awesome. I can’t get enough of her.
Jazzy: I know!! Leme put it on the comp. Gimme a sec.
(Five minutes later)
Jazzy: Sorry, ma was talking to me.
Coco: No that’s cool. BTW Youtube Prelude to a kiss by Alicia Keys. I’M IN LOVE!!!!
Jazzy: LOL! Dramatic!!!
Coco: YA OF COURSE!!! That song is so beautiful. She also rocks.
Jazzy: Ok cool I’m looking for it.
Coco: Wish you were here… I’m in dire need of a massage… hint hint ;)
Jazzy: LOL why is it always me who’s supposed to be there to give you a massage?
Coco: Coz I’m the one always asking for one! Have you ever asked me?
Jazzy: Ok cool… but that will only lead to trouble.
Coco: What do you mean by trouble?
Jazzy: Nothing, just ignore that. I’m now listening to that song. It’s nice… really nice.
Coco: Stop changing the topic!!! Come on Mark what did you mean by that? I think you know me well enough to know that I will not let go until you explain.
(A short while later, which, to me, translated as an uncomfortable silence)
Coco: Well?
Jazzy: Gosh, don’t make a big deal out of it. I just meant that me giving you a massage would just put me in a tricky situation.
Coco: Tricky? What do you mean?
Jazzy: Jessica, stop playing dumb. You know what I mean.
Coco: No I do not. I wouldn’t be asking if I knew what you meant ok? Ok, I just don’t want to misunderstand you.
Jazzy: I think you know how much I like you… as in I like you more than a friend.
Coco: Uh huh…
(At this point in time, I was shocked because I couldn’t believe that we were having this conversation.)
Jazzy: Yeah.
Coco: How long have you felt this way?
Jazzy: A while now… Can we please change the subject?
Coco: No… So why didn’t you say anything to me?
Jazzy: What really would I tell you? You always looked at me as your really good friend.
Coco: How do you know that?
Jazzy: Well, if the opposite is true, why haven’t you said anything to me?
Coco: Because… ok, I understand where you are coming from. I also thought you considered me a close friend.
Jazzy: Uh huh…
Coco: Ok this is so weird… I can’t believe we are having this conversation.
Jazzy: Me too… I think some things are best explained face to face.
Coco: So you’ll expound on all these tomorrow?
Jazzy: Yes I will… I’m off to sleep now.
Coco: Have a good night and sweetest dreams… of me ;)
Jazzy: LOL you too… hugs and kisses!
I closed my eyes and smiled; shivering in delicious anticipation.
ALL ON MY BIG YELLOW BED SHEETS
My big yellow bed sheets. Ok, to be totally honest, once upon a time they were my mother’s big yellow bed sheets. Now, they were my big, torn bed sheets with a hint of yellow. Nonetheless, if they could speak, they would weave tales like tapestries. Of my parents’ infidelity. Of how I lost my virginity on them. Of my twin sister’s promiscuity. Yawn. As I lay on my big yellow bed sheets.
Such minor details about life I ignored. I mean, what more could I possibly learn about unfaithfulness? Or difficult times? My father probably deserved whatever my mother brought his way. They never tired of telling us how we were conceived under the influence of cheap liquor and illicit brew. All on the big yellow sheets. He went and fucked around; she went and screwed around. After several hazy days of drinking, partying, and fucking and/or screwing, they would meet in the bedroom. Quick grope, fondle, kiss. It was over before it even began.
Tara. My twin sister. Smooth, flawless skin the color of cocoa. Clear eyes that were always questioning. She exuded incorruptibility until she opened her mouth. She could embarrass a truck driver with her language. Of course, being a child of my parents, she had picked up a thing or two about the art of seduction. She was a mistress in the game and played for keeps. She always told me, scornfully, that her way was the only way out for our kind. Poor big, yellow bed sheets, currently some hand-me-downs from beloved said parents.
I went to the council school nearby. School was my other world, my break from reality. Reality was absentee parents. Reality was alcohol, cheap perfume and sex. Reality was maturity before time. Reality was a bitch. When I was in school, I became a sixteen year old girl who was allowed to be a child. I had dreams and plans. I could pretend that I was functional. I could hope that one day I would be released from the bondage of my life.
Tom, my best friend, also went to the same school. He was as dysfunctional and as confused and disillusioned as I was. Tom did not know his mother. She upped and left when Tom was just but a toddler. His father was one of my mother’s regulars (probably my sister had been there too, I don’t know. And I didn’t care), which meant he was also rarely home before midnight.
Together we would dream big. We would detail a life that had big mansions and flashy cars. Maids at our beck and call. We would travel to see the world together. And when we would have children, they would love us as much as we loved them. They would want for nothing that our hands could work for and provide. Oh, what bliss life would be for us.
Everyday we would build our sand castles in the air, and every evening they would be torn down when we went back home to reality. But we did not give up. We would patiently reconstruct them the next day, trying so hard not to let the worries and cares of reality bog these castles down.
It was during the Christmas holidays. Holidays were a nightmare for me. It meant that there was no school. No time out from life. No peace and quiet. No hanging out with Tom everyday. Just Tina and her men. My father wouldn’t be home. My mother would be drunk and passed out.
Anyway it was during the Christmas holidays. Tom and I would meet in the afternoons outside our school gates. We would walk for kilometers just talking. And building. And planning. He would then walk me back home then head to his own. But not today. Today was different. Surprisingly there was no one home. I invited him in and offered him tea. We talked as if we were sparing words.
It happened so fast, yet I can detail every minute. A kiss here, touch me there. Everything we ever wanted to say, but couldn’t, flowed out of us in waves of innocence and inexperience. Innocence. Inexperience. The worry on my face. His reassuring words. And on my big yellow bed sheets, I found love.
Such minor details about life I ignored. I mean, what more could I possibly learn about unfaithfulness? Or difficult times? My father probably deserved whatever my mother brought his way. They never tired of telling us how we were conceived under the influence of cheap liquor and illicit brew. All on the big yellow sheets. He went and fucked around; she went and screwed around. After several hazy days of drinking, partying, and fucking and/or screwing, they would meet in the bedroom. Quick grope, fondle, kiss. It was over before it even began.
Tara. My twin sister. Smooth, flawless skin the color of cocoa. Clear eyes that were always questioning. She exuded incorruptibility until she opened her mouth. She could embarrass a truck driver with her language. Of course, being a child of my parents, she had picked up a thing or two about the art of seduction. She was a mistress in the game and played for keeps. She always told me, scornfully, that her way was the only way out for our kind. Poor big, yellow bed sheets, currently some hand-me-downs from beloved said parents.
I went to the council school nearby. School was my other world, my break from reality. Reality was absentee parents. Reality was alcohol, cheap perfume and sex. Reality was maturity before time. Reality was a bitch. When I was in school, I became a sixteen year old girl who was allowed to be a child. I had dreams and plans. I could pretend that I was functional. I could hope that one day I would be released from the bondage of my life.
Tom, my best friend, also went to the same school. He was as dysfunctional and as confused and disillusioned as I was. Tom did not know his mother. She upped and left when Tom was just but a toddler. His father was one of my mother’s regulars (probably my sister had been there too, I don’t know. And I didn’t care), which meant he was also rarely home before midnight.
Together we would dream big. We would detail a life that had big mansions and flashy cars. Maids at our beck and call. We would travel to see the world together. And when we would have children, they would love us as much as we loved them. They would want for nothing that our hands could work for and provide. Oh, what bliss life would be for us.
Everyday we would build our sand castles in the air, and every evening they would be torn down when we went back home to reality. But we did not give up. We would patiently reconstruct them the next day, trying so hard not to let the worries and cares of reality bog these castles down.
It was during the Christmas holidays. Holidays were a nightmare for me. It meant that there was no school. No time out from life. No peace and quiet. No hanging out with Tom everyday. Just Tina and her men. My father wouldn’t be home. My mother would be drunk and passed out.
Anyway it was during the Christmas holidays. Tom and I would meet in the afternoons outside our school gates. We would walk for kilometers just talking. And building. And planning. He would then walk me back home then head to his own. But not today. Today was different. Surprisingly there was no one home. I invited him in and offered him tea. We talked as if we were sparing words.
It happened so fast, yet I can detail every minute. A kiss here, touch me there. Everything we ever wanted to say, but couldn’t, flowed out of us in waves of innocence and inexperience. Innocence. Inexperience. The worry on my face. His reassuring words. And on my big yellow bed sheets, I found love.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
One fine Sunday morning, I woke up and found my world dark
WELCOME TO GOD’S TABERNACLE CHURCH OF SAINTS
SUNDAY SERVICE: 10.00 A.M.
FELLOWSHIP: FROM 2.00 P.M.
PRAYER SERVICES: TUESDAYS AND FRIDAYS FROM 6.00 P.M.
Around 11.30 a.m., Sunday:
"I know He's coming again..."
"Sooomeeedayyy, soometiiiime, IN THE END!"
"Everybody put your hands together for Jesus. He is coming soon! Sing with me: I know He's coming again..."
The song rose to a fevered pitch. Everybody was dancing and jumping, caught up in the fervor. Sweat tricked down each face and was immediately mopped up with an already soaked cloth. “Halleluyah to Jesus,” they sang. I put my hands up, motioning for the congregation to sit down.
"Dearly beloved we are gathered here to PRAISE HIM! He is holy and worthy; the one true God. We thank Him for the gift of life!"
There were cries of "Amen" and "Glory" from the congregation. I raised my hands again for silence.
"Right now I would like to welcome the Right Reverend, His Holiness David Chamge."
Congregation rose to its feet, stomping and shouting, as the Reverend made his way to the pulpit. A man of God. Oh, how he was loved by all.
Somewhere around 1.30 p.m., Tuesday:
I walked into the offices of the Right Reverend, His Holiness David Chamge. The Reverend had been my mentor for many years ever since my wayward teenage days. He befriended when no one else wanted to, and even helped me get back on track with my education and school. Now that I was almost graduating, I wanted to join his ministry and help him spread the Gospel as a missionary. With Becky.
Becky was the love of my life. She also had been there for me through thick and thin. I loved her and wanted to marry her soon. We had talked of nothing else the last few months.
The Reverend received me heartily and ushered me into his office. We sat down and chitchatted a bit about this and that, then
“Pastor, I love Becky and want to propose to her.”
“Becky? Wow. Are you serious?”
“Of course I am serious. I thought you knew the extent of my feelings for her?”
“Well, yes, but are you sure? She is a lovely lady, don’t get me wrong, but she did not strike me as wife material, at least not for you. She has always been a tad bit… free, if you know what I mean.”
2.16 p.m., walking home:
I didn’t know what he meant by that. Free? My Becky? What did he exactly mean? I reached for my house keys, but before I could open the door, it swung open.
“Hi baby,” Becky said, and reached out to hug me.
“Hi,” I responded wearily.
Becky had cooked me a late lunch. The food tasted like chalk. I was too preoccupied to notice that Becky was hovering nervously around me.
“Steve, I’m pregnant.”
His words flooded my mind. “…a bit free, if you know what I mean.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN PREGNANT?” I yelled. “Whose?”
“What do you mean whose? I can’t believe you’d dare ask that question! And as for what I mean by pregnant, I have your child growing inside of me.”
“But we have never… Oh God we have!”
In a moment of weakness, we had done It. Becky had come over wearing some really nice looking shorts and we were fooling around. One thing led to another and here we are today.
“Are you sure that I am the father? Because, from what I hear, you are quite the popular girl!” The words escaped my mouth.
“You bastard!” Becky retaliated, anger creasing her face.
9.45 p.m.
“Hi Becky, it is Steve. Please call me and at least let me know you are home safe. I’m sorry. Please disregard my previous messages. Baby I love you and we can work this out.”
10.22 p.m.
“Becky I am really worried about you. You don’t have to talk to me just let me know that you are safe. SMS me, please.”
11.54 p.m.
“I love you and I am truly sorry.”
09.00 a.m. Wednesday
I walked into the offices of the Right Reverend, His Holiness David Chamge. I had a load on my shoulders that I needed to unburden and I didn’t know who else to turn to.
“Pastor, I need to talk to you,” I said.
“Come on in Steve. You look haggard,” replied Rev.
“Yesterday, Becky and I had a fight. I don’t know what to do. I cannot reach her; she refuses to reply to any of my messages. I have no idea where she is. I am going mad with worry.” I stuttered.
“Steve, these things are normal. You just have to give her time to relax. You know how temperamental women are. By the way, I hope it wasn’t because of what I told you yesterday. It was confidential, you know.”
“Pastor, Becky is pregnant.”
“Pregnant? Becky? What do you mean? Oh no! Whose is it?”
“Well there was this one time we…”
“Don’t tell me there is a possibility that you are the father!”
I hung my head in shame. What else could I say in the face of such an accusation?
10.43 a.m.
“Please call me. Thank you.” Finally some communication from Becky! I hurriedly dialed her number and began speaking almost before she could answer her phone.
“Hi Becky where are you? I am so sorry about yesterday. I was just in shock and so much had happened that day. I can’t…”
“I am on my way to your place now,” were her only chilled words before she hung up.
05.30 p.m., Thursday
My life was a mess. Becky was still not talking to me. All she did was pick up her keys and a few personal items. No amount of pleading, begging or cajoling from me would make her even glance my way.
I had done it. It was official. I had ruined the best thing I had going on for me. And all for what?
I decided to seek solace from my Creator. He could fix my problems.
06.39 p.m.
Nothing. I felt nothing. Emptiness filled my every crevice. I had wept and cried to God, hoping that I would have answers there and then. My guess: I would have to wait a little more.
As I stood in the church courtyard mingling with fellow worshippers, I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between two elders of the church, Mrs. Wanyoike and Rahab Wambui.
“I couldn’t believe it when my sister told me that he was the father!” said Mrs. Wanyoike.
“How can she be sure? I mean, I really don’t believe that he is capable of that!”
“She swears that it is him… she has never lied to me as far as I know...”
I couldn’t listen in anymore. What I had heard was enough.
09.36 p.m., at home:
Doubts began to fill my mind. Surely could all this be real?
10.00 a.m., Friday:
I picked up my phone and sent a really long message to Becky. “Dear Becky, I really would like to see you and explain some things. I am sorry again for what happened on Tuesday. I believe that you are carrying my child and that you have never done anything to compromise our relationship. Please forgive me. I believe I have some news that may be of interest to you and also kind of explain, though not excuse my behavior.”
She replied, “Ok. I will come over to your place in an hour.”
Great! At least we were making progress.
11.06 a.m.
Our greetings at the door were awkward. I reached out to hug her; she stretched out her hand to greet me. She took a seat and looked at me. I explained to her all that had transpired since Thursday as I paced up and down the sitting room.
Becky begun to speak. “I can see why he would call me loose. He approached me asking for sexual favors three times, and three times I rejected him. I could not confide in you because you trusted him so much.”
Around 11.30 a.m., Sunday:
"I know He's coming again..."
"Sooomeeedayyy, soometiiiime, IN THE END!"
"Everybody put your hands together for Jesus. He is coming soon! Sing with me: I know He's coming again..."
The song rose to a fevered pitch. Everybody was dancing and jumping, caught up in the fervor. Sweat tricked down each face and was immediately mopped up with an already soaked cloth. “Halleluyah to Jesus,” they sang. I put my hands up, motioning for the congregation to sit down.
"Dearly beloved we are gathered here to PRAISE HIM! He is holy and worthy; the one true God. We thank Him for the gift of life!"
There were cries of "Amen" and "Glory" from the congregation. I raised my hands again for silence.
"Right now I would like to welcome the Right Reverend, His Holiness David Chamge."
Congregation rose to its feet, stomping and shouting, as the Reverend made his way to the pulpit. A man of God. Oh, how he was loved by all.
“But before he comes up, I would like to welcome Teresia back. She is the proud mother of a bouncing baby boy called Emmanuel. Teresia, why don’t you come up here we pray together?”
Teresia was Mrs. Wanyoike’s sister. As she made her way up to the pulpit, I called up several other members of the congregation onto the pulpit.
I began to speak. “See all this people are God’s children. They are His dedicated servants who would do anything for His ministry. But when one of us takes advantage of these innocent lambs, it becomes a sin. Is that not right, Reverend?” I asked turning to face him.
“You are Teresia’s baby’s father, aren’t you?”
“..Why… that’s preposterous! How dare you accuse me of something so unholy?”
“See, church,” I continued as if I had not been interrupted. “The Reverend has been soliciting for favors from all these people. He even tried to sleep with my Becky. Should any of then refuse, they somehow ‘fall from favor’ and are no longer valued members of this church.”
You could have heard a pin drop. The tension was palpable. The Reverend looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest. Try as he might, no words left his mouth.
SUNDAY SERVICE: 10.00 A.M.
FELLOWSHIP: FROM 2.00 P.M.
PRAYER SERVICES: TUESDAYS AND FRIDAYS FROM 6.00 P.M.
Around 11.30 a.m., Sunday:
"I know He's coming again..."
"Sooomeeedayyy, soometiiiime, IN THE END!"
"Everybody put your hands together for Jesus. He is coming soon! Sing with me: I know He's coming again..."
The song rose to a fevered pitch. Everybody was dancing and jumping, caught up in the fervor. Sweat tricked down each face and was immediately mopped up with an already soaked cloth. “Halleluyah to Jesus,” they sang. I put my hands up, motioning for the congregation to sit down.
"Dearly beloved we are gathered here to PRAISE HIM! He is holy and worthy; the one true God. We thank Him for the gift of life!"
There were cries of "Amen" and "Glory" from the congregation. I raised my hands again for silence.
"Right now I would like to welcome the Right Reverend, His Holiness David Chamge."
Congregation rose to its feet, stomping and shouting, as the Reverend made his way to the pulpit. A man of God. Oh, how he was loved by all.
Somewhere around 1.30 p.m., Tuesday:
I walked into the offices of the Right Reverend, His Holiness David Chamge. The Reverend had been my mentor for many years ever since my wayward teenage days. He befriended when no one else wanted to, and even helped me get back on track with my education and school. Now that I was almost graduating, I wanted to join his ministry and help him spread the Gospel as a missionary. With Becky.
Becky was the love of my life. She also had been there for me through thick and thin. I loved her and wanted to marry her soon. We had talked of nothing else the last few months.
The Reverend received me heartily and ushered me into his office. We sat down and chitchatted a bit about this and that, then
“Pastor, I love Becky and want to propose to her.”
“Becky? Wow. Are you serious?”
“Of course I am serious. I thought you knew the extent of my feelings for her?”
“Well, yes, but are you sure? She is a lovely lady, don’t get me wrong, but she did not strike me as wife material, at least not for you. She has always been a tad bit… free, if you know what I mean.”
2.16 p.m., walking home:
I didn’t know what he meant by that. Free? My Becky? What did he exactly mean? I reached for my house keys, but before I could open the door, it swung open.
“Hi baby,” Becky said, and reached out to hug me.
“Hi,” I responded wearily.
Becky had cooked me a late lunch. The food tasted like chalk. I was too preoccupied to notice that Becky was hovering nervously around me.
“Steve, I’m pregnant.”
His words flooded my mind. “…a bit free, if you know what I mean.”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN PREGNANT?” I yelled. “Whose?”
“What do you mean whose? I can’t believe you’d dare ask that question! And as for what I mean by pregnant, I have your child growing inside of me.”
“But we have never… Oh God we have!”
In a moment of weakness, we had done It. Becky had come over wearing some really nice looking shorts and we were fooling around. One thing led to another and here we are today.
“Are you sure that I am the father? Because, from what I hear, you are quite the popular girl!” The words escaped my mouth.
“You bastard!” Becky retaliated, anger creasing her face.
9.45 p.m.
“Hi Becky, it is Steve. Please call me and at least let me know you are home safe. I’m sorry. Please disregard my previous messages. Baby I love you and we can work this out.”
10.22 p.m.
“Becky I am really worried about you. You don’t have to talk to me just let me know that you are safe. SMS me, please.”
11.54 p.m.
“I love you and I am truly sorry.”
09.00 a.m. Wednesday
I walked into the offices of the Right Reverend, His Holiness David Chamge. I had a load on my shoulders that I needed to unburden and I didn’t know who else to turn to.
“Pastor, I need to talk to you,” I said.
“Come on in Steve. You look haggard,” replied Rev.
“Yesterday, Becky and I had a fight. I don’t know what to do. I cannot reach her; she refuses to reply to any of my messages. I have no idea where she is. I am going mad with worry.” I stuttered.
“Steve, these things are normal. You just have to give her time to relax. You know how temperamental women are. By the way, I hope it wasn’t because of what I told you yesterday. It was confidential, you know.”
“Pastor, Becky is pregnant.”
“Pregnant? Becky? What do you mean? Oh no! Whose is it?”
“Well there was this one time we…”
“Don’t tell me there is a possibility that you are the father!”
I hung my head in shame. What else could I say in the face of such an accusation?
10.43 a.m.
“Please call me. Thank you.” Finally some communication from Becky! I hurriedly dialed her number and began speaking almost before she could answer her phone.
“Hi Becky where are you? I am so sorry about yesterday. I was just in shock and so much had happened that day. I can’t…”
“I am on my way to your place now,” were her only chilled words before she hung up.
05.30 p.m., Thursday
My life was a mess. Becky was still not talking to me. All she did was pick up her keys and a few personal items. No amount of pleading, begging or cajoling from me would make her even glance my way.
I had done it. It was official. I had ruined the best thing I had going on for me. And all for what?
I decided to seek solace from my Creator. He could fix my problems.
06.39 p.m.
Nothing. I felt nothing. Emptiness filled my every crevice. I had wept and cried to God, hoping that I would have answers there and then. My guess: I would have to wait a little more.
As I stood in the church courtyard mingling with fellow worshippers, I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between two elders of the church, Mrs. Wanyoike and Rahab Wambui.
“I couldn’t believe it when my sister told me that he was the father!” said Mrs. Wanyoike.
“How can she be sure? I mean, I really don’t believe that he is capable of that!”
“She swears that it is him… she has never lied to me as far as I know...”
I couldn’t listen in anymore. What I had heard was enough.
09.36 p.m., at home:
Doubts began to fill my mind. Surely could all this be real?
10.00 a.m., Friday:
I picked up my phone and sent a really long message to Becky. “Dear Becky, I really would like to see you and explain some things. I am sorry again for what happened on Tuesday. I believe that you are carrying my child and that you have never done anything to compromise our relationship. Please forgive me. I believe I have some news that may be of interest to you and also kind of explain, though not excuse my behavior.”
She replied, “Ok. I will come over to your place in an hour.”
Great! At least we were making progress.
11.06 a.m.
Our greetings at the door were awkward. I reached out to hug her; she stretched out her hand to greet me. She took a seat and looked at me. I explained to her all that had transpired since Thursday as I paced up and down the sitting room.
Becky begun to speak. “I can see why he would call me loose. He approached me asking for sexual favors three times, and three times I rejected him. I could not confide in you because you trusted him so much.”
Around 11.30 a.m., Sunday:
"I know He's coming again..."
"Sooomeeedayyy, soometiiiime, IN THE END!"
"Everybody put your hands together for Jesus. He is coming soon! Sing with me: I know He's coming again..."
The song rose to a fevered pitch. Everybody was dancing and jumping, caught up in the fervor. Sweat tricked down each face and was immediately mopped up with an already soaked cloth. “Halleluyah to Jesus,” they sang. I put my hands up, motioning for the congregation to sit down.
"Dearly beloved we are gathered here to PRAISE HIM! He is holy and worthy; the one true God. We thank Him for the gift of life!"
There were cries of "Amen" and "Glory" from the congregation. I raised my hands again for silence.
"Right now I would like to welcome the Right Reverend, His Holiness David Chamge."
Congregation rose to its feet, stomping and shouting, as the Reverend made his way to the pulpit. A man of God. Oh, how he was loved by all.
“But before he comes up, I would like to welcome Teresia back. She is the proud mother of a bouncing baby boy called Emmanuel. Teresia, why don’t you come up here we pray together?”
Teresia was Mrs. Wanyoike’s sister. As she made her way up to the pulpit, I called up several other members of the congregation onto the pulpit.
I began to speak. “See all this people are God’s children. They are His dedicated servants who would do anything for His ministry. But when one of us takes advantage of these innocent lambs, it becomes a sin. Is that not right, Reverend?” I asked turning to face him.
“You are Teresia’s baby’s father, aren’t you?”
“..Why… that’s preposterous! How dare you accuse me of something so unholy?”
“See, church,” I continued as if I had not been interrupted. “The Reverend has been soliciting for favors from all these people. He even tried to sleep with my Becky. Should any of then refuse, they somehow ‘fall from favor’ and are no longer valued members of this church.”
You could have heard a pin drop. The tension was palpable. The Reverend looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest. Try as he might, no words left his mouth.
The true reason behind one's pursuit of wealth
A story is told of a wealthy man who would take walks every day to a lake to meditate. There he noticed a certain fisherman who would leave after capturing four fish only. This puzzled the wealthy man so much that he decided to approach the fisherman and ask him why he would leave after capturing four fish.
The fisherman explained that he would sell two of the fish and then take the other two as his meal then sleep the rest of the day.
"But why wouldn't you want to fish for more?" asked the wealthy man.
"Why should I?" asked the fisherman.
"So that you can sell more!"
"What for?"
"Then you can buy better fishing equipment, then fish more and sell more, meaning that you make more!"
"Why would I want to make more?" inquired a puzzled fisherman.
"So you can build a big house and retire in peace and rest!" exclaimed an exasperated wealthy man.
"But I already rest without having to do all that!"
The fisherman explained that he would sell two of the fish and then take the other two as his meal then sleep the rest of the day.
"But why wouldn't you want to fish for more?" asked the wealthy man.
"Why should I?" asked the fisherman.
"So that you can sell more!"
"What for?"
"Then you can buy better fishing equipment, then fish more and sell more, meaning that you make more!"
"Why would I want to make more?" inquired a puzzled fisherman.
"So you can build a big house and retire in peace and rest!" exclaimed an exasperated wealthy man.
"But I already rest without having to do all that!"
And then what?
"Dear Madam,
We are sorry to inform you that you have not been selected to join this year's program in....."
My resolve dissolved into tears. I could not read anymore. My dream, shattered with one sentence. I wondered what did the person who typed out the letter think? Did he or she consider the effect that those words would have? Or did they have a template; a kind of standing order?
"Oh Mary, be a darling and print out for me 1000 rejection letters. Thanks, you are a sweetheart! Oh wait, they do have to be personalized don't they? Aw shucks! OK wait, let me get the list of those who made it in... should be easier for you don't you think? Be back in a sec."
Anyway what did it matter? I was not leaving to go to my dream school. I was stuck here. With Them. God, how I had envisioned this moment; obviously it was not going according to plan. I had played it all out.
"Dad, I have been accepted to do law in Harvard," would have been my opening statement.
True to form, my step-mother would have looked up at me coldly and said, "We cannot afford it dear." My father would have continued to hold the newspaper close to his face as if he was myopic.
This was meant to be the point in which I would have triumphantly retorted, "I do not need your money. I have a full scholarship that also caters for my living expenses." And to the question of my air ticket, I would have said, "Aunt Mary and a few others are willing to help me put together money for it."
I had seen it all. How I would have prepared to leave within the month. How I was finally free from their bondage. And how, sweet sweet victory, I would have shown them that I was capable of making it on my own and that I was not useless, after all.
How I missed mama. She with her sweet words of encouragement. Always telling me that the only other person better than me is myself. How she believed that I would amount to anything I put my mind to. "My darling the doctor," she would say with a half smile. "Or maybe a teacher. No wait, she'll be a pilot!" and I would giggle and argue with her, my childhood dreams safe in her. Mama. Disappeared without a trace one morning. I was twelve. Back from school expecting a hug and a hot meal from my mama. Nothing. Years went and still no sign of mama. It was as if she disappeared into thin air.
I was 16. Papa came home with Her. She hugged me and simpered, "She is so beautiful!" I can never forget the way her perfume smelt so pungent and clung onto me. Her nails. Red Talons. I hated her from the word go. Three years later, we bore battle scars of our incessant fighting. I had to leave.
Not anymore. "Nina, can you come downstairs and help me prepare the food." My step-mother yelling from the kitchen. I dried my eyes and walked out of the room, weak and ill-prepared for this battle.
We are sorry to inform you that you have not been selected to join this year's program in....."
My resolve dissolved into tears. I could not read anymore. My dream, shattered with one sentence. I wondered what did the person who typed out the letter think? Did he or she consider the effect that those words would have? Or did they have a template; a kind of standing order?
"Oh Mary, be a darling and print out for me 1000 rejection letters. Thanks, you are a sweetheart! Oh wait, they do have to be personalized don't they? Aw shucks! OK wait, let me get the list of those who made it in... should be easier for you don't you think? Be back in a sec."
Anyway what did it matter? I was not leaving to go to my dream school. I was stuck here. With Them. God, how I had envisioned this moment; obviously it was not going according to plan. I had played it all out.
"Dad, I have been accepted to do law in Harvard," would have been my opening statement.
True to form, my step-mother would have looked up at me coldly and said, "We cannot afford it dear." My father would have continued to hold the newspaper close to his face as if he was myopic.
This was meant to be the point in which I would have triumphantly retorted, "I do not need your money. I have a full scholarship that also caters for my living expenses." And to the question of my air ticket, I would have said, "Aunt Mary and a few others are willing to help me put together money for it."
I had seen it all. How I would have prepared to leave within the month. How I was finally free from their bondage. And how, sweet sweet victory, I would have shown them that I was capable of making it on my own and that I was not useless, after all.
How I missed mama. She with her sweet words of encouragement. Always telling me that the only other person better than me is myself. How she believed that I would amount to anything I put my mind to. "My darling the doctor," she would say with a half smile. "Or maybe a teacher. No wait, she'll be a pilot!" and I would giggle and argue with her, my childhood dreams safe in her. Mama. Disappeared without a trace one morning. I was twelve. Back from school expecting a hug and a hot meal from my mama. Nothing. Years went and still no sign of mama. It was as if she disappeared into thin air.
I was 16. Papa came home with Her. She hugged me and simpered, "She is so beautiful!" I can never forget the way her perfume smelt so pungent and clung onto me. Her nails. Red Talons. I hated her from the word go. Three years later, we bore battle scars of our incessant fighting. I had to leave.
Not anymore. "Nina, can you come downstairs and help me prepare the food." My step-mother yelling from the kitchen. I dried my eyes and walked out of the room, weak and ill-prepared for this battle.
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