our children need to know our history

I can’t explain the shock that enveloped me when my five-year-old daughter asked who the caps (read sufurias coated with soot) she saw hanging on my grandmother’s kitchen wall belonged to.

We were visiting upcountry, something we hadn’t done in a long time. At first, I thought she was joking, only to realise that she was dead serious when she declared that they were as cool as Ne-Yo’s, the American R&B artist.

As our visit progressed, it became embarrassing to realise that there were many things that my little girl was ignorant of, facts that she should have had at her fingertips.

My daughter was shocked to see a cow being milked. She thought milk comes from the supermarket. It was also the first time she was seeing a goat, which she confused for a dog and innocently asked what type of dog eats leaves.

She could hardly contain her excitement when she came across a herd of cattle. It was an unforgettable experience.

You should have seen the wonder in her eyes as she watched my grandmother light a fire to make the evening meal. Not even the choking and thick smoke could persuade her to get out of the kitchen.

She was mesmerised. The village stream was the ultimate source of joy, setting her off asking many questions, including why someone was “pouring” all that clean water.

Going to the village was a life-changing experience for my daughter, who had only known city life. A world that she didn’t know existed was thrown wide open.

She was used to only one pattern — school and home. At home, she would retreat to the bedroom with her dolls or settle for the PlayStation. Worse still, she was an addict of television.

I worried about how she was going to cope with being away from the TV for a week when we set off for the trip.

Sunday school in the village proved to be another chance to show her that church is also a place you can have fun.

Having my grandmother narrate a story every night about our community’s heroes, like Wangu wa Makeri and Dedan Kimathi, was hilarious and eye-opening.

She kept asking questions until she understood the significance of the roles that the heroes played. She went back home a more enlightened person.

She no longer spends time on TV and sometimes goes out to play, although most of our neighbours keep their children indoors. She sometimes attempts housework and evening walks with her father have become a highly anticipated activity because she gets to see the outside world.

People tend to forget that the word “history” contains the word “story”. Most of us believe that the past is always a rebuke to the present and have swept our traditional past under the carpet.

True, some of these traditions have no place in our modern society, such as female circumcision and wife inheritance, but what about naming ceremonies, male circumcision, and even more important, the significance of traditional weddings?

My daughter is not old enough to understand these practices, but I want her to know that water can also be kept in a pot.

If you want to understand today, you have to search for yesterday. History is who we are and why we are the way we are. Let’s be proud to pass the baton to our children.

LIFE UNSUNG HEROES.

“I count myself as nothing but lucky in remembering my good friends”………William shakespheare.

If you don’t appreciate, you depreciate….

If I could give you diamonds, for each truth you’ve made me see,

If I could give you gold, for all the times you stood by me,

If I could give you rubies, for all the tears you’ve cried for me,

If I could give you sapphires for all the wrongs that you made right.

If I could give you silver for all the joy you brought to my life,

Then you’ll have a treasure, my dear,

That would mount up to the sky…

That would tower the heavens and match the sparkle in you’re eyes…

But I have no gold or silver, as you well know,

Neither do I have rubies and sapphires, as you are well aware..

So I’ll give you gifts more precious….

My devotion, my love and care..

The next person I owe a great deal to who I am today is a man called Joseph Kariuki. Most of you do not know him but watch out, he is climbing his ladder to success. It’s not about hero worship, but sincerely I admire this guy. Am not love struck by him, I do not even talk to him but he had already made a very huge impression in my life even before I met him. They are this people who I loved even before I met; Ben was always singing to me how bright he was and how good he was with books.

My fist encounter with him was what I can call uneventful. He brushed past me and was staring at me so I was forced to say hi. I remember I was sloping down the Faculty of Vetinary and I clearly remember thinking what this dude was looking at. I was even tempted to call him a monkey, in my mother tongue that sounds ouch imagine my shock when I learnt he was my lecturer. I can’t say I enjoy his lecturers, they are very boring.

Most of you are wondering then why he is in my list of mentors. See, he made a careless comment in class and thought he was just talking. I remember him talking about good perfomers in O level who came to campus and got boyfriends, ended up being heartbroken and so were on their way to getting a pass degree. Now, that was the first thing that got into me. I remember my desk mate pinching me and telling me the guy was talking about me. Now, that did not get into me. The next thing was what startled me, “with your last breath you can make a fresh start’. He gave us some brief experience about how he had had a relationship but it did not work and all that kind of stuff. Now, that really got into me. If my role model had also been in painful relationship and had overcame it, I also could. That is what made me want to prove him wrong, that although I had failed due to a man in my first year, I was among the ones who would pass because he directly thought I would graduate with a pass.

You can ask me what I have ever gotten from his class: absolutely nothing. The only thing I remember him saying in class is that God would rather have a messy you than not to have you at all. One day he said in class that it’s not the mountains that we conquer, its ourselves. Off all the counseling Dot com had taken me to, no one had made me love and believe myself like he did.

To me, he is my greatest inspiration. I wish to tell him this one day in life, when I start talking to him. To me, he is my greatest inspiration. He taught me of a greater and more important love, the love of myself when no one else could. he told us that we have a right to love ourselves, now where else can you get that except from an intellectual? I may not show him the correct gestures, neither may I be the perfect person, I may not also talk to him but to me, he is a hero. When I count my blessings, I always count him twice. I just pray that he will now that one day when he decided to go down and mess up, he will not only pull himself and his wife down, but people who also believe in him like me.

THE PRICE OF BEING AN AUNT....

You probably must have read about the cost of being a great mum. Better still, there are numerous articles written on how to be a great dad. But what is the cost of being a great aunt?When my big sister announced she was expecting a child, i met this with mixed feelings.I did not know what to expect. The next nine months were hectic for me, i planed on what songs i was going to teach the child, the poems,the nicknames and even how i wanted her to pronounce my names.
Then came the due day. As fate would have it, i was left all alone with my sister when she got into labor. After a long battle came the end product. I cant tell you i loved the dark hairy thing i held in my arms. No, not even once. I was there for about seven days, even for her naming ceremony, before i finally came to Uganda for my A levels.i can assure you i felt absolutely no love. In fact, i failed to associate her with our family, she had followed the footprints of Njeri, and was the dark sheep of the family.
However, being an aunt is the greatest thing that had ever happened to me. Apart from the many times when i had to scream at her or beat her like crazy, my greatest joy comes when she tells me that i am the best aunt in the world. Better still, i remember the days when i was chucked and she would sit besides me and wipe all my tears, telling me that uncle Peter does not know what he is loosing. Worse still, i remember how she went and told her school teacher that her best friend was in Makerere and she was the aunt.
So, whats the cost of being a great aunt. Is it all about teaching her good songs, buying her bicycles and toys, new dresses and story books? Or is it about teaching her to believe in a God even when you are too weak to believe in Him yourself? Is it all about teaching a baby to love the world that has taught you to despise yourself,or to believe the fact that life is an echo, what you give is what you get, despite the numerous times that you have given life your absolute best and got the worst? Better still, is being an aunt trying to explain why you think its okay for God to forgive Osama even when Nicole thinks you and God are crazy?
Being an aunt is fantastic, i believe one of the small things in life that should be treasured. But i believe that being an aunt is having the ability to teach our nieces the most important thing in life: that they have a right to love not only others but themselves and they can be anything they set their minds to.
that is what intend to ensure my niece grows up to know

THE STORY OF MY LIFE

Life is full of choices…..choose to be a winner.

On 29th August 1984, someone’s blessing, or burden as Njeri would refer to me came into this world. Don’t blame her; she had always wanted to be the last born. She always told her friends I was a stuffed monkey my mum had won in a poker game. My mum had cheated her that she was going to the dentist, something that makes them call me meno up to today. I was the sixth child in a family of six. Stop gaping at the number, now that you are amazed imagine the effort it took my parents to raise up all this kids. I have always known I was a precarious child. No offence but as the last born, everyone treated me as fairly special. Other than bearing many names of all my aunts who wanted to be named, I was fairly living a comfortable life.
Growing up was no fun at all. Being the last child, everyone picked on me. My only defense was my sister Njeri. I can’t say she loved me with an everlasting love; many are the times we quarreled and fought. The good thing is that if anyone came and attacked me, she was always on the defensive. My family called me the most beloved daughter (mwana uria wedetwo piu) a name that I still bear up to today. According to my family, I was born blind. Don’t ask me, I can’t remember anything but I was famous for boxing Njeri.
During our days, one would be told she had reached the school going age by holding the ear across the head. Funny enough they did not consider the size of the head. Mine was quite huge so it took quite a lot of time before I could reach my ear. I was taken to Jitegemea Nursery School: that should give you the first hint: depend on yourself. Apart from excitement during break time when we had to take milk and scones, the other enjoyable part of going to school was escaping from Aunty Mary’s lashes. Nothing dramatic happened in nursery, the only thing I remember was how excited I was when the teacher taught us the word ‘ant’. At break time I collected all the ants I could and took them to her. Another thing worth remembering is that ever since I knew I was a girl I knew I was going to be a journalist. This was in my body, blood and soul. I knew it since I was very young.
My primary school was pretty boring. I became number one in class two and instead of mum buying for me dolls and toys she bought for me a math’s textbook. Not that this was bad but I now realize where my hatred for mathematics began. Mum discovered that I was sick; I had a hole in the heart. Teratology of fallot, as Doctor Gikonyo called it. If you had seen those photos that I took in my primary level, you would be surprised at the complete makeover. My hair was reddish, my lips had a permanent blue lipstick, my hair was a brownish red dye and I could not walk without panting. I was scheduled to go for an open-heart surgery in India but days before, they cancelled saying it was too risky. My parents had no option but to wait for my eventual death.
But, I did not die. That’s why am here writing this. See, when you come to the edge of life and you are about to give up you can be sure of two things. Either: God will provide a solid stepping-stone or, you will be taught how to fly. A solid stepping-stone was provided. Chuck and Joyce Weller came to visit and within a few months I was transferred to Iowa, Des Moines. My surgery was on 29th September, at the age of thirteen, something that made me believe in a God tha I did not see. Needless to say, journeys became shorter and I became more beautiful after that. As expected I failed my primary level examinations.
I went to a secondary school named Saint Xavier’s. Don’t be fooled by the names it has nothing to do with saints. As a matter of fact I think the best crooks in Nakuru were reared there. I was stubborn with a capital C. a week would not pass before my mum had been summoned to the headmistress office, otherwise it would mean that I did not attend classes .The only positive thing I got is Peter, but that’s another story for another day. Hint: we had a relationship with all the characteristics of teenage relationships. I was nicknamed Lanina a lady who led people in a strike at a mzungu’s farm, after I led a strike in form two. Yah, I was that crazy. Needless to say, I failed my O levels. After my O levels Njeri and I became big headed. I remember dad asking us which school or college we wanted to attend. Njeri said she wanted driving school, aendeshange Eldoret Express so she can take me to Uganda. Sometimes later she wanted to become a mechanic.
Dad got crazy, though she later on went to do Business Administration at RVIST. By that time I had visions of Uganda, for once in life. Otherwise we spent a whole year roaming and touring the whole of Kenya. Quite fun, until Dot Com started asking us if we are ever serious in life.
My decision to come to Uganda was met with mixed reactions. My dad thought I had gone berserk, Uganda was a country where people ate people and bananas grew on the roadside, according to his little history. However, and I admire him for this, he let me abide by my decision. I came to Mbale, a place where many people who have been there refer top as an extension of a military camp. It was the first time I was away from home, especially from Njeri. I remember the sadness I felt when mom left me at the bus station, I had even hidden her passport. Ever had the feeling of lonely but not alone. In the midst of millions of people I felt like I was the only person left on earth. Imagine I spent my early days crying, especially when I had to eat posho and beans for lunch. As they say, if you can’t beat them, join them. You could not beat me to the queue of food later on.
I developed a relation ship with my headmaster. We became good friends, and if ever one can apply to have another father I would choose him. My first exams in Mbale earned me thirteen points. It came as no shock to dad: he expected anything from me. Come second term, I flew the banner for Wanale View and as they say, the rest is history. Passing UNEB was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I still remember how I threw Nicole down due to excitement, so something good could come out of Jerusalem. By the way I spent my vacation working as a mboch, washing napkins is no easy task. At least it has prepared me for the future, if I ever get married
Coming to Makerere was the greatest achievement for me. Doing Mass Communication was a dream come true. I remember how my dad slaughtered a goat when I passed my exams: it was the last supper and the proverbial sheep had been taken for slaughter. My dad’s last advice to me was not to make any unrecoverable mistake. I can’t say I didn’t make one, but at least he forgave me for it. Sammy’s last advice to me was to read until I see a signpost written NO SCHOOL AHEAD. Kim, crazy as usual, told me if Mass Communication proves too difficult I should try GHC: Go Home Colleague. Bad advice from your only brother.
I remember how I was excited to come to Makerere. The first person who received me was Peter. Remember Peter? Saint Xavier: well there are only four words to describe him: SON OF A BITCH. Forgive my French, I can’t find a better way to express myself. I thought that we would spend eternity with him; he was my ideal perfect mate. By the way he had the best description of tall dark and handsome. We would give birth to three kids, buy a double cab and live happily ever after like Cinderella. Unfortunately, he found as better match, something which threw me off balance in my first year especially after six years of telling each other sweet nothings. I can’t tell you that I did not beg him to stay, that would be a great lie. I knew he was not faithful but it killed me inside to know that he was happy with someone else. Finally, I had to realize that sometimes one has to let go and let God. This was after proper counseling, ironically from his uncle, who
ironically impregnated another girl in college: runs through the family, or doesn’t it? I think the most memorable thing in my life by far has been falling in and out of love.
Needless to say, I never attended lectures. Books to me were a burden. I just sat and cried all night and day, tear after tear. I tried suicide several times: proper planning but something just happened and the thing backfired. It seemed God still had big plans for me. If you decide to try it out, ask me. I know which hurt most: pills, rat and rat, ropes, believe me: been there done that. When dad realized what was going on, he made me stay with Kim, my cousin. Imagine how disappointed he would have been had I died. I only remember how daily he used to tell me he did not want to be remembered as the father of a fallen hero! That hurt more than any sharp sword across my heart. My dream in life is never to let one man down: my father. Now you can understand how much I felt like a total failure. That was my worst performed semester, I got a retake. Mr. Ochwo almost went mad; he wanted to see this crazy fellow who had made the daughter get a retake.
I also remember how I used to cry, all night long, tear after tear. I was very much afraid of the future, very afraid. Then Peninah told me that God would wash away my tears, and cleanse me from this guilt tha was so deep inside. So, I called to Him, if He could hear me I don’t know how. I was just wondering if He could hold me now. Then I realized that God is faithful and He cares, above the tears you cry and the pain you feel inside. When you are weak that’s when He comes, even though you don’t know how: God cares and He did hold me then.
He came: inform of a guy called Karis. I don’t know why but I loved this guy even before I met him. Not loving as in loving ya kouana, loving him as in getting someone who speaks something and heals your broken heart. I was not love struck by him, never had been but he just managed to make me pick the broken pieces and bring them back again. Up to now I do not even talk to him but I remember him saying in class that God would rather have a messy you than not to have you at all, that got into me. He said that it’s not the mountains we conquer its ourselves. I remember I got out of the class in pretext of picking the phone but actually I went out to cry. For the second time I was crying because of a man, this time for a positive reason. Imagine, I had to go down on my pride. . The best thing I ever had from him is him saying that we had a right to love ourselves: that really got into me. I don’t know this guy, I had never met him, funny enough I did
not even like him but to me he was sent from heaven. The guardian angel if they exist. I remember the shock that was in the house when dad asked us to name our role models and for once I had a role model. That was the end of supper; everyone wanted to know this Karis. You can imagine that. By the way watch out: He is climbing the ladder of success. I don’t now how to say this but he became the silent voice of reasoning in my life. Hope one day I will have the chance to tell him how much I appreciate the role he played in my life, into making me who I am today.
People ask me if I enjoy single life: a debatable question. See, after Peter I could not take any more bullshit from men. True, sometimes I miss being in a relationship, especially when we are at the beach and all my friends are with the boyfriends exchanging sweet nothings and holding hands. Juxtaposition, I measure the pros and cons and am like am better of without them. Time healed me; I don’t even feel the distance, am not missing him. See, they say that time is a healer, its kind and it’s cruel. It gives you the wisdom, to know you are a fool, it can turn diamond to dust and dust to diamonds, and that’s exactly what it did for me id like to measure my life not by the number of breath I take but by the moments that take my breath away. I’ll tell you about my classmate called Nelson, but that’s another story for another day.
Then I went to Nairobi City Council for my attachment. For the first time I had to go and video shoot dead bodies. I was in Nairobi everyone had gone upcountry for the weekend. I did not sleep, I can’t lie to you. I was only seeing those dead people especially one that looked like Peter. Funny enough, I used to pray for him to die but after that I prayed he lives forever. He should thank God that God chooses what prayers to answer, otherwise….. I also remember how the next day I went to work and my eyes were swollen. My boss was really worried and he asked me what was wrong, should he take me to the hospital. I then informed him I had spent the whole night praying for my ex, he could not conceal his laughter. Imagine! Then I went to Langata Cemetery and Crematorium and witnessed a mass burial, I have had proper nightmares ever since
As for me, I have survived. I have seen all corners of life. Some sing, some talk, some dance but as for me, I write. I have learnt that when life gives you a lemon, you should squeeze it and take lemon juice. Forget the trash about life being an echo; what you give is what you get. If you try to approve this I’ll just ask you one simple question: how many times did I give it life my very best and it gave me it’s very best. Not to kill your morale but life has been relatively tough for me. I can’t say I don’t appreciate it. See, I have chosen to forget my past and look into my future. I have learnt to lean onto God in every thing I do. My best scriptures are Isaiah 43: 18- 19 and Jeremiah 12:5. My personal testimony and best song is Blessed Assurance. It will be sang on all occasions, wedding, if I will ever get married and burial, if I will ever die. I am also very grateful to God, that He did not kill me even when I begged him to do so.
My dad (bless him) always says tha you can have two cars, an old car and a new car, but at no one time in life can you drive them at the same time. Life is like a journey full of roads, some are smooth and some are rough. All of us are in this road of life, driving through it. Those who drive fast reach first but those who fear the roads go slowly and remain failures forever. Life is full of surprises but the best surprise you can ever give life is to surprise yourself.
Many people ask me about my future plans. I live by the words of Mahatma Gandhi, “be the change that you want to see in the world” a life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing. The best way to teach people is by telling them a story, that’s why I write my story. I believe improvement begins with ‘I’. My advice to everyone is that if you’ll not settle for anything other than your very best, you will be amazed at how much you can accomplish. When I hear somebody sigh “ life is hard!” am tempted to ask” compared to what?” If I had permitted my failures, or what seemed to me at the time a lack of success, to discourage me I cannot see any way in which I would ever have made progress.
Every problem has a gift for you in its hands.
As for me, I was born a journalist, I will die a journalist.

The legend lives on!!!