The brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned to their first ministry, to reopen a church in urban Brooklyn, arrived in early October excited about their opportunities. When they saw their church, it was very run down and needed much work.
They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Christmas Eve. They worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls, painting, etc. and on Dec. 18 were ahead of schedule and just about finished.
On December 19 a terrible tempest - a driving rainstorm hit the area and lasted for two days. On the 21st, the pastor went over to the church. His heart sunk when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 6 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high. The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone the Christmas Eve service, headed home.
On the way he noticed that a local business was having a flea market type sale for charity so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful, hand-made, ivory colored, crochet tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Cross-embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover up the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the church.
By this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus. She missed it. The pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus 45 minutes later. She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor while he got a ladder, hangers, etc. to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area. Then he noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet.
"Pastor," she asked, "Where did you get that tablecloth?" The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crochet into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Austria. The woman could hardly believe it as the pastor told how he had just gotten the tablecloth. The woman explained that before the war she and here husband were well-to-do people in Austria. When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week. She was captured, sent to prison and never saw her husband or her home again.
The pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the pastor keep it for the church. The pastor insisted on driving her home. That was the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.
What a wonderful service they had on Christmas Eve. The church was almost full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return. One older man, whom the pastor recognized from the neighborhood, continued to sit in one of the pews and stare, and the pastor wondered why he was not leaving.
The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Austria before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike? He told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for here safety, and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a concentration camp. He never saw his wife or his home again for all the 35 years in between.
The pastor asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier. He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman's apartment, knocked on the door and the pastor saw the greatest Christmas reunion he could ever imagine.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
A GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING..
She is, in many ways, an old-fashioned person, a woman who longs for a traditional, intact family around the table and sees herself as a mother first and foremost.She says of her husband ,“He’s a gifted man, but in the end, he’s just a man”.
.....
In every speech, she makes, it's clear that her husband’s political career has meant considerable sacrifice for her own family, and talks about how hard it is for her, personally, to find equilibrium. In one little-noticed admission to an interviewer, Michelle Obama estimated that over the past year, her husband had been home with free time for a paltry total of 10 days.
That means 355 days in which Barack Obama was not home with free time, and it was Michelle who had to get up and get the girls ready for school and get through the day, somehow, herself, and try to preserve some semblance of a career and a life. She is not a martyr who endures this kind of thing silently.
Today, she tells an anecdote about how the four of them — Michelle, Barack, Sasha, and Malia — travelled together recently, and “at one point someone asked Malia, our older daughter, what she enjoyed most about the weekend, and she said, ‘Being with my dad.’ “And,” she says, “it nearly broke my heart.”
The ‘boss’ behind President Obama Obama’s road to the White House was a whirlwind of a political life, the sort that rips marriages apart. For 10 out of 365 days, dad wasn’t at home, and it was Mum who had to get up and get the girls ready for school... and get through the day, somehow, herself.
Luckily, even in the struggle to preserve some semblance of a career and a life, she appreciated the value of sacrifice. give her husband the go-ahead to run. She feels that all children, not just hers, deserve “the resources they need to ensure a healthy future.” Michelle’s most important role is explaining Barack Obama.
She does this beautifully. It is her crucial task to humanise him, to make sense of him—to normalise him. “Who is Barack Obama the man, the father?” she said in Nashua, New Hampshire, during the primary campaign. “What is his character? What are his values?” It is the traditional duty of the political wife, of course, to reinforce her husband’s virtues, channelling the audience’s admiration through what has become known as the Adoring Gaze.
But Michelle Obama’s task is different, because Obama has such a complicated personal back-story. She often acknowledges to audiences that when she first heard about him, she assumed he would be strange. He is a bi-racial man, technically, who identifies himself, as he writes in his memoir, Dreams from My Father, as “a black American” and “a black man with a funny name.”
...........
...........
She has a quick and wicked sense of humour. Sought assurance Before agreeing to her husband’s presidential run, she insisted upon — and got — a series of meetings with his closest advisers, during which she sought assurance that the campaign was plausible and that it would be well run.
She is said, by those who know her, to be as smart as her husband. Some say she is smarter. Unlike her husband, who in his early 20s spent a great deal of time by himself, reading, she seems more of a doer, an extrovert, a list maker, not ruminative. She does not like to cook. She is almost heroically well organised. She is a better boss than an employee; she likes to be in charge and does not like her time to be wasted. She is forceful and can be intimidating.
Her husband says she is “a little meaner than I am.” Her brother says even family members are scared of her. He may or may not be joking. She is the person her husband trusts to be his radar about people; she is seen as more sceptical than he is. He calls her “the boss.”
.....
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This Saturday article was a challenge.Ask yourself will you be that gift that keeps on giving?
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This Saturday article was a challenge.Ask yourself will you be that gift that keeps on giving?
Friday, July 23, 2010
WHEEL OF LIFE
Because of my boredom I jumbled in to this website that gives you evaluation and drawing of wheel of life. Here is the result of my boredom. I got this one at mindtools.com
I'M WITH YOU
Im standing on the bridge
Im waiting on the dark
I thought that you'd be here
by now
Ther's nothing but the rain
no foot steps on the ground
Im listening but ther's
no sound
Isn't anyone trying to find me
Won't somebody come take me home
it's a damn cold night
Trying to figure out this life
Won't you take me by the hand
Take me somewhere new
I don't know who you are but I
Im with you
Im with you
Im looking for a place
Im sarching for a face
Is anybody here
I know
Cause nothing's going right
And everything's a mess
And no one likes to be
alone
Isn't anyone trying to find me
Won't somebody come take me home
It's a damn cold night
Trying to figure out this life
Won't you take me by the hand
Take me somewhere new
I don't know who you are
But I
Im with you
Im with you
Oh
Why is every thing so confusing?
Maybe Im just out of my mind
Yeah yeah yeah...
It's a damn cold night
Trying to figure out this life
Won't you take me by the hand
Take me somewhere new
I don't Know Who You are
But I
Im with you
Im with you
Take me by the hand
Take me somewhere new
I don't Know Who You are
But I
Im with you
Im with you
Take me by the hand
Take me somewhere new
I don't Know Who You are
But I
Im with you
Im with you
Only love can make a memory..
It's a cold February night. People are bustling through the streets, either pulling up their coat collars or wrapping scarves around their necks, trying to stay warm.
It's so cold today.I'm standing at my window, looking at the people moving like little dots. Standing in a heated room, I'm beginning to pity those people. Why don't they go home? Do they plan on wandering until morning?
"Almost time to go home! My boyfriend must be going crazy." One of the nurses breathe a sign of relief. "Still needs to work overtime on Valentine's Day. It's so unfair!"
"You are fortunate." Another nurse says. "Some people don't have anyone waiting for them."
"You mean Dr. Shu?"
Like Sherlock Holmes, my ears perk up when I hear my name.
"Do you remember how she lost control on this day last year?"
"Of course I do." A nurse shudders. "I've never seen Dr. Shu like that. Crying and yelling, like she was crazy."
They are talking about how I was last year. They are correct. I was out of control, like they said.
"You can't blame Dr. Shu. If my boyfriend died in front of my eyes, I would probably go crazy as well."
"Keep it down. She hasn't left work yet. She might hear you."
The two nurses are too late. I heard the entire conversation through the canvas wall.
"Dr. Shu, what are you doing standing here?"
Just as I was deciding whether or not to reveal myself, another nurse exposed me. I awkwardly step out. The 2 nurses who discussed me start to blush. Their faces became redder than the bow on Valentine's Day chocolates.
"I'm waiting to go home." I pretend that I didn't hear anything.
"Dr. Shu, you must have gotten too involved in your work. It's already past time to go home. See you tomorrow. Happy Valentine's Day!" She waves goodbye.
"Happy Valentine's Day." I wave back and watch the 2 nurses hurry away.
That's fine. I was ready to go home anyway. Even though no one is waiting
for me, at least there's a lazy cat waiting for me to feed.
After I come home, the first thing I do is feed the cat. I forgot when I first had the cat. Probably since last year's Valentine's Day. At that time, I was like an abandoned cat, with eyes filled with despair. Cats don't cry, I do. That's the only difference.
"Better drink all the milk or I'll skin you." I threatened the cat. Her name is Christine, my least favorite English name. I don't know why I named the cat Christine. Christine meowed once to let me know she heard me, but her eyes are complaining about my severity. Her eyes remind me of someone I used to know, standing in front of me with eyes of rebellions.
A year ago today, I had lunch with my boyfriend and took the opportunity to complain to him.
"Today is Valentine's Day. Why didn't you give me any flowers?"
He raised his eyebrow. "Why should I give you flowers? You are not my anyone."
"Then... you should at least give me a card!" I pouted my lips, hurt by his tone.
"I know, I know. After lunch, I'll send you an e-card."
E-card. That sounds so impersonal, but that's the way he is. "You have to e-mail it to me. I'll be waiting." I excitedly smiled and planned to sneak home after lunch to check e-mail. Even though he wouldn't use any good words, I still looked forward to the card.
"I can't stand you women. Why do you make such a big deal out of Valentine's Day?" He grumbled while eating his food. His comment induced me to fight with him again.
"You are boring!! Don't you watch any Japanese drama?"
"Japanese drama? I only watch Discovery Channel."
"Your life is so boring." I made a face at him. "One recent drama was really good. You should have watched it."
"What's that drama called?" He didn't believe in the love portrayed in TV and movies. He always thought they were lies.
"It's called 'Story of A Century'." I gladly answered.
"What kind of trashy plot did it have?"
"What do you mean trash?? Show some respect!" I was so angry. "That drama was very touching, and the theme song was beautiful as well. It's called 'Only Love', performed by Nana Mouskouri." I wonder if he knew who Nana was.
"Nana, I know her. A Greek singer with really expensive albums."
"Her voice is worth it." Even though I secretly agreed with him, I couldn't bring myself to admit it.
"Whatever." He glanced at his watch. "I'll give you 5 minutes to tell me the plot. After that, I'm leaving."
I tried hard to explain 6 hours worth of story in just 5 minutes. The drama portrayed the love stories of 3 generations of women spanning 100 years, from 1901 to 2000. Each generation was portrayed by the same actress. The story was tear-jerking.
"What's so touching about it?" He asked, after listening to the story.
"Don't you think each generation's story is wonderful? If I have such great screen writing ability, I wouldn't be a doctor anymore. I would become a screenwriter."
"If you become a screenwriter, I bet no one would watch the show. The TV station can go out of business." He quickly interjected.
"I'm going back to work. Hurry and send me the card!" I was so mad that I went home immediately, not even finishing my coffee.
As soon as I walked in my door, I turned on my computer and go online.
Staring at the empty in-box, I began to reminisce about how we met. Maybe no one will believe me, but my boyfriend and I were actually neighbors. Our homes were only 1 wall away. Ever since we were kids, we liked to fight with each other all day long. I still remember when I moved to the country that year. Used to the city life, I couldn't get used to the simple life in the country. After school, I would just go home and do nothing. Whenever that happened, he would always come over to tease me.
"Why are you staring off into space??" He loved to pull on my hair. "You're so ugly when you're doing nothing. But you're also not pretty when you smile." In other words, I'm really ugly.
"You're the one who's ugly!" I pull back my hair. "If you think I'm so ugly, why do you visit me??"
"Can't help it. My home is right next to your home." He argued.
"Then I'll move!" The next day, I drew a line in the ground using some white chalk. A line that I forbid him to cross.
That year, we were both in the 5th grade. We couldn't stand each other and hoped the other would move away. But 5 years passed, and neither of us moved. Not only that, we got into the same high school and into the same class.
"You're that infamous couple." All the students and teachers in the school would say whenever they saw us.
"We're not!" I always tried to explain. "We're only neighbors." At that time, I hated my parents for making us live next to him.
"My standard is not that low." He would say. "Who wants her to be a girlfriend? It's not like I don't have eyes."
"Yes, I know your eyes are on top of your head." I really disliked him. "Better than having eyes on the bottom of my head like you." He implied that I couldn't judge guys. At that time, I had a crush on a senior.
I didn't think that his sarcasm had a hidden meaning. After a while, I found out that the senior student had lots of girlfriends. When I cried about it, he silently passed me a handkerchief .
"I told you he wasn't any good." He roughly comforted me. I cried the whole night, and began to see him in a different way. Things began to change between us. We still fought all the time, but he started to look at me differently. And I blushed . We both knew: we fell in love with each other.
Even with this knowledge, neither of us said anything. Even though we cared about each other's every moves. Both of us refused to admit our love.
Time flew by quickly, and it was time to face separation. I chose to study medicine, and he chose physics. Yet we still couldn't separate from each other. Our parents worried that we didn't know anyone in Taipei, so they forced us to live in the same apartment building. Once again, we became neighbors. We didn't even spend Valentine's Day together until he saw me share dinner with a man one Valentine's Day. That night, he waited for me in front of my door and said that he would take me out to dinner on Valentine's Day from then on. I have to say that he was very arrogant. But I nodded and accepted his request. Since then, we spent every Valentine's Day together. After graduation, I became an intern. He started a small computer company with some friends and became a programmer. We were busy with our own lives and had no time for a relationship. Three years later, I became a doctor, and his business began to boom. We separately moved to bigger
apartments and stopped being neighbors. On the surface, we left each other. In reality, we were still together. We spent every Valentine's Day together but each year became more dreary than the next because he never told me he loved me even with all my hints.
Facing the empty in-box, I suddenly grew very angry. He wouldn't say it and wouldn't send me a card. What did he mean? Who did he think I was? I called his cell phone.
"Hello." He picked up the phone.
"I didn't receive the card." I immediately showed my displeasure.
"You didn't receive it?" He seemed really busy. "But I sent it."
He was really busy but I didn't care. "I didn't receive it. Send it again."
"Okay, I'll send you 100 times. Is that good enough?" He said with impatience. His tone further infuriated me. Is that how people in relationship speak to each other?
"Don't bother sending it to me. And you don't have to pick me up tonight.
I'll eat dinner by myself."
"Don't be childish, ok? I'm really busy."
"I AM childish!" I hung up the phone and tears rolled down my cheeks.
Childish? Why didn't he consider the situation? We've gone out for so many years and spent countless Valentine's Day together. I never received any flowers nor cards from him. Now, I just want a little e-card. Is that too much to ask for?
I unplugged the phone from the wall and turned off my cell phone. I didn't want to hear his explanations. After I returned to the hospital, I instructed the receptionist not to forward me any phone calls. I wanted to concentrate on work.
Because there were so many emergencies today, I was sweating 1 hour later and forgot about our argument.
"Dr. Shu, please take a look at that patient."
As I was collecting my equipment, the shrill sound of an ambulance sounded outside the ER. When I stepped out the door, the emergency medics hurriedly wheeled in a gurney.
"What happened to him?" I asked the 1st medic. Everyone else were trying to help put the patient on the gurney. He was covered with blood.
"Car accident." The medic replied. "Very serious. He may die."
I nodded and ran to the operating room with them. When I arrived, the nurses told me that the man had already stopped breathing and also his heartbeat also stopped
"Prepare for shock." I calmly instructed the nurses. Saving people is our duty. We can't lose our calm.
But when I saw who laid on the operating table, I lost my calm. That person was my boyfriend!
"No..." I stood in shock. "NO!!!" I grabbed the paddles and continuously shocked his body. His body bounced up and down from the shocks. The scared nurses went to find another doctor, to tell him that I was crazy.
I didn't know if I was crazy or not. I just wanted to save my boyfriend. Even though we fought all the time. Even though he never showed me his love. I still wanted to save him. He still owed me a card. He couldn't die! I threw away the paddles and began to press on his heart. I pressed with all my strength, hoping it would revive him, but he didn't wake up. He didn't even say "It hurts". He just laid there with his eyes closed, punishing me with his silence.
Dr. Jian angrily pushed me away. By that time, I couldn't see clearly anymore. I cried. I wailed. I bowled until no sounds could come out of my mouth.
"It's too late, Dr. Shu. He's already dead. I'm sorry." Dr. Jian patted me on the shoulder. They knew each other and ate together once. I introduced them.
"He can't die." I shook my head. "He can't die!!" I struggled to run to him.
"Dr. Shu, control yourself!" Dr. Jian slapped me. "I understand what you're going through, but you're a doctor."
Yes, I'm a doctor, but I'm also a regular person. How can Dr. Jian understand how I feel? I've loved him for so many years that it's become a habit. How can I just throw away a habit? Besides, he still owed me a card. "I want him to live! I want him to live!" I ran to him again and tried to knock the life back into his body.
"Take her away!" That day, I lost my control and my professionalism.
And that day happened to be Valentine's Day.
Afterwards, I asked his co-workers why he left work early that day.
They told me that after I hung up the phone, he tried to call me several times but couldn't reach me. Worried, he drove to the hospital to find me and got hit by a large truck on the way.
When I heard this, I froze. My tantrum killed him. Just because of an unmailed card, he died. After that, I lost my privilege to be childish.
Like an abandoned cat, I couldn't even cry anymore. After his death, I couldn't cry anymore, regardless of how touching the plot or how tear-jerking the dialogue. They didn't affect me anymore.
Now, I'm only left with a cat and a seldomly used computer. Stepping over the cat, I turned on the computer. Even though I know no one will send me a mail, I still hoped that someone will remember me on this day.
Meow, meow. I looked at Christine to see what's wrong. She finished her milk. I went into the kitchen to get her more milk then came back to look at the computer screen.
I have.... 100 emails! Who would be bored enough to send me 100 junk mail?
I was just about to delete them all when I received another mail, and this one said: "Because of system error, we could not send these until today.
We apologize for the delay." The sender was my ISP.
I looked at the 1st mail. It showed the send date is last year's Valentine's Day. My heart began to beat fast. Could he have sent these?
With a trembling hand, I opened the mail. The first thing that popped up was a gorgeous red rose set against green leaves. Then a beautiful melody began to play.... "Only Love". I couldn't believe it. The rose was so beautiful and the music was so dreamy. I almost thought I was in a fantasy. Most touching of all were the words underneath the rose, because the words read like a beautiful poem.
"Hwei."
That's my name.
"Knowing you so many years, I've never sent you any flowers. Today I send you a rose."
I received it and it's so beautiful.
"You know we are always fighting. We can never really open our hearts and tell each other how we feel."
Yes, but it's all your fault for being so distant.
"I know I always make you mad by the things I say."
Good that you're admitting it.
"But today I want to say to you: I'm sorry, and I love you."
I waited so many years for those words.
"And I want to tell you a good news. I finally saved enough money."
You already have enough money. Why did you need so much?
"So Hwei, let's get married!! I was afraid to propose to you, because I didn't trust in my ability to give you the good life you deserve. But now I've saved enough money so we don't have to wait anymore."
Who wanted you to wait? I'm already yours.
"Today, I use this card to propose to you. Will you marry me, Hwei? Will you?"
That's the content of the whole card. Like a fool, I kept reading his words and talking to him. It's like I can hear his voice and see him again.
As if it's back to 1 year ago with us constantly fighting.
The song played over and over. Repeating Nana's heartbreaking voice.
Only love can make a memory. Only love can make a moment last. You were there and all the world was young and all it's songs unsung. and I remember you then when love was all, all you were living for,
and how you gave that love to me...."
The lyrics of this song fits our love so closely. When he was alive, my world was so young. Every day, I could find a something different to fight with him about. But after he left, my life is only left with memories and coldness that will never go away.
"Will you marry me?"
When I read these words, my tears unconsciously came, wetting the keyboard.
Will I? If he's in front of me, I will definitely kick him and call him a big fool. If I wasn't willing, I wouldn't have waited until today.
So I moved the cursor over the "Reply" box, and typed the response that I've already prepared for so many years - "I will."
I will - be by his side for the rest of my life. I will - fight with him forever. That is how I answered him, but the only response I got was the repeating song "Only Love."
Nevertheless, I opened every single letter, accepted every singled rose, and typed the same response: "I will."
I replied 100 times, and "Only Love" played 100 times. In this cold Valentine's night, the line that's been broken for 1 year finally got reconnected.
It's so cold today.I'm standing at my window, looking at the people moving like little dots. Standing in a heated room, I'm beginning to pity those people. Why don't they go home? Do they plan on wandering until morning?
"Almost time to go home! My boyfriend must be going crazy." One of the nurses breathe a sign of relief. "Still needs to work overtime on Valentine's Day. It's so unfair!"
"You are fortunate." Another nurse says. "Some people don't have anyone waiting for them."
"You mean Dr. Shu?"
Like Sherlock Holmes, my ears perk up when I hear my name.
"Do you remember how she lost control on this day last year?"
"Of course I do." A nurse shudders. "I've never seen Dr. Shu like that. Crying and yelling, like she was crazy."
They are talking about how I was last year. They are correct. I was out of control, like they said.
"You can't blame Dr. Shu. If my boyfriend died in front of my eyes, I would probably go crazy as well."
"Keep it down. She hasn't left work yet. She might hear you."
The two nurses are too late. I heard the entire conversation through the canvas wall.
"Dr. Shu, what are you doing standing here?"
Just as I was deciding whether or not to reveal myself, another nurse exposed me. I awkwardly step out. The 2 nurses who discussed me start to blush. Their faces became redder than the bow on Valentine's Day chocolates.
"I'm waiting to go home." I pretend that I didn't hear anything.
"Dr. Shu, you must have gotten too involved in your work. It's already past time to go home. See you tomorrow. Happy Valentine's Day!" She waves goodbye.
"Happy Valentine's Day." I wave back and watch the 2 nurses hurry away.
That's fine. I was ready to go home anyway. Even though no one is waiting
for me, at least there's a lazy cat waiting for me to feed.
After I come home, the first thing I do is feed the cat. I forgot when I first had the cat. Probably since last year's Valentine's Day. At that time, I was like an abandoned cat, with eyes filled with despair. Cats don't cry, I do. That's the only difference.
"Better drink all the milk or I'll skin you." I threatened the cat. Her name is Christine, my least favorite English name. I don't know why I named the cat Christine. Christine meowed once to let me know she heard me, but her eyes are complaining about my severity. Her eyes remind me of someone I used to know, standing in front of me with eyes of rebellions.
A year ago today, I had lunch with my boyfriend and took the opportunity to complain to him.
"Today is Valentine's Day. Why didn't you give me any flowers?"
He raised his eyebrow. "Why should I give you flowers? You are not my anyone."
"Then... you should at least give me a card!" I pouted my lips, hurt by his tone.
"I know, I know. After lunch, I'll send you an e-card."
E-card. That sounds so impersonal, but that's the way he is. "You have to e-mail it to me. I'll be waiting." I excitedly smiled and planned to sneak home after lunch to check e-mail. Even though he wouldn't use any good words, I still looked forward to the card.
"I can't stand you women. Why do you make such a big deal out of Valentine's Day?" He grumbled while eating his food. His comment induced me to fight with him again.
"You are boring!! Don't you watch any Japanese drama?"
"Japanese drama? I only watch Discovery Channel."
"Your life is so boring." I made a face at him. "One recent drama was really good. You should have watched it."
"What's that drama called?" He didn't believe in the love portrayed in TV and movies. He always thought they were lies.
"It's called 'Story of A Century'." I gladly answered.
"What kind of trashy plot did it have?"
"What do you mean trash?? Show some respect!" I was so angry. "That drama was very touching, and the theme song was beautiful as well. It's called 'Only Love', performed by Nana Mouskouri." I wonder if he knew who Nana was.
"Nana, I know her. A Greek singer with really expensive albums."
"Her voice is worth it." Even though I secretly agreed with him, I couldn't bring myself to admit it.
"Whatever." He glanced at his watch. "I'll give you 5 minutes to tell me the plot. After that, I'm leaving."
I tried hard to explain 6 hours worth of story in just 5 minutes. The drama portrayed the love stories of 3 generations of women spanning 100 years, from 1901 to 2000. Each generation was portrayed by the same actress. The story was tear-jerking.
"What's so touching about it?" He asked, after listening to the story.
"Don't you think each generation's story is wonderful? If I have such great screen writing ability, I wouldn't be a doctor anymore. I would become a screenwriter."
"If you become a screenwriter, I bet no one would watch the show. The TV station can go out of business." He quickly interjected.
"I'm going back to work. Hurry and send me the card!" I was so mad that I went home immediately, not even finishing my coffee.
As soon as I walked in my door, I turned on my computer and go online.
Staring at the empty in-box, I began to reminisce about how we met. Maybe no one will believe me, but my boyfriend and I were actually neighbors. Our homes were only 1 wall away. Ever since we were kids, we liked to fight with each other all day long. I still remember when I moved to the country that year. Used to the city life, I couldn't get used to the simple life in the country. After school, I would just go home and do nothing. Whenever that happened, he would always come over to tease me.
"Why are you staring off into space??" He loved to pull on my hair. "You're so ugly when you're doing nothing. But you're also not pretty when you smile." In other words, I'm really ugly.
"You're the one who's ugly!" I pull back my hair. "If you think I'm so ugly, why do you visit me??"
"Can't help it. My home is right next to your home." He argued.
"Then I'll move!" The next day, I drew a line in the ground using some white chalk. A line that I forbid him to cross.
That year, we were both in the 5th grade. We couldn't stand each other and hoped the other would move away. But 5 years passed, and neither of us moved. Not only that, we got into the same high school and into the same class.
"You're that infamous couple." All the students and teachers in the school would say whenever they saw us.
"We're not!" I always tried to explain. "We're only neighbors." At that time, I hated my parents for making us live next to him.
"My standard is not that low." He would say. "Who wants her to be a girlfriend? It's not like I don't have eyes."
"Yes, I know your eyes are on top of your head." I really disliked him. "Better than having eyes on the bottom of my head like you." He implied that I couldn't judge guys. At that time, I had a crush on a senior.
I didn't think that his sarcasm had a hidden meaning. After a while, I found out that the senior student had lots of girlfriends. When I cried about it, he silently passed me a handkerchief .
"I told you he wasn't any good." He roughly comforted me. I cried the whole night, and began to see him in a different way. Things began to change between us. We still fought all the time, but he started to look at me differently. And I blushed . We both knew: we fell in love with each other.
Even with this knowledge, neither of us said anything. Even though we cared about each other's every moves. Both of us refused to admit our love.
Time flew by quickly, and it was time to face separation. I chose to study medicine, and he chose physics. Yet we still couldn't separate from each other. Our parents worried that we didn't know anyone in Taipei, so they forced us to live in the same apartment building. Once again, we became neighbors. We didn't even spend Valentine's Day together until he saw me share dinner with a man one Valentine's Day. That night, he waited for me in front of my door and said that he would take me out to dinner on Valentine's Day from then on. I have to say that he was very arrogant. But I nodded and accepted his request. Since then, we spent every Valentine's Day together. After graduation, I became an intern. He started a small computer company with some friends and became a programmer. We were busy with our own lives and had no time for a relationship. Three years later, I became a doctor, and his business began to boom. We separately moved to bigger
apartments and stopped being neighbors. On the surface, we left each other. In reality, we were still together. We spent every Valentine's Day together but each year became more dreary than the next because he never told me he loved me even with all my hints.
Facing the empty in-box, I suddenly grew very angry. He wouldn't say it and wouldn't send me a card. What did he mean? Who did he think I was? I called his cell phone.
"Hello." He picked up the phone.
"I didn't receive the card." I immediately showed my displeasure.
"You didn't receive it?" He seemed really busy. "But I sent it."
He was really busy but I didn't care. "I didn't receive it. Send it again."
"Okay, I'll send you 100 times. Is that good enough?" He said with impatience. His tone further infuriated me. Is that how people in relationship speak to each other?
"Don't bother sending it to me. And you don't have to pick me up tonight.
I'll eat dinner by myself."
"Don't be childish, ok? I'm really busy."
"I AM childish!" I hung up the phone and tears rolled down my cheeks.
Childish? Why didn't he consider the situation? We've gone out for so many years and spent countless Valentine's Day together. I never received any flowers nor cards from him. Now, I just want a little e-card. Is that too much to ask for?
I unplugged the phone from the wall and turned off my cell phone. I didn't want to hear his explanations. After I returned to the hospital, I instructed the receptionist not to forward me any phone calls. I wanted to concentrate on work.
Because there were so many emergencies today, I was sweating 1 hour later and forgot about our argument.
"Dr. Shu, please take a look at that patient."
As I was collecting my equipment, the shrill sound of an ambulance sounded outside the ER. When I stepped out the door, the emergency medics hurriedly wheeled in a gurney.
"What happened to him?" I asked the 1st medic. Everyone else were trying to help put the patient on the gurney. He was covered with blood.
"Car accident." The medic replied. "Very serious. He may die."
I nodded and ran to the operating room with them. When I arrived, the nurses told me that the man had already stopped breathing and also his heartbeat also stopped
"Prepare for shock." I calmly instructed the nurses. Saving people is our duty. We can't lose our calm.
But when I saw who laid on the operating table, I lost my calm. That person was my boyfriend!
"No..." I stood in shock. "NO!!!" I grabbed the paddles and continuously shocked his body. His body bounced up and down from the shocks. The scared nurses went to find another doctor, to tell him that I was crazy.
I didn't know if I was crazy or not. I just wanted to save my boyfriend. Even though we fought all the time. Even though he never showed me his love. I still wanted to save him. He still owed me a card. He couldn't die! I threw away the paddles and began to press on his heart. I pressed with all my strength, hoping it would revive him, but he didn't wake up. He didn't even say "It hurts". He just laid there with his eyes closed, punishing me with his silence.
Dr. Jian angrily pushed me away. By that time, I couldn't see clearly anymore. I cried. I wailed. I bowled until no sounds could come out of my mouth.
"It's too late, Dr. Shu. He's already dead. I'm sorry." Dr. Jian patted me on the shoulder. They knew each other and ate together once. I introduced them.
"He can't die." I shook my head. "He can't die!!" I struggled to run to him.
"Dr. Shu, control yourself!" Dr. Jian slapped me. "I understand what you're going through, but you're a doctor."
Yes, I'm a doctor, but I'm also a regular person. How can Dr. Jian understand how I feel? I've loved him for so many years that it's become a habit. How can I just throw away a habit? Besides, he still owed me a card. "I want him to live! I want him to live!" I ran to him again and tried to knock the life back into his body.
"Take her away!" That day, I lost my control and my professionalism.
And that day happened to be Valentine's Day.
Afterwards, I asked his co-workers why he left work early that day.
They told me that after I hung up the phone, he tried to call me several times but couldn't reach me. Worried, he drove to the hospital to find me and got hit by a large truck on the way.
When I heard this, I froze. My tantrum killed him. Just because of an unmailed card, he died. After that, I lost my privilege to be childish.
Like an abandoned cat, I couldn't even cry anymore. After his death, I couldn't cry anymore, regardless of how touching the plot or how tear-jerking the dialogue. They didn't affect me anymore.
Now, I'm only left with a cat and a seldomly used computer. Stepping over the cat, I turned on the computer. Even though I know no one will send me a mail, I still hoped that someone will remember me on this day.
Meow, meow. I looked at Christine to see what's wrong. She finished her milk. I went into the kitchen to get her more milk then came back to look at the computer screen.
I have.... 100 emails! Who would be bored enough to send me 100 junk mail?
I was just about to delete them all when I received another mail, and this one said: "Because of system error, we could not send these until today.
We apologize for the delay." The sender was my ISP.
I looked at the 1st mail. It showed the send date is last year's Valentine's Day. My heart began to beat fast. Could he have sent these?
With a trembling hand, I opened the mail. The first thing that popped up was a gorgeous red rose set against green leaves. Then a beautiful melody began to play.... "Only Love". I couldn't believe it. The rose was so beautiful and the music was so dreamy. I almost thought I was in a fantasy. Most touching of all were the words underneath the rose, because the words read like a beautiful poem.
"Hwei."
That's my name.
"Knowing you so many years, I've never sent you any flowers. Today I send you a rose."
I received it and it's so beautiful.
"You know we are always fighting. We can never really open our hearts and tell each other how we feel."
Yes, but it's all your fault for being so distant.
"I know I always make you mad by the things I say."
Good that you're admitting it.
"But today I want to say to you: I'm sorry, and I love you."
I waited so many years for those words.
"And I want to tell you a good news. I finally saved enough money."
You already have enough money. Why did you need so much?
"So Hwei, let's get married!! I was afraid to propose to you, because I didn't trust in my ability to give you the good life you deserve. But now I've saved enough money so we don't have to wait anymore."
Who wanted you to wait? I'm already yours.
"Today, I use this card to propose to you. Will you marry me, Hwei? Will you?"
That's the content of the whole card. Like a fool, I kept reading his words and talking to him. It's like I can hear his voice and see him again.
As if it's back to 1 year ago with us constantly fighting.
The song played over and over. Repeating Nana's heartbreaking voice.
Only love can make a memory. Only love can make a moment last. You were there and all the world was young and all it's songs unsung. and I remember you then when love was all, all you were living for,
and how you gave that love to me...."
The lyrics of this song fits our love so closely. When he was alive, my world was so young. Every day, I could find a something different to fight with him about. But after he left, my life is only left with memories and coldness that will never go away.
"Will you marry me?"
When I read these words, my tears unconsciously came, wetting the keyboard.
Will I? If he's in front of me, I will definitely kick him and call him a big fool. If I wasn't willing, I wouldn't have waited until today.
So I moved the cursor over the "Reply" box, and typed the response that I've already prepared for so many years - "I will."
I will - be by his side for the rest of my life. I will - fight with him forever. That is how I answered him, but the only response I got was the repeating song "Only Love."
Nevertheless, I opened every single letter, accepted every singled rose, and typed the same response: "I will."
I replied 100 times, and "Only Love" played 100 times. In this cold Valentine's night, the line that's been broken for 1 year finally got reconnected.
WHO SHALL STAND?..
How Ms Karani spent the borrowed money
Sh17,000
Amount she spent to buy anointing oil. The oil packed in small bottles cost between Sh1,000 and Sh1,500, depending on spiritual needs
Sh5,000
What she paid for prayers to get a spouse. She was desperate to get a partner and borrowed money to pay the preacher.
Sh14,000
Spent on prayers to get a job. Ms Karani trusted that through her preacher, God would answer her prayers for a job, and was ready to pay.
Having been jobless for three years after college, Ms Carole Karani, 25, joined a church in Nairobi to seek divine intervention. She believed that through her preacher’s prayers, the good Lord would grant her a good job and a husband.
“I was desperate and needed help from God. I had no job, no money, and it’s hard to survive without an income, especially if you live in the city. That is why I went to church to pray through the assistance of my pastor,” she says.
However, she soon learnt that prayers in that church were not for free. But this did not deter her because she thought that if she got what she was seeking, then it would be a small price to pay.
“I had a job, but the company I worked for collapsed and I joined others on the streets. I went to many offices, but to no avail.”
Ms Karani joined the little known-church in the city in September 2008. She soon realised that money played an important role in her daily spiritual nourishment.
“You had to go to church with money. The preachers demanded money during a session called ‘planting a seed’. I was so convinced by the preachers that by ‘planting a seed’, one receives blessings and what God has in store for them,” she adds.
Ms Karani says “planting a seed” costs around Sh1,000 per session, depending on one’s divine needs.
“If, for instance, you are looking for a job, you might be asked to pay about Sh1,500, while a problem in your marriage will set you back Sh3,500 for prayers for you and your spouse.”
Ms Karani told her pastor that she only wanted a good job and a marriage partner.
“If a woman is seeking a husband, prayers will cost her Sh5,000. I was in dire need of a partner and I also wanted a job.
“If a woman is seeking a husband, prayers will cost her Sh5,000. I was in dire need of a partner and I also wanted a job.
Despite being jobless, I had to find money to pay for these divine services.”
And where was she to get the money from?
And where was she to get the money from?
“I borrowed from friends and tried to convince my parents about my new-found faith in God. Most of the time they sent me the money. I also sold my cell phones and other property to raise cash for the preacher to pray away my troubles,” says Ms Karani.
She adds that every Sunday after service, church boys would hawk “miracle fruits” and “fortune soaps” that cost between Sh500 and Sh1,000.
The “anointing oil” packed in small and large bottles cost between Sh1,000 and Sh1,500, depending on one’s purchasing power and spiritual needs.
.................“When someone crams all the verses of the Bible and starts preaching to someone who rarely reads the Bible, chances are that the latter will be influenced by that person’s opinions, whether wrong or right.
So that even if he or she asks for money, the one who has been manipulated will give because of the trust they have in that person.
“The best way to deal with this is for Christians to read the Bible and understand what it says about money.
“The best way to deal with this is for Christians to read the Bible and understand what it says about money.
Once they do this, it will be difficult for them to get duped.”
.............
So sad indeed that Gods power can be estimated with a few bucks..
.............
So sad indeed that Gods power can be estimated with a few bucks..
Monday, July 12, 2010
Puddle of memories
I walked up the stairs
To the attic
The place my friends
Mostly feared
I opened the door
It creaked loudly
I stared at the room
Everywhere was dust
Dust and more dust
And cobwebs
There were papers
Scattered across the wooden floor
Then I saw something
Covered by papers and dust
I reached out
To get it
It was a book
It looked old
I opened it
Then I saw
I saw myself
There
Smiling
I was just a little girl then
I stared at myself
I stared back
Into my eyes
And then I see
I remember
The times
When I was just a little girl
A tear fell on the page
I blinked
More and more tears fell
And washed the photo all over
I can't see my self anymore
All I can see was a puddle
In the middle of the photograph
A puddle of tears
A puddle
Full of memory
To the attic
The place my friends
Mostly feared
I opened the door
It creaked loudly
I stared at the room
Everywhere was dust
Dust and more dust
And cobwebs
There were papers
Scattered across the wooden floor
Then I saw something
Covered by papers and dust
I reached out
To get it
It was a book
It looked old
I opened it
Then I saw
I saw myself
There
Smiling
I was just a little girl then
I stared at myself
I stared back
Into my eyes
And then I see
I remember
The times
When I was just a little girl
A tear fell on the page
I blinked
More and more tears fell
And washed the photo all over
I can't see my self anymore
All I can see was a puddle
In the middle of the photograph
A puddle of tears
A puddle
Full of memory
MY LIFE,YOUR SONG
Whose hands are these
Holding my trapeze
When I fly
You carry me
Whose eyes are these
Watching over me
Eyes of love
That set me free
Unafraid
What's ahead
You are always there before
My whole world
Your design
You are always there
Just right behind
My life is Your song
To You my heart belongs
Let all earthly crowns
Fade in the shadow of the cross
My life is Your song
I'll sing for You alone
Nothing in this world
Can take me away from You
Our love goes on and on
Whose arms are these
Shelter me from harm
In the storm
You are my calm
Whose voice I hear
Whisper in my ear
When I'm lost
You're always near
In all my life
Be glorified
With Christ in me
No longer I
So take my all
Consuming Fire
Your light in me
I'll let it shine
I WAIT WITH HOPE..
going back to the time
when i was wide eyed,
looked at the wonderful things,
fascinated, content...
someone held my hand,
wanted to let go of it,
wanted to reach out,
i was no more a kid...
i was in the world,
the world was in me,
it lured me,
i let go of that hand...
i ran to reach it,
if only i had known,
it was not for me,
too late, i was hurt...
now only a shadow
walks beside me,
reminding me,
the old innocent days...
so i wait with hope,
my only companion,
i will find that hand again,
turn back and walk away...
when i was wide eyed,
looked at the wonderful things,
fascinated, content...
someone held my hand,
wanted to let go of it,
wanted to reach out,
i was no more a kid...
i was in the world,
the world was in me,
it lured me,
i let go of that hand...
i ran to reach it,
if only i had known,
it was not for me,
too late, i was hurt...
now only a shadow
walks beside me,
reminding me,
the old innocent days...
so i wait with hope,
my only companion,
i will find that hand again,
turn back and walk away...
Zoomin out Life..
It's quite interesting how the unpredictable life keeps us going! Each day brings new ventures and promises of untouched surprises which mock the stagnant aspect of life.
For many of us, life is beautifully complicated. It can be compared to being on a trampoline, jumping up and down. Being in the air is analogous to going through an enriching phase of life. But when gravity pulls you down, life becomes a tragedy! However, rest assured as you are bound to bounce back.
There are some people who know how to bend the laws and go down in the history because they see life in a different dimension. There is a reason they are famous, the only reason that draws the line between us and them. So, the question that comes up is how to narrow down that gap? The answer is really easy but we tend to overlook it. About 95% of our species ignore the obvious even when it is staring them in their face.
The answer is belief. Majority of the dreams remain submerged in the marshes of fears and then, one day, they move to the bottom. Unable to breathe, they die! All you need to do is give your dreams the life sustaining BELIEF..... Just sit down for a while and think.
The answer is belief. Majority of the dreams remain submerged in the marshes of fears and then, one day, they move to the bottom. Unable to breathe, they die! All you need to do is give your dreams the life sustaining BELIEF..... Just sit down for a while and think.
"Someday I'll fly...
Someday I'll soar...
Someday I'll be so damn much more...
Cause I'm bigger than my body gives me credit for..."
Call of the heart...
Hear the voice of the wind...
Walk with the sun above you...
Bring in the songs of the rainbows...
The colors sparkling new...
Lead me, my heart...
I wish to follow you...
It's a vague start...
I'll do what I should do...
I'll follow you...
This life is a magical bliss...
You might say it's too good to be true...
I've made it this way...
with love and I'm grateful...
Lead me my heart...
I wish to follow you...
Though dreams are far...
I'll make it through...
I'll follow you...
Call of the heart...
I'll never stop and quit...
even if there's a long queue...
Seize the dreams and fly...
in the skies so blue...
Lead me, my heart...
I am following you...
I'm playing my part...
to get life's perfect view...
I'll follow you...
I'll follow you...
Monday, July 5, 2010
LOST ART OF CONVERSION
Alfred North Whitehead said, “Expression is the one fundamental sacrament”.
Every morning, as my infant niece lies cooing in his crib, I make sure that he hears his name before seeing my face.’Davi….David Senior,” I call out in a drawn and almost forlorn tone of voice. His cooing stops. He hears a familiar sound. If I hide around the corner out of sight, his eyes watch, all his energy goes to listening. This big gal is making noises again, he thinks. Vibrations that name me, and prove that I exist, have travelled across the air from Someplace Else and into my fuzzy and not-well-focused world.
This may not sound like much, but it is the essential human transaction. We speak the world into being-It is “linguistically constituted,” as Heidegger would say, because humans are Homo loquins (speaking animals).The whole of our civilization and sophistication depends on language. In the poetry of Genesis, God speaks the world into being,saying”Let there be light…”.In John’s Gospel God’s best word, which “became flesh and dwelt among us full of grace and peace.”
The story of the Tower of Babel is meant to show that when language fails, human communication and cooperation fails. These days, the tragedy is not confusion, but silence-people moving, ghostlike, in glass houses against which no one dares to throw the stone of a word.
Consider my little niece again. He is learning not only that human beings make sounds to reach out to another, but a face will follow the sound-because the world is acoustical cause and effect. It’s the ear that welcomes the footsteps of the world. The dog barks, the thunder rolls, the screen door bangs out its hyphenated greeting. Sound is a messenger, and an interpreter.
The world is full of noise, but starved for meaningful discourse. There is plenty of clatter and droning, the kind that spills and churns out insults over talk radio. But there is very little real communication. Our homes have become the noisiest place of utter silence on earth and you know why?
TV’S has replaced the linguistic impulse. It turns faces away from one another and toward the mosaic monologue that is entertainment. The art of conversion began to die when we moved from the table to the couch. Passively we listened to others talking, and there was no place for us to speak our lines. We laughed at other people being funny, cried when others were sad, and cheered our sport heroes as if we were playing. As the flickering light of the tube reflected the zombie-like faces of a whole generation, the sound of families-arguing, teasing, cajoling, encouraging, setting and testing boundaries, investigating one another’s feelings, and telling stories-faded to black.
The extent of this silence in a world of racket is so far advanced that drastic measures are needed. Love cannot survive silence. Children cannot grow apart from the words that bridge their fears, and adults cannot rehearse and refine their relationships if they never hear the sound of the voices of their loved ones.
In a world where divorce is commonplace, it is no secret that marriages not only end in silence, they are ended by silence. Conversation is the currency of passion; it is the courier of concern. To be listened to, really listened to, and to be heard is so fundamental to the renewal of understanding that it has become the desperate refrain of our time.
How do we recover from this desperate situation?
It is to cut the cord on the TV that keeps us all drugged with impossible images of unattainable life. It is to say by action, and not by sentiment alone, that you refuse to let yourself be shown how to look, how to act and what to wear. For only when the blue light of the television fades will people get to know themselves again in the white light of the morning?
But conversation, like all the best things in life, cannot be forced. Language is the house of being. Sometimes all we are looking for in this life is a word from someone. A word of reassurance, a word of forgiveness, a word of reconciliation. The authentic life is worth talking about. Talking about it makes it more authentic still. It’s time to move off the couch and get back to the table-because we cannot live without the sound of each other.
BEYOND THE VOWS
Ever heard of this book by John Oscar Macharia?
This book cushions the harsh truth that to communicate effectively, we must risk exposing our true feelings. It’s a fine piece of work-I strongly recommend all and sundry to read it .
This is a Kenyan story of Romeo and Juliet in 1950.
“She noticed the young man discreetly following her. Whenever she left the house to go to the garden or to the stream to draw water, he would be watching her. She pretended not to notice his presence and continued with her work.
‘He’s attractive,’ she said to herself.
The young man on his part had been watching her every move. He knew he was attracted to her though he was not sure why. They had not spoken a word yet, but he was convinced she was the one whose hand he wanted to take in marriage.
‘She would make a good mate,’ he thought to himself.
Days passed. She started seeing signs to suggest that the man was about to make a move. She wasn’t sure she was ready, but he seemed like one who would make a good mate.
He left his home that morning and even with the pattering of the rain, he was sure she would be outside-working.Indeed, there she was. Without hesitating, he made the move. As soon as he got to where she was, he reached out, lifted her off the ground, threw her over his shoulder, and took her to his hut.”
I’m sure somebody somewhere is exclaiming,’Oh what a romance story’. Not at all. This was a common approach to marriage in most of Africa until modern concept of love started being embraced. ‘Love’ is believed to have had no part in our earliest ancestors’ choices of mates.
You can tally with that, right.Rather, partners were chosen on the basis of other considerations like upbringing, character, attractiveness, and ability to work hard.
OH...OH Today especially in Kenya, it is different. First which make of phone do you have, which car do you drive if any that is, do you walk with a swagger, are you in the corporate world and earning big and so on..
But let’s ask ourselves is it worth it...
Catch me on the next sitting as we discuss how it is beyond the vows courtesy of John Macharia.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
POOR IS THE NEW RICH
The smart company magazine echoed these words.This brought me thinking of the so called "rising economy" Kenya is experiencing.
Is it that the Kenyan economy is on the rise among the rich only?A "mama mboga" in Mushatha will tell you ,"Maisha ni makumu,sibati hata engang'a " to mean that she does not experience the joy of the rising economy.
The tycoon in the city when asked of how the Kenyan economy is fairing, will say "I don know but I think we are doing pretty well ya".He then adjusts his sleeves and walks away in a swagger.
That's how it is..
Even companies and manufacturers are targeting the low income earner.An excerpt of the smart magbiz said"
They go to the shops with just enough money to get what they need for the day. Not that they will not need the sachets of cooking fat or piece of soap worth Sh5 tomorrow, but because that’s all they have at the moment. These are the poor who make about half of Kenya’s population. This group has become the favourite of goods manufacturers and service providers, who have repackaged their products into the smallest possible quantities produced in huge quantities.
Even goods that previously seemed to target the higher income groups, with premium prices, like instant coffee, medicated bathing soaps, bleaches and insurance, among others, are being made accessible to the not so rich. Big service providers are repositioning products to reach the masses. Insurance companies, banks, mobile phone operators and internet services providers are all in a rush to get a share of the lowest economic group."
I believe for us to achieve 2030 vision as a country,there has to equitable distribution of resources especially from the grass-root level.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
TO BE APPRECIATED.
O God of all creation
Bless this our land and nation
Justice be our shield and defender
May we dwell in unity
Peace and liberty
Plenty be found within our borders.
Bless this our land and nation
Justice be our shield and defender
May we dwell in unity
Peace and liberty
Plenty be found within our borders.
(verse:2)
Let one and all arise
With hearts both strong and true
Service be our earnest endeavour
And our homeland of Kenya
Heritage of splendour
Firm may we stand to defend.
(verse:3)
Let all with one accord
In common bond united
Build this our nation together
And the glory of Kenya
The fruit of our labour
Fill every heart with thanksgiving.
STORIES I TRY TO REMEMBER.
The best times blur in remembrance; it is the painful ones that have stayed with me. Long days of seeking and not finding; of empty pursuits thrust into perpetuity. Hard, cold nights of catching moonbeams through an ageing roof. Some nights the full moon, hanging low in the sky would turn an eerie shade of red, the wind would blow malevolently against the tin (or the mad and wattle depending on where we lived then) walls and dark clouds creep on the moon; smother her light and loll over the sky an ominous rumble in their wake.
Then it would begin to rain.
To remember it all brings tears to my eyes- these tears do not rain, they pour. In private, in between spotless white linen, I curl myself into a foetal position and let the sheets mop up more fluid than they have from all the trysts they have seen lately. Those are my only moments of truth; times when the uppity conversations in mood lit rooms are done and I have no one to go home to.
In those days, the conversations would have been harsh- held in coarse tongues over ugalisukuma wiki but at least there would have been someone to go home to. You would always return to your brothers' drunken snoring as they lay sprawled over the Vono single-bed. Or maybe it was one of your relatives from the village; an old mate from high school. Someone. Sometimes all these people would be all in there, sober and hungry, hurdled over the charcoal brazier telling war stories. Other times there would be nobody and you hoped for the best: that at least they were spending a night at the police station.
The Police station... nyumba ya mawe kizee!
Yes and the police station came with security. Security from our biggest fear: The Police. If you were spending a night at the police station it meant that they had caught you alive. And that, I kid you not, was a rare occurrence. Most important of all, the police station, for those who know its ways, came with a guaranteed breakfast. Scalding tea and a measly slice of bread after a night of cat naps in a crouching position might not seem like much but it was divine compared to the air burger breakfast at home.
In the morning, the OCS (Officer Commanding Station) would put you to work sweeping the police station's compound and send you on your way. They knew those who could be bailed out and those who couldn't. And you knew that they wouldn't bother taking you to court on charges of 'idling' because that was a charge they preferred on those they hoped to extort money from. Money which they knew you didn't have. Set free you returned to the same emptiness- to the constant struggle in search of any means of escape from poverty. In most cases the only means to be found was through cheap drugs and alcohol.
I say these things now because the soft voice that has been whispering in my year for over a year has turned into a yell. When I started this blog, it was because of two things. First I knew I had a story to share. I did not know how well to tell stories, but I had more stories then than now. But stories do not go away, they live in our hearts but the desire to rewrite history and escape its lowest moments thrusts us into the murky depths of forgetfulness.
The story I wanted to tell was that of a mid twenties Kenyan guy trying to afford his next shot of moonshine; his urban escape vehicle. About the realities of a life of fruitless striving and the ways we tried to escape it. It was about how life was and still is in that small theatre of broken dreams that is our end of Nairobi. The story of an urban space and a people who only live in NGO statistics and the dispatches of foreign correspondents. I wanted to imbue this space with character, take away the jaded and callous ways real people were constantly reduced to objects to which a subject (war, hunger and pestilence) and a verb were added to complete that 'balanced' news story. I meant to take away the emasculation of a people through turning them into data that fit well into a pie chart in a funding proposal. I desired to translate the lived experience into the written word. Maybe in the process of transferring life into words, I would be discovered as a writer.
The being discovered as a soft-spoken motivational speaker was the second reason I started doing this blog. These days they call me a blogger,this is a little bit more advanced. But how can I be an accomplished blogger while the story that made me languishes in oblivion? Without the Kenyan Urban Narrative, I am incomplete.
I write these words now because, lately, I have been thinking about truth and forgetfulness. The written word has been for centuries, now, the most efficient way of documenting and preserving truths. Books, nay, written words have an element of permanence, they immortalise the author and grow the database of the record of a human existence. Our existence. What is written now affects what we think tomorrow. Yet all that is written today is not of necessity true. And some of those falsehoods are peddled purposely. The purpose is never, out rightly, to deceive but merely to add drama to mundane experiences.
Mainly, I am talking about the Memoir here. It is amazing how many autobiographies are being called to question in recent times. Forget about the blatant inventions of Margaret Seltzer aka Margaret B. Jones in Love and Consequences, Misha Defonseca in Misha: A Memoire of The Holocaust Years, the Oprah-Bubble-Busting James Frey and the like but the accusations of embellishment and anachronism in say Ishmael Beah's A long Way Gone. If such accusations can be true, can these narratives be seen to have been ruined by a desire in the publishing world to publish what is sensational, if badly told, rather than what is mundane yet well and truthfully narrated? Are readers more interested in the humanity of their subject or in their celebrity, infamy and vileness? Are stories of every day, forgotten people remarkable out of once-in-a-while news features?
Can the Kenyan Urban Narrative be told for and as what it is- a lived experience- and continue to appeal to its audience and the world that does not know the story?
Most important of all, how much can its author remember? How much of story is there without the detail? Is the accuracy of time vis a vis incident relevant or is placing real incidents in wrong times a misrepresentation of fact enough to push the narrative into the realm of fiction?
Such have been my thoughts for long days. I have many answers from the ethical to the philosophical but what I have realised is that those answers are not necessary or in anyway related to what I set out to do. Not, at least, in the most fundamental of ways which is whether or not this blog can give voice to a disenfranchised majority. To my own self, then, I shall be true and return to the neighbourhood. Shed this ridiculous pandering for literary greatness that is lived more in association that in works published. and
Then it would begin to rain.
To remember it all brings tears to my eyes- these tears do not rain, they pour. In private, in between spotless white linen, I curl myself into a foetal position and let the sheets mop up more fluid than they have from all the trysts they have seen lately. Those are my only moments of truth; times when the uppity conversations in mood lit rooms are done and I have no one to go home to.
In those days, the conversations would have been harsh- held in coarse tongues over ugalisukuma wiki but at least there would have been someone to go home to. You would always return to your brothers' drunken snoring as they lay sprawled over the Vono single-bed. Or maybe it was one of your relatives from the village; an old mate from high school. Someone. Sometimes all these people would be all in there, sober and hungry, hurdled over the charcoal brazier telling war stories. Other times there would be nobody and you hoped for the best: that at least they were spending a night at the police station.
The Police station... nyumba ya mawe kizee!
Yes and the police station came with security. Security from our biggest fear: The Police. If you were spending a night at the police station it meant that they had caught you alive. And that, I kid you not, was a rare occurrence. Most important of all, the police station, for those who know its ways, came with a guaranteed breakfast. Scalding tea and a measly slice of bread after a night of cat naps in a crouching position might not seem like much but it was divine compared to the air burger breakfast at home.
In the morning, the OCS (Officer Commanding Station) would put you to work sweeping the police station's compound and send you on your way. They knew those who could be bailed out and those who couldn't. And you knew that they wouldn't bother taking you to court on charges of 'idling' because that was a charge they preferred on those they hoped to extort money from. Money which they knew you didn't have. Set free you returned to the same emptiness- to the constant struggle in search of any means of escape from poverty. In most cases the only means to be found was through cheap drugs and alcohol.
I say these things now because the soft voice that has been whispering in my year for over a year has turned into a yell. When I started this blog, it was because of two things. First I knew I had a story to share. I did not know how well to tell stories, but I had more stories then than now. But stories do not go away, they live in our hearts but the desire to rewrite history and escape its lowest moments thrusts us into the murky depths of forgetfulness.
The story I wanted to tell was that of a mid twenties Kenyan guy trying to afford his next shot of moonshine; his urban escape vehicle. About the realities of a life of fruitless striving and the ways we tried to escape it. It was about how life was and still is in that small theatre of broken dreams that is our end of Nairobi. The story of an urban space and a people who only live in NGO statistics and the dispatches of foreign correspondents. I wanted to imbue this space with character, take away the jaded and callous ways real people were constantly reduced to objects to which a subject (war, hunger and pestilence) and a verb were added to complete that 'balanced' news story. I meant to take away the emasculation of a people through turning them into data that fit well into a pie chart in a funding proposal. I desired to translate the lived experience into the written word. Maybe in the process of transferring life into words, I would be discovered as a writer.
The being discovered as a soft-spoken motivational speaker was the second reason I started doing this blog. These days they call me a blogger,this is a little bit more advanced. But how can I be an accomplished blogger while the story that made me languishes in oblivion? Without the Kenyan Urban Narrative, I am incomplete.
I write these words now because, lately, I have been thinking about truth and forgetfulness. The written word has been for centuries, now, the most efficient way of documenting and preserving truths. Books, nay, written words have an element of permanence, they immortalise the author and grow the database of the record of a human existence. Our existence. What is written now affects what we think tomorrow. Yet all that is written today is not of necessity true. And some of those falsehoods are peddled purposely. The purpose is never, out rightly, to deceive but merely to add drama to mundane experiences.
Mainly, I am talking about the Memoir here. It is amazing how many autobiographies are being called to question in recent times. Forget about the blatant inventions of Margaret Seltzer aka Margaret B. Jones in Love and Consequences, Misha Defonseca in Misha: A Memoire of The Holocaust Years, the Oprah-Bubble-Busting James Frey and the like but the accusations of embellishment and anachronism in say Ishmael Beah's A long Way Gone. If such accusations can be true, can these narratives be seen to have been ruined by a desire in the publishing world to publish what is sensational, if badly told, rather than what is mundane yet well and truthfully narrated? Are readers more interested in the humanity of their subject or in their celebrity, infamy and vileness? Are stories of every day, forgotten people remarkable out of once-in-a-while news features?
Can the Kenyan Urban Narrative be told for and as what it is- a lived experience- and continue to appeal to its audience and the world that does not know the story?
Most important of all, how much can its author remember? How much of story is there without the detail? Is the accuracy of time vis a vis incident relevant or is placing real incidents in wrong times a misrepresentation of fact enough to push the narrative into the realm of fiction?
Such have been my thoughts for long days. I have many answers from the ethical to the philosophical but what I have realised is that those answers are not necessary or in anyway related to what I set out to do. Not, at least, in the most fundamental of ways which is whether or not this blog can give voice to a disenfranchised majority. To my own self, then, I shall be true and return to the neighbourhood. Shed this ridiculous pandering for literary greatness that is lived more in association that in works published. and
I want to go back to those days, when the writing was cathartic. To that place where words were the best way to escape that low moment when the alcohol and drug buzz is worn out and you know not where your next high is coming from. I am going back to a time when I wrote and wrote, grinding pencil lead to a pulp and wearing out exercise book after exercise book right through to the margins just to still the demons and wait out the unpredictable.
I am going back to the Kenyan Urban Narrative. At least to the least of it that I can still remember.
WHY WRITE?
I write when I am challenged and the only place to tell it all is here.
When many of my aspirations seem like they are all going haywire and the whole world does not really seem to understand what is going on with me.
.....otherwise I write when I cannot actually tell the world all my happy moments
...so catch me on every life moment..
CHAPTERS OF MEMORIES
To my departed friend,
These tears have been flowing since yesterday. I have tried to wipe them off with jug after jug of Senator but the only thing I have managed to still is my cash flow. Now I am sitting on the dirt floor surrounded by books and half drowned in my own tears. I am holding a dog-eared copy of THE MERCHANT OF VENICE with one wobbly hand and writing you this note with the other, more wobblier, hand.
Surrounded by books, huh? You must be wondering who died (apart from you...hehehe...) and made me an owner of many books,eh? No one really. It is just where I am now. I am the proud owner of volumes upon volumes of- brace yourself buddy- new books. Books, man, that only I have read since they left the bookshop. Books that have only had one owner: me. Books with covers- dust jackets too. For crying out loud. Books with all the pages in them and where they are meant to be.
Books. Books. Books.
The New King James Bible (Beginning at the Third Chapter of Deuteronomy and ending in the middle of the John 10).
Only you know what this last chapters meant to us. Only you understand why so many of those early blog posts yelled: I was raised on the Bible.The Bible, between us the only one book we had. But that seems like a long time ago. A long time before you left us. Left me.
If there is an afterlife, I hope you are sitting out there in its library. Sitting there, ye that died book-poor, surrounded by books. Reading. Reading and sipping on something finer than that cocktails that we shared.
Till we meet again.... do not quit believing that I loved you!
Me.
These tears have been flowing since yesterday. I have tried to wipe them off with jug after jug of Senator but the only thing I have managed to still is my cash flow. Now I am sitting on the dirt floor surrounded by books and half drowned in my own tears. I am holding a dog-eared copy of THE MERCHANT OF VENICE with one wobbly hand and writing you this note with the other, more wobblier, hand.
Surrounded by books, huh? You must be wondering who died (apart from you...hehehe...) and made me an owner of many books,eh? No one really. It is just where I am now. I am the proud owner of volumes upon volumes of- brace yourself buddy- new books. Books, man, that only I have read since they left the bookshop. Books that have only had one owner: me. Books with covers- dust jackets too. For crying out loud. Books with all the pages in them and where they are meant to be.
Books. Books. Books.
The New King James Bible (Beginning at the Third Chapter of Deuteronomy and ending in the middle of the John 10).
Only you know what this last chapters meant to us. Only you understand why so many of those early blog posts yelled: I was raised on the Bible.The Bible, between us the only one book we had. But that seems like a long time ago. A long time before you left us. Left me.
If there is an afterlife, I hope you are sitting out there in its library. Sitting there, ye that died book-poor, surrounded by books. Reading. Reading and sipping on something finer than that cocktails that we shared.
Till we meet again.... do not quit believing that I loved you!
Me.
WE WERE BUT YOU BECAME.
We walked.
We walked and talked.
Talked about things- life; everything.
By the dark village paths we stopped.
We stopped, stopped to dream.
We dreamed of the city.
The city.
Bright lights.
Tin lamps that never ran out of kerosene.
We talked.
We walked and talked.
Talked as we walked.
Talked and made plans.
Plans.
Plans to leave.
Then we left.
The next day we left
Walking.
Walking away.
***
How come we do not talk any more? You. You do not talk to me any more. Is it because you are rich and famous now? Famous, huh!
I remember back when. Back when we had been back in the city two years. (Back from six months of lying low in the village. Lying low while everyone- from that crooked Constable Cheruiyot, who kept buying us KUMIKUMI with fifty bobs he had taken off us, to four "CIA's"- sought us. Sought us over the matter of certain disturbances at the Muthurwa bus stop.I was sitting at Wekesa's kiosk reading the paper. I was reading the paper when I saw you.
I saw you that day. Saw your face. Your face peering back at me from beneath the headline. You were the headline. You were the news and I, I was still a statistic: 2 million youths lack ID cards or such and such. I was still a statistic and you were the news: “Wanted Gangster Kills Again.”
That was you.
You, a wanted gangster? At least they wanted you. Such a joy it would be to be wanted. Rich or poor; dead or alive, it must feel good to be wanted. No?
We had dreams of being. You became. We, we still merely exist.
It has been two years now since I saw you. Saw your face in the paper. It has been three years since we talked. Three years of wishing we still talk. Two years of wondering: do they still want you?
Want you dead?
We walked and talked.
Talked about things- life; everything.
By the dark village paths we stopped.
We stopped, stopped to dream.
We dreamed of the city.
The city.
Bright lights.
Tin lamps that never ran out of kerosene.
We talked.
We walked and talked.
Talked as we walked.
Talked and made plans.
Plans.
Plans to leave.
Then we left.
The next day we left
Walking.
Walking away.
***
How come we do not talk any more? You. You do not talk to me any more. Is it because you are rich and famous now? Famous, huh!
I remember back when. Back when we had been back in the city two years. (Back from six months of lying low in the village. Lying low while everyone- from that crooked Constable Cheruiyot, who kept buying us KUMIKUMI with fifty bobs he had taken off us, to four "CIA's"- sought us. Sought us over the matter of certain disturbances at the Muthurwa bus stop.I was sitting at Wekesa's kiosk reading the paper. I was reading the paper when I saw you.
I saw you that day. Saw your face. Your face peering back at me from beneath the headline. You were the headline. You were the news and I, I was still a statistic: 2 million youths lack ID cards or such and such. I was still a statistic and you were the news: “Wanted Gangster Kills Again.”
That was you.
You, a wanted gangster? At least they wanted you. Such a joy it would be to be wanted. Rich or poor; dead or alive, it must feel good to be wanted. No?
We had dreams of being. You became. We, we still merely exist.
It has been two years now since I saw you. Saw your face in the paper. It has been three years since we talked. Three years of wishing we still talk. Two years of wondering: do they still want you?
Want you dead?
TRIBUTE TO A LEGEND
Tom Mboya was one of the most prominent personalities in Kenyan history. He was born Thomas Joseph Mboya on 15th August 1930 and was assassinated at the tender age of 39 on 5th July 1969. It is widely believed that his profile and illustrious career as a brilliant and charismatic leader, which was seen as a challenge to the then political establishment, led to his assassination.
Tom Mboya arriving at Uhuru Park for what was to be his last Madaraka day June 1st 1969. He's with his wife Pamela and two children. At this point things were tough politically, but would he have guessed that he would be dead in about a month's time?
Tom Mboya at his prime. Cut down by anassasins bullets on the streets of Nairobi one Saturday afternoon, July 5, 1969
Today we start this much anticipated new feature that will lay bare the history of our beloved country of Kenya. For too long ago, the history we have read and accepted as the truth in schools has been a lie. Carefully crafted lies to please the powers that be. One of the reasons why we are in such serious problems in Kenya today is the fact that our founding fathers lost the way. Somewhere in their journey they abandoned the interests of the country for their own. This will come out very clearly in this series. Stay with us.
The single political assassination in Kenya that had the greatest impact is that of Tom Mboya."TJ" were his first two initials standing for Thomas Joseph. The son of a poor illiterate sisal picker in a colonial farm somewhere near Thika ,Tom Mboya rose to the top of Kenyan politics and was in line to be the first president of Kenya. Had he ascended to the Presidency, many political analysts are sure, things would have been very different and we would probably have avoided many of the mistakes that were made.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me get on with the story. I want to start my story from the end and then flash back. I believe that this is the best way of telling it.
5th July 1969. Kenya had recently celebrated its’ sixth anniversary of internal self rule (Madaraka day) the previous month on June 1st. Kenyans were optimistic in those years and were working hard to build their young nation and ensure a better future for their children. Little did they know that there were serious problems and infighting amongst their key rulers which was about to explode on the streets this sunny afternoon.
It was a Saturday like any other in the city center in Nairobi. Nairobi in those days was a neat nice place to be proud of and the overcrowded bustling streets were yet to come. It was lunch time and Kenyans were going about their business unaware of the fact that the history of their country was about to be irreversibly changed in a very dramatic and bloody way.
Minister of Economic Planning and MP for a Nairobi constituency Tom Mboya left his office for the weekend. He released his driver and body guard and headed for Chaani’s chemist along Government Street (Moi Avenue today). This chemist is still there today. He was driving his white Mercedes.
If he was carrying the day’s newspapers (like he liked to do) he would have had a copy of the East African Standard with him. On this broadsheet there was a photograph of him on page 1. It showed him striding confidently along the runway at Embakasi International airport where he had landed from Ethiopia Addis Ababa. He had been there for official business.
As he parked the car, he would not have noticed a short bald man with a brief case walking slowly towards the chemist where the cabinet minister was about to enter. He bought his usual prescription medicine for a nagging skin ailment and had a hearty chat with the Asian couple who owned the chemist. He had known them for years.
Outside the bald man in a brief case waited.
Mboya stepped outside the chemist and there were two extremely loud bangs of a revolver going off. Tom Mboya fell back on the glass door of the chemist. Blood oozing out of his fatal wounds in the chest and head.
He was rushed to Nairobi hospital in an ambulance but was pronounced dead shortly after arrival. By about 3pm that afternoon the remains of Tom Mboya were in the City Mortuary along Ngong Road.
The country was in shock. Who had killed Mboya and why? A state funeral was quickly organized even as violence broke out on the streets of Nairobi, President Jomo Kenyatta personally issued a statement in radio and TV saying the usual things. No stone would be left unturned to bring Mboya’s killers to book and the other usual **** about the dead man being a fallen hero and all. He lied to the whole nation when he knew very well exactly who was responsible for Mboya’s brutal killing and more important why he had been murdered. Or rather the personal cause for which he had had to lose his life.
Ironically probably the only man of Kikuyu descent who was allowed to set foot on Rusinga Island to attend the Mboya funeral the following weekend was another Kenyan by the name of Josiah Mwangi Kariuki or JM Kariuki. He had been Kenyatta’s private secretary before he fell out with the old man. He did not know it but barely six years later he would also be assassinated, for the same cause that his good friend Tom Mboya had just died for. His murder would be much more painful and he would have his private parts cut out (it is widely believed that this was done while he was still alive). His body would be found badly burnt by acid and with his private parts stuffed into his mouth. A clear message that he was silenced for something he said (stay with us in this blog and we will get back to that later).
So Mboya arrested with his ancestors on Rusinga Island. Death had come too early, he was not yet even 40. But what a brilliant political career he had had in his very short life. In fact he had almost become the first President and founding father of Kenya. Almost... Sadly “almost’ is never good enough and that is why this man is basically forgotten. Younger generations of Kenya do not know who the hell he was. They just know he got shot in the streets.
All this was of course deliberate and that is why the only full biography ever written on Mboya by a man who never met him a professor from University In Australia is titled, “Tom Mboya - the man Kenya wanted to forget.” David Goldsworthy’s book was published after President Kenyatta’s death in the 80’s.
The Kenya of that time or rather the leaders of the time were determined that Kenya should forget TJ as quickly as possible. Two new presidents have come since that beastly incident - Moi came and went and now Kibaki is president. Both these two Kenyans know the truth that you will discover in this blog over the next few days. But they’ve done nothing. Why?
And you Kenyan reading this, what are you going to do about this thing that helped drive your beloved country to the dogs? Think about that very deeply.
This is for you TJ, I never met you but from all that I’ve watched and read and studied on you, it is like I did. This is for you and a better Kenya, which you would have liked.
WHAT WOULD LIFE BE LIKE
WHAT WOULD LIFE BE LIKE….
I wish I was more of a man,
Have you ever felt that way,
If I had to tell you the truth,
Am afraid I have to say,
That after all I’ve done and failed to do,
I feel like less than I was meant to be.
What if I could fix myself?
Maybe then I could get free,
I could try to be somebody else,
Who is better off than me,
BUT I need to remember this,
that is when I am at my weakest.
I can clearly see He made the lame walk
the toungue-tied talk,
He opened blinded eyes,
Set the sun to rise from the east,
He knows my deepest desperate need in the world full of heart aches
I wonder what life would be like if we let Jesus live through you and me.
What if you could see yourself through another pair of eyes,
What if you could hear the truth instead of all familiar lies,
And what if you could feel inside the power of the hand that made you and me,
What would life be like.
TALK WITH GOD
TALK WITH GOD
How can I give what I don’t have,
How can I love if I don’t have the love for you that you desire,
How can I want what I don’t need,
Do I see how your heart bleeds,
the one thing that I see is your love for me.
I talk with God asking him a lot,
About the words that I didn’t want to give,
Ten a million questions just one answer,
He says “Don’t fight your battles; I am here to do it”.
How can I live up to my dreams,
How can I find what it all means?
When you show me that all you want is to be my first LOVE.
When I need to talk, when the world is against me
You hold me in your embrace,
Wipe all my tears, fight all my enemies
And you give me the answer
I LOVE YOU, CHILD.