Ngong Hills : In Awe of Mother nature

Taking Responsibility

TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.

I the Lord search the heart, I try the reins, even to give every man according to his ways, and according to the fruit of his doings.
Jeremiah 17:10

One of man's greatest failings is that he looks almost always for an excuse in the misfortune that befalls him through his own fault, before looking for a remedy - which means he often finds the remedy too late.
Cardinal de Retz.

             I couldn't say 'amen!' so I said 'ouch!'. The fiery preacher had just burst my bubble by saying, " You are the sum total of your decisions therefore you are where you are in life by choice." He went further to add that, apart from those things classified as calamities or catastrophes beyond our control e.g Cancer, the loss of a loved one etc, we are wired to weigh matters and make decisions that produce good success in our lives, edify others and ultimately glorify God. His point? Most of the things we moan, cry, murmur and complain about are products of our own failings. Its time to quit playing the blame game where everyone and everything apart from us have contributed to our misery and accept responsibility for our lives.

How can we do that in this year ?

[1] Accept - It may sound obvious but it is not. Unless you accept that something needs to be done and fast BY YOU,nothing will change and you'll continue in a mediocre existence.

[2] Evaluate - To evaluate is to reflect, analyse and take stock. You have to be brutally honest with yourself about the areas need to take responsibility in.

[3] Plan - Planning enables us to put structure into our thoughts. It highlights what we need to get the job done. It allows us to formulate a beginning, a middle and end of our journey towards change. Your plan must include checks and balances or a sort of accountability system that will ensure you don't chicken out at the first sign of resistance.

[4] Execute - The rubber must meet the road for the journey to begin. Following your plan will be the key to keep you on track and overcome hurdles on the way.

             A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. Put your best foot forward and be on your way! After all, you are divinely positioned for success.

Mama's Release

It is the morning of my mother's release. Grandmama bustles around the kitchen like a little bird. Grandmama is never still, she's like a bird that has to keep on flying. She is always cooking, or cleaning, or talking on the phone or something. The only time she's still is when she falls asleep in front of the tv before she goes to bed. It's obvious she's nervous because she's moving around more than usual. I pick at my breakfast, uncomfortable in my dress and new shoes and irritable.

     "Stop playing with your oatmeal,young girl, just eat it."

     "Okay, Grandmama." I make little patterns with my spoon. I hate eating especially on this day.

     "Vic, mind you don't get any on your dress."

     "Yes, Grandmama."

     She sips her strong tea while standing at the sink, gazing at me over her cup. I glare at my bowl; I hate being looked at.

     "You look just like your mother did at your age. Skinny, quiet little thing. She was so sweet. Funny, how things can get ruined. Your mother was so innocent, too innocent really. That was probably my fault. And when she took up with that boy I should have known something wasn't right, but I just . . . . well, anyway . . . . "

     I don't say anything, preferring to create hills and valleys in my bowl of uji.

     She sighs. "Young girl, just put it in the sink and go on."

     "Yes, Grandmama."

     I go outside and sit on the front steps, waiting for Grandmama to finish getting ready. Sometimes it's hard for me to think about things in the moment. Like, now, I am thinking of how pretty Grandmama looked in the kitchen a few minutes ago, in her flowered dress, the light from the kitchen window touching her white hair. I am thinking about the years we've spent together, just her and me. It was nice, just the two of us. When I was younger, Grandmama would take me to the park for hours because she said that little girls need lots of sun to grow right. Like I was a plant or something. I am thinking about love, and utopia, and family and the aching hole inside. I wonder if my mother didn't get enough sun. Right now I want to know her, very badly. But I'm scared.

UTOPIA

My mother is a heroine addict who got sent to prison for selling drugs in school compounds. My father was a heroine addict, too, but he's dead now. I was born addicted to the junk, and sometimes, deep down, I feel like I'll always be a heroine addict, always have a gaping hole inside needing to be filled. Sometimes I hurt so bad, feel so empty, and I just want something, anything to fill me up or make me forget. That's how it is, being me. I guess that my mother felt bad for a long time, that's why she started doing drugs. Except knowing this doesn't make me feel any closer to her. Gazing at the watermarks on the ceiling, I wonder what it would feel like to be expectant. Not so alone, probably. Loved. But I also wonder how something like a baby could fit into someone like me.

My grandma won't let me wear make-up, so I wait until I am down the street before I pull out my kit and put it on under a tree. I am basically a good kid, obedient, respectful, but things are changing inside, I feel all confused most of the time now. I want to be a responsible woman, grown. I walk over to Weko's house. Weko's mother isn't home so we have the place to ourselves. Weko's mother is hardly ever home. We get high with some weed Weko got from her brother and sit out on her front bench, sipping the toxic stuff and talking. Two girls sitting on some steps, helpless against the sun pressing down, wilting slightly. Will we live? We're women, wrapped up in little girls. Right now I am happy because Weko likes my outfit; I just got it the day before. I stole it from Mama Kim boutique. One of the reasons that we are best friends is that she notices things about me, little things, not just my lipstick, but different moods and things. Paying attention goes a long way in friendships.

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Mouse?"  

I shrug. "I don't know." Because how can I say that I don't want to be anything, except alive, and loved? I don't like the question, it makes me uncomfortable. Sometimes I wonder if I'll be alive after high school. "Maybe a lawyer." 

Weko nods. "Yeah, that's cool. I think I want to be a dancer."

We don't say anything for a little while.None of us sure if the future actually holds any hope for us.
 
I mutter."That's a good one." We are silent again and I look out into the street, catching pieces of life, but not the whole thing, scraped knees, the sound of a baby crying, car engines, deep laughter. It's hot. "Utopia" is my word. I taste it on the tip of my tongue. It's a good word. It fits.

I LOVE THIS

Taso, the oldest of the three candidates, opened her shaking hands between each crack of a knuckle. She had scored the highest on the employee examination, and I selected her as my assistant.

Dressed in a long, flowered skirt and blue-checked blouse Taso raised a hand to straighten one of her short braids. Only girls who couldn't afford a hair dresser wore the homemade stubs.

I looked at her neat clothes and smiled. "Can you begin work this afternoon?"

"Yes, ma'am." Taso lifted her round black face.

"Before we go home we will stop at the market." I picked up my bag. "What do you eat?"

"For breakfast I eat corn meal mush. For lunch corn meal mush with bean and dried fish soup. If there are leftovers I eat them for supper."

We walked to the market and bought ground corn, dried fish, black-eyed peas, oil, tea bags, bread, rice, onions and spaghetti. Then we hiked two hours through the bush on a trail to my mud house in the village.

Reaching my home, I unlocked the door and turned to Taso. "After work each evening you are free to return to the city if you like."

Taso looked at the two, single bed frames with mattresses and mosquito nets which took up most of the space in the miniature room. An open square resembling a window frame faced us. It had neither glass nor screen.

"I will stay here each evening but go home on the weekends to check on my family."

I pointed. "That is your bed."

Taso set her sack on the mattress and unknotted the lumpy bag. There were two folded blouses, soap, towel, comb and body lotion. She had wrapped her belongings in her long wrap-a-round skirt, so she pressed out the wrinkles in it.

She had worn her best clothes for the interview. Since we were the same size, I gave her three skirts and four blouses, glad for the opportunity to reduce my large wardrobe.

"That room is for storage." I pointed. "There's a clothesline in there if you want to hang your clothes."

We stepped into the third room of the house. "This is a salon, but I store cooking utensils and food in here. I use either this charcoal or the kerosene stove. Can you cook with them?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"How did you cook at home?"

"I chopped firewood which we used for cooking on the fire."

I handed her a flask. "Each morning boil water and fill this thermos."

We were both tired. It was too late to cook, so we ate dry bread and water before sliding into bed under the nets.

At sunrise the next morning Taso hiked three hundred yards to the well. She returned again and again carrying heavy buckets to fill the large clay jar outside the house.

She carried a pail of water into the little stall built of flat stones. After bathing she dressed and poured another bucket of water into the booth for me to wash.

Taso arranged the pieces of charcoal, lit the stove, boiled water and prepared her mush. After breakfast, I opened the Bible and read. Then I handed her a large drawing pad, several pencils, two pens, a ruler and eraser.

For many years without computer support, every lesson was hand printed. A local person from the language group wrote out health lectures in the dialect. I dictated sentence by sentence while Taso wrote each word. She erased many times, but in the end the lectures were perfect.

At noon I suggested, "Let's have peas and rice."

While the beans cooked, Taso looked inside a plastic sack. "I should add the dried fish. Do you have a mortar and pestle?"

I shook my head. I glanced into the neighbor's yard where Taso pounded the fish. She returned to the house with a bowl of powered protein and stirred it into the cooked beans and rice. She dished out two heaping plates.

I swallowed a bite. "This is delicious. You are an excellent cook. I would like to meet your family and see your home."

Taso grunted and nodded. "This weekend."

After siesta the patients arrived for treatment. Taso interpreted. It took hours to translate sentence after sentence, teach lectures, show posters and train women how to cook weaning foods for their babies.
Friday evening after work we hired a taxi to the main junction, and then walked down a long garbage-filled ally. Old, dilapidated buildings lined the end of the road. Taso's mother, two unwed sisters and their children rested on hand-wovenmats on the packed earth floor. No furniture. Half of the thatch roof had collapsed inside the small chamber made of rusted pieces of aluminum siding.

As I left her with her family I took her hand. "You are welcome to spend the weekends in my home."
She puckered her brows as if to say, I came to visit my family. Instead, she said. "I want to eat my mother's slimy food. I've missed her stretchy murere soup."

"I understand you miss your mother's cooking. I sometimes miss foods from my country."
Throughout the week each evening after the sun set, I struck the match for the bush lantern. Squinting my eyes from the kerosene fumes, I pulled out my notebook and pen to write in my journal. After I finished, I lit four candles to read a novel.

Taso always sat in the wooden chair opposite me and stared at the wall.
I was quiet the first week assuming she wanted silence. For she often closed her eyes for several minutes and moved her lips as if in prayer. The rest of the time she looked intently at the black, mud wall for hours each evening.
One evening I stopped writing. "Taso, would you like one of my books to read?"
"No thank you, ma'am."
"You are free to do whatever you like."
"I know." Taso kept staring at the wall.
"Would you like something to do? I have word games."
"I am doing something."
"What are you doing?"
"Resting," She sighed.
"Did I give you too much work to do?"
Taso laughed. "No. Serving you is easier than my business was. And you pay me more each week than I ever earned."
"Where is your business?"
"I abandoned it to work for you." She smiled.
"Why?"
"I woke at three each morning and started the fire. I mixed flour, egg, oil and milk. Then I shaped the mixture into fifty doughnuts, which I deep-fried." Taso moved her weight on the wooden chair. "After bathing and dressing, I put all the beignets in a glass box and set it on my head. Then I walked to the open market. From morning until dark I trekked all over the city hawking my fried cakes."

"Hiking in the hot sun all day is tiring."
"I forced myself to keep going." Taso shook her head. "I had to sell ten doughnuts to pay for the ingredients. I had to sell another ten to buy food for my family."
"Now I understand why you rest each evening."

"I'm resting in God's presence, meditating, recouping my strength, thinking of God's promises and waiting on the Lord."

Taso knew how to enter God's rest. Hebrews 4:9-11 "There remains a rest for the people of God; for anyone who enters God's rest also rests from his own work, just as God did from his."

When I'm tempted to constantly keep busy, I remember this excerpt. Stopping, I close my eyes and count my blessings, take in a breath of relaxation and wait on the Lord.

My One of a Kind

I Met A Friend Some Years Ago, Though Different From The Rest
A Friend I'm Proud To Say Is, One Of My Very Best
Someone That Often Makes Me Laugh, Each Time I Pay A Call
A Friend I Won’t Forget You See, She's Different From Them All 

My Friend Has Lived Upon This Earth, For Quite A Length Of Time
And God Found Me Deserving, Of This Special Friend Of Mine
She Can Easily Warm The Coldest Day, With A Mere Sweet Gentle Smile
Asking Little In Return, Only That You Sit Awhile 

The Gap Between This Friend And I, Seems Many Years To Some
What Could I Have In Common, With God’s Precious Senior One
Well Let Me Tell You Something, That Will Make You Think Again
If You Ever Meet A Friend Like Her, You Will Understand It Then 

Would You Ever Ask A Young One, For Valuable Advice
Have You Noticed How An Antique, Increases Much In Price
And Trees Provide Much Greater Shade, When Roots Are Strong And Deep
A Coin, As It Gets Older, Is Wise To Save And Keep 

I Often Think About Her, And Her Warm And Gentle Hands
I Truly Think, I Got To Meet, One Of God's Most Gentle Lambs
I Could Not Ask For Too Much More, She Is What Life's All About
A True Friend For A Lifetime, Is What I Have, No Doubt.

By Maggie.