Published Works

Updated links to my work on other publications/websites:

Waiting for the Kingdom (40 Towns, June 2013)

The Real Tragedy in Being African (Saraba Magazine, March 2013)

Withering Heights (Storymoja, February 2013)

Nairobi Nights  (Stonefence Review, December 2012)

Withering Heights (Circalit, November 2012)

On the Brown Sofa (Storymoja, April 2012)

Where Her Sorrows Lie (Black Praxis, April 2012)

Mothers Shall Guide the Youth (African Youth Journals, February 2012)

Slimpossible Season 254

Royale Media Services - CityZen Television
Slimpossible Entertainment & Weight Loss Program
P.O. Box 000254-00100
Nairobi,
Kenya.

Dear Applicant,

We wish to regretfully inform you that we have turned down your application for Slimpossible Season 254. Unfortunately, you have not met our requirements regarding the history of weight gain. Please refer to our explanation below.

According to your application, you informed us that you have lived in the diaspora for ten years, only returning to Kenya for intermittent visits. In the period you were away, you gained 50 kg from MacDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken, mac n’ cheese, pizza, and micro-waved vegetables. During this period, you also opted to substitute fresh juice and traditional sour milk, mursik, with fizzy Diet Coke and other carbonated drinks. You often topped this off with a barrage of Tortilla chips and chocolate, junk food you used as snacks instead of nuts or a bottle of water. As a result of this lifestyle, you have dramatically put on weight in a manner that does not conform to the average standards for African women.

Our contestants are women between the ages of 25 to 50 who have gained weight through acceptable Kenyan lifestyles. Our average woman has given birth to at least one child. As you know, many women increase in body weight following this natural process. We also recognize plus size women, whose figures are genetically predetermined, but who only need to learn alternative eating habits to achieve healthy and fulfilling lives. Finally, our contestants have become overweight through eating ugali, nyama choma and perhaps indulging in a bit of Tusker. Only pots obtained through such methods are eligible for our award winning weight loss program.

We encourage you to go online and search for appropriate weight loss programs suitable for your fast paced American lifestyle. Alternatively, you can move back to Kenya and adhere to a strict Kenyan weight gain program. If you choose to do so, we may reconsider your application in a year’s time.

Sincerely,

Lalian Mully

Glinda

The voices in my head began shouting louder as soon as I stepped out of the taxi and rolled my luggage into Boston Logan Airport. I know the voices well; they often come to plague me when I travel around, when I need a passport, and I cringe when I think of how weak my Kenyan passport is; how I am allowed to travel to relatively fewer countries. This time, the voice began scowling about what I considered inequality of the highest level: I need a visa to go to South Africa but South Africans don’t need a visa to come to Kenya. Kenyan government, why?

The voice visited me last three months ago, before I met her. Glinda.

By the time she walked up to me, I had already been daydreaming about angels—perhaps a young swanky man or woman professional (sex didn’t really matter) who would walk up to me and swipe a credit card. Or maybe an older citizen, more likely a greying old lady with a walking stick who would take pity on me, and grant me a portion of her inheritance upon seeing my tears. I never imagined the angel as Glinda — big-boned, bob-cut permed hair, traces of a grey testosterone-induced beard, and a drawling Jamaican accent, the kind that makes you daydream about eating banana fritters and sipping on coconut juice under the shade of a palm in a Kingston beach, the kind that makes you lull about as if to a reggae beat by Gramps Morgan, a tune like Wash Away the Tears, a voice to still your soul.

“May I sit here?” she asked me, training her gaze to the seat next to me. “Of-course, I answered quickly.”

And when she had sat down, she began.

-Are you African?-

-Yes-

-Where from?-

-Kenya-

-You live in Nairobi-

-Yes, I do-

-Do you like it there?-

-No I don’t. I prefer the countryside but my parents work there-

-I’ve come today to make reservations to go to Ghana-

-Oh wow, what are you doing there?-

-Art. I’m going for the artwork-

-Wonderful, so you’re an artist?-

-Yes, I am-

The conversation went along as she told me about her own Jamaican background, how she came to the US to study but ended up staying, working, starting a family, befriending Africans, and teaching high school English. She talked unceasingly, and with each word, I began thinking less about my predicament, the fact that I needed $1000 for a ticket change as a result of missing one of my connecting flights due to weather conditions. We walked over to the ticketing counter at four o’clock, as soon as the British airways counter opened up for business. An Indian man went before us, and we remained second in line, behind the same cart, like mother and daughter. But the Indian man took an insanely long time, and patience began to wane. Glinda began tapping her foot, looking right and left for other attendants who might rescue us from the three-hour wait for the counter to open, and then the arduous wait for service.

“This is the worst service ever,” she said to me.

“Mmmh...” I muttered under my breath. At high-pressure times like those, I often resort to my best behaviour, my sweet voice, and humility at its best. Surely, if someone sees tears tracing my eyelids, they’d be more merciful, right?

“Excuse me lady, we be waiting here a long time with nobody to help us!” she accused the manager overseeing the operations. I was shocked, betrayed, Glinda had messed up the plan, the one where we look helpless and offer the agents a chance to redeem themselves through us.

But Glinda seemed to have instituted a paradigm shift. Visibly shaken, the manager found another agent to cater to us. I chuckled under my breath as I imagined the manager interpreting Glinda’s words as, “I’ll rearrange your face if you make us wait a minute longer”.

Then the new lady handed me my ticket home, no questions asked, no eyebrows raised, no money solicited. My heart swelled with joy, and the voices left. In between muttering, “You are truly God, You are God”, I braked the cart and looked over at Glinda. She wasn’t just an older caring woman, she was loud. She complained for about the long lines. She set a precedent for me. For those who know me well, you will know that I am non-confrontational, and where possible, I like to keep my peace (unless of course, we are competing, which becomes a different story.) Glinda had stood by me on the line like a mother protecting her young, shouting at the attendants for the worst and most incompetent service she had ever seen. And they were scared.

So when the voices revisit, I remember Glinda. Angel.

Not because I forgot to bring tea from home for her, or that I’m not sure if I’ll ever see her again. Remembering Glinda reminds me that the voices are subject to God, reminds me to be thankful because I’m never alone, even in the midst of my most dramatic travel experiences. (Sigh with me if you know all I'm talking about)

God is truly God over everything, even the little things, like thirty-two pages of an embossed travel document.

The Fear of Sin (A Nietzsche Essay)

Below is an essay I wrote about Friedrich Nietzsche as a first year student! 

Nietzsche is the guy who said God is dead..
http://www.artfuzz.com/most/PYR/PAS0169.jpg

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I repeat that sin, man’s self-desecration par excellence, was invented in order to make science, culture and every elevation and ennobling of man impossible; the priest rules through the invention of sin.(The Antichrist, 71)

In his diatribe against Christianity The Antichrist, Friedrich Nietzsche argues that the invention of “sin” has denied man the freedom to engage in intellectual pursuits. According to Nietzsche, potential scientists abscond further pursuit in science, for fear of infuriating the Christian authorities. Indeed, the Christian church persuaded 19th century Europeans to disregard the revolutionary ideas of Charles Darwin, whose theory of evolution the Christian church vehemently denied. The Church claimed that Creationism was the only possible explanation for man’s origins. Therefore, anyone who believed in Darwinism was charged with committing sin. Interestingly, the conflict between religion and science continues to plague mankind today. Christian scientists especially, continually face the daunting question: How far can I pursue scientific research before I sin?

Before we attempt to tackle this question, we must first know what Nietzsche says about the origin and the nature of sin. Nietzsche credits the Jews with the invention of sin. He states that the Israelites, plagued by troubles, felt that they must have wronged their God (41). Their troubles, they contended, were a punishment for sin. According to Nietzsche, Christianity has inherited this concept of sin. The Christian authorities, which consider themselves the mouthpiece of God, have developed a moral system that distinguishes right and wrong (42). Through this moral system, Nietzsche insists, Christian authorities wield power over society, undermining, above all, intellectual values. Moreover, since the Christian authorities possess God’s “power”, sinners need to submit to them in order to be forgiven (44). Therefore, Nietzsche argues, man cannot freely pursue science if he is constantly forced to conform to Christian ideals. 

Like the Church in the 19th Century, many of today’s Christian churches continue to influence the extent of scientific research, example being the stem cell research in the US. In 2006, President George Bush decided to limit federal funding for stem cell research on moral grounds[i]. These moral grounds, one can argue, were influenced by the Christian belief that life begins at conception. Therefore, President Bush’s decision is an example of a Christian reaction to advancement in science. 

This conflict of interest poses a dilemma for Christians who may be interested scientific research. Suddenly, any research they choose to engage in must take place within the boundaries of Christian beliefs. Some of today’s Christians may decide to take a Christian approach to their research—they engage in research as a way of discovering God’s creation. Such an approach, one can argue, allows them to use science as a way of getting closer to God. Only when the scientific discoveries begin to challenge one’s Christian belief system does a problem arise. Some may choose to abandon their Christian faith for science, whereas some may choose to focus on their Christian beliefs and forsake science. Additionally, some may simply choose to be indifferent by separating their love for science and their love for God. 

Despite these different approaches, the dilemma persists. Science continues to challenge many of the Christian belief systems, particularly when scientific evidence disproves a Christian belief. The only feasible response may be to question one’s own understanding of sin. Although this approach may prompt one to question the existing Christian authorities, an act that may not be readily welcome, one can ultimately choose a deeply personal approach to the question of sin. By engaging in this personal reflection, one may come across 2 Timothy 1.7(KJV): “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” A Christian scientist who reads this Bible verse understands that God does not support fear. Hence, the fear of sin is not a state that should exist in the Christian life. When one chooses to live a life devoid of fear, one understands that the Christian God’s main concern is love: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” (NIV John 13.34) Therefore, Christian scientists’ greatest hurdle ultimately should not be the fear of sin, but rather, the challenge to adequately reflect God’s love in the world through their research.


Reference: [i] Stout, David. “In First Veto, Bush blocks Stem Cell Bill”. Nytimes.com. New York Times, 19 July 2006. Web. 18 Nov 2010. 

Bibliography: Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Antichrist. Trans. H.L. Mencken. Tucson: See Sharp Press, 1999. Print. 

The Holy Bible. International Bible Society. Colorado Springs: International Bible Society, 1996. Print. New International Version.
Holy Bible. American Bible Society. New York: American Bible Society. Print. King James Version.

When in Rome...A Pictologue

Enjoy a blueberry milkshake with nutella and whipped cream

Get on the rooftop of a tall building overlooking Roma

DRINK SPREMUTA! Freshest, bestest orange juice you will ever enjoy!

Visit the Roman Forum, and wish you knew enough history....what happened there??

Il Colosseo! The Colosseum--one of the 7 wonders of the medieval world, and Gladiator!

Random picture of a cross. Remember who makes life possible!

Fashion for priests....hehe

The National Monument of Victor Emmanuel II, the Altare della Patria.  Thou shalt not liter or sit on the steps

Alas! St. Peter's Basilica! Wait for it.....

Yes! No arms, no thighs! Now you know where the Strathmore dress-code comes from...
I had to buy me a shirt :(

A Swiss guard...this place cries Angels and Demons all over 

The Vatican has to be the most beautiful place, artistically speaking

Yes, that's a painted ceiling by none other than Michaelangelo

I suspect Pope Benedict lives down that drive

What's Italy without some pasta!

And the pizza,

And tiramisu,

And most importantly, GELATO, and the joy of soon-to-be family :)
PS: Eat gelato every single day!! There's something poetic about eating traditional Italian ice-cream in Italy

Dissonance and The Mediating Role of God

As a budding academic and Christian student, I straddle two worlds. I carry two labels, one that demands me to live by secularized ideals, and one that bids me to lay aside worldly standards. Navigating this contradictory existence is not easy, and many of my troubled conversations are confined to my Bible study group. I remember once last year when a Christian professor at my university mentioned how being a student and being a Christian should be an effortless endeavor centered on honoring God through our academic work and social life. His talk reminded me of my high school days, when a pastor reminded us that we were students first, before we were Christian. Even Christian leaders contradict themselves.

Perhaps I see contradictions because I live in a world that creates categories, purporting the absence of fluidity. The labels “academic” and “Christian” are limiting, but ones that I am forced to embrace if the world is to make sense of me, to allow me to operate in society. Perhaps all I want to be is a seeker, or as a line in a favorite childhood novel, Song of The Wanderer, puts it, “My heart longs to rest but my feet yearn to walk. Shall I wander the world or stay safe at home?” The label “Christian” has its own burdens, an extreme of which is intolerant. I like that my mentor calls himself “A friend of God”, a label I find devoid of religiosity, and one that he chooses for himself. Once while filling out a form, he put “None” under the category “Religion”, sparking debate from people who know him as “Christian”. Now if contradictions exist at the level of our being, you can only imagine the ones that exist as we venture into the world unknown.

Yet part of being human is being at peace with a contradictory world. My religion professor told me once that this involves living a partitioned life, not thinking about having to navigate the paradoxes. To some degree, I agree with the professor, but I also believe in a predetermined life. Not just in the sense that God knows where I will spend eternity, but in the sense that He knows my struggles because He once lived the human life. I know God foresaw me facing this challenge one day; He foreknew that modernity would boil down to struggling to keep the old, while embracing the new. My go-to person is God. I know life will become a kernel of contradictions, especially as I learn new frameworks of theorizing about life, about how we can peacefully co-exist as humans. But I also know, yes I know, that only God can help me mediate this dissonance. Only He can give me Peace, the kind that surpasses all understanding and guards your heart and your mind. And He extends this to ALL of us!

What I have come to value most about Christianity is the absence of legalistic and intellectualist demands on my existence*. At the end of the day, my judge will not be my religion, my faith, my pastor, my family, or as my mother reminded last week, society. The Bible says that God knows the hearts and minds of all humans. And so I rest assured that I am answerable to God alone. 

*The “Christianity” in which I was raised and live by today.

This commentary has been inspired by an unfinished essay in my head, and Judith Butler’s Introduction and Chapter One of her book, Undoing Gender. 'Contradictions' is a running theme in my work. To explore more and join in the conversation, I welcome you to read my other pieces: Bursting My Bubble and Just Remember the Child

Love Letter To A Saviour

When I remember you, I begin to tear up. I read that story over and over again, reliving the horror, the pain that will be the recurring trope forever. We will laugh and we will rejoice, and maybe for a time, we will forget, but then we remember that you left a hole in our world, a heart-shaped love hole of the beauty that you were, that you still are.

When I remember you, I begin to tear up. I reach to the depth of my heart and I seek that God-man, the one I learnt to hold on to when I was in my teens, when I thought that love could only be achieved through proving who I was to society, showing them that I could be as they want me to be, and I remember your own struggles, and how I wish, deeply wish that I had known you, walked with you some more.

When I remember you, I begin to tear up. I revisit the memories, the recordings, the videos and the stories, I remember the walk when you reached to hold my hand and hug me to your heart, to remind me that we can walk with humans only so far, but that there’s one who can take us even farther, through the valley of the shadow of death, to a plain of peace, where streams make glad the city of God.

When I remember you, I begin to tear up. I know that I am but a fickle light, blurring slowly against the vastness of eternity, where sometimes my strength fails, and the desire to join you grows stronger, yet the call doesn’t come, and his strength innervates me, pushing me to keep moving forward, to know that my task is not yet done, that my journey is still on, and he still walks with me.

When I remember you, I begin to tear up. I begin to write because I know no one will understand, perhaps a few, but even then it will not matter, because this is a love letter to you, because when the ink ends and the tears dry up, when the wind stops whistling and the rain falling, when I smell color and dance under the shadow of your wings, then I will be finally home, and I will see you again.

Tonio Kröger von Thomas Mann

Deutsche Literatur macht mir Spass, denn die Worten mancher Autoren mir erfüllt. Einer von diesen Autoren ist Thomas Mann. Dieses Semester habe ich Tonio Kröger gelesen, eine Erzählung, die Thomas Manns Leben gleicht. Tonio Kröger hat einen gemischten Herkunft. Seine Mutter kommt aus Italien und sein Vater ist Deutscher. Darin erteilte er seine Erfährungen als Künstler, besonders wie er kein Bürger ist. Die Geschichte handelt von Liebe und Verlässung, Themen für die ich mich interessiere. Um Manns Schreiben zu erfahren empfehle ich Ihnen die zwei Teile unten. Die zeigt, wie wir manchmal auf dieser Welt nicht immer zu Hause sind. Diese Gefühl steht noch tiefer an den Herzen der Leute, die mit ihren Heimaten nicht frei umgehen können.

http://nemet.ektf.hu/

Er genoss ein tiefes Vergessen, ein erlöstes Schweben über Raum und Zeit, und nur zuweilen war es, als würde sein Herz von einem Weh durchzuckt, einem kurzen, stechenden Gefühl von Sehnsucht oder Reue, das nach Namen und Herkunft zu fragen er zu träge und versunken war (71).

Ich stehe zwischen zwei Welten, bin in keiner daheim und habe es infolgedessen ein wenig schwer (86).

When A Woman Calls You Beautiful

A poem for me and my mother 

The first woman who called me beautiful
Said to me:
“You are black beauty”
“You will be Miss Kenya”
“You are fearfully and wonderfully made”

I hated my dark skin
I was too dark to be beautiful
God forgot me in the oven you see.

They told me I looked like my mother
They called her beautiful
They never called me beautiful 

-

Today, a woman called me beautiful
She turned to me in a crowd
Said to me:
“You are beautiful”

See when a woman calls you beautiful
It doesn’t matter if he’ll ever notice you
Or if they’ll care to see you
As more than dark skin

When a woman calls you beautiful
You remember the first woman who called you beautiful
Your Mother. My Mother.
She called me beautiful.

I am black.
I am beautiful.

Interlude

God
I now know more than ever that there is a family of believers around the world. I thought I had known this, more like a truth resting at the back of my mind, but again, something happens when you meet someone who goes through the same challenges as you, and they look up to God with such fervency that you are blown away by your little faith. I am overjoyed to know that despite how much this world constantly changes, how young people continue to wallow in godlessness, that some will still stand strong and represent You in this life. And this indeed is my prayer. Of course I know it’s not easy, but You would never give us more than we can handle, and after all, Your strength is made perfect in our weakness. Thank You for all that You have been to me all these years, to have come this far again, it’s only been by Your Grace. I am indebted to You.

S.H.A.G.S

It's not a coastal strip, where white sandy beaches and an everlasting sunset caress the edge of the earth. It's not even a snowy mountain peak, or an island of lava and aquifers, where you experience an epiphany, and feel all your life experiences coalesce into a single moment of ecstasy. It's not any of these, because it's more. It's like that unread sonnet, that heart-song yearning to be written. It's where you feel the wind kissing your face, and the sun burning up a halo on your braids. Your shags, undoubtedly the most beautiful unphotographed place in the world.

Shags

You come here to escape the trivialities of your life, to remind yourself of that Someone who gave you a life outside of this paradise. You've had an easy life, and you dare not forget that. And so you look at the surrounding hills. It reminds you of that phrase you read so often in novels "rolling hills". The hills are endless, spiraling in a majestic wave, interrupted only by stony crevasses, whose waters plummet down to the valley, dividing into rivers and brooks, sustaining life in that place so arid, yet oh-so-green. You always wonder about that: how a place can be so hot, so arid, yet unfailingly green. It's a mystery, you conclude. The same mystery that birthed a 500-year old irrigation system, a lineage from pharonic Egypt, Jewish-like traditions, and you.

It's where you first learn how death smells like. It's the smell of the earth, the soil unturned. When you walk through dug out fields, it's inescapable. It's where you first truly know what 'redolent of' means: strongly reminiscent or suggestive of (something), it's a place of opposites, of paradox. Because even if your spirit comes alive, that smell reminds you of those whose spirits reside beyond, your grandparents, your ancestors. And you learn that a place of life can also be a place of death.

But life powers the cycle of death. And life breathes here, in a church on a hill. Yes, it's a church on a hill, like a cross on a hill, like a Saviour's cross on a mount called Calvary. And so you go there for Sunday service, in that white square building with three rows of pews - for men, for women, for children. You remember it's still the place where your liberalism must stay in check, because your mother taught you well, to do in Rome what the Romans do. So in your skirt and shirt, you breathe that life, and your soul soars in joy, because the old man standing at the front talks about sin, and blessing, and you cry in your heart because in that place, you can still speak the same language - not your mother-tongue - but the language of a Heavenly Father's love for a sinful people, like you. And you wonder if that's what you seek after all, when your heart longs to rest, but your feet yearn to walk..

 One year later

And when shags becomes a memory, when you go back to your fast-paced life, and your books, and blissful anonymity, you pray you will not forget, the story of life and death, the history of struggle. Because Someone lived here once so you would have all you have now, Someone walked all day up and down that valley, looking for salt licks for the cows, Someone slept on a rock, because walking to school was a three-day journey. Someone loved you, loves you, this much. 

A Sonnet for My Grandfather

As a writer, I often dabble in what I call "constructed memory" - bits and pieces of memory and fiction put together to create a story, or a poem. The sonnet below is an example of that, and it's based on the story Memories of Yesterday. It's a fictional sonnet, but that doesn't make it any less true. 

In Memory of Makwar
(Who comes back to earth as a frog)

After the mourners at your grave had cleared
Away, the frog from the spirit land came;
A slimy critter we greatly endeared,
As the bearer of your ancient clan name.
Like a sentry the frog stayed by your hut,
Guarding the secrets of your warrior past;
It kept your wooden door forever shut,
So that your presence here would always last.
But clan totems can never replace you,
Nor traditions bring back the holidays,
When we sat at your feet, and looked up to
Your right hand blessing us for all our days.
Makwar, you were our life’s greatest treasure,
Our grandfather; our friend without measure.

Learn how to write a sonnet here

Busherian Blues

I love Alliance Girls High school with unbridled passion. I know that line sounds like something from a primary school composition, but I don't care about cliche now. I attended Bush from 2005-2008, and I can confidently say that those four years were some of the best years of my life.

Two Sundays ago, I attended the Sunday service and Christian Union afternoon meeting. The chapel has more benches. Alliance now enrolls 1000+ girls, up from the 800+ during my time. There are new buildings, the dining hall has been extended, and the hall is under renovation. And it’s not just the newness in the buildings that strikes me, but the refreshing spirit of the girls. Praise and worship had an upbeat mood, with untimed dancing and singing. I kept asking myself whether the girls knew how blessed they are, how lucky they are to live under a new dispensation..hehe.

Anyway, I love Bush for many reasons that I discover as my life goes on. For the longest time in primary school, I dreamed of being a student there. I loved the green uniform (my class was the first lot to wear it), and the fresh air. There’s nothing like cool fresh Kikuyu air. I loved lounging in the field on Sunday afternoons, when I carried my journal and wrote down far-flung dreams and promises to God. I loved second-term, when I’d begin practicing for German performances at the music festivals, and when I’d go out every Saturday afternoon for football tournaments that I never played in. I loved sleeping in on Sundays, when I became “depressed” and started my day at 8am. I loved going for morning devotion at 4am, learning so much about God’s kingdom in the process. I loved the days of Joint Movie with Alliance High School, when I’d be the first Busherian to arrive at Carey Francis Hall, and gloat at the stoic captains who’d stand with blank faces and furious frowns, ensuring that every last damsel had left the vicinity. I loved giving a yellow rose flower to a certain Accrosian, who blushed to high heaven at my tender gesture. Haha! Those days (and many more) were filled with memory and light, and the relentless desire to be all that I could be in four short years.

I intended to write more, but my best times in Bush will be preserved in my heart for now. Ultimately, Bush makes me recall the words of a wise man, who once said that you should train a child in the way he should go, so that when he is older, he will not depart from it (Prov 22:6). Thank you Bush. I am STILL walking in the light.

 

In front of the chapel with two of my favorite people from Bush (and now) -
 Peter Ayiro and Brenda Kamande

Letter from South Africa, 1968

(For Hugh Masekela, who sang “Stimela” (The Coal Train) at Dartmouth College in memory of the African mineworkers of apartheid South Africa, 1948-1994) 

At cockcrow,
they lower us fifty feet down
in steel carts coated by cracked blood and
black sweat.

My blood burns like lava when work begins,
when I sink my chisel into the fossil rock
and dream that I’m molding you.
Your ebony cheeks and curvy hips.
Your hoe-calloused hands.

We send up buckets of gold like water from a well,
and I dream that my soul soars to meet yours
under the shade of acacia trees.
Just like it did before Stimela
brought me down South to dig gold for the
Afrikaner.

I dream that Mandela has left Robben Island,
and you dance like a Zulu virgin in the Reed festival,
sashaying to the rhythm of my drum.
Because freedom is loving you.

But still I’ll work in this blazing mine,
Toiling for you,
my precious black gold.
‘til the last cockcrow,
‘til freedom comes,
And you are finally
Mine.

Bursting My Bubble

 I wrote this essay as a personal statement for a job application as a writing tutor. I got the job, but my bubbles still burst. Here's my take on learning uncomfortable, disturbing things about life. I can only thank God that He's always on the throne.

When acting in a play in high school, a friend once approached me and declared, "Miriam, you live in a bubble, and one day, it's going to burst." In the past few years, I have kept reflecting on her words, wondering how they could have had some unforeseen meaning in my life today. Indeed, I wish my college application had asked me to write about how I reflect on my friend’s statement. Each day, I see her words coming to pass. The little bubbles of my life continually burst, forcing me to face a world that does not always conform to my ideals, or grant me the same comfort I had while living in my bubble.

To begin with, my life before Dartmouth did not fully prepare me for independence. I lived a very sheltered life in Kenya. When I was in high school, my family visited me during the allocated school visits, unlike other families that were either not able to do so, or lived too far away to make the journey. However, coming to study in America changed this entire setup. Living miles away from home, I have had to live without the comforts that an education in Kenya would have accorded me. Interestingly, this displacement allows me to fully empathize with the students from my high school, whose parents never visited them during the school visits. Because I study in a foreign country, my parents cannot easily come visit me during the parents' day weekend, or during any other time in the school calendar. Like my peers from high school, I can now understand how the feeling of "missing out" can sometimes dampen one’s spirit.

Apart from repositioning my thinking with regard to empathy, bursting my bubble has made me see that the world isn’t as simple as I had once chartered it out to be. As I was preparing for my final year of high school, Barack Obama was elected as the United States president. His election catapulted him into heroic status in Kenya, and I regarded him as evidence that race no longer mattered in America. His election convinced me that the world would become a marginally better place. Armed with this attitude, I matriculated at Dartmouth. Nevertheless, in almost two years, I have learned that this is not the glossy story I had painted it out to be. Sadly, the world remains a bleak place.

At the heart of this bleakness is the image of Africans in the minds of many Westerners. By coming to the US, I have had to confront this image, realizing in the process that developed nations do not always have the interests of developing nations at heart. In my classes, my heart breaks every so often, when I hear assumptions about Africans perpetuated, or African people treated without dignity. As the author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie once pointed out, all that most people know, is the single story of Africa—that of a starving warring continent. Indeed, I sometimes feel like scrambling for cover when my peers look at me, and wonder if my family had something to eat, or if a professor gently says, “I hope your family is fine. I hear there's a famine in Kenya.” Their concern does not anger me, but the status quo does. Living in my bubble, I had thought that the world was perfect; that we were all friends united in love. Stepping out of my bubble has had its consequences: I now know that the world excels far more preserving inequalities.

At Dartmouth, my friends often joke that I'm the last to know about everything that takes place on this campus. Indeed, I didn’t know about the infamous hazing incident until a friend brought it up. While Dartmouth students are often accused of living in the Dartmouth bubble, I stand far more accused. I live in a bubble within a bubble. Nevertheless, my bubbles burst with each new experience that reifies my friend’s words. If I had to rewrite my college application, I would concede that the naiveté of living in my bubble hardly made me a critical thinker, or the leader that Dartmouth set out to mold. Instead, with the benefit of hindsight, I would write how my bubble has burst so far, and how I strive to live in and impact a world that does not conform to my ideals.

Still smiling. My soul clings to You. Your right hand supports me (Psalm 63:8)

Oh How He Loves Us!

On a trip to Washington DC in the past few weeks, I met the most wonderful 7-year old girl. I stayed with her family for the night that I was in DC. Upon arriving there, I found a card addressed to me. What touched me the most was the excitement with which she had looked forward to my arrival, and the love that she poured on me…Check out the card below:

Gloria reminded me of Christ, and why he must have said that the kingdom belongs to these little ones. If we want to be like him, we should be like them, like Gloria. Loving without inhibitions, without expectation, without knowing the person we should love. It’s the same way Christ loves us, loving us before we were born, loving us DESPITE our imperfections. I pray that Gloria grows up into a powerful woman of God, while still holding on a child’s attitude.

On an entirely different note, I have reposted here something I read from a blog I follow called "John Green's notes from Kenya". Mr Green, as I used to call him, was the principal of Testimony Primary School, one of the schools I’ve attended in my life.


“ONLY that the One Who first Thought of me, designed and created me, has faithfully WATCHED over my life every second until now! As I look back, I only see proof of His Care, the Truth of His Word and Promises, and a PATIENCE with me that puts all my own relationships to shame. Thank you Father, for giving me opportunity to live, time to find our why, and love that has continually found ways to save and deliver me from all my errors, doubts, and anxieties. Let it be known that I was not brought up or TAUGHT this. I was SHOWN this, and now I BELIEVE in God Almighty, and in JESUS CHRIST His Son, without Whom nothing (including you and me) could have been Created or have Existance; by Whom I am Forgiven, Cleansed, and still patently being prepared to BE in Eternity with Him. I look forward with anticipation to Everlasting LIFE, and the commencement of THE Great Adventure........."



I thought the message is very powerful, and I wanted to share it on this blog. How exciting it is to walk this life with the Lord!” Be blessed!

RIP Mary Onyango

It's hard to eulogize a person you never knew, but there's so much about Mary Onyango that I admired. One of these days, I will write an essay about such women. I look at them from the sidelines of their lives, and I can only exclaim: what a woman! So here's a poem for a woman I never knew, but who I know was loved and admired by many. May God rest your soul in His eternal peace.


Mary Onyango,

If I could write a song for you,

 Mary Onyango

I’d compose a wordless requiem,
and sing it in the octaves of my heart.

If I could speak of you,
I'd tell of your fiery resolve,
to work and fight till the day you died.

If I could hold a mass for you,
I’d wear your favorite pink,
eat Christ's crusted flesh and
drink his blood and plead—

“Lord,
 rise with her again.
Someday.”

Stingo Za Kutumia Bible Study Kuingisha Manzi Box

You imagine her face in a photo.

Will the light capture the unspoken secrets in her eyes? Will people know that her smile sears your heart? Will anyone hear the caress in her voice mystifying you with a sense of the unknown? Will she ever know that your brow coils in a frown when you can only call her “God-fearing” and “pretty” but not “mine”?

“I’m having trouble understanding what this verse here means,” she interrupts you.

She’s caught you staring, but you look down quickly to save face.

“Yeah…umm…so I think the way people have generally interpreted Jesus’ words...”

Your voice trails off as you show her the underlined words in your Bible, explaining why the adulteress anointed Jesus’ feet, wondering all the time if Jesus could lend you some of his power.

Because right now, your words fail you, and you are skirting on the edges of fearless abandon, looking at the ledge that holds you back, reading the words you inscribed years before, reciting them to your heart, trying to tame what you can’t control anymore.

“Maybe tomorrow when I take her photo after the Bible study session,” you console yourself.

Tomorrow, when she’ll stand in front of your camera, and you no longer have to fight for those stolen moments, because you’ll capture her—in your Nikon lens, and in the hidden curve of your heart.

Because You Live

Lord,
When I was younger,
My Mama taught me to sing:
 "Because He lives, I can face tomorrow"
As I grow older Lord, please
Cause me to remember—
Beyond learning not to panic,
Over sticking to my own race,
More than choosing to wait,
Or writing for Your glory—
That I live, move and have my being,
Because You live!

**HAPPY EASTER EVERYONE.** 

Baby Sister

When I was four years old, my youngest sister was born. I was so excited by the newest addition, that I exclaimed "Mtoto wetu ni mbrown na mzungu!" before I even saw her. I'm not really sure how to express this phrase in English, so I will let it stay like that. I have tried to rephrase it in the poem below (I wrote it for my creative writing class), but if you understand Kiswahili, then you are sure to enjoy the poem even more. The poem is dedicated to my lovely sister, who blessed my life when she was born, and continues to do so right to this very moment. I love you Precious!

I dreamed of you:
brown skin—
almost white.
A baby sister.

I waited for you
My ear on mama’s stomach
Feeling for a kick
And if I was lucky
maybe your heartbeat.

I saw you:
mama in the old creamy Opel
you on her lap.
Beautiful brown skin—
almost white!

Now 17 years old...but still my baby sister!

When it's too late

We, human beings, have the knack of not knowing what we have until it is gone; until it is too late and the cock has crowed. 

We don’t tell each other about our love, until one of us is gone and the chance is passed up for all eternity, and

We overlook our family thinking they'll always be there, forgetting that their bonds of love are the ones that cushion the shocks of life, and

We take our friends for granted because we are too busy, and when we realize that time is fleeting, we are too late because they moved on without us, and

We hurt each other and hold on to the hurt and grudge, and vow to live to fight another day but in the years we forget what the quarrel was all about, and

We live for the cheap thrills and quick fixes and don’t stop to think, to thank; we forget that we are only here for a season.

We forget that,

When the last trump shall sound and our script is read, and

When we wonder if we had missed reading some words, or if there were words that we should have said but didn’t, and

When we finally stand muted before the imminence of mortality, then,



We might remember that we are human, replete with imperfections, and that

We have the knack of not knowing what we have until it is gone; until it is too late and the cock has crowed.

We might remember that we once  took a savior for granted, and crucified him, and yet he was the Son of God.

How I learnt to ice skate

A few months ago, I recorded my futile attempts at ice-skating here on some outdoor ice skating rink in Germany. Today, I can happily say that I have learnt how to ice-skate! Praise the Lord. It was fun, hard work, some missed classes, and a lot of singing Philippians 4:13..Yes, we can do all things through Christ who strengthens us. And I can ice-skate! Check out the video below:

Memories of Yesterday

I remember the last time I met him, before he went to rest with his ancestors. I had always loved going to see the old man, unlike my siblings who preferred to stay back and enjoy the flashing lights and tasteful decoration in the town during the Christmas period. To this day, I can’t explain why the desire to see him always gripped me. After spending time with him, I would have the sense that my existence didn’t really matter; that my knowledge fell short of some unknown mysteries. He told me stories of a world gone by, of my heritage, and of the painful losses that he had endured over the years. He told me of what I was, and what I could be. And on that last day I saw him, I understood what why my mother cried when he died, why she was the daughter he never had, and he, the father she never had.

On that last warm December morning, I went, as usual, to milk his goats. When I walked into his compound, I saw him sitting outside his mud-thatched hut, smoking a pipe and holding on to his rod. He was wrapped in his goatskin shuka, and spat intermittently as he pulled deeply on his tobacco pipe. Seeing me walk into his compound, he motioned me slowly to approach him, and asked me to sit down at his feet. I was surprised at this order, considering that I always only greeted him before proceeding to milk the goats. My heart began racing. I instinctively knew that he didn’t have good news for me. After all, his health had been deteriorating over the years, and his cataracts were slowly blinding him. Before I slept every night, I would ask God for long life, imploring him to extend the years of the old man. But I knew I couldn’t bargain for too long, and that one day, death would visit me.

“One day I will be gone,” he began, confirming my worst fears. I looked up to him and grunted an inaudible “yes”.

“See that stretch of land,” he said, motioning to the vast expanse beyond his own land. “It belonged to the father before the father of my great-grandfather. But he came and took it all away. I’m sorry that your children’s inheritance will be smaller.” As he said this, his eyes filled with tears, and one drop betrayed the turmoil that seemed to engulf him in his sunset years. My grandfather, whom I had never seen cry, intimated to me how his own father fought to retain his land, but was forced into servitude as a cook when the white master took over.

“We did our best child. But life has proved to be the winner. And his children are still there, and they have big cars, and fly in vessels in the air…”

“But grandfather we have a car too, and I go to school in America!” I exclaimed, reminding him that we had managed to come to the level of his former oppressors.

“I know, but where is your heritage now? You just started learning your mother-tongue, and your cousins have begun forgetting the past. You are the only one who’s interested in listening to an old man and I don’t know why.”

I was muted to shame. I didn’t know how to answer him, but I knew he was saying the truth. How do you explain the loss of a man who can’t be able to give his posterity the same gifts that his ancestors accorded him? How do you explain the loss in the richness of an entire generation?

“I’m sorry” I whispered, as tears began to trickle down my cheeks. He didn’t answer me. He stretched out his right hand, placed it on my forehead, and muttered a few words. I looked up to him, breathing in the warm tobacco-laced breath hanging over my face, and I knew that he had blessed me.

A few months later, he died peacefully in his sleep. I cried myself to sleep that night, wondering how I would continue my exploration of my past, and fearing that the “pull” within me would also die. I covered my eyes when they lowered him into his grave, and when we had to throw lumps of soil over his coffin. I continued covering my eyes in the next few months, so that I could clearly call to mind his image, and mull over the moments that I had with him, fleeting as they were.

The next Christmas, I went back to visit him, although I knew that this time, no one would be there. But I wanted to continue taking care of his goats, milking them faithfully each morning. I remember that first morning, when I walked to his hut with the fearful knowledge that I would see a ghost, and the more gut-wrenching knowledge that he was gone for good. I stopped for a few moments before his hut, and watched in consternation as a fat brown frog hopped in front of his hut. I laughed momentarily recalling that the frog was the symbol of the clan, and that many people had claimed with certainty that my grandfather would return in the form of a frog, and that from that time onwards, I was not allowed to kill any frogs. I looked intently into the frog’s eyes, wondering if I could see the glint in my grandfather’s eyes, or the yellow cataracts that had deteriorated his vision. Nothing. I couldn’t trace any of his spirit. But something more hopeful blossomed within me. I felt the “pull” within me strengthen, and suddenly, plans converged in my head, an idea for the future, and a wild hope for reclaiming that which had been lost.

“I’ll teach my children about you, and about our dignified past,” I promised myself, as I skipped over to the goat pen with the new hope in my chest.

“I’ll live out my heritage, with pride, until I sit again at your feet in the land of your ancestors.”


**This is a fictional story inspired by the movie Milking the Rhino. But that doesn’t make it any less true**

Of Scholarship, First Ladies, and God

I am tired of thinking. I am tired of rediscovering new knowledge, coming up with new theories that defy my previously held notions. That’s the problem with scholarship, with academia. You think, you come up with something, but then after some time, it doesn’t hold anymore, and you have to think of something new. After some time, it gets tiring, and you realize that your life is made up of contradictions, of more grey area than black and white. And gradually, all the thinking tires you out, because deep in your heart you knew the answer all along.

Seven months ago, standing in front of her grave, I had the crystal clear understanding of what my life should entail. All the questions of life seem answered in that moment, the moment of bowing down and laying a love wreath of red roses upon her resting place; the moment of burying my last letter into the dark unforgiving earth, a promise to God and to the friend I would never come to know in my adulthood. I looked up to God as a tear dropped down my cheeks, and I knew then that as always, He should remain the center of my life if ever I am to experience peace in my often-tumultuous life.

Fast forward to 2012, and Ida Odinga asks the ICC cases to be held in Kenya. Finally, I thought, someone has thought of the other side; the side that haunts me as a child, a scholar, and an individual who hopes not to judge others. She’ll make a good first lady, someone comments. It’s all about the balance, I say, the balance to empathize with both sides. But not everyone strives to strike this balance, to empathize with everyone. And those who do, end up with an eternal headache, scorn from others, and the curse of being misunderstood, misidentified, and stereotyped.

I’m tired of thinking, of remembering, of wondering. There comes a time in life, when the burdens become too much. But we have a hope, because He said that His yoke is easy, and His burden is light. And so I walk in academia, in scholarship, in the realm of first ladies, and I look to the author and the finisher of my faith. He will bring me safely to the end, I remember. He will never leave me nor forsake me. I remember the peace He has often filled in my heart, and I know that all the questions in life will crystallize in one answer—the answer of His Lordship, of His Son Jesus, and of His Holy Spirit.

I love you Lord, and I ask that your peace that surpasses all understanding guard my HEART and my MIND in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:7)

Your Story

It all started one day when you took your SATs and then you got your admission letter got on a plane and went to study in that far away land. You heard it was the land of milk and honey but you mostly went because you were eager to run away, to let your heart roam free and wild. You went with no inhibitions, carrying your name, your hopes, and the stern warning to uphold your family honor. No pregnancy, no drugs, maybe a white man so you get good-looking kids. And so you went.

You failed your first term. You took biology and chemistry but nothing sounded the same. The accents confused you; you didn’t know that a library is actually a laibry and not a laibraaary or that you should be drinking warrer and not water but still you persevered and you preserved your thick tongue. You learned to switch when you needed to so that your friends back home wouldn’t laugh at the girl pretending to be a foreigner, or the people in your new land single you out as an alien who hadn’t yet mastered their tongue.

But one day you got fed up and decided to assert yourself. You got tired with how they showed your home, how the suffering got more airtime than the innovations. You got pissed when you saw the service trips they all took, to go and give back to the ‘global community’ they were born into. You saw it as a measure to boost their own self-esteem, to assure themselves that they are indeed good people who care deeply about the world. You clicked your tongue and cursed them, and you changed your name.

You logged into your social network accounts and revolutionized your identity. You dropped your baptismal name and took up your ethnic name, so that you had to spell out your name every time someone asked you your name. You didn’t mind that part. The process of reowning your name was important to you. It helped you assert your Kenyanness, your Ugandanness, your Tanzanianness. You knew you were African when you said your name. That you also had a history, and more so a story that they didn’t know, would probably never know. But truth is you were never that African when you were in Africa. You didn’t even assert your nationality so openly, so brazenly, oh so passionately. But the air in that place shaped you, the people chiseled you, the environment transformed you. That nameless thing took hold of you and told you you needed to assert your identity, so that you never once looked back and analyzed yourself, and thought about the changes taking place in you. Like a son of fate you took it in your stride. You grew locks, then got tired and put on an afro. And you smeared coconut and shea butter on yourself. “see my ebony skin’ you seemed to say ‘see my healthy natural hair’ your body screamed ‘look at me! I’m the African queen’

And then you stopped going to church. You were once the youth leader way back when, and you advised people on the way they should go. Kids looked up to you, pastors adored you. In fact, five pastors came to pray for you on your farewell party. ‘take care of babylon’ they said ‘serve the lord, he is with you always’. But then you changed your mind after all, what do those pastors know anyway. They are being brainwashed by those beliefs. Who is God anyway? You asked. An invention to colonize the African mind. Yes, Jesus was not an African anyway, he couldn’t be your hero now. And so you reformed your beliefs, and decided to venerate your ancestors. But then you remembered how funny those Maasai men looked when they came to pray in Jamhuri day celebrations, and you shuddered at the thought of being like them. And so you decided to be an atheist, but you preferred the term child of the universe. More classy, more acceptable, at least your parents wouldn’t freak out at what Ulaya did to you.

And one day you met him, and you knew you had been holding on to your honor for too long. What was that honor anyway? It’s important to liberate your mind. After all, you had been wearing miniskirts, and tank tops, and…oh well who cares. So you lost it, and it felt great. And you were free, and now you could live life.

The years went by, and you went home for the mandatory visits. You were born with half a silver spoon in your mouth and it wasn’t too hard to get the flight ticket and so you didn’t understand what the other Africans meant when they lamented that the ticket price was too high. You loved going to Boston to party and meet with other great African minds. There was always an African event going down somewhere. And you went to dance to your Africanness to praise your roots to get wasted on Tusker and Heineken and bounce along to the latest Nigerian hits. And in your intoxicated state, you ranted about your homeland, how the corrupt leaders fleeced all the aid money, and how the poor remained poor. You all swore to be the difference, to go back home and overthrow, take over and bring a change that the common mwananchi could believe in. You spurn your dreams, sewed it together, and set it on the timetable of life. Plan A, Plan B, Plan C and Z.

The years went by once again and you graduated with your political science degree. Unlike the others, you went back home straight away. You lived your promise to change your homeland, and you wouldn’t let the promise of big bucks in Wall Street deter you. You knew what you had to do and you didn’t hesitate to do it.

You entered the Nairobi scene like an old hand, you knew the Java tricks and the Brew Bistro, the cocktails and the fast life and the talk of the new returnees working for American companies earning dollars like the consultants of New York. You partied hard and you worked hard, because no one would stand in the way of your dreams, in the work hard play hard mantra that was your new elixir. You lived in your Parklands apartment, and you drove to work in Westlands in your black Lexus, and you had him visit you every Sunday after your parents had come for their 4 o'clock cup of tea. When they asked you what your pastor preached on Sunday, you mumbled something about the wages of sin. It’s so easy after all, Jesus died for your sins. Twist the salvation story fifty-two times a year and they would never have a clue that you didn’t know the shape of the pews, the politics of the pastors moving churches, the faces of the children in the playground.

But yours was never meant to be a long life, and the end came suddenly, on Waiyaki way, on Sunday night, when Ben or was it Patrick told you to drop him home coz he had a late night and he couldn’t stay up with you (you had your Mondays free after all). And you agreed because he said his car was in the garage and you were his baby after all, and he told you he loved you and you were sure he would put a ring on your finger and you would run in the next elections as a Mrs. So you hoped in your black Lexus and you turned from your apartments into Thika road, down the looping bend to Waiyaki way. But you had a wine glass too many, like you did every Sunday only you forgot that it was 1 am and you should have been in bed, and when you saw the lights you tried to swerve, but you swerved when the metal had crashed into metal, and two blobs of gleaming light shone in your eyes, and you wondered if you were staring into forever. And you wondered about that voice that carried you into the heat of eternity. It wasn’t Patrick’s, it didn’t sound like Ben’s. It sounded like a nursery school rhyme, like the voices from the past calling you back and forth, reminding you that those who call on the name of the Lord would be saved.

And so you screamed His name, and then you were gone.