He calls me Jero

He starts calling me “Jero” right from the start
I tell him my name is Miriam Jerotich and I emphasize the “J” the way I like to 

so that no one misspells it. But he still pronounces it the right way:

The “J” melts into a “Ch” and I become “Cherotich” and then “Jero”.
And when he calls me Jero it sounds almost like the way Tai used to call me,
“Chero”
When he asks where I’m from the anger doesn’t burn in me like it did at 

Malindi Airport when the security guard asked me where I come from, the way 

Kenyans ask you where you come from so that they fit you onto their 

ethnic map
It doesn’t hurt when I tell him where shags is
It doesn’t hurt when I let him call me Jero.

Sometimes,
it’s okay to break the rules.

The Dance

When you come the horns blare and the dust scales the air thick with the perfumed harbinger of your dance

You come sheltered in the cocoon of shadows

Your feet floating on the savannah coloured grass

You are the kid that I carried in my arms in the goat pen as it bleated for the milk of the mother whom we slaughtered that night

You come now dancing covered in that goatskin that we left in Baghdad when

the bullets killed the last of your kin

Your back bent 

Your knees keeling

choking the life out of the grass 

Your spirit resurrecting as I clap to the tune of your dirge

One- two- one-two

What happens when we forget the names of the dead?

When we call the living by the names of those who are gone?

Do we acknowledge that the living exist?

Are they only alive because of those who are gone?

Are those gone only remembered through the life of the living?

Do they retain the lives that they lived before the living came along?

What happens when we call the living the names of the dead, in love?

When we remember their own names yet insist on calling them by the departed?

Is it that we see them like I see you now?

Do I bury you again when I remember you like this:

Dancing around me,

within me.

A spirit in the robe of the goat that we slaughtered that night in Baghdad

Like I remember you in my own memories because I have forgotten you too and 

I am now calling the living by the names of those who are gone?

If I should live my life again

If I should live my life again

Be born in the hospital of fallen soldiers

In the skin with a caramel hue

If I should run away from the crazy man of Jokam

And have only one photo of a past I cannot remember

Still I would choose you.

If I should go back to that stretch of wilted grass

Sit on a rock under the sun in a green winter coat

Braid the Barbie doll and cook up mud ugali

If I should cry because they wouldn’t play with me

And not know yet how much you love me

Still I would choose you.

If I should find myself in class five

Have mum go to theater for the mistakes of a past doctor

Want nothing more than to be number one to make her heal

If Mark should tell me “this is your last warning”

And the girls call me black mamba

Still I would choose you.

If I should attend the high school that walks in the light

Feel that I could finally find the light to start this life anew

Find friends to give me attention – yes, not yet knowing how much you love me

If I should spend the nights hidden from the weight of the world

And have “wrong motives” that make me seek your hand rather than your face
Still I would choose you.

If I should cross the oceans to search for knowledge

Worry that I would fail, that it wouldn’t be worth it

That I should have stayed and studied something sensible like law

If they should call home “a poverty-stricken war-ridden country”

And our black skin the dearth of all mankind

Still I would choose you.

If I should be here, in this moment, now

If I should live this life again

Through the memories that I do remember

And the thoughts I consider when I thank you that I am twenty-three

If I should think about the photo Mum sent me:

The egg among the whistling thorns -

The “competition between the writer Jero and her clever mother”

Still I would choose you.

The clever Mother has already won -

She taught me to choose you.

You.

The strength that keeps me from falling.

Yes, still, I would choose you.

The prompt of this prose, from my mother, was:

 "Have a look at this egg amongst the whistling thorns. Relate to our spiritual journey,our protection from all harm by God. Think outside the box and let us see what story you can make out of this. It is competition between the writer Jero and her clever mother."

We're going to have to cancel plans

You were looking forward to his visit
From the time he eavesdropped on your conversation in the bus to the airport and he told you he wanted nothing more than to visit Kenya
And your heart clutched because you had wanted nothing more than to show him what he wanted nothing more of, you,
The tumbling hills and crevasses where the giants once lived
The green choke of hyacinth on the wide escapes of Lake Victoria
How you would wake up to the morning of a snow peaked mountain
And in the dizzying mist you would toast to your future
Maybe a drive through dry land whet with oil or rivers or a prowling lion
Maybe the dung smell of manure and raw milk from your father’s grazing Fresian cattle
The salty earth, the taste of Bogoria and Nakuru and the Indian Ocean
The pink flamingoes of your childhood
How he would stand by you when the president rolled into Safaricom stadium (because Safaricom owns Kenya) in his green land rover and his swordsman
How in the pelting rain you would enjoy the ecstasy of being one in Kenya and his first taste to the joy of belonging
Then he emails you “I’m sorry we’re going to have to cancel plans. Because of the recent incident in Nairobi, I’m no longer allowed to meet outside my hotel. The US government doesn’t advise me to be here longer than necessary.”
Longer than necessary. We’re going to have to cancel plans. He’s leaving you before he visits you
Before you show him what he had once wanted nothing more of, you.
Before he clings to you and the two of you meet your end in the inevitable explosion of light
The road carnage
The green muddy matatu ambling to Eastleigh to tailor your wedding dress...

We’re going to have to cancel plans.

Lazarus

A different take on John 11 - The Death and Resurrection of Lazarus
A different take on writing - reading it aloud! Enjoy :)

Lazarus

How to let go (of a heartbreak)

Don’t let it go the way you like doing, by saying, “Yes, it’s in my past, yes it’s gone, or yes, I wouldn’t like to relive it again.” Let it go through Him, through Christ, knowing that He gave up all that He had so that He could have you and so that you could apprehend Him. Let it go the way you let go of your sin when you walked into His love and eternal life, the day you believed that Jesus is the Son of God.

Let go.

All that was said and wasn’t said, all that you invested and didn’t invest, all the love he gave you and the love you poured back, the heart he tore apart, the way you fell for him over and over again, the way you lost yourself in his love and his embrace and his kisses. Let it all go. Let it all go the way Jesus did on the cross, when he cried, “It is finished”, because it was, and it is. For you. Now,

Let go.

Let it all go into God’s arms, because He died for a reason, and you need to start living like He sacrificed His life for something more. Let it all go into His arms because He said you should give Him that pain, because His yoke is easy and His burden is light, because by the stripes of Jesus you are healed. You can’t carry this load with you anymore, your knees and your back can’t take it anymore. Neither can your heart.

Let go.

Let go and focus on finding you, the real you that you can only see when you begin to look at yourself the way your Father looks at you, not the way that he ever did or the way that he ever will. See yourself in your true beauty, not the beauty of your Afro or your jewelry or your chic style, not the beauty that you saw when he hugged you and said you are beautiful. See the beauty of your inner self, the unfading beauty of your gentle and quiet spirit, the one that is of great worth in the sight of your Father. See yourself in this beauty and let it arise within you, let it come to life and invigorate you with the Father’s presence. You are beautiful as you are, as He made you, fearfully, wonderfully, in His image, not by the words of his mouth or the touch of his lips. There’s nothing that he added or took away. There’s nothing he could ever add or take away.

Let go.

Let it all go and fall in love with yourself. Fall in love with the woman you were called to be, the woman you were created to be. Fall in love with yourself as you grow in love, joy, peace, patience kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control, when from the overflow of your heart your mouth sings a melody to the Father, when your heart beats in harmony with His and you are so hidden in Him that you wonder how wholeness could taste this sweet. When it doesn’t matter that he had let you go, that he had moved on too soon, that he never thanked you for the flowers that had bloomed because of your presence, never acknowledged the fears that had been overcome because you had said you would hold him through the night.

Let go.

Let go and count it all loss. You were not created for him. You were created for Him, that you may become more deeply and intimately acquainted with Him, perceiving and recognizing and understanding the wonders of His Person more strongly and more clearly, and that you may in that same way come to know the power outflowing from His resurrection, that you may so share in His sufferings as to be continually transformed in spirit into His likeness even to His death.

Everything else is dead weight.

So let go.

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

Further reading as you let go:

General life:
A Woman After God's Own Heart by Elizabeth George
The Lady, Her Lover, and Her Lord by T.D. Jakes

Thriving not surviving singlehood:
Sassy Single and Satisfied by Michelle McKinney Hammond
The Single Woman: Life, Love, and a Dash of Sass by Mandy Hale
Lady in Waiting: Becoming God's Best While Waiting for Mr. Right by Jackie Kendall and Debby Jones

Dating:
Secrets of an Irresistible Woman: Smart Rules for Capturing His Heart by Michelle McKinney Hammond
Boy Meets Girl: Say Hello to Courtship by Joshua Harris

Blogs:
True Love Dates
The Single Woman
Heather Lindsey

Pinterest:
A Woman After God's Own Heart

That time

I didn't know what love is until he was gone
Until we stood holding hands whispering our prayers to the
God you loved
Until I saw you and crumpled to the ground in fear of
the future that my eyes could no longer see
Until I spooned with you through the night listening for
the nightmares that keep you awake
Longing for a morning
When you will wake up and sing your Methodist hymn
"It is well with my soul".
I ache for you
Because you loved him
And I love you.

Overcoming I

We sat together in the dark-lit room,
Him facing me and I facing him
He asked me what I would tell you if I saw you
If I had the chance to touch your stony-cold feel
Taste your shadows that linger in the past
In the present darkness

Sticking like a second skin to ebony
Like the green winter coat that she wore
On a sunny day in mid-January longing
For them to invite her to the circle
To hold her close and love her

I told him I would go to her
Ride the wave of time back to her side
Hug her close to my heart
And plant a kiss on her cheek
I told him I would tell her to block you out
Shun the voices that crowd her
Remember the happy days
When hearts will soar and compassion will come calling
And love, sweet love…

I would tell you that
You might taunt her
And break her
And grow a wound so deep
She will want to scream you to hell

But you will never overcome.

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

(John 16:33)

Freedom

she’s been searching
wandering
longing
seeking a destination called freedom
freedom to know the joy of life
hear a still voice silence the harmattan

photo courtesy Lusha Zhou

dry her heart
blow
chaff
make teardrops
fall like drops of rain
drench the pain 

freedom is behind her
around her
cloaking her
coaxing her 

freedom to be free
free to feel the wind kiss her cheeks
free to feel pain yet live
free to heal
to walk
to run
to glance upon the vastness of the ocean
and see love
only love…

Missing You...

When I dance under the watch of winter
Among the crystal snowflakes upon a white earth
I dream of the ones with whom I once walked under a fiery sun
Among stony crevasses along a thousand-year old valley
The ones who seal the symphony of my life
Who author the song that guides me home.

When I will feel wrinkles mutilate the contours on my face
And time ravage my bones and my brain
My heart will yet beat with joy
Knowing full well that the best of my days
Was spent loving you
And being loved by you.

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.

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

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.

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.”

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.

When I Leave

When I leave
To enter a new dimension with my Lord
Do not raise up an epitaph in my memory
Do not sing an ode to my praise
Do not uplift my life
And hold a communion for me each year
Forget me forever
Let the sands of time replace my memory
Let the wind blow my ashes away
And time cause my bones to decay
Forget me for the rest of your days
Let me be a happy memory of your past
A past that you must forget  
If you must remember
Then remember that once in this life
Lived an unnamed woman who loved fiercely and lived faithfully
For a man they called Jesus

Lord Let Me. A Prayer.

Like Miriam, let me sing your praises every day of my life

Like David, let me be a woman after your own heart

Like Caleb, let me yield great fruit and a good report

Like Esther, let me find favor before the rulers of this world

Like Ruth, let me leave everything I know and follow you

Like Daniel, let me stand by you in this broken and dying world

Like my Mother, let me learn to listen to your voice

Like my Father, let me know that you always provide

Like Teacher, let me never panic in this life

Like Tai, let me serve you all the days that I live

And like Jesus, let me do the will for which you sent me to this earth, and to finish it. 

Zum Gedächtnis Der Geliebte

Gib mir Dein Schulter Herr
Lass mich Deinem Thron nähern
Verhüll mich mit Deinem Flügel
Ich weine mich bei Dir aus

Obwohl sie bei Dir ist
Ist sie noch in meinem Herzen
In meinem Gedächtnis
Von Sonnenaufgang bis Sonnenuntergang
Von Ewigkeit bis Ewigkeit

So viele sind bei Dir Schöpfer
Viele die noch nicht die Welt schmeckten
Mein Herz trauert
Meine Augen röten sich

So gib mir Dein Schulter Herr
Lass mich Deinem Thron nähern
Verhüll mich mit Deinem Flügel
Ich weine mich bei Dir aus