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