JUST LET GO.

He screeched into a sudden halt and half jumped, half leaped out of his Toyota Mark X. The parking lot was almost empty, save for two staff vans, an ambulance and a couple of personal automobiles. From a distance I could hear the wailing of sirens, indicating the dire need for attention. The nurse in charge, I guess, rushed in to the corridor and took a left. The contours on her face were enough to detail how weary she was,  courtesy of the events of the day. Dusk was fast approaching as the second and third set of sirens hit my ears.
A grasshopper leaped on to the bonnet and my subconscious self seemed to have been captured by its elegance. I could hear his voice from a distance. He sounded sombre, disappointed and confused with some tinge of urgency.
He opened the back door hastily and grabbed my left arm, gently pulling me out of the car. I gladly obliged and set my tiny feet on the tarmac of the Ge Children’s Hospital parking. He placed my tiny palm into his which were rather sweaty. His grip was stronger than usual betraying his ex military status. He tagged me along as we entered the spacious and quite busy reception.
“Excuse me Madame,” he barked amidst the din, ” could you inform me, which room one Mr. Kisa Akisa is admitted?” 
I couldn’t help but notice the mosaicked and the cartoon coated walls. The whole place was a burst of colours, like a place washed with rainbows.
Room 4, ward 2 was what she said as she pointed to her left. The inscription ‘ICU’ was so evident that a blind person could well read it. Her voice was shaky and her eyes full of despair, a cocktail for departure. I had by now gotten  used to this, but the inner seemed to have missed this glorious memo.
We walked steadily on the marble floor, with seemingly well calculated and orchestrated steps. We went past a leukemic kid being wheeled to the other end of the building, past briskly walking nurses, past an abandoned wheel chair, past a stretcher with a lifeless body on it, past a “misplaced”, ever jovial kid… into a waiting room with two, rather soulless bodies sobbing their lives away.
Mr. and Mrs. Akisa knew the fate that awaited them, four doors down the hall to the right. The more they had tried to ignore the fact that the past seven years were the years worth Kisa’s lifetime, the more grief clouded their hearts. They appeared to have kept tabs with reality but tonight grief was their heart beat.
He stretched out his arm, allowing my left arm to drop to my thigh to my relief.
” Fr. Odunga Andrew”

His voice was coarse, faintly unstable. Mr. Kisa stretched his arm full length towards him and shook his hand. Mrs. Kisa hurriedly wiped off her ever flowing tears. They both stood up as she greeted him.
Their eyes were full of sorrow as they casted them on me.
“Your nephew is fast growing…” her voice trailed, before bursting into more tears.
“Shall we…” Mr. Kisa offered to take us to his son’s room while trying to calm his wife down. We all stood by the door as my uncle made his way into the room. Mr. Kisa’s hand was well woven around his now sobbing wife as I leaned by the other door post.

Kisa’s room was sky blue in colour dotted with flashes of joyful toons. The floor was also marble with a fluffy carpet to keep it warm. Out of the open window, the lavish green grass lawn stretched past some mansion cowering beneath towering trees, hiding its owners exotism and wealth. There were flowers, cards, untouched fruits his favourite short story collection and the Bible on the side desk. The beeps from the life support machine were the only constant reminder of life, save from the sobbing and the soft breathing of everyone in the room.
Fr. Odunga leaned by towards him and uttered some words  that left a gorgeous smile on his face. It didn’t take long before he slumped back into his old self. The infection had taken toll of him and what was once a chubby body was just a frame of bones. His cheeks were now hollow and had welled up some tears. His eyes were bloodshot and he constantly shivered like a Nokia phone on vibrational mode. His destiny was final, however much he tried to fight it. One could see the struggle in his sunken eyes.
The Priest said the final prayers as I followed for the seventh time now, the third of the year. He sought for God’s mercy upon His baptised son, who now had already turned to face his hero and heroin.

His parents broke into a cry at the face of their only kid on the verge of exiting this cruel world. They knew they could do nothing and this pained enough.
She raced to her son’s bed side and grabbed his cold palm. I felt tears welling up in my eyes as they made their way down my cheek, but made no effort to wipe them out. In solidarity with his parents, especially his mother who was visibly shattered and broken as his husband stayed strong for her despite the pain eating him inside.
She whispered to him, “Let go. Don’t fight it. Just let go. Jesus is waiting for you in Heaven.

The beeps aligned to a single constant sound. Then hush fell in the room.
©85_Decibel

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TRAPPED

By Martha Nderitu


Hey awesome people!

I have walked the face of the earth for

twenty years, ten months, fifteen days and an

undefined number of seconds (I am still

walking on it 🙂 ). I once lay on the evergreen

grass patch behind our homely Kiganjo house

feeling trapped.

I made a mental note to tell Daktari, then it hit

me that the conversation would be strange.

“What do you mean, “You’re feeling trapped?”

He would ask, propping his chin with his pen,

his rugged expression narrow with humor.

Where exactly would I start?

More like;

I need to stop being subject to the laws of

science, like matter and gravity. When I see a

wall, I want to scale it in my six inch stilettos

without landing hard on my gluteus and

cracking some vertebra. I want to dance on

the ceiling; moonwalk like Michael Jackson

and sway like Britney Spears. I want to climb

trees with the agility of a monkey and scare

away bad humans with my fangs, like a

leopard does. I want to walk through hills and

reach directly into mum’s snack cabinet

without having to break into it. I want to sit on

the runway whilst an Airbus A-380 is coming

in for landing without freaking out. I would

love to jump from the Everest and scream

through the eight kilometer drop without a

parachute and not bust my skull.

I wish I didn’t have to count the calories in my

food and eat no more than 1200 of them. I

want to eat fries, chicken, pastries, meat, salty

and sugary stuff without ever looking like a

walking display of the effects of what they

call a ‘poor diet’. I want to relax at the beach

in a bikini, look like a busted can of corned

beef or cheese and not give a damn. I want

to fit into any dress, especially those cute

high-lows and leather skater dresses made

for girls with 48% of my waist circumference.

Moreover, I want to go swimming with my

lovely and toned classmates and not feel like

I have an inbuilt floater on my waist.

I need to stop being subject to the concept of

time. I am not for silly unspoken rules like ‘Be

up by 0700hrs, attend that 0900hrs class and

within that time, jog, brush your fangs, have a

quick cold bath without getting a mild stroke,

consume 3 liters of stiff coffee to shoo sleep

away and brown bread for the Chromium

reserves, carry the right books and walk to

school. Why can’t I rise 0300hrs, jog, have

dinner, go back to bed…something

disorganized like that and be perfectly fine?

Why should I have to sweat all the way

instead of snapping my fingers and appearing

in the right class? (Most times I arrive on time

only to get late trynna find my class in the

wrong hemisphere of school).

I want to stop being shy. It is the only barrier

between me and the girls I would love to be

my friends, and the reason my crushes

remain just that. Crushes. For once I need to

stop being so subject to my emotions and

what people feel about me. Nothing would

please me better than to have a blank or

sleepy expression while facing this planet’s

bullies, instead of having my eyes melt

hopelessly. I do not want to be subject to the

cliché ‘No man is an island’. I want to enjoy

my own company and not feel neither empty

nor lonely.

I want to be infinitely good. I want to be a

great hip-hop dancer, ballet dancer, model,

skater, swimmer, singer, poet and actress. I

want to run at 110 km/hr and not at 3 km/hr,

after which I flip out and feel my lungs

begging to crawl out my nose,where the

Oxygen bounty is. I want to be good in math

and organic chemistry and bioengineering. I

want to be a lawyer, psychologist, geneticist,

rugby player and sniper when I grow up.

More than everything on this planet, I want to

protect everyone and everything I love. I want

to be at everyone’s service. I want to protect

the young children in Baringo County, Syria,

ISIS held areas and other places from PTSD. I

wish I could cover their eyes from the horrific

scenes of their parents being executed and

homes being razed to the ground. I want to

heal everyone in hospital and at home that is

in severe pain and has no access to funds or

painkillers. I wish I could protect us from

rapidly mutating viruses, armed militia that

shoot us in the head without a second

thought, rogue police, rapists, bad teachers,

thieving politicians, illness and pain. I wish our

families would stay intact and we enjoyed

happiness and a pure and infinite peace of

mind.

In short, I want to be a free spirit, roaming

wild, naked and free. No barriers, no positive

and negative attributes, no meds. Just me.

However, time has not come for me to be a

free spirit yet. So I will remain trapped in my

imperfectly perfect body and will do

everything it takes to feel happy and okay.

Like eat healthy and avoid the beach.

Cheers guys!
Originally posted on http://www.blue radioactivity.co.ke

Dreadful! : The Beginning 01

 

art

Completing my PhD. presentation in Biochemistry in a successful manner, was a hallmark event in my rather young career. Well, no one, not even me, saw this coming. So I had to paste this young man’s smile on my absolutely surprised face, put on my game face  and get on with the multiple hand shakes ahead. Finally graduation was beckoning and time to go home for change was around the corner.

Three months later after my graduation -that was filled with pomp; yes, we partied like we were eighteen again, relinquishing our young days when we used to grind on twerking voluptuous ladies, drink (soft drinks) and just do what teens and youths do, you know! – I was back home to my country, WAZO. This is where the journey began, already foreseeing a successful career.

Another memorable event was one of my interviews in this wonderland.

I woke up one bright Monday morning for my second interview since my arrival. My schedule was all laid out clearly, from my departure, to my arrival, to the interview (which took lots of ‘Before the mirror talks’ and consultations) to how cute I’ll  have to smile, to my return back home. I know, I know, I nearly forgot mentioning my state-of-the-art suit from MABWENYENYE land, huko majuu*

Cereals were never part of my breakfast till lately, with some milk. I was running laye on my  schedule, so I had to hurry. All these in the name of by passing the Kathi superhighway enormous traffic. I thought the reason behind creating a SUPERHIGHWAY  was to eradicate traffic jams, however, Kathi superhighway had become the Mother of all congestion.

Back! The City, Ronai, was as usual donned with skyscrapers amidst tall and short buildings all together. nobody in Ronai – or Ronaians as referred to – cared as much as to what happens to the next person. Thuggery seemed to be the order of the day in the busy and packed streets…

DREADFUL!

(continued).

Morph

The world has a lot great influence in who we are, who we become and how we become who we become at the end. Some people end up being great people due the great influence around them or some end up being the worst version that they can ever be.

In as much as we would like to ignore the influence our friends, parents, enemies and our environment, on who we become, it still does happen.

Our experiences contribute also to this jigsaw, setting landmarks in our lives and leaving scars as well. Hearts are broken by those close to us, those whom we entrusted our deep secrets.

We end up morphing to counter these. To hide the scars in our souls. to hide the tears in our eyes and keep clear the debris of whom we used to be.

In as much as we would love to have company, be not a crowd “pleaser” and neither a hater of all. be content with God’s daily providence, and learn to listen to your heart and mind.

Capice!

DEATH AND OBLIVION!

death
what-if.xkcd.com

DEATH!

It’s an unpleasant and equally an inevitable event in ones life. However much we all despise it, a day will reach when we’ll all depart earth and go to face our Maker, for all we’ve done down here.

Listening to several tributes got me wondering what will  people say of me when I depart. What mark will I leave? What impact will I leave in people’s heart, life? What difference will I create on earth when I’m not there? What will I be remembered for? Who will I be remembered to be?

eterniity
nep.church

OBLIVION!

We all fear oblivion and what it comes with… It’s like never existing. Living a purposeless life with no meaningful direction. I hope i won’t be one to be forgotten. i share the same fears as in the novel, “THE FAULT IN OUR STARS.”

DO YOU FEAR OBLIVION?

TRUTH BE TOLD.

 

By Lucy Mwaura

sugar+daddy
timesline.com.za

MY mother has always been very honest with me when it comes to life teachings. She tells me when she met my dad, he was just a simple poor village boy with only ambitions. But that did not stop her from falling in love. She accepted him as he was and within the eight years they lived together, they made major milestone in life. From living in a small, single rented room, to being able to build their own home, establishing their own business and; I’m sure they would have done even more, had death not snatched away the man she had invested her future with.

From this I’ve always believed in being a pillar behind a successful man and an inspiration to my own kids. I don’t want to be a clandestine beside a rich man, who I know nothing about the history of his wealth. Yes I know he’s filthy rich, but always remember that he’s also filthy in every other aspect. So let’s talk about the so-called SPONSORS and SPONSEES (we agreed the sponsored shall be called sponsees).

Every time I see a young girl riding in a Range with a man old enough or even older than her own father, I don’t see a lucky girl, rather I see the emptiness in her little mind. Being a sponsee doesn’t make anyone a heroine. I know you feel as a heroine when in that machine, but you should always remember that; behind that successful man there is a strong woman who stood by him through thick and thin, she stood by him during winter and summer. That woman could be your own mother…

clande
themusic.com.au

 

 

Yeah I know you don’t care, you already sold your conscience to the devil in the name of money and nothing but money. OK, I understand. But truth be told, I’ve never heard of any independent woman that sells her body for money… yes I mean a Commercial Sex Worker or how else do I explain a woman who sleeps with men for money?

 

 

You call them SPONSERS, what do they sponsor and what do they get in return? We all know there is no love involved in these relationships but let me educate you my dear sisters. Honestly I’m not jealous of you because there is nothing to envy in you. Get these lessons from me, they may not mean anything to you now but someday they will make sense.

In the earlier years our mothers were patient enough to hold on to their men and build them to what they wanted them to be. Ask Kathy Kiuna who was from a posh estate why she got married to a ghetto boy who had nothing to offer. Why she agreed to live with this man in a widow’s home whereas she could have gone back to her rich parents and live comfortably as she was used to.

Our mothers held on because they knew a blessing awaited them. They knew the value of things not the prices. Today you tell me that a sponsor is better because you will never lack, yeah you will never lack anything with a price tag sweetheart, but you will lack everything that has value, which is important.

To tell you the truth you are wasting away your youthfulness with things that will never benefit you. Don’t look at today, think about tomorrow. Would you want to be the wife that cries every night while your husband chops away the money that you’ve so worked hard for with a girl your daughter’s age? Would you want to watch your own daughter disgrace herself with men older than.your husband? I guess not. I know you would want to be happy and true happiness doesn’t come from partying and riding on with sponsors. True happiness comes when you achieve your heart’s desire from your own sweat.

For as long as there is a woman somewhere suffering because of you, you can never progress. That young man who you underestimate could be the next president of the U.S. All he needs is your love and loyalty, that is enough to encourage him to work hard. Pray for your man and God will bless you… let the sponsors stay home with their wives and pay their son’s campus fees.

Seek Wisdom and true happiness. So far I’ve not heard of any sponsee that is successful, and you know why, because there’s a woman’s tears blocking your blessings. Everyone is entitled to God’s blessings, but how you seek these blessings is what matters. sponsors will only add to you curses. Work girl, work and make your mama proud…make yourself proud and be an exemplary example to your kids.

My Identity

nun

Monday mornings are never the best in human history, I guess so. Though today seemed a little different. Thoughts!! Everyone has thoughts that subject us to partake different actions in our lives or stir something that may be the genesis of something great.

Identity and belonging are some of the fundamentals of the human social being in each and every stage of our lives. All the way since we were kids, we sought approval and attention from others, especially our parents. We wanted to be identified with a particular group for a particular reason, during our teen years, and some people would even go an extra mile just to prove that they are worth of who they are or whom they want to be.

In one of the episodes of an all time favorite TV shows, “BLACKISH” there is a stress on being Black, embracing black, identifying blacks and feeling the sense of belonging in a black community through interacting… i.e. the nod and the fist (mostly). Our Muslim brothers and sisters share a sense of a common religion, Islam, and when they meet, they waste no time sharing pleasantries with each other.

And this is what brought me to think of how a vast majority of the Global Faithfuls pass by each other, daily with no slight concern of how the other person is fairing on. However, today seemed different from my part.

I’m a Catholic faithful, and the rosary happens to be part and parcel of my daily life. Walking in haste I see a catholic nun walking towards my direction, seemingly in a rush too. Her lips signify that she is singing to a tune or mumbling some silent prayer to God to save this world from what it has become lately.. She doesn’t seem deterred by the cold breeze, freezing the Nairobi environs. I presume hastily that this will be a normal meet with a student around campus. I throw a last glance at her, to try and bring my mind to the view that I’m not aware of her identity. She looks, backs with a jovial aura clouding the moment. She smiles and surprisingly waves at me, I hesitantly wave back and smile, reciprocating her friendly gesture. My face, DAZED!

Well, Identity and a sense of belonging never departs from us!

WHERE DO YOU BELONG?

 

Life!

enlightphoto

Some days ago I got to learn of the demise of one of a parent of one great friend that I cherish. Which got me thinking how short and unpredictable life can be. Remember the University students who perished while on a journey, for a weekend of merry-making?

Several people we grew up with and met their end in unexplained ways? Mysterious disappearance of our loved ones? Some found dead, others never to be seen again.

Always give thanks for life! It’s not for granted.

Cherish those you love and around you! They may not be around you forever.
Say what you need to say!

Forgive before you depart with all the pain and bitterness within you, gripping each end of your existence!

Let go of all the disappointments, heartbreaks and sad moments!

Uphold all good and bright memories you’ve experienced! Walk that new path that will brighten your life. Be your own happiness… joy and who you want to be. Worry not, let God worry for you and fulfill His plans for you.  hope. Always hope, for it doesn’t disappoint.

Wishing you a fulfilling life!!!

ALI AND ALLIES.

 

By Bernard Njaya

ALI
Ali (pinterest.com)

Early this month the whole world – I think it suffices here to say the whole world, given he was the World Heavyweight Champion – momentarily stalled and eulogized, in the wake of the passing on of ‘The Greatest of All Time,’ Muhammad Ali. Tributes poured from every corner of the world via Social and Print Media, for a man who ‘had everything a man could have’ and had ‘been everywhere in the world, seen everything’. His ever-there biography must’ve topped other routine Google searches, either out of dire curiosity, or for mere clarification. As a result garnering new admirers posthumously. Witty quotes, iconic images, classic clips; shared, and even enshrined for future reference.

Then came the memorial service in his hometown of Louisville, Kentucky ,

One more thing. I am the greatest of all time and Louisville, Kentucky, is the greatest city of all time

He was quick to add that, breathlessly and spent, during an interview immediately following his successful title defense, in one feisty 14-round bout against his bitter rival Joe Frazier. Joe Frazier, to whom Ali had paid tribute early on in the interview as, “the greatest fighter of all time, next to me”.

ali art
Muhammad Ali (unionart.co.uk)

Ali was “so fast that last night I turned off the light switch in my hotel room and was in bed before the room was dark”. Talk about lightning – The Macmillan English Dictionary for Advanced Learners (Second edition 2007), in its example sentence for the use of lightning as an adjective goes, Ali was famed for his lightning reactions and ready wit.

Call the reactions and with mere flaunting or real taunting, did not settle well with Frazier. Who apparently didn’t “give a damn” and, would gladly “open up the graveyard and bury his [Ali’s] ass when the Lord chooses to take him”. So it goes without saying then, that many a riveting and rueful eulogy had to burn the midnight oil. President Obama’s too.

It was a sombre event, albeit on separate inescapable occasions filled with rapturous laughter and rousing cheers of Ali! Ali! Ali! Ali! to end his strange eventful history. A stage where many poets stood out for the quite a rhyming sage he was; “It will be a killer and chiller and a thriller when I get the gorilla in Manila”; a pillar where many heavyweights (like Bill Clinton) and former heavyweight champ (like Mike Tyson) found an alter ego; an altar where most  religions embraced, for “Rivers, ponds, lakes and streams – they all have different names, but they all contain water. Just as religions do – they all contain truths”.

Anecdotes were recounted, memories recollected, and cherished. He was loved and admired – this man who could ‘make medicine sick’. “When Cassius [Ali] says a mouse can outrun a horse, don’t ask how; put your money where your mouse is!

“I AM THE GREATEST!”

HOW GREAT ARE YOU?