PAIN

What’s the first thing that comes to your mind when you hear or read the word pain. I will tell you my definition through a series of experience I’ve gone through in the few years I’ve existed on this rock that revolves around a star.

5 year old me was a confident wanna be adult. I talked fast and acted faster. And when I bolted to the kitchen to to make myself a cup of hot chocolate, no one saw me. I was a tiny being who was and is still height challenged. The hot water jug had been placed on the table and as I clumsily pulled it, it tilted and the hot scalding water poured on my chest. The pain was so immense that after I let out a blood curdling scream, I lost conscious.

The following 8 months were grueling agony of trying to heal. School, friends, birthday parties, playing, joy, became obsolete. I then yielded an unfamiliar companion and confidant, radio. My love for music, art and communication blossomed there. Sundowner, radio theater, educational episodes on KBC became ingrained in me and left an impact.

Heartbreak. I was living on cloud 9 first time I fell in love. Then it happened. I never knew love could hurt this bad. My self esteem was in shambles. I lost weight, mind and will to live. I went to a place I never knew existed in my head. Then I found Quran. I know its a cliche when people say “God saved me” but am a living testament. I created a relationship so strong, intense, personal and fulfilling with my God that has enabled me to tackle most challenges in life I’ve faced with certain confidence and assuarity.

Aug 2013,I received a notification from my bank stating that the cheque I had issued had bounced and I had been penalized. I was broke. I couldn’t fathom how I had reached here. Memories of the times I spent money on unnecessary things haunted me the same way our government is being haunted by corruption cases. I had to learn to live within my means. Gone were the days where I used to eat chicken like a caucasian. Nowadays I clean the chicken bones so good that my fellows brothers and sisters from the western community would be proud of me.

Fast forward, to Feb 2018. I had been transfered to Doha Qatar. Money, status quo, and living in the wealthiest country in the world. Yet I was living my worst nightmare. My skin color, gender and age were my shortcomings when it came to my occupation. I did everything, frkn being nice to get the whole office dunkin donuts for two months. Nothing worked. I loathed how I felt preparing myself going to work. I despised how my co workers treated me. I shuddered at the sound of Skype call because I knew it was nothing but it would be something that will totally make me feel depressed. As I lay in bed, I wondered how I got myself here.

That morning I woke up, picked my passport and left for the airport. I left all my worldly possession I had over there. I slept two days at the airport for there were no direct flights back home. All I knew is that I was done, and I wanted my piece and peace of mind. And that I wouldn’t find it anywhere else than back home with the people I love and the environment that my soul knew.

So señoritas and señors, physical, emotional, financial, occupational pains that I have gone through has created fundamentals aspects of these woman you see infront of you. What doesn’t kill, makes you stronger, and gives you unhealthy coping mechanism that helps you to waddle through this journey called life.

Thank you.

Via Nay Nay.

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The Unbecoming – I Miss You.

There are times when I miss you terribly. Your familiar laugh. Your familiar voice. The feel of your arms.
There are times when I just want to talk to you. When I want to tell you all about my day. How my stomach hurt so bad from I don’t know what. How I have these plans to buy an apartment but I barely have any money. How I have laughed and laughed about my horrible weekend and how it made a great blog.
There are days when all I miss is company. That warm, cosy place where I felt like home. Not just any other person or friend. You. You right next to me on the pillow. You walking beside me by the roadside. You just teasing. Laughing. Playing.
So fool that I am, I looked for you. I heard your voice and it broke me. Instead of flaring up all the anger I felt against you, I just wanted to hold on. I just wanted you to keep talking. About anything. About any damn subject. I hoped that you would feel my desperation on the other end of the line. That you would just say, “baby I miss you terribly. I’m coming home.”
But of course you didn’t. And a second later… silence. The line is already dead. And now I’m holding onto the phone, begging myself not to call you back. Begging myself not to succumb to this weakness. Because you don’t care. You don’t care enough.
All I’m left with is this beautiful song in my head, that I can’t shake off. This melody that I can’t share with you like I used to.
“Darling just put your soft lips on my lips… we will just kiss like real people do. Darling just put your sweet lips on my lips… we will just kiss like real people do…”
A ballad that is so wonderful it has me twirling by myself with my eyes closed. Drifting back to the days when the melodies played for two young things just locked in each other’s arms, swaying silently. Blissfully. I smile because it’s like you’re here… for those few minutes, it’s like we’re back to the way it all was.
But as the last chords gently float in the air, I feel you slipping through my fingers. I open my eyes at last, and I am all alone.
And I don’t know whether to be at peace or in pieces.
Via Clover

Dear Future Husband

I wasn’t entirely sure why I want to write to you, but now as I start, I realize that it’s more of an apology than anything else.

When I was younger, I always believed that meeting you would be so soon, it would be so immediate; because I always thought that my life belonged to you and would be defined by you.

Of course, I fell in love with the first man that swept me off my feet. Fool that I am, I was so wrapped up in my fantasies and dreams that I couldn’t see everything that was wrong with it. I couldn’t see that this was something so twisted. And every time that it hurt, every time I cried, I told myself that all I needed to do was hold on tighter; fight harder- even if that meant that my knuckles bruised and my heart bled.

See, that’s the type of person that I am. I have never been afraid to love, and when I do, I just dive into it with all that I’ve got. I don’t know how to play games. I don’t know how to limit myself. I just give with an almost insane desire to just wrap one’s world in the light of mine.

This in itself, is so freeing. To submit to love and the fierce will, it exerts upon man. I read somewhere that few are ever strong enough to allow love to inhabit their souls like that. Few are ever strong enough to surrender control of their lives to this force.

Yet I don’t know if this makes me strong or weak. Because while I know what unconditional love looks like, or at least, just a bit of it, it is also this same thing that has caused me such agony. For love, I have felt pain as real and thick as a person, living and breathing in the inside of me. For love, I have been broken, consistently, repeatedly… but I never seem to learn.

But as I sit here, fighting to not be bitter, I realize that with every broken bone, my heart turned a bit darker. With every stab, the light in me went dimmer. With every cold rejection, the little girl in me dies.

I always wanted that the woman you meet is pure, inside and out. I ever imagined that the moment I met you, I would just know. You would only do. And from that moment on, everything would be perfect. Not because we are perfect, no, for how can there ever be an ideal kind of person. But because we would both be wrapped in a perfect sort of magic that would echo the song in our joined souls. That we would walk, no longer two, but 1 being. (Maybe I watched too many movies.)

Now I fear that if you ever find me, it would be this being, half alive, desperately holding onto grace but falling ever deeper into the abyss. Now I fear that if I ever find you, you won’t be the man I always prayed for and dreamed about- and I have no idea if that will be acceptable to me. Now I fear that perhaps you don’t even exist, for how could you be, but the Universe let the other side of you weep and bleed..?

Perhaps my most significant apology is that slowly I feel myself turning into what this world has made me. A skeptic. A cold soul. A hopeless spirit. My biggest apology is that if you show up, I may be sucked in too deep into the darkness, that I may not even recognize you at all. I don’t know if that’s the worst tragedy really. Oh well, such is life I suppose.

Via Clover

SELF-ACTUALIZATION; An ode to Cristiano Ronaldo.

A standard measure of a mans’ worth is the Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. The closer one reaches the top of this pyramid the more accomplished or fulfilled they are. As one completes the five levels the more whole they are posited to be or feel.

The first level or the foundation encompasses physiological needs. These are physical requirements for human survival, which if not met the human body cannot function properly and will ultimately fail. These needs are approximately or fundamentally nine in total and include oxygen, water, nutrition, sleep, sex, warmth, excretion, mobility, and pain.

The next level is environmental needs. Growing up there were a lot of empty plots of land around our neighborhood which were adversely occupied. We tended to convert this lots to our playing grounds, and since they weren’t fenced off yet, I could join adjacent estates’ children in playing football. Sometimes we had access to the Adidas 1970 world cup Telstar design inspired leather bound sphere football replica but more often than not we would wrap newspapers into a globe then envelope it in a plastic paper bag or two and just for good measure tie a string around it in a mesh style fashion squeezing the contents so tight the object could roll in a straight line and actually bounce.

Telstar, Official 1970 Worldcup Football

The middle passage of this strata ranking is social needs. As a Kenyan, a majority of your childhood was spent in prison-like institutions called schools. In my particular penitentiary, intermittent breaks of academic learning were spent kicking soda cans and plastic bottles around in a game of pseudo football when an actual football was not available. We couldn’t carry a proper leather one to school since the older boys would deprive us of it and our parents would whip us if it got stolen or lost plus ultimately our innovative polythene bound orbs were banned by the principal.

We had variations of the beautiful game such as the one-touch, where if you scored by kicking the ball once you faced a new opponent, any more than one stroke and you were disqualified paving the way for a new contestant in your stead. Of course, some of the popular kids would get to break the rules but how they arrived to be so high in the pecking order is open for discussion.

Self-esteem is the penultimate stage, and I was lucky enough to have never had an acne breakout during puberty in the meantime gaining a deep bass in my voice in the process. My adolescent years were spent perfecting a three-point shot on the basketball rim my elder brother had fastened to a Jacaranda tree I had hoped my father would build a tree house for me on. At the only basketball court in my town, I always managed to reach 7 points in a game of 21, when men twice my age had to sit out the rest of the play for not doing the same once the leading scorer reached 11 points. My strategy since I was small was to get the ball, shoot from outside the D, after which I would sink the first free throw earning two more points then choose to either score one more point with the second free throw or violently slam the ball against the board in the hopes I could recapture it outside the D for another attempt at a three-point shot for an additional two points plus the requisite two free throws earning one point each bringing a total of five to eight points.

I took up swimming fervently in high school until the pool was drained and the renovations took more than a couple of months. I remember standing in the deep end of the empty abyss, eyes closed, imagining the natatorium filling up with water lifting me up. A hairline fracture I neglected under my right knee limited my professional athlete career although such an excuse didn’t stop polio-ridden right-winger and forward by the name Manuel Francisco dos Santos alias Garrincha from winning the world cup for Brazil in 1958. Perhaps it’s my lack of discipline that’s to blame. My tardiness to school ensured I ran a kilometer three days a week as punishment plus my annual valentine’s day ritual of a thousand sit-ups keeps me fit. One of the many older girls I’ve dated who’ve witnessed my sporting prowess used to tease me on how dirty I was in the lower primary by evening after a day of scrimmage football. I pray the athletic gene traits I’ve been told I possess are passed onto my future generations.

Currently, I’ve taken up cycling and will resume training on my 15-speed mountain bike once I purchase new tires to achieve at least 50km in one and a half hours. I will reward myself with a ‘700’ race bike with 27 gears or more that I see on tour-de-France. I plan to do this and participate in the tour-de-Machakos before it becomes an elitist event needing millions of dollars sponsorship from multinational corporations.

The final and highest phase is transcendence, where one becomes too much associated with excellence in a field that they inspire others to be of the same caliber, even if it’s not on the same genre of practice. This because success has a generic trait of sacrifice and postponement of gratification, in layman terms: no pain, no gain. Cristiano Ronaldo is an icon who at the age of twelve left his Madeira hometown for Lisbon city thousands of kilometers from friends and family. Two decades later he has won every major trophy and award bar one, the world cup. Mayhaps in a fortnight from now this statement won’t be, but nonetheless, with his Spartan-like livelihood, I won’t be surprised if he graces our screens and grass on the pitch in Qatar and America. As with all racehorse champions, we shall retire him to pasture as a pedigree stud. FORZA PORTUGALE!

Via Sir Alan.

A Girl Named Happiness.

She’s this type of person that just pours all that she is into others.

She finds that all she needs is to find someone who will just listen.

Someone who will just humor her. Who will just take it all in and look at her like she’s more than just crazy. Like she’s just such a breath of life, of fresh air. This is the kind of affection and attention she craves the most.

So what happens is that when she meets someone who will accord her this, she just dives into it. She finds herself talking. Giving.

She becomes a fountain unending, a fountain forever flowing. She finds that she has this need to fill in her own empty space by filling another’s soul.

She fears that within her is this hole that she craves to have filled, yet cannot find solace nor this spring. She fears that she is forever condemned to long for this water without ever quenching her thirst.

She feels like a wanderer. Without a home or haven. She feels like in the depths of her is a little girl that wants to be seen.

Right now this little girl wants to dance to Indie Rock. She wants to sit on a rooftop and watch the stars. She wants to dance in the rain.

Splash and play under the raindrops until her hair is stuck to her face and she is breathless with exhilaration.

She wants to run between the trees in a forest. To just run as she disengages from every load that burdens her.

She wants to get high and lie on the grass watching the sky. She wants to sit on a hill and feel the sun on her face. She wants to watch the sun blaze red as it sinks lower and lower.

She wants to pour paints on a canvas- abstract mixtures of red and green and yellow and blue. All the colors of a rainbow in a mess that makes no sense but is so beautiful because it is her soul.

She wants the beauty of passion. She wants to feel arms around her.

Hugging her tight. She wants to feel lips on her neck. Tickling all her sensitive spots.

She wants to feel delirious laughter rising from the inside of her as love twirls her to music unheard and melodies only she can hear.

She wants to be wild and free. Wild and free like a bird. She wants to soar across the skies. She wants to watch the earth from on high.

She wants to take flight and leave behind all her fears.

She wants to free her soul.

Via Maggie Mungai.

Resolution __

 

Sleeping next to him, listening to him breathing while soft snoring made her tear up. He gave her so much peace, asleep or awake. She had never felt this way towards someone. It was a new territory to her. He was different yet so similar to her. He toned down her brazen personality. He understood her insecurities, her vices so well, that for the first time, the walls she built around her tumbled with not much of persuasion. From the moment they met, it felt like they had known each other for eternity.

Everything flowed, energy, conversations, silences, future, past. They were from two different paths, yet the stars had aligned, merged and became a unit. A unit that was so intense that every challenge they had before they met seemed like a tiny bump on the road. They smashed their personal and professional goals like Hulk when pissed. And when he started mentioning that he couldn’t wait for her to carry his child, her heart crumbled. At first, she thought maybe he had seen those cute children being posted on Instagram and got taken away. But each and every day he would find a way to bring up the topic. And each and every day she would find a reason to tell him not now. And she would see his face drop and that killed her inside.

As she waited for the results at her doctor’s, she already knew what the results would be. She hoped for a miracle.

“Miss Layla? Please come in. The doctor is waiting for you” said the nurse as she ushered her inside the doctor’s office.

She took a quick breath and walked in.

“Good afternoon Layla. Sorry for keeping you waiting. Today has been a busy busy day.”

“Good afternoon Doctor. No need to apologize. I understand” she said as she sat opposite him.

“I have all your tests here, and it seems your endometriosis is not getting any better. Unfortunately, you cannot go under the knife. I will change your progesterone drug.”

“So no babies?” asked Layla, not shocked but in despair.

” No babies Layla. As we had spoken earlier…”

” No doc.”

” Just think about it. Just because you cant have your own does not mean you cant be a mother” he said as he wrote her prescription.

She smiled flimsily, picked the piece of paper and left, her heart heavy. She always dreaded when her menses were about to start. Her body figuratively chewed her inside out, leaving her writhing in pain. When she was younger and complained, she was mummed by painkillers, hot water bottle and was told to woman up. When she got older, it didn’t get easier, but by now she was used to the pain.

Till one day she went for a pap smear, and her doctor recommended for a CT scan of her uterus. A couple more test and she was hit with the news that she is infertile. The story hit her so hard. She didn’t know what to do nor whom to tell. And she decided she would sort it all by herself. Through the years she had done that anyway,sort it all by herself.

Through the years she had undergone several surgeries secretively, been on medication, trying to reverse this curse. As each year passed and she got older, realization kept sinking in. She knew it was a matter of time before the world knew about this ticking time bomb. She avoided relationships like the plague, always ensuring that she never got attached. Her mother cries of her not getting married and giving her grandchildren had now started becoming more and more distant as each day passed.

She wanted to tell her so bad but she didn’t know how. She knew she was different, and the dear Lord made her stand out like a sore thumb. How can she save her face, in a culture where family and children came first? Where her whole life she had been taught and instilled skills to run a family.Where her family name and hers were determined by her womanhood. Where she would be congratulated for her PhD. yet, the next question asked was whether she is married or she has kids.

She was a lost soul. She tried to become “westernized” for she saw that to them, you can grow something despite the curse you had. She traveled to places where no ordinary soul would dream to go whenever she got the chance. Yet in the end, the lacuna couldn’t be filled.

Then she met Lewis. And everything changed. For once she decided to live for the moment. And that moment turned out to be 8 months of nothing but love, laughter, peace, and tranquility. But now, she had to leave. She couldn’t rob him of the happiness that he deserved, as a man. She didn’t know how he would react. She didn’t know how he would respond if he discovered that she cant be the mother of his children. And as far as she could gather, it will crush him. With a dolorous and disconsolate mind and heart, she opts to leave, for good……..

To be continued…..

Via Nay Nay.

Writing is all that is left – Part 2

2 a.m in the morning. I just got into bed after a hilarious one or so something hours of Zoolander (Dear God that movie is stupid!). I tossed and turned for a few minutes before accepting that I’m just not sleepy… yet. Then I remembered that the thing I craved most of all about getting a new laptop is the chance to do something constructive, or just active, with my insomnia. And, well, we all know that writing is my go-to. So here I am.

I don’t exactly have a topic I want to embark on tonight. To be quite frank I have no idea where I’m going with this. But God it feels so good to write!! It feels like… like I’m in another world if I’m honest. One where all my dreams are not only possible but are actually real.

Actually here.
In this world, I’m traveling to coast by plane. Not because I feel entitled and can’t ride a bus or anything, but only because I haven’t been on a flight yet. I get on that small gadget the Wright Brothers invented, and the beauty of this all is the excitement, the exhilaration of doing something new. At this moment, I totally understand what my buddy Richard Branson meant when he said, “Don’t ever lose the excitement of discovering something new.”
In this world, I’m sitting by the beach. The sun is not nearly as blisteringly hot as it would be in reality. The palm trees are more aloof than could ever be. There are laughter and shrieks all around, and I’m watching it all, smiling quietly as I write all about it. The little kids are running into the ocean and then scampering back ashore as the waves roll in. The lovers are walking hand in hand, probably on their honeymoon. The beach boys are shouting out all sorts of services they offer for a tuppence. It’s a typical day at the beach. I love every minute of it.

I get back there in the dark of night. This time, all is quiet, all souls are deep in slumber. All but the ocean, whose spirit is alive and ferocious. The only thing I hear is the crashing waves as they hit shore. Tide after tide after tide. I have to tell you, few things in this world bring out inner peace. The heart of the ocean is one of them.
In this world, I’m back home. Only, I don’t live with my parents. I have my own little apartment. It has a balcony with a beautiful view of the sunset. It has a small kitchenette where I make cinnamon pancakes when I’ve got cravings. There are paintings all over the walls- some made by me, some by actual artists (hehe, not that I doubt my skills) My loo has a tiny stack of magazines and novels (100% comfort as you do your business if you ask me) My friends won’t quit teasing me about it every time they come over) On the balcony, there are little pots of flowers. I don’t know them by name, but they make me so happy every time I sit with my coffee just gazing out. Among the flowers are a few herbs that Winnie said were good for me. Their scent, Lord their deep, earthy smell just gets me. That little garden makes me so proud. Maybe I should do a bit of spinach here while I’m at it.

In this world, I wake up each morning full of energy. Before I get out of bed, I remember my mantra; “Do not grow slack in zeal, be fervent in Spirit, serve the Lord.” And that is what I am dedicated to. Each day I purpose to follow excellence because I know that success will chase my pants down. At this moment (the real moment), I don’t see that distinction is being a teacher. I don’t know that it’s a mentor. I don’t know that it’s an artist, a counselor, an agribusiness consultant. I don’t see that it’s all of these things, or that it’s none of them. What I do know is that whatever the combination, I am definitely kicking ass. When I get into my oh-so-cozy bed each night, I smile knowing that I have lived my mantra, and now I can rest.
In this world, the thing I see almost most clearly of all, is a moment such as this one. Whether in a coffee shop, trying a new variance of latte, or in a bus, on my way to Tafaria (I’m definitely going there soon) Whether in my office, on a lazy afternoon, or in my house, listening to Tanya Stephens. I’m seated as comfortably as I can get, I have this beautiful machine on my lap, this goofy smile on my face, and I’m typing. I amuse myself with little jokes I’m inserting. Sometimes I cry because the story is too emotional. On some days I even forget my laptop. So now I’m at Java, waiting for a friend, busy with a pen and notebook. I don’t know that I exist without writing, even the dumbest of things. I don’t know that I ever was not connected to this great lurrrrrve of mine. But the thing I see most of all, even without knowing how, is that my words shall impact people. And someday soon I’ll be the one getting interviewed (whoop whoop!)
So, back to 2a.m. Back to reality. My tush is a bit sore from sitting up. My eyes are starting to get a bit heavy. But my heart is doing a little dance in excitement. This is the first piece on this laptop. Hopefully the start of many. Hopefully the beginning of a legacy. Because these dreams, they remain nothing but… dreams. And who wants to forever swoon at fantasies when they could actually turn them into the real deal?

Via Maggie Mungai

Read Part 1 of Writing is all that is left.

Mkeka: The fading gem

When my grandmother sent for me, I knew whatever she wanted to show or tell me was of importance and it couldn’t wait. Once at her place I was fed to the brim as usual,you know how grandmas are right? Done, she called me in her room that had this warmth and always felt like home. Next to her bed was the decorative mat, mkeka wa chole.

“Take it” she said.

Puzzled, I asked why. I knew I was supposed to be given one on my wedding and so i couldn’t understand why she was giving me one then.

“You are different and you will need it. And maybe when the day comes, I might not be here to hand this to you”, she said in a frail loving voice.

Baffled, I sat next to her on her king size bed draped with silky sheets.

“I know you already know how important the mkeka is. And I want you to pass this down to your children’s children because we are living in a world that is evolving as the sun rises.”

As of this very moment, as I write this, very few of us do possess a mkeka and we all  know the cultural significance it has.

Mkeka’s importance in Swahili culture is also embedded with Islamic/Arabic culture. Mkeka is a woven mat, mostly used during the early days made from an indigenous palm tree found at the coastal parts of Africa. It comes from two Swahili words woven together- mke (woman) kaa(have a seat). Mkeka is mostly used as floor mat but it has other many usage such as wall hangings, table, prayer mats and on beds. But the most cardinal use is when one dies and it is used to wrap the body, then taken to grave.

Back in the day, a newly wed woman would be given one as a present for her new house. A brief reminder of the mkeka from grandmothers and aunts to her would go like this; “Mkeka huu, wafungua kwako, kama mama wa nyumba. Mkeka huu mtaswalia, mtakalia, mtalalia, mtapigana juu yake, mtapendana juu yake na
wakati wako ukifika wa kutokua mja hapa duniani, utakupeleka mpaka kwenye kaburi lako. Mtunze mkeka huu Kwani ndio ufunguo wa nyumba yako“(This mat will be of great significance to you as the mother of the house. You will play and pray on it,sleep on it,sit on it,cry on it, fight and love each other on it. And when your time to depart this world comes,this mat will carry you to the grave. Take good care of it as it is the key to your home).

These words are just an echo of what you’ve always known your entire life but now are transformed from being words to reality of the life one is about to embark after that day.

Mkeka nowadays has flourished from being a palm tree mat to sisal, string, clothes and many other materials. You will always find a mkeka in a mosque, the only thing separating the cold floor and one’s feet in the house of God.

Creativity has also played a huge part in mkeka evolution. You will get baskets, fancy wall hangings, table covers etc at coastal markets and other cultural shops. You will find it in Swahili houses but not on the floor. It will be wrapped somewhere in the corner, only used when necessary.

Mwacha mila ni mtumwa – A Swahili proverb.

So get your mkeka, be it for decoration, or any other personal use, beautify and preserve the culture.

Via NayNay.

‘Mandatum’(It has been spoken).

 

[edsanimate_end]Kennedy space center, a rocket taking off , this was engraved on my tiny tee, my favorite Tshirt to be precise, a Tshirt that I wore every weekend when I was 10 years old. There was something about that shuttle, the flames beneath it that my small brain couldn’t comprehend but only got fascinated by.

The image was something like this.
The image was something like this.

Did you know that Thad Roberts, a NASA intern, spent 7 years in federal prison after having sex with his girlfriend on a bed full of stolen moon rocks? 🤪

Hoots here, hoots there, fast life, no this is not the outer space. Bright lights, strange waves, what’s there to worry? Nothing to lose each time you get knocked down. No fear of the unknown, just floating in a frequency only you can feel. Anything more exciting than this?

Well there is, I just came across a field, a field that we’re all entitled to plough, we’re are farmers by design if not by default. Is it a calling? Or do we stumble upon it by sheer luck? I told you about restoring your system to default when you feel like your software isn’t responding. It comes to a point that you have to pick the jembe and be a mkulima, scrub the mchagua jembe sio mkulima code off your script.

I just started ploughing my shamba, there are no bright lights, life isn’t fast here, every move matters. Every tool I use. In this field it’s ploughing ploughing but for the fruits that I’m sure I’ll enjoy tomorrow.

The shamba really looks fabulous so far, it rains sometimes, other times it pours, most of the time it’s like watching the sun set with the birds singing, thunder rarely comes. I’m not planning to put my tools down, not anytime soon. This is my Space center. I am the astronaut.

Farming I realize is within us all.

Reprogram, change your ways, there’s a field that awaits you. A space that is only meant for you.

Be good do good.

Reset.Default Settings *Happiness*

In my pursuit of happiness and finding a sense of personal fulfillment I decide to go on a small mission that I’ve been procrastinating for the past six months now. The modern Maasai and their contentment with life.

By now we all know that the Maasai are the Poster children of Kenya and the tribal Africa in general, Wakanda forever 😄.

They’re found at southern Kenya and Northern Tanzania. You hear the word Maasai you see Men jumping and beautiful women shrugging their shoulders.

On your way to town from Nyali at the buxton Malindi stage you’ll see some Maasai guys with strands of hair on their hands.

In the evening after work I decided to pay them a short visit . Luckily I come across one and I tell him about my happiness project. He is hesitant at first and I tell him the project will help a lot and he’ll be a part of it. He gives me a look of approval and we sit down for a chat.

He is 28 years of age and he introduces himself as Yakobo. Yakobo used to be a cattle herder in his hometown a small village off Arusha Tanzania . He had his formal education in Tanzania but he decided to come to Kenya to look for greener pastures.

He ended up working as a hairdresser after being inspired by a friend and he has been practicing it for the past two years. He tells me the knowledge he got back home from his Moran roots. He tells me he gets his products at Ksh 70 and his price for braiding the famous thin Rasta like dreadlocks ranges from 1000-3000 depending on the preference of his customer.

Apparently there are over 100 guys in buxton who specialize in the same field as him. On a good day he’ll go home with ksh 3000 and most of the days he’ll go home empty handed . I asked him if he ever tried other jobs but he replies that it’s the only one he’s comfortable at. He pays ksh 30 a day and he’s responsible for maintaining the cleanliness of his open hair salon spot. He’s very happy with his work and he tells me it took a lot of courage to leave his hometown to come out here to forge his happiness. I realize he prefers working on his own as he tells me he has a dream of starting his own salon in the area.

Midway through our conversation another Maasai passes by who’s curious of what’s going on, he introduces himself and I notify him about my project,I ask if his willing to share his story and he exchanges a glance with Yakobo communicating with an expression too subtle for me to discern. I tell him that it’s a story that’ll inspire others out there. He sits down takes out his tobacco pours a little on his palm and sniffs it.

He tells me how he helped out another young lady with a school project, he proudly tells me how the girls project was the best and he asks if the story will benefit only me, but I get to convince him that the story will be read by hundreds if not thousands of people who’ll get to know his work. His name is Moses , 53 years of age but he looks 40 , physically strong and he comes across with a good sense of humor.

He has a good demeanor and he portrays a feeling of pride something he flaunts with his posture and a bright smile.

Health is all that matters to him.Moses sells traditional medicines and he owns cattles back at his home in tanga . He tells me he decided to go into this work after he came to work as a watchman only to realize that the money he was making wasn’t enough to sustain his four wives and twenty one children back at home. He tells me one is allowed to marry as many women as the number of cows he can afford. So his option was to become a herbalist a knowledge that is instilled in them from their childhood days. Moses tells me he specializes in head and stomach related illnesses. I ask him what the blood in his jerrycans heals and they all burst out laughing, he composes himself and tells me that it’s a type of tree and it’s never blood, how ignorant I’ve been all along, sigh.

With a broad smile he proudly tells me how you’ll rarely find a Maasai at the hospital getting treated as they all maintain a good healthy living condition. He tells me again it’s hard to find a Maasai convicted of crimes as they keep themselves busy. He asks me to share his story and how he is angered by the copycats (people from other communities) plying their trade.He is worried with the pace at which the world around him is changing. I cut him short by asking him about the famous Maasai aphrodisiac. He bursts out laughing telling me it’s true. He calls it Mburgeri and only found in a specific location during August and November. A small one goes for 3000 and it’s purely natural with no side effects.

He asks for a photo with me and we take one with Yakobo too.

To me these guys are the epitome of contentment, a good path I took in my pursuit of happiness journey, I hope you find something that’ll keep you satisfied and give you a sense of purpose and happiness, don’t stop until you find it, destroy anything that will stop you in your quest to find the ultimate satisfaction, create good vibes and spread it all around.

Be good do good.