Mama Shujaa

2012 reshaped one of the prized items on my daily menu: time to write. One hour (or two) before dawn became the only glowingly productive time spent.  After-work hours just rolled over and played dead, annihilated by quality time with the family or the plain vegging of a worn out employee. My blogging got stuffed into my shoebox like a favorite toy, to be unpacked at the slightest hint of an excuse. And so here I am, under my own very expectant eyes, posting again with new impulse, as a soon-to-be anthologized author.   African Roar 2012 , is the third in a series of annual anthologies dedicated to publishing short fiction by African writers, edited by Emmanuel Sigauke and Ivor W. Hartmann, published by StoryTime. I am inspired that my short story is included in the collection. Release date: December 20, 2012 as an eBook. The print edition will be out in 2013. I have missed the exchange of ideas and inspiration from visiting your blogs this year. 2012's daily grind got

By HANA NJAU-OKOLO Kilimanjaro You are I am Melting. Those patterns etched into your face Are tears carved under my eyes Draining through the mask. A glacial screen The landscape of my life Frozen into the familiar. Snow-cap Washing away As men in their folly Plunder the spoils of the earth. Face-to-face you say Do not weep for me Weep for yourself And for your children. For the Sahara And its spreading. For your soul Marooned on an Island of dreams Unfulfilled. Copyright © Hana Njau-Okolo 2008-2012. All Rights Reserved. First posted on December 10, 2008.

Lake Lucerne at sunset. Through the window of Alcove Coffeehouse I watch the water and dream. Then I write. A great sentence is like foreplay, groping instinctively to feel good.  And it feels good to be back. Working on my writing more than my blogging.  I've missed this space. Mingi Love, Mama Shujaa.

When preparing for a ten-day sojourn to my home country two weeks ago, I packed the correct garb for summery days, the perfect shoes for my bridesmaid outfit, and contentment steeped in the marrow of my bones. It was my second return back home in one year, a rarity.  The first had occurred in July, when I was more orthodox in my packing, as I joined a constellation of relatives to lay our beloved Uncle Job to rest.  December 17, 2011 was the excellent occasion of my older brother’s reaffirmation ceremony after twenty-three years of marriage. That day, I smiled at everyone, so as not to offend relatives who had slipped my memory. Now, as circadian rhythms reset to my American time zone, cheerless admin-and-litigation hours at work have taken the place of the happy-go-lucky days in Nairobi. I revisit photographs. I scrutinize faces, bodies, locations; they are adequate restoratives that stave off the evaporation of recent excitement, when family and friends from fa