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Breathing deep from your belly may actually be a life saver.

BY Brian Nzomo.

Breathing deeply _ from within your belly may seem like a simple task. Many people overlook this very important aspect of biological functioning, without understanding how important it may be in saving your life, and in the well being of your health.

Shallow breathing is good, and necessary. But taking a few moments to breathe deeply has numerous benefits in your overall functioning of the body. What are these benefits?

“Breathing is natural. We did it naturally as babies. It is not rocket science”
Diana Herrington, Health expert.

Helps in dealing with constipation by ensuring regular bowel movements.
Reduces chances of respiratory complications such as Bronchitis and Asthma.
Help improve the lymphatic system, helps in speedy recovery after an illness.
Improves the circulation system ; improves the heart pulse rate due to increased oxygen circulation.
Calms down the nervous system by balancing the two sides of the brain.
Creates more energy for the immune system to detoxify ; thus tissues regenerate faster.
Reduce muscular strain, improves flexibility and stronger joints.
Mental observation and concentration is fostered.
Helps in the release of endorphins that creates easy and high sleep thus calming down emotions.
It helps improve self-love and feel better about oneself, thus a natural aphrodisiac.

“Breathing is massively practical,” says Belisa Vranich, a psychologist and author of the book “Breathe,” to be published in December. “It’s meditation for people who can’t meditate.” ~ New York Times
NY Times.

Improve your life today and use those seconds to breathe deeply, and experience the change over of your health.

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My First Blog Post

Be yourself; Everyone else is already taken.
— Oscar Wilde.

This is the first post on my new blog. I’m just getting this new blog going, so stay tuned for more. Subscribe below to get notified when I post new updates.

A REVIEW OF ‘THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY’ BY OSCAR WILDE

By Brian Nzomo

When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was.

There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of strange manners of poisoning,—poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful.

Many cultures and civilizations have produced literature that venerate youth and its beauty – while bewailing its transience. Man is cursed to die. Those who live long enough, wither up into hideous forms before finally dissipating. A great cause for lamentation. Why does beauty fade away?

Dorian is faced with the same angst. A young man whose vernal bloom captures the attention of the painter Basil Hallward. When his exquisite portrait is splashed upon the canvas, a rancorous feeling swirls inside him. The portrait shall forever remain young as his face contorts with advancing age. He becomes overdramatic. Annoyingly puerile over this ineffable fact. And despite Wilde’s intention to attribute this weird obsession to the alluring Mephistophelian counsel by the hedonist Lord Henry Wotton, it is impossible to extricate Dorian from fault. Either he is too gullible, or he actually bred such narcissistic tendencies – only awaiting ratification.

As Dorian pursues his hedonistic lifestyle – in fiery fervor – he becomes mirthful with the loss of his innocence. Indeed, he was Apollo to everyone’s eyes. And from this admiration, he sought to plow every unfallowed pleasure. There would be no restrain. To him, history had surrendered sensuous pleasure much to its loss. And yet, with unbridled pleasure comes consequence.

But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the dominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through History, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and selfdenial, whose origin was fear, and whose result was a degradation infinitely more terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape,

When Dorian abandons his newly-found object of infatuation, the Shakesperian actress Sybil Vane, the young lass commits suicide. Ordinarily, one would expect Dorian to feel guilty. But there was no load in his heart. On closer inspection of his painted portrait, he notices a slight change. Something very bizarre. A transformation. As he would later realize, during his outburst at Basil’s studio, a spooky exchange happened as per his wish to never grow old. The picture allegorically becomes Dorian’s soul. It would bear the weight of moral corruption and age degradation that would be his.

Dorian’s excesses become appalling even to the society around him. He is shunned. And yet he alone knows the secret of the constancy of his beauty. When he reveals this to Basil, he ultimately kills him in a fit of childish blame. Furthermore, he conspires with an old acquaintance to get rid of the body. Every time Dorian commits an iniquity, the portait becomes uglier and uglier. A horrid sight hidden away in the basement of darkness.

Typical of the late Victorian tradition, Wilde instills a grim whiff of pessimism. The impossibility of redemption. Dorian seeks to change his ways, but Lord Henry taunts such an attempt. He had given himself to hedonism that it became inseparable from him. Dorian’s youthful appearance and the ebullient beauty he exudes are his dungeons. They would always drive him to seek pleasure at the expense of others. He says in hedonist fashion, “…don’t deceive yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly-built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams.” When Dorian tries to destroy his portrait, he withers up and dies, reversing the curse.

Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly-built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe, and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of color in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings strange memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play,—I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

Wilde is undoubtedly a masterful writer. Every word he writes has an air of intention and aesthetic. As a pioneer of the age of decadence, this novel was unkindly received by the Victorian moralists. Reading between the lines, informs one of the homoerotic feeling that exists between Basil and Dorian. And the suggestion about Dorian ruining young men whispers a great vice of the day – homosexuality. A ‘vice’ that would devour Oscar Wilde himself in 1895.

During Wilde’s trial, passages of Dorian Gray were used by the prosecution to implicate the author in unsavory relations with a high lord’s son. He was imprisoned for this crime. An injustice that would enjoin Wilde in the long list of queer martyrs.

Dorian Gray is a masterpiece of its time. Steeped in the paradoxical times of harsh morality and fleeting pleasures. The Victorians are aware of the rebellious escape of time. But remain abrasive to decadence with satin masks of Puritanism – which exacerbates conflict between the artist and tradition, the dandy and antiquated, the aesthete and the vapid…

OF NO SUBSTANCE

By B. N Wendo

Nobody saw the shrouded corpse leave the building. Nobody saw the red van speed away. And Kevin’s family felt the weight of a broken son uplifted from their backs.

In her eyes, there was that dreadful disgust. What was he doing? Was this her son?

She screamed at him. But there was a strong wind, one that her voice was unable to overwhelm. And the swishing trees and grass swallowed its timbre. He could not hear her. Engrossed in the football game. Bathed in the dust. Bathed in the dust!

The dust. Her son. The clothes. The dust. Who was going to wash these clothes? But that was not the mother’s greatest fear.

“Kevin!” She called out. “Kevooo!”

The boy was startled. He was visibly shaken at the sight of his displeased mother. Her instructions that morning before she left for ‘chama’ were pretty clear. Do not leave the house. Study. Read. The exams are nigh. But this was a tall order. The moment her figure disappeared from the eyeline, he instantly made his way to the field. He thought she would return in the evening. But at noontime, she came. And saw him at the dusty playing field. He knew war was coming.

“Kevooo!” She called out in rage. The others stopped playing. Kevin ran to her. But stood at a safe distance.

“Kevin, what did I tell you to do before leaving the house?” She asked in a threateningly low tone. Her eyes darted to her son’s body. Dust coated him everywhere. On his feet. His arms. His face. Even hair.

“I did what you asked…mum!” Kevin lied.

“If I get to the house before you, I will do something to you that will make your people scream! To the house right now!” She blasted him. Kevin instantly shot up and ran before her. But in his mind, he could not overrule the flogging that awaited him.

Mama Kevin was a strict, no-nonsense woman. Her fourteen-year old son and ten-year old daughter knew her. But even this knowledge was not enough to whisk them away from her trouble. That Friday evening, Kevin met his wage for disobedience. His mother flogged him hard. And constantly gave him a tongue lashing like she did normally.

But there was a raw revelation that evening. Something greater that came from his mother’s lips. Something his heart was not able to dislodge as mere fit of rage.

“Look at you!” She doused. “A 14-year old boy out there playing with small boys. Playing in the dust…”

He sniffled. His backside searing with pain.

“…Do you even respect yourself?” She continued. “Your mates are out there behaving like focused candidates. I was at Pato’s home for the chama. And do you know where Pato was? Under the shade of the tree, reading. After completing all his chores. And he was very clean.”

Pato. Why did his mother have to bring up the name of that boy? Pato was his classmate. A fierce academic rival. Kevin had severally beaten him since standard five. And yet, his mother still imagined that comparing him to Pato…He could not wrap his mind around it. And it hurt him.

That night, he slept in distress. There was a solemn desire to understand why he was never enough a son for his mother. Kevin could not bear the fact that Pato was his mother’s ideal son. What was special about him anyway? Just because he reads under the tree? But didn’t he study hard too? Why did his mother refuse to acknowledge all the good things he did?

A tear streamed from his eyes in the dark.

“Let me tell you something,” her mother’s voice echoed at the back of his mind. “You’ll never amount to anything. Useless boy!”

You’ll never amount to anything…

You’ll never…amount…to…any…thi…ng…

Anything…

Ne…ver…

He was breathless. Stumbled over the stones in the dark farm. Then his pace was intensified. Someone or something was hot in pursuit after him. He wanted to scream for help. But his throat was parched and no sound glided through it.

He was running into a maize plantation.

“Help!” His throat screeched. The footsteps behind him were punching the earth like an insane typewriter. He fell hard on the darkness and bruised his arm. But he gathered his strength. And rose up in flight again. But there was no outrunning that beast.

But the end of the road awaited him. And he was falling off the fringes of an unseen cliff. He was screaming. Screaming. He was falling. The solid abyss awaited him. He was gazing at the starry skies. How they hastened away from his sight as he fell.

A ghostly beast appeared. Right at the edge of the cliff he had fallen from. How terrible it was. Its head – A leopard’s. Steely class. Drool dripping all over its lips and those rock hard canines. He was dying. Help me! Lord! Mother! Father! Anyone. But the precipice was unending. And yet he could not lose the sight of that beast. Nor of the edge of that cliff.

Then instantly, the beast shapeshifted into his mother. Her dough-sprinkled cheeks. Her red headcloth. And that infamous scowl that was casted on her face when he made even the simplest of errors.

‘Son!’ Her voice boomed through the descent. Following him to his decline. “You’ll never amount to anything!”

And there was a gritty laughter. And beside her, he saw his father. His sister. His headmistress at school. His friends. Classmates. Pato! A crowd was forming. All of them, jeering him. Laughing at him. Their fingers pointed at him.

“He will never amount to anything!”

He closed his eyes. But then he woke up in his bed. An aroma of eggs wafted from the kitchen. As he was preparing to kick away his blanket, his mother’s voice streamed from the door of his bedroom.

“Candidate! Ndio unaamka?” A sarcastic tone wrenched him back to his mire.

“Mama Kevin!” A voice tore through the crowd at the market. She at once recognized it and a surge of shame stirred inside her. She pretended not to have heard the call, and burrowed her way through the congestion. But the woman’s call was unrelenting. And she knew that if she feigned deafness once more, the woman would have reason to imagine she was being ignored.

She cursed at herself for being weak. And for coming to the market that day. And she cursed Mama Pato for remembering her face after all those years. Eight years had fleeted like a joke.

“Aah. Mama Pato! Bado uko?” Mama Kevin pretended to have missed her. She did not. Infact, she spat at fate for engineering this meeting.

“Eeh. Na umekuwa msupuuu!” Mama Pato laughed hard. It was an ambiguous laughter. It could neither be assessed for sincerity nor sarcasm.

They would talk for a long time about the events that happened within the eight years they had lost contact. Mama Kevin and her husband moved to Isinya after Kevin was done with his KCPE exams. One he flopped beyond comprehension. Mama Kevin could simply not imagine the scourge from other women at her chama. The results were public. Everyone knew that Kevin, that star boy, had flunked in all his subjects.

“So, how are kina Kevin?” Mama Pato inquired much to Mama Kevin’s chagrin.

“They are doing well. I can’t complain,” Mama Kevin said simply. But her knees felt like rubber. Praying that the woman would find no reason to venture into his son’s progress.

“It’s a good thing,” Mama Pato said. “You know my son is graduating this Friday. First class honours. UoN school of law.”

“Wow!” Mama Kevin trembled. She could hardly betray her pain at such a glorious declaration. “I am very thankful that God has made your son succeed. I knew he was a great child that one.”

“Indeed. We have suffered. And struggled. But God has given us the victory!” Mama Pato said. “I am also sure Kevin is doing well…”

Mama Kevin nodded. She then excused herself. There was something important she needed to buy and she was afraid that the shop would be closed. They exchanged contacts but neither women was easily going to revive communication. Mama Pato knew this. Mama Kevin knew this.

Mama Kevin fought back her tears. Pato. How she wished his son was as fortunate as that boy. Kevin. That boy had caused her much grief. He would never amount to anything.

“You’ll never amount to anything!” Omosh said to Kevin. “Stop trying to be clean!”

The two men were hiding at an incomplete building. A twilight fix.

“Hii maisha mazee!” Kevin said in a drowsy manner. “Unajua nini brooo…Mimi nilikuwa boyz chepe! Nilikuwa…na…future…maan!”

At every leap of the nightly hour, Kevin spoke at length about how he dreamt to become a doctor. A surgeon. A neurosurgeon. He was good at science. Got 100% at every test. Every night he saw himself in this monstrous hospital. Patients thanking him for saving their lives. Their beaming gestures. The warmth of their courtesy. The candor of his humility. He would drive his favorite Mercedes Benz. Impatient to get home to his family. His pretty wife. Pretty kids. Hale and vibrant.

Omosh knew the sensation was already kicking in. This fool, he thought. Who cares about his dreams? Everybody at one point of their lives dreamt. And only a skim of these dreamers achieved their dreams.

“Oyaa bro! Tulia,” Omosh admonished him. “Leta hii blunt mazee!”

“Wee tulia,” Kevin protested. “Si ni mimi nimebuy!”

Omosh rose up and sauntered across the room. The floor was rough. He stood at the window ledge. Gazed for long into the darkness. As if waiting for someone.

“Brooo…” Kevin towed along his story. “My mother… That woman always reminded me who I was to her. No matter how high I could go, it was never enough for her. She always pointed out my failures.”

“Huyo ni mzazi budaa!” Omosh said absently. “Kwanza matha!”

“Nikuulize bro,” Kevin objected. “Wewe, did your mother ever wrong you?”

Omosh answered in perfunctory fashion, “I wish my mother even cared about my education. But I don’t blame her. She could not afford to give me the life I so desired. Maybe my life would have been better.”

“Na mzae?” Kevin asked.

Omosh was silent. Plumes of smoke rose in the dark. Kevin did not need a verbal answer. There was no father.

“My father was there when he saw that woman shred my confidence!” Kevin lamented. “He never said a word. He sat there and swallowed every turd that my mother fed him about him. ‘Take him to approved school!’ He takes me to approved school. ‘Don’t give him pocket money until he excels in his exams!’ He did it. What a gelded fellow!”

Beneath the building, a red van was driven to a halt. Omosh knew it was time. Kevin was still slouching on the mildew-tanned wall. Taking deep puffs of marijuana. Two men alighted from the van. It was dark but they could spot Omosh from the ledge two-stories above. He nodded at them. They nodded back and made their way into the building.

“…My mother literally asked my father not to bail me out after we got arrested for theft last week. If not for Chairman, I would not have left that dungeon. Is that a Mother? Sometimes I wish I died. That failed suicide attempt in form two haunts me to date…”

Omosh gazed at the stars. “Usijali bro!”

Kevin was surprised to see two hulk-statured shadows pervade his space. He was about to scream for help when they grabbed him. But a tiny piercing pain tinctured his intoxication. Everything became black as coal before his eyes.

“Omosh…Ni nini?” Kevin cried.

“Ssshh!” The man who induced him into unconsciousness signaled.

Nobody saw the shrouded corpse leave the building. Nobody saw the red van speed away. And Kevin’s family felt the weight of a broken son uplifted from their backs.

A REVIEW OF TESS OF THE D’UBERVILLES BY THOMAS HARDY

By B.N Wendo

Tess of the D’ubervilles was a bruising read. It was long. Very long indeed. The writer, Thomas Hardy, wrote in complex sentence structures and sometimes heavy English. The Epic of the female protagonist, Tess, was tackled incredibly. Her metamorphosis from a naive and spineless sixteen year old girl to a hale but adaptive young woman was apparent. Yet the change is never enough for Tess to slither through the rigid dimensions of Victorian society and the peculiar misfortunes that befall her. Her family is poor; despite their old-age heritage as knights in early England. Something that distressed her father John Dubervilles.

When Tess meets Alec Dubervilles at his farmhouse, she is rightly so spiteful of him. He is a charlatan. A spoilt rich boy who is pachydermatous (blame Thomas for giving me this vocabulary) to the feelings of Tess. He rapes her eventually; a situation that would decide Tess’ fate for the rest of the text. Tess leaves the place and returns home with child. She names him Sorrow, but he dies and a Christian burial is rejected. Tess is hurt by this unfolding, but she has learnt her lessons.

She moves to a dairy farm at Talbothays. Here she meets her female friends including Izz-Huet and Martha. They all fawn over a young man, an apprentice at the farm, called Angel Clare. But Angel falls in love with Tess. They had once met momentarily at her village Marlott, but nothing significant could be conjured from the meeting. But here in Talbothays, they rekindle a flame and finally Angel proposes marriage. Tess is reluctant. She knows her past well. And she is doubtful that Angel, raised in a strictly religious home, would accept her with such a blot. It would even be unfair to him, she considers. But Angel is persistent. Tess wishes to tell him of her past, but an opportunity never arises.

Finally, they get married. On their wedding night, both of them reveal past iniquities. Tess forgives Angel. But Angel is unforgiving. He could not imagine that his wife was not pure and unassailed as a nice Victorian woman should. At this point, my distaste for Angel soars. He prided himself as unyielding to the convenctionalities of society. A staunch skeptic. Yet he failed to understand Tess’ position. But the influence of society and family are too strong on him. Certainly, fragments of it remain in his perception of life.

Angel leaves for Brazil without his wife. He is angry. But when he gets there, he encounters afflictions he could never imagine. He receives letters from Tess pleading with him to return. But he is obstinate. When he rethinks his position again, he decides to return to his wife. Love shall overcome, he believes. But it is too late. Tess in her emptiness, went to work under harsh conditions in Flintcomb-ash. Here she meets Alec again. This time, an evangelist. But his radical piety is weak when she meets Tess. He discards it and begs her to move in with him. Tess resists at first. Believing Angel would come back to her one day in spite of Alec’s firm insistence and mockery. Infact Alec hasn’t changed one bit. He is still the same manipulative man we meet in Tess’ fledgling life.

Tess was then recalled at home by her poor family when her mother fell sick. Her mother gets well, but her father is struck down with illness and dies. Buried in a vapid tomb unlike his honorable ancestors. They are kicked out of their cottage and leave to nowhere. Tess has no choice but to yield to Alec. She moves in with him to his palatial residence.

But Angel is back. A ghost of his former self. Maimed by the vagaries of malaria in the tropical South American country. He looks for Tess and finds her in Sandbourne. Tess asks him to leave. It was too late. Dejected, he goes away. But then Tess follows him to the station. She is erratic. They profess love to one another, but she has done something unthinkable. When Angel left the house, a squabble ensued between her and Alec. She blames him for misleading her again. Making her believe Angel would never come back. In the mist of her anger, she stabs Alec to death and leaves the house in haste.

Angel is petrified. But he doesn’t want to leave her a third time. He plots an escape with her northward hopefully imagining they would never be caught. A week is spent in their heavenly bliss together. On flight. But when they arrive at the Stonehenges in Wessex, Tess is arrested by the police. She asks Angel to make a pledge to marry her sister, Lizza-lu. On the final chapter, Hardy brings us to a small town where Angel and Lizza-lu witness the hoisting of a black flag. A final nail of justice. Tess is sentenced to death. A daunting passage indicating the completion of this Aeschylean tragedy. It was clear that Tess would have it rough in her pursuit to be a ‘proper’ woman.

Published in 1891, a reader would feel the apparent realist touch in Hardy’s writing. The characters are semi-conscious of their society. Semi-conscious because they feel that they can transcend whatever obstacles are set before them. Tess imagines that her love for Angel will save her. Angel believes his firm philosophy in life will make him rise above the tides. But they are not capable of doing it. Society is too strong to be ignored. They acknowledge this on the final chapters. Tess can feel how indifferent the world is to her strife. Angel can only bow at the end and let the world shape him. A smooth transition into a modernist character.

CONVICTION

By B. N Wendo

There was no other solution to her misfortune. She had to get a wife for herself. Someone who could grant solace to her loneliness. And bear children for her.

Kivanguli knew it was a bad idea to entertain his guest with tea on that sweltering afternoon. Yet there was nothing else he could offer him. The shops nearby were all closed and he could not offer him beer. The two men sat on blue plastic chairs under the eaves blasting with heat, fanning themselves as they conversed.

A dog barked fervently at the gate when someone rang a bicycle bell. The two men stopped talking and waited. A boy of seventeen emerged at the view, dragging along him a hardy bicycle loaded with strips of sisal rope. He politely saluted them.

“I am done,” the boy motioned to the strips of sisal. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

“Not really,” Kivanguli said. “You can put the sisal strips near the stacks of firewood behind that kitchen hut.”

The boy obediently did as asked. Then waited for his payment. Kivanguli handed him a five hundred shilling note. He received it with enthusiasm and mumbled a ‘thankyou’ before turning to leave. Kivanguli called him again.

“Eeeh…Muisyo!”

“Yes sir!” The boy listened attentively.

“I want to ask you a question…is there any function going on somewhere? I have noticed the entire village looks rather vacated today.”

“Yes,” the boy replied zealously. “Infact I am heading there immediately. The wedding between Mwaitu Bendetta and her iweto! I cannot remember her name.”

“Mmmh!” Kivanguli seemed surprised. “You mean It?”

Muisyo nodded.

“There is nothing else. You can go!” Muisyo clambered over his bicycle and cycled away as the homestead dog, an emaciated creature called Simba, scurried after him barking. The barking was submerged in the silence, leaving the two men in the stew of deep thought.

“Father, I did not know such a thing was going to happen,” Kivanguli broke the silence. “It is astounding!”

“I am also in shock!” Father Kitila said. “Bendetta! The village! How! The elders?”

“I swear I did not even know this was happening,” Kivanguli lied. He knew everything that was going on. He was among the elders who allowed such a wedding to go on. But he was not bold enough to attend. Neither did he know it would be held almost immediately.

He remembered that meeting. How emotionally charged it was. The family was completely against such a move. Bendetta, a childless widow, desired to get children of her own. She was tired, she said. Tired of the neglect her family had subjected her to. Her late husband had died leaving her massive tracts of land. Properties that her relatives coveted. And because of her husband’s obstinacy to marry a second wife, he died without an heir. Leaving everything to her. A barren woman. There was no other solution to her misfortune. She had to get a wife for herself. Someone who could grant solace to her loneliness. And bear children for her.

Her husband’s brothers opposed the suggestion. It was a cog to their ambition. Kivanguli was there when the shouting match prevailed. He felt pity for the old woman. He could feel her pain. Certainly she was right. Her family did not care one bit about her. She was a nuisance. Something they wished away. All their late brother’s property could be theirs. How risky it was for an old woman to live by herself. Especially one as rued as her. She was an armstretch away from being accused of witchcraft. Should any child at the homestead get terminally ill. Or should any prospective family member die, the poltergeist finger of blame would haunt her. And her brother-in-laws. Those hypocrites, Kivanguli scoffed as he remembered their professions of faux concern.

“This is a devoutly Catholic home!” Bendetta’s brother-in-law, Nthuli, said in earnest. “We cannot allow shame and disgrace in this family.”

“Come to think of It,” Kilonzo protested. “What would people say about us. That we have allowed such a disgraceful union prevail in our midst. Not possible!”

Vaati, the oldest member of the council disputed those arguments. Iweto was not reproachable. It was part and parcel of the Kamba traditions since antiquity. And although uncommon, Bendetta’s case was worthy enough for justification. All the elders, including Kivanguli, agreed that Bendetta was allowed to take a wife. A young woman was spotted. A distant relative sought to till the land and sow the future generations. Although the spring had dried, the river bed was to be served by another stream. And the river was not going to dry up after all.

Kivanguli knew the implications of what they had done. They had driven a wedge between tradition and the religion they endeared. The church was yet to get a whiff of the matter. A majority of the community members felt it was justified for Bendetta to take an ‘iweto’. But they were also aware that the church would not take it kindly. Even those who supported Bendetta would not escape lashing. He was a coward. He would covertly support the old woman but he was not ready to get pricked in the process.

“But you’re an elder,” Father Kitila inquired. “How is it possible you never knew about this!”

“I don’t know. I have not been keen on community affairs of late.”

Kitila was confused. How did this happen? Iweto? Under his nose? How secretive was this matter?

“And to think that people have attended the wedding!” Kivanguli seared in.

“This…” Kitila tapped his lap. “This is sacrilege.”

“Indeed,” Kivanguli sipped his tea. “Indeed…”

Sunday. St. Jude Catholic church.

Mass was regularly served. The congregation sang hymns. Listened to the homily. Recited the creed of faith. There was nothing on Father Kitila’s expression that indicated he was disgruntled. Then came the moment of receiving communion.

Father Kitila refused to give eucharist to several elders, Bendetta included. It was unheard of. Appalling. For the entire afternoon, it was the topic for discussion. On the lips of women and men. When a deacon asked him why he did that, Father Kitila stuck to his guns. He was not going to desecrate the sacraments by allowing a member of his church, in the state of mortal sin, receive communion. Simple!

Bendetta was enraged by the decision and she made a complaint to the diocesan bishop. She was grossly misunderstood, she believed. On Tuesday, Kitila headed to Machakos town after being summoned. He confidently knew he would defend his action. And the bishop, a pious man he highly respected, would find no flaw in his conviction. When he arrived there, the good bishop calmly listened to him make his case. A brilliant young priest he was. His arguments were well-balanced.

“Have you taken time to listen to the old woman in question?” The bishop asked.

“About that!” Kitila said. “I was planning to visit her soon.”

“Are you saying you had no knowledge of this?”

“Yes,” Kitila continued. “I was surprised when I learnt of it this past Friday!”

The bishop sighed. It was raining that morning. Not the heavy torrents. Just the prosaic kind of rain. Long periods of drizzle that only confined humanity in their houses.

“Don’t you think you were a little bit strict,” the bishop asked. “Matters of tradition in this part of the world are very touchy.”

Kitila could not believe his ears. But he maintained his reserved nature.

“I believe so,” Kitila said. “But such compromises are allowed on matters like liturgy. On the sacramental nature of the church, however, there is no contravention allowed. Marriage is between a man and a woman.”

“Yes,” the bishop agreed. “But listen here. There is an old woman. Widowed. Childless. No one takes care of her. And in this part of the world, the value of marriage is greatly entwined with the need for procreation.”

“But we are Catholics!” Kitila insisted. “Marriage is a sacred union. Procreation or no procreation. It still holds.”

“No doubt about that,” the bishop said. “I am an ordained minister. I cannot dispute that. But what about the layman. In this case, an old lady who retains a strain of traditionalism in her.”

Kitila remained silent. He could not see why the bishop wanted him to handle this matter malleably. The doctrine was unalterable.

“Please go back to your parish and try to sort out this matter competently and carefully,” the bishop instructed. “I know you are a wise young man. Learn to the see the world with multiple eyes.”

Kitila nodded. But he knew there was nothing cogent in those words. He would discard them at the doorstep. Not even the bishop would change his mind. If Bendetta did not seem penance, she would not receive eucharist. And that went for the rest of those who supported her sacrilegious marriage.

Whenever he visited Machakos town, he would make a stopover at the convent of the Precious blood sisters. There was where he grew up. Kitila was an orphan. His mother had abandoned him at the gate of the convent when he was an infant. This was the only home he knew.

He was walking towards the mother superior’s office when he noticed a middle-aged woman in a drab brown dress and sunburnt rubber shoes, seated on the bench outside the office. She was interacting with a bubbly toddler, an orphan most probably. There was a yearning in her eyes. Something so irresistible to watch. He stood there for several seconds watching them. Like a mother and child. How adorable.

Mother Justina was excited to see him. She lightly scolded him for taking so long to see her. When was the last time? Three months. He defensively said there was a lot of work at the parish that he hardly made any visit away from Kangundo. They chatted for long. Occasionally reminding themselves of the past. Mother Justina was proud of him. The delicate shoot she had seen growing up. Now a fruitful mango tree. Sinewy branches. Full of life.

Kitila noticed the woman again. He decided to ask, “Who is that woman over there?”

Mother Justina gazed at the woman. She sighed.

“That is Mueni. She came a week ago and confessed something to me. She left a baby here thirty years ago. At the gate. I don’t know which one. There have been many babies left there. And she is not very hale in memory to remember when it was. So sad.”

Kitila looked at her again. Something about her resonated deeply in him. Whatever it was, he did not know or appreciate.

“But I have always wondered,” Kitila asked. “What compels women to do something as unthinkable as that. I know life is hard. Seemingly unbearable. But…But leaving a child of your own?”

“It’s hard,” Mother Justina said. “Sometimes it takes empathy to help us forgive and understand such atrocities. I asked the woman what compelled her to do so. She told me her story. And…It was not very pleasing a situation for a nineteen year old.”

“The man who impregnated her left her? Raped maybe?” Kitila inquired.

“Not really,” Mother Justina said. “Apparently, her parents forced her to get married to this old woman at her place. She was to bear children for her. A nephew of the old woman made her pregnant as agreed. But then, she passed away. With no one at her aid, they secluded her and sent her away. Infact accusing her of conspiring to kill the old woman to inherit her lands.”

“So unfortunate…” Kitila cast a glance at her. The shadows under her eyes. The limp smile. She was battered no doubt. Her soul was a loosely-attached mass of a million broken shards. A breathing cadaver.

“She had no choice,” Mother Justina. “I would not have wished her to do that. But I have learnt to understand people for their weakness. Some people don’t know better. Or the situations they are in; don’t allow them to know better.”

Kitila closed his eyes and tried to imagine how painful these decisions could be. Sacrilege. Sin. Displeasurable. No! He was not going to consider Bendetta’s case. Anything else but that. He thought about the woman. She was no longer there. She was gone. What if this was his mother. He was also left at the convent gate thirty years ago. It could be his mother. His heart thundered at this possibility. It would maim him. He shoved away these thoughts with little success.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mother Justina interrupted his ponderings. “The woman…you are thinking. Could she be your mother?” He did not say anything.

“Let me ask you; what if?”

Kitila was numbed by distress. He had always wanted to see his mother. Ask her why she abandoned him. But now that such a possibility was nigh, there was lead in his chest. He could not find the words to even do that. He could not picture how he would react. He saw the woman in the reels of his mind. Her vanquished face beneath him. Sojourning forgiveness. Teary eyes. Firm grips at his shin. What would he do? A devout Catholic priest. Imbued with the virtue of forgiveness.

Mother Justina left him at the bench and got back to her office. There were visitors that needed audience. Kitila saw the woman again. She was plodding wearily along the grass patch. Heading over to him. He wanted to rise up and run. But it would be weird. Even rude. She was smiling at him. Brown-stained teeth. But a beautiful warm smile nevertheless. A mother’s smile. He was weak. There was swirl of discomfort in his belly.

27 Years Old

B.N Wendo

*. It is too incomprehensible a phenomenon. In the pits of life, we may call upon it to find repose. But when it does come, oh…how unready we are.*

We always joked about dying before our twenty-seventh birthdays. The disillusion haunted us. The five of us. We always did what typical campus students did. Wake up late. Scroll through the class whatsapp group to find out whether the scruffy middle-aged lecturer would make it to class. And decide how the day shall turn out.

Life in campus was suspended in limbo. We were not idealistic high-school students. And certainly not immersed in the realistic mire of graduates. But we were not insensate to the whiff of hardship out there. Unemployment. Unbearable costs of living. Crime. Death. Terrible death. We were already experiencing hardship. Most of us. But there was still hope lingering within us. That maybe we shall get lucky. Maybe, just maybe, we won’t tarmack long enough to the fringe of despair. But there was a wicked poltergeist at the back of our minds that reminded us that the chances were grimly low. We would suffer like the rest, alright.

It was then we began venting out our anxiety about the future. Evenings. Each of us contributed fifty shillings to buy liquor. White Pearl. Chrome gin. Sometimes we found the cheapest vodka we could get. If there was enough money, we would get a weed dealer from somewhere around Ruiru. And pass it around like an oath. We would then congregate at a nearby house belonging to one of us. Play some loud music. Take shots. Laugh away the creeping realities of hardship and independence. There are a thousand stories hidden in liquor. And when steamed by a few puffs of psychedelic inhalations, the wilder they became.

“I don’t know what I am doing here. I should have asked my father to divert the university money to some enterprise like business. Maybe I would have fared well. Became a millionaire. But alas!” Alecko said visibly distraught. His jovial state was now shadowed by gnawing regret. We all felt him. But I sought out to deflate that regret.

“Don’t be so positive,” I said. “Look around. Businesses are falling. Old businesses. Everything is crumbling. Life would still have been harder even if you had a business. Possibly worse.”

Voke and Stevo agreed with my Panglossian optimism. We all felt that joining campus was an inutile decision. Yet dwelling on it was being narrow. Everywhere things were bad. There was no consolation anywhere.

“I wish I won’t live long to see my 30th birthday!” Stevo said.

Everyone is silent. Everyone pretty much feels that way. But Aleko is positive. He always is.

“Don’t say that buana!” He chastises Stevo. “I have many things to do in life. Like get married to three wives and have many children. Be a great someone in film and theatre. We must make It!”

I wish I had the same spirit. I always had it before. But now it was gone. And I was interred in this bog of nihilism. I could not move. I could not see yonder. The others felt that way too. But they had something I did not have. Something that prevented them to ponder upon such abominable thoughts that proceed nihilism. Something called God! I did not own that thing.

The rest of the session was dedicated to thinking deeply upon our lives. The alcohol had taken effect and was already dissipating from the system. And someone would break the silence.

“Let us contribute another round!” He would say. But we would disagree. Let us instead head to the pub near campus and flood the evening with cheaper keg. It was slower to get inebriated. And there are girls there. Some would not like the idea. And would choose to abscond the trip. I did that mostly. I was too tipsy. And I hated myself for being too tipsy. So I went home and locked the door. Fell on the bed like a dead log. Wake up miserably at 3 am in the morning.

Morning. I would make coffee and sit at the balcony gazing at the sprawling roofs of Wendani. Sometimes smoke a cigarette. I would then dwell on the prospect of dying before 30. I would smile. 27 most probably would be a good age. Otherwise, what need was there to knock on your thirties with nothing productive in your life.

But I knew I was not in the most precarious position. All my other friends had babies. And baby mamas. In campus! But they also had richer parents. And they were not very unsociable as me. They would make It, I assured myself. They were normal human beings. And they had God. They would surely make it to their fifties and eighties. They were just bluffing. For me, I was not sure. I had attempted suicide twice. And every call back home affirmed my need to die quick. Tomorrow. The weekend. Sunday especially. I had to die.

But I never died. I never graduated. The others did. I saw their statuses while stuck in the village. God! I was broken. But why was I not dying. Where was my will to die? I had even found God again. Became religious. Not even spiritual as most religious people like to defuse. Strictly religious. Daily mass. Regular penance. Read the bible like a theologian. Received communion every fucking day. And believed in all the three fates of afterlife ingrained in the Catholic doctrine. And still, I was not ready to die.

At 24, I joined the seminary. And decided that maybe this was bound to be my mission on earth. One of my friends, Stevo, died of cancer. It was shocking news. I did not attend the funeral. I was still avoiding them. I saw the rest of my friends post it on their whatsapp status.

Then nine months to my 27th birthday, Voke was killed in a scuffle at a bar in Kilimani. Those around him at the time of his death say his eyes darted around as if scouring for salvation. He wanted to say something but never got to say anything. He left behind four children. He was 27 when he died.

Paul would follow a month later. He was working at a steel mill in Mombasa. His death struck the headlines. It was a horrible one. He got incinerated when he fell into a vat of molten iron. Nothing of him was recovered except a few ashes. But he left behind a young family. A widow who knew not how to continue living on alone. Well-wishers came on board, thankfully. But there was no erasing the pain of loss they felt. And the steel mill ran on unabated. The media leapt to other stories like they always did.

The following month, Davie was involved in a fatal road accident around Nanyuki. His car was mangled beyond repair. When it was retrieved from the precipice below, where it had fallen; those who witnessed knew there was no way he could have survived such an impact. They were right. Davie had just celebrated his 27th birthday. He had one child somewhere. But he never cared anyway. He was fairly accomplished. He was the only one among the deceased friends whose life had taken a better trajectory. He had a well-paying county government job. A hefty salary. Fleshy perks. And job security. He had gone to visit his parents’ rural home.

Freddie was just getting recognized in the Kenyan theatre scene. He had even gotten roles on TV acting and adverts. He was not there, but he was getting there. When he called me one evening, two months after we buried Davie, his voice was frantic and agitated,

“Help me Brayo!” I was shaken. I asked him to calm down and explain what had come over him.

“He came to me at night and told me my time was over!” He was definitely trembling. “Just fucking help me man!”

“Who is this who threatened you!” I asked. My heart was pacing. If it was a criminal, I did not think it would be wise for me to get involved.

“The…The…One called the angel of death!” He said in frustration.

“The angel of death?” I asked in confusion. “Is that some code for some criminal?”

“No! Fuck No! I don’t deal with criminals. It is him. An angel. A real angel with a dark gown and a gauze concealing his face. I can just feel the terror behind that figure every time he appears in my dreams.”

I was petrified. An angel. No! I dismissed it as anything serious. It had to be…Oh God! Freddie is suffering from schizophrenia. I advised him to calm down. I sought to find help for him. A renowned psychiatrist in town. I even booked an appointment for him three days after the call. He was not very thankful. He seemed to believe there was a real spiritual element in his story.

“You are the priest,” he said. “Why can’t you believe me?”

“No! I am not a priest yet. And even so, we need to exhaust all possible explanations for your case.”

“Do you believe I am mad? Or I am insane?” He asked me in a tone he has never used before. Low and freezing with horror.

“No! I don’t believe so. That’s why I am intending to help you out!”

He nodded. We prayed together. Then I left him that evening. I would wake up the next morning with the daunting news of his death. Freddie had committed suicide. He wrote a short note tucked under a bible on the table. It said, “I swear I am not mad! Believe me!”

It was heartbreaking. We buried him at his rural home in Chogoria. The fourth friend to die. And it was two days after celebrating his 27th birthday. I zeroed into that pattern. I realized the tapestry was not a coincidence. At 2 am one night, I had a nightmare. I was walking into my rural homestead where relatives were crying and wailing. I was trying to ask them what the matter was but no one could hear me. Until I saw a smooth grey coffin stationed at the main house. And a picture of mine set upon it. I screamed in terror. No! It can’t be. I woke up. And there and then, I knew there was nothing normal about these deaths.

I am writing this account on the 23rd June. I would be turning 27 in 12th July. Fello would also turn 27 in September. The six of us had wished upon ourselves death. And him that slays now pursues us. I have told Fello everything. And he too thinks I am crazy. I have encountered the angel of death. And by the authority of his voice, I doubt there is much I can do but accept my fate.

I have prayed hard. But still, I hear his voice in the distant depth is my mind. “Stop wasting time!” He blares. “Make peace with your God and men. And prepare for your inescapable death!”

It is 24th today. I am praying the 20 decades of the rosary. Repeatedly. I cannot eat. I cannot go outside. They will say I am crazy. I will wait here for death.

“Lord, if it is your will, take away this cup of suffering from me!”

And I can hear a peal of laughter in my head. Scorning me for being scared of death. Like all Christians are.

But no one is not scared of death. It is too incomprehensible a phenomenon. In the pits of life, we may call upon it to find repose. But when it does come, oh…how unready we are.

26th June.

…

‘DISPLACEMENT THEORY’ – A FEW NOTES TO MAKE

By B.N Wendo

I have been following the western political climate for new details and there is nothing as volatile as immigration right now. Radical right-wing extremists are pullulating the sphere, mongering to the masses about the globalist plan to perpetrate white genocide. And I have encountered a term called ‘the replacement theory’. A term coined by French ethnonationalist and author Renaud Camus.

I became interested. Maybe there is a lump of facts in the trepidation. I would not entirely trust the liberal and the left when they seek to denigrate the whole issue as a bigoted tantrum. Don’t get me wrong. I believe the stench of racism motivates the idealists of ‘purely European culture and values’. And I also believe the proponents of this doctrine are ignorant of the sociological reality of culture and racial differences.

But when progressives trivialize issues and simplify the motivations underneath them, they indirectly aid in the edification of these ideals. I sought to read something about this theory. From a radicalist perspective. And I am perplexed that such an issue has been ignored.

The 87-page document conveys the opinions of a self-proclaimed eco-fascist who believes that the globalist elite in its fervent pursuit for profit, fuels the immigrant situation in Europe and other so-called white lands. Immigrant would soon outnumber the ‘native’ Europeans who are in a spiralling cycle of degradation through drug abuse, broken family and traditional values, unfavorable misceganation and nihilistic breakdown. The insistence that multiculturalism is a farce echoes severally and grimly in the drivel. The writer insists that the West is in collapse and the Saracens, negroes and the far-easterners will eventually overpower the whites and drive them into existential extirpation.

The writer notes that democratic solutions to the problems of mass immigration are inutile because the elites have captured every avenue of those institutions. He attributes the emergence of terror attacks by Islamist militants to this scourge and does not shy away from condemning and even wishing harm to the traitorous whites who do not recognize the danger ahead. The solution, according to him, is a rapid balkanization of races and cultures that would ensure white lands remain an untainted white. Each with its own culture and values, uninterrupted. And only a violent revolutionary action would prevent this danger from occurring.

That feeling is not new. Even among the black people, there has always been a tendency to fret at the slight changes of stereotypical racial and cultural qualities. I have heard influential black commentators in the US claim that biracialism seeks to erase blackness. Even in Africa, where ethnicities are prominent, loss of language and identity via custom has been frowned upon. Ordinarily, stereotypes are banked on misconstrued traditions and hasty conclusions. And they offer stability. Once perceptions are shaken, our sensibilities are challenged. And we are wary of confusion and chaos. Change has never been comfortable anyway. Not even a degree of it.

I could see why the opinions propounded therein could be convincing to a white man steeped in conservative tradition. The writer made it clear that he feared the seeming stability of the immigrants’ cultures. They were proud of their languages, families, customs, norms – and even derived security from it. To the writer’s ire, some ‘idiotic’ white men perceptive of their declining culture and values, sought refuge from these ‘invading’ cultures.

As expected, the writing was laced with lewd racist opinions like ‘…inferior races’ and even made dubious allusions to the millenium-old slavery experienced by white men in Saracen deserts. His zeal was so extreme that he talked about the desire to invade Constantinople and regain the Hagia Sophia. You see, Turkish president Erdogan annexed this vestige of the Christendom in Turkey and converted it to a mosque. An act that riled up many ethnonationalists.

The writer further admits that facts are not important and that in order to drive the movement aiming to expel the invaders, sentiment had to be stirred. The article does not cajole. The writer is a proud military veteran who seeks to participate in active killings of unarmed immigrants dotting the cities of Europe. He even advocates for the razing of the vipers’ nest, meaning, killing of the children of immigrants who shall sooner or later become adults. There is no mercy. The white lands have to remain spotlessly hoary. With no tinge of scum.

The writer has no clue about the historical complexities of race. He believes in the sanctity of white people yet he does not define who the whites are. For instance, he regards even Venezuelans as white. And he does not seem to realize that whites have their own different ethnic attributes and before the cosmopolitan world ventured in, certain ‘whites’ were regarded not as ‘whites’. He probably believes racial differences characterize a set of societal qualities. Hell, maybe he believes black people have a different skull size that determines their brain power.

But can white culture be said to contain a certain uniformity? Not really. Christianity was the only unifying factor even back then. And certainly, a British aristocrat perceived his culture as more superior to that of a Romanian peasant. Cultures evolve. Some die. Some borrow extensively. And it is even useless to fret over the typical progressions of human culture. But the buger does not even realize this. He clearly has a very scanty knowledge of history. You could say, “what is history but an agreed lie?” Maybe. But some historical facts are unchangeable. They happened. And what differs is the perception.

The writer fears being a minority. He states clearly that minorities are oppressed everywhere. Severely disadvantaged. And so, I found it hilarious that a bigot would imagine being in the shoes of a minority group. He knows clearly whatever actions he perpetrates are wrong. Driven by spite for other people. But he would hate being in a similar situation.

Finally, although agreeable that the mass immigration witnessed in Europe could be a meticulous plan by corporations to acquire cheap labour; redirecting your focus from the real power dynamic to the immigrants is mere pretension. A vent for racism and bigotry.

But underplaying these discourses makes it worse. A single event or incident could falsely rationalize and validate an atmosphere ridden with unabated venom.

Why is this relevant for a Kenyan?

I believe the world is a tapestry of events. Humanity is inclined towards certain repetations of mentalities and events could lead to an unpredicted chain of reactions.

Furthermore, the same sentiment is held, albeit subtly, by Kenyans. There is a belief that immigration from Rwandese, Congolese, South Sudanese and Somali refugees could sooner or later lead to an obliteration of the Kenyanness. There are strains of xenophobia lingering even among black people. And therefore, whites should be reminded that incurable hate is transferred to others around them. You may expel an immigrant, and the next target would be your white ‘Jewish’ or ‘Saxon’ scum.

Adios…

ON BEING UNREADY…

By B.N Wendo

‘Be quiet now, and wait, it may be that the ocean one, the one we desire so to move into and become, desires us out here longer on land. A little longer…’
Rumi, from a bowl fallen from the roof

The modern world, in its fervor for haste, reviles patience and maturity. Listen to the most revered motivational speakers and one senses a vainglorious scoffing at natural growth and meticulous metamorphosis.

“The human mind is infinite,” they say. “There is no obstacle to its limits.” Let us do this! We are going to do it! We’ll never give up! Until it works!

But lo! How destructive it has been. We have churned a lot of mediocrity and calamity in the world because we don’t wish to compare our meagre abilities with the Herculean work that we wish to behold. We demand it fits in our simplicity, and not the other way round.

There is a diminutive voice that whispers inside us whenever faced with overwhelming tasks. “You’re not ready!” How frustrating! Passion demands that we achieve glory and perfection. The human will demands blindness to the complexities of a task, and to overcome the reasonable demon that tethers our abilities. The demon that focuses on the mountain before us, calculatively measuring its unscaleability and the paucity of our strength.

The desire to achieve something is always encountered with a depressing feeling of inadequacy and unreadiness. Yet, a tome of books have sought out to advise us on how to overcome this weakness. It is a weakness, they emphasize. A defect. Something peregrine, therefore erasable in our code.

But it has not always been easy. Simply being indignant at our glaring inability to do great things cannot imbue us with the exigent aptitude to do them. It is also useless to minimize the intricacy of a task to conform to our scanty capabilities. Let’s say for example; here is a really Daedelian philosophy text. Incomprehensible to many. Even prosaic to the incurious mind. And here I am. A man with limited or no knowledge on the simplest of philosophical jargon, methods or basics. I will definitely flip a few pages and realize it is hard to read it. Ordinarily. It would be hard. But would affirming myself or denouncing my incomprehension make the text any less incomprehensible? Certainly not. And neither would willfully misinterpreting the text make it comforting.

Therefore, if intuition really dictates to us that we are unready to take on something and fully actualize it to satisfaction, then certainly we are unready. And should there be a vilification of this fact? Not at all. Being unready simply demands we understand one thing: this task is heavy and contains a template of certain expectations. And it would be better for one to grow in skill and in experience before we could do it and say, “Yes!”

Initially, I felt contemptible of people who told me that I was incapable of handling certain tasks based on an assessment of my abilities. I hurled away books that I could not understand and scoffed at them, promising never to touch that filth. I was wrong. I thought the world was always at my disposal. And it had to serve me with what I needed. But whenever I thought I could handle these brilliant ideas that got spun in my mind, I got stuck. I could not finish. And I became even more frustrated and resentful of those works, and myself. All this, the inability to appreciate how overwhelming the world is. And how demanding of our change and growth it is.

I decided to change. And it feels better now. When I have a brilliant story idea, I assess whether it would be impactful with the limited skill I have. Or whether it would need to be set aside until I have polished those ideas, nibbled some experiences with more cathartic effect, or read a little more. If I feel I do not understand what a certain book or philosophy espouses, I wait for the right time. With time, I will possess a stronger set of molars to grind them with ease.

But this feeling of inadequacy does not demand stagnation. It requires motion. If a certain landscape requires more momentum to ascend, go out there and seek out that momentum. Learning is growth. Not a miraculous leap. And growth can only be propelled by intentful intake of edifying material.

Acknowledging inadequacy does not mean lacking conviction in fear of making error. The crust of knowledge should not be trodden upon as though it was made of friable egg shells. Fear no error. But fear no change. Those mistakes could be lessons needed to make you grow a notch higher into finally realizing new truths.

And don’t listen to Facebook sophists. There are people here who have read a few texts and are satisfied with the perception they received from them. And view anyone else who has not been exposed to that view, or those who don’t understand it, as deplorables. They simply cannot feel the creaking weight of the world. They have it in their palms. Don’t be ashamed. Postpone it. You’ll understand it when time is right.

ON THE IMAGINATION OF IDEAL GOODNESS…

By B.N Wendo

In high school, I remember scoffing at the protagonists of Walibora’s Kidagaa kimemwozea. At that time, I boasted of my fledgling nihilism and repulsive pessimism. They were too good souls wafting above the murk that is human nature. And there was truly no change or growth in their virtues. Fair enough, the protagonists were crafted in such a way that they would face no real threat in the pursuit of their goodness. Their hearts were made of immaculate metal. With no alloy of desire. No carnal realities of self to overcome. But few saw the problem. And I was referred to as a killjoy. A guy who thrives on the underground cellars of imagination.

Being termed always ‘negative’ plastered a smile on my face. I equated negativity to realism. Viewing everything that spoke of the human glory and candor of goodness; as unattainable pursuits of whimsical, if not puerile nature.

When did I start relishing in despair? I vaguely remember it was in the sunset of my primary school years. And I had read many a material that alluded to the inescapability of evil. The incurability of vice. And it all looked attractive. To wander in this desolate meadow of deformity. Drowning in the dread it inspires. The penchant for morbidity led me to create ‘realistic’ endings for my narratives. Where malicious ideals trampled upon just ones. Because my eyes and that of a million others, have registered it upon our minds, that evil doers triumph. Good people are often vanquished.

I had no boons for saintly figures. Only tragedy. It was enough to be pitiful towards them. But victories, even ephemeral ones, were forbidden from them. I felt it was too impossible for man to be good and victorious. And my atheism repudiated the existence of posthumous judgement. That only meant that our corrupted sense of justice that could be tilted to reward evil and bludgeon good, was the only scale that mattered in the crypt of our existence. How self-defeating.

‘Perfect’ figures in literature earned my critical evaluation as being idealistic images of a deluded writer. I did not admire mythologies for this purpose. They had men that were either too wise, too strong, women too beautiful, too kind, too pure, too trusting. And yet, ironically, I never saw anything wrong with absolute antagonists. Evil was the constant factor in man. Drenching too deep in it only seemed natural. And yet being too far from it, was wildly improbable.

But I realized I was wrong. There was a crucial element of life I missed. In the fervor of my half-baked realism, I forgot that belief, dreams, wishes, desires, delusions, fantasies, illusions are as real as the sun and the moon and the stars. Man in his quest for reality, often seems to forget that these abstract conditions he is occasionally allured to, are crucial drives to his existence. We have conceded to the idea that the world is a rigid rock whose structure can only be incomprehensible to us. Forgetting the power we possess in changing the world.

My perception was incomplete. Literature is indeed the mirror of society and its components. But what society is dreamless. What society has no ideals? And where are these ideals forged if not from the collective wish to prosperity and fulfilment. If man has the freedom to indulge in the stinkiest of ideals, why should it be contemptible for man to splash upon his story, the utopia that relishes his heart, the plot development that fulfils his desires. If I possess certain ideals, if I wish to write a story that would celebrate the glory of my constructive philosophies; then it would be noble of me to write of a victorious ending. If you believe stories never end, then embellish the plot with lofty achievements that look surreal. Critics may point this out. But there is absolutely no problem championing for a bearing using a positive figure. A figment of insurmountable goodness. Depending on what your ‘good’ means.

Let us depart from this dreary realism that only reeks of human hopelessness in the face of moral disaster. It is acceptable to portray the decay there is in society. It is also good to spot those irretrievably lost in its depths. But if our aim is to plead with the reader to escape this decay, allowing them to make this moral decision using only the terrible whiff of decay is ineffective. It could spur the feeling of inevitability. Instead of forcing us to flee from it, it could cause us to shudder in submission to its tumultuous volume.

Whereas a figure that set his sights to the sunlit chambers of Gabriela Minstral, striving successfully and miraculously beyond human weakness, seeks to imbue in us the will to strive beyond error. And not simply accept it with a heavy heart. Indeed they are not wrong. Those who paint delusions in their art. Of ridiculous love stories. Of infallible deeds. There is a power in the imagination of unblemished good.

THE CREATURE ON MY CANVAS

By B.N Wendo

*The canvas beside my bed. There was a creature there. “Am I the one who has drawn this?”*

*It was in black. I had not used any other colours. It caught my eyes truly, but I did not understand what had compelled me to paint it.*

It has been over an year now. And there is still that horrid memory lingering in my mind. It never goes away. It never dissipates. I have moved from that town. And discarded the ardor for my craft. Reinvented my life. Booked therapy sessions. But the memory still won’t go away. And it’s haunting.

I was a painter. Always been since I was ten. And everyone when I was a young child commended me for my paintings. Well not everyone. My father was a grim man who perceived all art as nonsense. And my mother, though not upfront about her disapproval of my ambition, sought out to lure my heart away from that trade. But I was indefatigable in my quest. A painter I will be.

But when I grew up, reality slapped hard. Being a painter in a third world African country where everyone’s ambition lies in owning real, tangible investment, is not easy. I did many paintings. Landscapes, portraits, nude paintings, abstract paintings, nature paintings, cubist. Many. Some were contracted ones, other done out of own volition. I loved those I painted myself. But these drew me gallons of disappointment. They never impressed anyone. I did not know why. Even after explaining to a potential client in detail, about the mystical inspiration behind that ‘weird’ painting; they never saw the point and regarded it as a waste of brush.

To be honest, I grew livid. My trade was not fulfilling enough. Sometimes, I got pretty good gigs. Painting walls and portraits of vainglorious rich people was not my taste. I fared well in it. I wanted to fail in it. I wished I could one day botch the painting mistakenly and create an indelible mess. Make the contractor furious. Determined to never call me again. That would be enough justification to quit this line. And so I became careless. I did not pay seriousness to what I was doing. Took no attention to detail. Hoping the entire thing would flop. And after I was done, I would wipe away sweat on the fringes of my brows, and smile with satisfaction. The painting to my eye was clownish. Like a kid’s playbook. But it was always a miracle that once the contractor gazed at the painting, they would wither in excitement and claim they loved it. I searched their faces for a tinge of exaggeration, or even sarcasm, ludicrously wondering how was it possible. Or maybe their tastes in art were incredibly poor that they would be enamored by this joke! But I am no arbiter of individual tastes. And the more I fared on in this contract painting, the more I became despaired. Why does God consign me to succeed in something I hate so much? I wondered for days. And more phone calls, referrals, tips. All unpalatable to my desires. Streamed in. Other less popular painters envied me. Oblivious of my lack of zeal in this endeavor.

I looked at my friends in the same trade who had art galleries in Nairobi, Kisumu, and Nakuru. Those are the kind of painters I admired. They sat down on hazy evenings, drank coffee, and before a blank canvas, splashed all that was mingled in their brains. Anything. Nothing was sacred. Nothing was alienable. The beauty of it all. Popular art critics with an eye for aesthetic judged it not by moral sentiment. No one ever told them,

“I don’t know maan! But this painting looks kinda weird. Can’t you draw something like a petite black African woman in traditional wear, exposing intricate curves and supple skin, don’t forget those gargantuan gazoongas with a peeking nipple that is insanely erect.”

Mugambi was among these envied friends. He was a prominent nudist. But his paintings were cringeworthy. I did not hate him though. And I never told him this overtly. He always assumed a superior aura around me. His tone admonishing, disapproving, denigrating. Yet he needed me in that friendship. As one to approve and nod to his hubris. One to affirm his insecure greatness.

One day, he called me and asked me to bring some of my paintings to his art gallery in Hurlinghum because there was an art fair there. I was overjoyed. He had never thought my paintings were at par with his potential clientele. He was a snobbish rich kid. And his influence among the Nairobi urban literati and expatriate population was staked up by his network of former classmates from Hillcrest. And his father ardently supported his sham career. Including opening up for him three art galleries in Village market, Hurlinghum and Sarit center.

The memories of that fateful evening bring a bitter taste in my mouth. Mugambi did not ask me there because he was genuinely interested in showcasing a friend’s artworks. He wanted to embarrass me in front of his fellow brats. I carried two of my paintings. These I had drawn from the heart. In seclusion. In the magical enchantment of solitude. Surreal. I could not help but shed a tear at the allure of its elements.

At the art gallery, groups of men and women sipping wine in slender glasses flocked around paintings hung on walls. Discussing some that did not need discussing. I smiled at these vain attempts to draw sophisticated meaning from Mugambi’s delusional talent. He was conversing with a white gentleman when he saw me standing at the doorway, unsure of what to do.

“Oh! There is a friend of mine! Come over here!”

I walked over to where he was standing. My painting was latched on the wall behind the white guy. He looked fifty-ish. But whites age faster, I thought. He would be seventy if he was black. I chuckled in my mind. At the thought of being racially prejudiced. Mugambi introduced me to him. But I swallowed hard when he said I was an amateur artist.

“And this is Mr. Peter Alesworth. He was particularly interested in your painting!” He said in a manner denoting irony.

“Oh really!” Mr. Alesworth’s eyes flamed with fascination. He was undoubtedly swooned by the painting of something that looked like a giant fish with three humanoid faces that assumed three emotions. Trepidation, delirium, and ire.

“Mind giving me a brief description on this remarkable piece of art?” He asked me. And I was more than willing to do so. I had been waiting for such a moment my entire life. Nobody ever asked me about the inspirations underlying my works. Painting to them was just that. A purposeless pursuit for avant-garde aesthetic.

“Well…I was dazed by…”

“Come on, Wambua!” Mugambi condescendingly interjected. “You of all people know there is nothing intrinsic or complex about this painting. Just a fish with human faces denoting fear, anger, and excitement.”

“Well. That is just a tip of the iceberg!” I said, almost explosively. Mugambi definitely noticed this and became red himself. But he maintained his composure.

“All delusional,” he told Mr. Alesworth who stood like an emotionless effigy between us. “I have just told Mr. Alesworth here that you have a penchant for describing things that only exist, sadly, in your mind.”

Mr. Alesworth noticed the fiery reprehension in his voice and decided to excuse himself. When he was metres away, Mugambi whispered to me, “I call the shots here. What was that you were trying to do?”

“Nothing worthy of this denigration!” I said loudly. The whole room cued into silence and gazed at our direction. Mugambi was done. He ordered me to pack up my lacklustre artworks and leave immediately. I was too livid to care. And I did so. Glaring at the murmuring clientele with venom. F**k them. And f**k Mugambi too.

I went home that night drunk. Very drunk. Perhaps more drunk than I have ever been. But even more bitter. I cursed Mugambi all the way, staggering to my rented bedsitter. I cursed the day he was born. And prayed fervently that he would never gather the strenght to hold a brush ever again. I wished he would be mangled by that beast that devoured haughty rich kids. Drugs. Let him snort coke. Overdose. And die a rather painful death. Slow. Sensual. Gnawing bone by bone.

I don’t know what came to my mind when I sat in front of a blank canvas. It was dark for I had not flipped on the switch. And my eyeballs danced like gypsies under the moonlight. I found myself, however, dipping my brush into a palette. I did not even know what color it was. Or maybe it was even the water plate. I was sleepy. But there was a being etched in my mind. It was fascinating and terrifying at the same time. I tirelessly painted something I knew not of. How I slumped to sleep that night remains a mystery. But the being was no longer in my mind. My mind became dark. And dark it was till morning.

That morning, I had a splitting headache and I felt sick. The room was dank and the curtains were still drawn close. I walked to the kitchen sink and drank three glasses of water. I then plodded to the curtains and part them open to let light in. When I turned, my skin crawled. The canvas beside my bed. There was a creature there. “Am I the one who has drawn this?”

It was in black. I had not used any other colours. It caught my eyes truly, but I did not understand what had compelled me to paint it.

“What is this?” I asked myself. “It surely looks like a demon?”

But I was among the few faithfuls who thought demons were beautiful. And not chilling as mythical stories portrayed them to be. I searched my mind for a clue. Where in my lifetime had I conjured such a painting? It was indescribable. Alluring but indescribable. It had a pair of antlers on its head that resembled those a deer’s. Spikes on its upper back. And dark hollow eyes with a gleam on them. Face swarmed with darkness. Like death. And the chest. What was peculiar about it. The jutting ribs? It was so confusing.

Someone knocked my door. It was Mugambi. Apparently, he came over to apologize. And ask me back to his gallery. Mr. Alesworth was pestering him. And Mugambi conceded to the fact that I was invaluable after all. But when he gazed on my ‘demon’ painting, he was unable to conceal his elation.

“What thaa …” He began. “Hey dude! Why didn’t you bring this along with you?”

“Well I painted it last night. Drunk and inebriated.”

“Wow!” He surveyed the details. It was too mesmerizing.

“So, you coming?” He asked.

“Maybe!”

“Come on. This could be a chance to break into these spheres”

I nodded. But Mugambi did not care about my success in painting. If anything, he was antagonistic to that prospect.

“Okay. I am off to get some canvas. Come at two. Village Market. You know the place. And make sure you bring along this one. What is it called?”

“Haven’t named it yet!”

“Please do. If anything, this could land a client today!”

“I am not sure I want to sell it though?”

“What!” He chuckled. “Do you just paint to make yourself feel good?”

“No, but I also need more time to evaluate it.”

“Don’t be silly. There is nothing to evaluate here. Just bring the painting. And the other one. The fish one. Alesworth wants it so baad!”

With that, he left my house in a hurry. I was still undecided about bringing the ‘demon’ painting. I did not know what it was. And what inspired it. And that scared me. I searched the internet for a look-alike. Nothing. Not even anime.

I decided it was useless to fret over a painting. And the best way to discard it was to sell it as per Mugambi’s suggestion. At the Village Market, the expatriate clientele was even higher. Mugambi saw me with two draped paintings. He was speaking to Mr. Alesworth and another woman, much younger. Forty-ish. With short hazel hair.

“Aah! You came,” Mugambi began in a false courtesy. “I thought you were still mad at me!”

“It’s good he’s come!” Alesworth said. “Caroline, meet Wee-mbuwaa! Wee-mbuwaa, meet Caroline!”

We exchanged our greetings.

“Moo-geeembi here has told us you have done a demon painting, right?” Alesworth inquired.

“Yes!” I said simply. Mugambi was probably fascinated too much for him to speak of my painting beforehand.

“Show me then!” He said with a smile. “I mean, us”.

I set the fish painting down and began undraping the demon one. Their eyes simmered with anticipation. I brought it out. And showed them. They were impressed. Drawn in by its mystical pull.

“What the hell is this?” Caroline asked in a breathless statement. She was invigorated by its divinity.

“Is it for sale?” She asked.

“Uhmm…” I was about to say something when Mugambi interjected.

“Yes. Apparently he wishes to sell it. But we shall have it remain here for a couple of days. In this gallery. You know, business. Could find a better offer?”

“I haven’t even given mine?” Caroline said ludicrously.

“I know. I know. But all paintings get sold after the fair. ‘Tis the rules.”

Caroline smiled. “Couldn’t you bend a few for a friend”

Mugambi smiled in a subtle indication of “NO!”

She gave up and went to check out other artworks. Alesworth stayed with me. Hoping I would explain the intricacies of my fish painting. Something I did gladly. And I did so delectably.

I had to leave my paintings at the gallery. I was insistent upon taking them home with me. But Mugambi persuaded me they were safer there. Security was tight. And no one would steal the precious artworks that would definitely be my big break.

I was stupid to let him have them. Three days later, I tried to call Mugambi but his phone was not going through. I assumed he was busy. So I visited his galleries. All under lock and key. I called a few friends to inquire of his whereabouts. When his cousin Gertrude informed me he took a flight to Bucharest a day earlier. I was particularly distressed. My precious paintings. Why didn’t he inform me he would be leaving.

I found myself in a pub again. Drowning my sorrow in liquor. Spewing hard at the other drunks. My anger was unsalvageable. I staggered homeward but never got there. I slept in a ditch. And I dreamt about Mugambi. He was metres away from me. Laughing. Pointing a finger at me. For being stupid. Then from the painting he was holding. The demon painting. There before us materialized the demon. In its form. More terrifying. I screamed at its sight. Mugambi was simply numbed with fear. And he fell on his knees.

“Master, tell me what to do to him?”

I was unable to comprehend this request.

“I don’t understand!”

“You gave me life, Master!” He said in thunderous voice echoing in the wilderness we stood upon. “Now give me your will!”

Mugambi was in trembling. I saw fear in his eyes. And that gave me unabashed satisfaction. “Please!” He said. But I felt renewed. The mighty Mugambi. Pleading with me. For mercy. I could feel my blood sizzling. Ecstatic malice. Orgasmic. I said, “Tear him apart. Kill him!”

And without a second fleeting, the malevolent beast clawed Mugambi’s fat face till it bled. His eyeballs were gorged out. His tongue pulled out. His intestines. His lungs. His liver. His kidneys. God! Even his genitals were dissevered from him. And I did not look away. I enjoyed it all. Watching his last gasp of air stream away from his disembodied existence. Damn you! Damn you! May you die a thousand deaths. Swine! And it all faded into darkness.

The next morning. I was roused by the cold in ditch and plodded wearily home. I decided to abandon my vain pursuits. I endeared myself to love what I was doing. Contracted paintings. Maybe that was what God wanted me to do. That afternoon, a Catholic priest called me. He wanted me to paint some walls at the church. We discussed in detail about many things. He was particularly impressed by my knowledge of theology. I told him I was in the seminary two years prior but never went on to be ordained after falling out with my father. He talked at length about the consequences of anger. How it blinded us from truth, reality and evil. It sought to find justification. And when anger does find one, the will to commit evil is granted with ease. I pondered over these things but abstractly.

“One of the princes of hell is Azazel. He rules that cardinal sin called anger. And he’s very malevolent. What am I saying? I am sure you don’t believe in demons.”

“No I don’t,” I lied. He left me to my work and went to his own duties.

That evening, I found myself heading to Village Market. Hoping to find Mugambi and relinquish my paintings. But there was no one there. Only a tall dark handsome fellow in a security guard uniform strutting around the floor.

He saw me peering through the transparent glass door and laughed at me from afar.

“Don’t worry my friend!” He said in a thunderous voice all too familiar. “He will never come back. Well, he will. But never like before!”

“Excuse me!” I said. But he strutted away.

Later on Sunday afternoon, I met Alesworth in Sarit center. He told me at length how Mugambi planned to sell those paintings for a better price abroad. In his name. But found in a hotel one night. Terribly disembowled. Organs detached. And I felt sick. When I was still speaking to Alesworth, I saw a man grin at me metres away from the building on the other side of the road. And his form vanished like chaff in a wind. I knew it was all too real. And what I feared had manifested.

I had set my demons free. And now they roamed around me. Tormenting me. Awaiting my next victim.

FIVE MORNINGS

By Wendo wa Manyondo

What compels the human mind to wake up to different mornings, pondering about life differently. Honestly, it’s a mystery I can’t fathom.

Take, for instance, this morning. I am somewhat lethargic. Sluggish. And I haven’t any expectations nor plans today. Such a transient and nitty state of mind imbues in me a wholesome perception about life. It sucks away all the colour from the painting, leaving an anemic view of life. Today, I can only meditate on the bluntness of living. Think about all the unexciting things we have been consigned into as humanity, willingly or unwillingly.

The second morning is even more bromidic. And now you’ll stretch the band further. You’re already thinking on the fringes of suicide or drugs. Your mind is imperviously blocked from accessing any spiceful fascination. You certainly love books, sex, wine, friends, vacations, adrenaline-spike…But they will never resonate with you in these frigid mornings. You would never be capable of reading two lines of a poem without scowling at its nonexistent blandness. Or sip some vintage wine without pointing out how overrated it is. The mind is looped within the ‘life is insipid – certainly useless’ conundrum.

The third morning perpetuates the cycle. The mind has already been trained into questioning the prismatic nature of existence. Life has been coagulated into one particle. An amorphous and repugnant mass of coal. The mind seeks new ways to push you further from the brink. It renews frozen sorrow, the despicable past, a burdensome present, and unearths the fears that loom in your future. It is so damning! Everything is crumbling. You cannot cease to wonder how impeccable a human being you have been. For sustaining this unbearable weight all these years. But now, everything seems to be a signpost to Vanity fair. A bitter scoffing; that despite surviving all these, don’t you think the end is pretty much the same? What is the difference between someone who dies today, and someone who dies tomorrow. And someone who dies beyond their century. Nothing. You’re now convinced it is hopeless. And you become numb, if not fascinated with death. And all the peace it luresomely offers.

The fourth morning; you want to die. But there is a problem. Death, despite being a sojourn for repose, is abstractly mysterious. You are not religious. You would love to imagine death is a mere shutdown of the human body. And not a curtain to usher you into another form of consciousness. But you can never be too sure. You certainly disagree with believers about their staunch doctrines on the afterlife. Some are too preposterous. Too surreal. And sometimes too achromatic. But these beliefs reinforce a conviction that strikes you. That you can never be too sure about something you only get to taste once. No one says, “Let me gaze into death’s chest once, discover all the arcane it holds, and run back to life as if nothing happened!” Death hacks you with surety. Once you step into her abode, the lock snaps and you’re never coming back. So, what if there is a parallel lifetime awaiting us? What if we are bound to reincarnated into this cycle of distress we are cursed with? Wouldn’t be any attempt to dissever ourselves from life, be ultimately hopeless? What if Leibniz was right. That this world, despite the bleak state it is in, is the best of all possible worlds we could exist in?

On the fifth morning, you still want to die. But now there is a lingering imagination that life could not be easily terminable as you think. Supposing you died and found yourself conscious in another world, or maybe this same world in another form, how would you live? What if that world is similarly unbearable, if not expressly worse. Will you opt for a second termination? Would it liberate you anyway? These are the questions that dart around your mind. And now the cycle gets broken. That loop that imprisoned your mind into a unilateral gaze, fades away slowly. Maybe life is hopelessly difficult, but maybe the panacea to its ephemeral redemption lies in life too. And you begin to think about all the good things life can offer. Books. Gaad! You love books. Those woven words send spindles into your soul and etch themselves wonderfully there. Music. It seems so unreal. Food. Nature. Sex! Oh, how fulfilling.

You’ll rise up now. Open the curtains. There is no sunrise. It’s frosty outside. And cloudy too. It wants to rain. The weather itself threatens your new resolve. Your desire to see beauty and vivacious life. But you’ll still smile and say, “The sun is so beautiful. But the rain, I would also want to see the raindrops, the puddles, and hear the sound of its pattering.”

#morningmusings #life