The Peace Teacher

Here is my submission in the first monthly MyBrownBaby Beautiful Mind Writing Contest; this month's topic is "Peace." I've been overloaded at my 9-5 and have not had much time in the blogosphere; otherwise I'd have seen this sooner, I'd have posted the announcement earlier, you see the deadline is tomorrow. I just could not resist penning on the topic. So, here goes, a little rushed but I hope you appreciate the message.

***

Edith was a tall girl with a bosom the boys admired.  Every day, the swish of her skirt lapped around her legs and stirred more than the boys' imaginations.  Every day she allowed her jet black hair to cascade freely around her neck, framing a brown face that revealed God's mastery; everything on it perfectly structured, and eyes that suggested.

Truthfully, that was the reason the Kenya Regional Peace Corps had dispatched her to Kasari Rehabilitation Center.  Of the entire graduating class, Edith had succeeded where most had failed. Her eyes were trained weapons of behavior modification.

When she first arrived at the center, she knew she'd made the right choice.  Her home room had the required basics.  A wooden desk and chair at the front and fifteen small wooden stools scattered in a semi circle around the room.  The walls were a faded green, old and worn, like hundreds of tired and hungry boys had been thrown up against them and frisked thoroughly. This was where she conducted the group counseling sessions.

Every day, after brushing their teeth and washing their faces, the boys would trail in and prepare for what the administrators called 'prayers.' Then one by one, each boy would utter a soliloquy of peace, not a prayer.  Because, at the beginning when she had asked, they all said that God did not exist; that God would not have allowed bad things to happen to them.  So instead, Edith instructed them on a method of relating their feelings, all of their words focused on the future, not on the past.

Each boy was a veteran ex-combatant, having spent a minimum of five years in various units on the continent of Africa.  But Edith preferred to call them her child solders, it was less dehumanizing.  And most times, their spontaneous articulations revealed them to be vulnerable children.

One by one, she reintegrated the boys into the community.  Every day, she greeted them with solace, her eyes searching, penetrating the amphetamine induced haze that kept them awake for days, that had destroyed their capacity for peace, and wiped out their memories of brutal acts, hardening them.  Every day, she taught songs and skits that they performed for everyone.  She helped them feel safe, and taught them how to live among people in peace.  So that when they went to join the others later in the day, they looked forward to returning to her the next morning.

One morning, Taabu a troubled 13 year-old who had survived a bullet to the jaw and was on a waiting list for reconstructive surgery, shortened his soliloquy drastically, from the allotted two minutes to less than thirty seconds:

"The bullett in my leg pains me,
I have no peace.
I want to study hard and become a doctor, so I will give peace."

***

Mama Shujaa.

Troubled

Image One: The lovebirds are holding hands.   She is a head taller than him, and attractive, her skin is a rich dark brown.  She has a figure that is model material, not runway thin but unique, shapely, African.  She leads the way, her pointed chin tilted slightly upwards, as if proclaiming her innocence.  Blood is smeared on her left breast.

His eyes are downcast, praying for the ground to open up, swallow him whole.  Blood is trickling down his chest, beginning right below his heart, continuing down, little rivulets meander through to the creases in his groin; the source of his agony.

In the background, a dozen men, fully clothed, young and old, on foot, and on bicycles, advance towards the naked couple. On their faces is a sprinkled mix of scorn and pleasure, like a herd of hot, hungry, hyenas hankering for leftovers.

Image Two:   A hooligan is facing the lovers, his back is to the camera and the club in his right hand is raised.  It is freshly carved, and lacks attention to detail; unfinished, as if its’ practical use is wholly contained in the jagged, barbed infliction of suffering.

We are not clear whether he is at the beginning or the end of a strike.  But barely visible behind the hooligan is the figure of the man, stooping, shielding his groin area, one hand upturned, to summon God’s mercy.

She joins in the plea, her hand upturned, her face contorted in pain; her lips drawn out pencil thin, in a grimace that makes you fear for her safety.

In the background, more men, fully clothed, on foot, and on bicycles, advance towards the naked couple. On their faces is a sprinkled mix of scorn and pleasure, like a herd of hot, hungry, hyenas hankering for leftovers.

Images Three, Eight and Nine:  We see the back view of the lovers still holding hands. Blood oozes from a variety of gashes on their backs; swollen welts, dark pockmarks here and there, all evidence of the smorgasbord of torture inflicted by the mob.  The depression of the twin dimples above each of their buttocks can easily be mistaken for scars.

In the background, fully clothed men pause in their motorcade of piki-pikis, many glancing over their shoulders, their looks urging the barefoot, naked couple to carry on with the procession through town.

Image Four, Five and Six:  A series of close-ups showing the steps leading to the couple’s public embrace. Image Five reveals a gash on the man’s scalp, the clotting blood melding tufts of his short salt and pepper hair.  His lips are pursed in a kiss as he plants one on her cheeks, in justification of the spilled blood, a forced embrace that reveals some...regret? Sweat is rolling down from his neck to his shoulder and upper arm.  He is grasping her elbow as she cradles his chin in her hand. 

Image six follows her line of thinking as she strokes his cheek, his mouth is open, the fully gray hair-line now clearly visible.  She could be his daughter.

Image Seven:  The woman clambers head first into the back of a white Toyota Corolla, followed closely behind by the man old enough to be her father.  Someone has come to their rescue.

When I received these images, I wished I had a RETURN TO SENDER option.  Then after looking at the offensive images, and giving it some thought, I thought I would lend my voice to articulate what I perceive to be the prevailing winds of our time.  Because captured in these nine sinister images are symptoms of poverty, lawlessness and a total breakdown of family values. 

The images were sent as an email FWD and included the following message (I altered them out of respect):

“This couple, a father-in-law and his daughter-in-law, were caught doing some cha-mama-na-cha-baba in Kisumu by bodaboda people.  They were beaten senseless, undressed and then made to kiss in public.  Kweli mpango wa kando una mambo!” [Translation:  Having a side piece will always cause problems].

I am not condoning adultery but in this case, the crime does not fit the punishment.  The sadistic treatment of these two ordinary people hurts my soul. Had they been “of substance’ in Kenyan society, the mob would not have violated them this way.  The stripping, beating and parading diminish not just the two, but Kenyans, Africans and humanity.

Mama Shujaa.

The Shady Taxi Driver 5

If you need a refresher on the last STD episodes, click here for 1, 2, 3, and 4.

Langata Road (traffic-free, probably mid-morning)

The taxi driver’s wet lips prattled in Kikuyu, the nasal tone of his voice registering high and low notes, some plaintive, others cheerful. It was annoying.

[An aside: Just yesterday, I heard Senator Joe Lieberman’s voice on TV, and remembered that I had not finished this STD series, so thanks Joe!]

It was odd how familiar this driver was with Mama’s family; especially his connection to my grandfather, he talked about him like they had been best friends. The fact that Babu had been dead for over fifty years wreaked confusion on my brain. The correlation between the driver’s age and the historical context of his many stories about Babu just did not jive! But then, I may have missed details since my Kikuyu has been diluted here in the Diaspora; a fact well-emphasized by our religious driver.

"Ngai sees us through all," he said repeatedly in Kikuyu, but his sing-song voice made it hard for me to embrace his belief in God. Maybe it was because smothered in his calculated delivery I sensed desperation.

Looking out the window was not much of a distraction because nothing exciting was happening on Langata Road, besides the traffic jam. There were no handsome faces or beautiful hour-glass shapes to admire. No tired-looking lean but tough boys and girls in dusty school uniforms fighting for free rides on public transportation. No roadside hawkers selling anything: pocket knives, or fake ebony giraffes. There were one or two herders lazily steering a handful of emaciated cows from the roadside. And of course the myriad colorful matatus, minibuses, old and new passenger cars, and loud lorries, engines idling in shades of soot-colored vapor; as the hot orange sun sank slowly into the horizon.

If we had known traffic was going to be this bad, we may have looked for a different route. But then, we would have missed the action further up the road. For over an hour we had been cooped up in the driver’s old but clean car. He was obviously fastidious in his cleaning, the single layer of dust particles barely visible on the dashboard. The transparent plastic floor mats were a nice, rare accessory. They made for a less stressful ride, especially since we had travelled a very short distance on Langata Road, one that would normally take fifteen minutes, instead of the current seventy.

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Mama’s back was as straight as an arrow, perched on the back seat with her feet firmly planted on the floor of the car; her posture reminded me of her Headmistress days. Brother-man sat in the front passenger seat, his hand cupped over his mouth, to prevent his hunger-breath from permeating the close confines, or to block entry of dust molecules and diesel fumes, or to send a polite message to the driver and his denture breath. The two were engaged in a conversation that generated a series of nods and drawn out hmmms… from brother-man.

The driver was a guilt-tripping African who used the Bible as a sword, I was sure of it. He made jabbing comments about children who had been sent abroad for further studies and then overstayed their visas, and lived as illegals. He made me feel guilty for not visiting home for twenty years. He said too much about his impoverished family in the village who sent a daughter abroad, only to learn that the girl married into an American family and that no dowry was forthcoming.

But, "Ngai sees us through all.” His knowing side glances and grunts were mostly directed at brother-man, as he zealously worked the gear shift and clutch pedal. Every sentence began with kijana [young man], and continued with anecdotes including a memorable one about the mzungu [white] kijana he had driven to the airport some time ago.

It had rained hard on that particular day, which made the usual airport traffic even worse with all the cars that broke down on the road. The daily police check point caused further delay only briefly because he convinced the police to let them pass when he told them that kijana mzungu was running late for a flight back home to Italy. And even after all that, the kijana mzungu offered to run the rest of the way, because it was faster.

Kijana mzungu ran along Mombasa Road to airport

The reason he could do so was because he was clever and had travelled with only one backpack for a six week stay in Kenya. So, our shady taxi driver accepted full payment from the kijana, let him out on the roadside and, as he maneuvered a u-turn, watched him sprint towards the airport. It was not that far, he assured us, and whether or not he caught his flight did not matter, what mattered was that he prayed very hard for him to make it.

"I prayed for him," he continued in Kikuyu. The same way, he added, that he prayed right now, for our mother, brother-man and I to get home before midnight. He said it loudly, throwing another side glance, like he was not part of that equation. I was deciphering his meaning when he began to concentrate his gaze on the woman in the vehicle idling in the next lane.

We are definitely not going to run home, we have ordered door-to-door service, I thought instinctively.

"Young man, open the window!" he commanded, startling brother-man into action. I caught the equally surprised expression on the woman’s face as she rolled down her window to the driver’s motioning hand.

"Habari Gani?" he said it like a mezzo-soprano singer, the two words laced with a familiarity that got me wondering, did he know the woman?

"I am fine." Her quizzical look almost matched Mama’s the only difference was the appearance of a cross between Mama’s eyes.

"Where are you headed?" he continued casually in Kikuyu.

"Rongai," she responded.

"These ones are going to Rongai also." Like we were three suitcases to be off-loaded and delivered to an unpleasant destination.

Before he could continue, a loud teeth-sucking noise reverberated from the back.

"Mmmccchhhwww!"

"What are you asking her?" the irritation twisted Mama’s voice.

"Hhhmm….eh?" Brother-man could barely get a word out. The jerk was attempting a dump-off!

"Sorry, I can’t," the woman closed her window.

To be continued sooner rather than later, at least while Senator Joe Lieberman is in the news.

Mingi Love,

Mama Shujaa

Copyright © Mama Shujaa 2009. All Rights Reserved

Teamwork

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Vipi marafiki?

I've been inundated with our fifth grader's homework assignments these past few days. And truth be told, I am definitely not smarter than a fifth grader. Last night I spent two hours trying to help him finish his math homework - Problem Solving Strategies - six problems consisting of three sentence questions involving the division of decimals.

The problems were so confusing, I was convinced they were trick questions. Thank God we have a recent college graduate now living and working in NYC. I told her I would just have him ask his teacher for help at school and she said, "No, mum don't give up so easily!!"

Then his Dad came to assist and further progress was made - this was about 9:50 pm last night. After reading the questions a few times, he used a strategy of elimination and with our daughter on a conference call, the two were able to come up with the correct answer.

Wow. All this time, I've been admiring his looks, you know, his strong bow-legs. Remember, I told you about them here. His creativity, energy; not knowing that he is quite the problem solving genius. If only he was as good at balancing our check book.

Tutaonana,

Mama Shujaa.

Trespassing Prohibited

I couldn’t wait to tell Nadia. She lived on the other side of the bougainvillea lined path that separated our properties. I had not talked to her for a few days. And once or twice recently in the evenings, I caught a glimpse of her through the hedges as she walked alone towards the main road. I wondered where she was going and made a note to ask her, then decided to follow her the next time I saw her pass by and surprise her with the good news.

The opportunity presented itself easily enough, right after an early dinner that Saturday when she made her way through the path behind our house. I gave her a few minutes to get ahead and then set out after her.

It was not long before I realized that she had turned off the main road and was heading towards Sir Michael Blondell’s coffee farm. What was she doing? His was the colonial ranch to be feared, avoided. I followed stealthily behind, the double dose of excitement almost too much to bear.

It wasn’t long before I came upon her, standing near the man-made lake, a Trespassing Prohibited sign impaled on a Jacaranda tree close by.



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Nadia’s diminutive frame swayed slightly towards the water. Its translucent topcoat reflected the gigantic red petals blossoming on her lacy dress as it wafted umbrella-like in the light breeze, revealing a set of knock-knees precariously tilted towards the edge.

She reached behind her neck to unclasp the single hook-and-eye of her dress.

My heart’s staccato rhythm pulsed in my eardrums, thoughts colliding as I anticipated her next move. Within seconds she had slipped off her dress and her chocolate nakedness disappeared into the lake.

Except for the shallow gasps coming from my mouth, I stood transfixed, cursing my non-photographic memory.

Chocolate shaven armpits were all I could remember. Caramel pointed breasts, a flat stomach with a ring-less bellybutton, and tight thighs; body parts I barely glimpsed and yearned to see again.

Nadia mouth was open as she tilted her head back and took a deep breath, she spread her arms out to her sides like an aeroplane, looking relaxed, her whole body, the peaks of her bosom barely visible above the water.

I worried about the millions of things that lay ensconced in the lake’s murky depths as the brown, syrupy water slowly moved around her body.

Nadia's tongue caressed her lips as the beat in my ears slowed to a steady tempo, the blood circulating in my belly. Her brown eyes lingered on the lake’s surface, the fragrance of passionflowers encircling the lake rising in the air as Nadia moved towards the water’s edge.

Time stood still when she emerged from the lake. Her body’s contours shimmered like a polished diamond. Dazzled, I took it all in. The contours of her high cheekbones, shapely full lips, and perfect nose and chin, the peaks of her succulent breasts, sensuous stomach and slender thighs, left me with a drumbeat pulsing, persistent, concentrated.

(Excerpt from my book-in-progress)

Ji-enjoy! Mingi Love,

Mama Shujaa.

Balancing Life

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This young man could very well be a college graduate or a high school graduate.

He may also not be a graduate at all.

Regardless, as the saying goes, necessity is the mother of invention.

Believe it or not, this young man is a tailor.

And balanced on his head is his workstation.

Due to the inability to find employment he has resorted to fulfilling a need. In all likelihood, his place of business is somewhere in Lagos, Nigeria.

What does he do? He walks the streets looking for customers that need this or that stitched, a button here, a button there, pants hemmed, a skirt stitched. And on a good day, he may be hired to design and sew trousers, a shirt, or a dress.

He has steady customers you know; it may seem an odd career but he is fulfilling a need.

If he was in America he could have a bunch of uniformed tailors walking the street like him, or driving brand name trucks – franchised!

Mama Shujaa.

Ponder Your Navel

This post is dedicated to our ex.

Have you ever had the opportunity to tell someone, "Go jump in a lake!?" It's a plus when you can tell them exactly what lake too!

For instance, Lake Magadi, back home in Kenya's Rift Valley would work perfectly because in the dry season it is 80% full of soda ash, a.k.a. washing soda. Our ex can just jump in there and be cleansed thoroughly of the senseless behaviour that has been the source of such negative energy that has caused the untimely death of our vanpool.


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When someone sets out to kill a van, containing a load of professionals trying to get to and from work expeditiously, stress-free, while reducing traffic congestion and fuel consumption, that person needs to go jump in Lake Magadi!!


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In Lake Magadi they can scrub the toxins off the flesh, and then maybe, just maybe, they can return to reclaim their self-ascribed "salt of the earth" status.

I don't think we'd take them back on the van though, sorry.


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In fact, a next step would be recommended:

Climb my Mt. Kilimanjaro and at 19,000 feet above sea level, do this:

Find Your Belly Button! In that lovely thin air. Breathe faster, deeper, expose your soul to the fresh air. Perhaps the hyperventilation will assist in elevating your spirit. After all, altitude determines attitude au siyo? However, don't let the pulmonary edema set in as this would defeat the purpose of your going to the mountain-top...



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...to ponder your navel. Your big fat, round navel. Whether an innie or an outie, that very first scar, left over from the umbilical cord joining you to your mother's placenta, is your unique fingerprint. Examine it. What happened to all that nourishment from the womb? Did society get the best of you? Trace backwards, the complicated path you have taken recently. Your motivations, the surging negative energy, the undermining, conniving, back-biting, causing havoc amongst reasonable and appreciative riders.

Ex-Primary Driver: Goodbye, Good Luck, Good Riddance To Bad Rubbish.

Kwaheri ya kuonana.

Mama Shujaa.