Monday, July 25, 2016
I feel like I changed the course of my day.
This morning on my way out of the neighborhood I spotted a small turtle crossing the road. I slowed down to a halt. Gave it a thought, and then drove around it. I looked in the rearview mirror. A car was approaching at full speed and I watched in horror as it road over it, without crushing it.
At that moment I made a u-turn and returned to the turtle. Just in time to watch its head re-emerge from its shell. Just in time to watch four other cars ride over it, almost crush it. I whipped my car into position in front of it. I put my hazard lights on, jumped out, popped open the trunk, grabbed a towel and scooped it up onto the safety of the lawn.
Something in my act changed my morning. As I went about my day, I felt vibrations around me. Still cannot put it into words. But I am glad I did not shrug off my immediate instinct to help the turtle. I did not succumb to the reasoning that I normally do. I attended to my first desire.
I shared my experience via text with my oldest son.
"That is incredible. It's called synchronicity which really is just another word for miracle. You created a miracle for the turtle. You kept it alive. And you prevented someone from killing the turtle...who knows maybe someone with a love for turtles may have accidentally run over it."
What a large dispensation of understanding from Emmanuel. It added to my feeling of an 'unlocking' within.
Today, I preserved and maybe restored, healed a bit of my soul; with my ally, the turtle.
The ground beneath my feet, the collaborator.
My hands molded a moment of kindness.
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Surrender to your writing. It is like love making. You need to let go of inhibition, just let the flow of words escape in exhalations and as you place each word within the sentence, allow the phrases to take shape. Let the warmth and energy emanating from the feeling of releasing their pent up energy, let them light up a path for your expression.
Eventually, as minutes and hours go by, you will accumulate enough of a bank of memory to allow you to recreate the same escape route every single time. Climaxes feel good and when they occur in the right circumstances, they last and last and last even when the heat of passion has long simmered down. The climax is what sustains your joy. And just like the feeling you get when you write a beautiful sentence, that sense of connection with your self, so is the act of love making. But you must now learn how to make love to yourself. Trust you like you trust your partner in love. allow you to guide and steer you to the exquisite point of release and subjugation, to your writing.
Close your eyes, trust your instincts. Redevelop that amazing quality of your childhood, of uninhibited expression, even as lonely and a quiet a girl that you were, you still had the ability to express in such beautiful ways. Witness the story of Mr. Pig you wrote when you were nine. The one that your mother kept in her files for you and gave to you when you finally were able to visit Kenya after living in America for over 20 years. Give yourself permission to go there. Peal away at the blocks, the mental hindrances to the ultimate expression of your soul. Write to yourself, talk to yourself with positivism. You may change the way you see your writing.
It is beautiful and powerful, allow yourself to experience its beauty and its power.
Saturday, February 6, 2016
... his father had told him.
Yet how could he tell it?
The winds were still
The birds sang at the wrong time
Tree frogs had stopped croaking
Yes, flowers blossomed and leaves shed
But at the wrong time
Could he still talk to the gods,
Could he still tell it to the wind?
They lusted at the expanse of green through the wrought-iron railings. Lush blades of grass so close-knit they formed an undulating moat around the ranch. Red brick palatial buildings occupied the front half of the property. The servants’ quarters were in the back garden before a generous array of indigenous trees lined up in a pageantry befitting the stately residence. The morning’s dew evaporated into the air, diffusing the scents of fig, camphor and grass, causing the hungrier cows to kneel on their forelegs, crane their necks, poke their heads through the fence and wrap flexible tongues around new tender growth. The persevering group: five herders, alongside a throng of hides, hooves, hot mouths and clanging cowbells, crowded the gates with attendant horn flies congregated on their backs.
The morning had begun with the promise of an equatorial December, the rays of the sun would be perpendicular to the surface of the earth by noon.
The cattle stomped their hooves and their long flowing tails swept the air, propelling pungent hints of cow dung in his direction. The herders leaned into the flanks of the cows closest to them, and with gentle reverence stroked, quieted them into a mood immediately absorbed by the herd.
“Nyinyi nani?” Who are you? The guard stood firm; in a world very distant from the narrow footpaths leading to the cattlemen’s homesteads. He adjusted the strap of the upturned rifle on his shoulder, and then rested his fingers on the Walkie Talkie strapped to his belt.
Koinet stepped forward. “The President told us we could graze our cattle today. This is the permit.” He presented a paper weathered by its transfer from hand to hand.
The guard thrust his face forward. “Inasema?” What does it say?
“Livestock Grazing Permit,” Koinet accurately guessed the guard’s inability to read, “it is like the permits given to graze in the Maasai Mara National Reserve,” Koinet added. “This one is for seven hours per day.”
"How much did you pay for that?”
“It was free. From Ministry of Agriculture, approved by the president.” Koinet said, holding onto the shuka lifting off his shoulders in the light breeze. The rest of the herders hummed a singsong response, in support. They did not care that their wrappers were flapping to bare their tattered loincloths and their privates. Their ashy legs and feet stood encased in sandals crafted from old tires, shock-absorbers, thick enough to tread innumerable kilometers in search of grazing ground.
The guard turned his back to them, unclipped the Walkie Talkie from his belt, and dispatched a message.
“Jomo, come in.”
“Yes Kitui, nini?"
“There are some Maasai's here with their cows?”
The cows eyed the sumptuous overseeded green lawn, eager to offer a mowing to the expanse big enough to pasture one hundred cattle. The coarse and dry tufts they had come from yielded poor, under-producing dairy cows and emaciated beef for slaughter.
The Walkie Talkie cackled.
“Yes, those are the orders: as long as the President is not around. Kitui, let them in.”
Kitui turned to them and said, grudgingly, “Ok. You can enter, for only three hours,” he added pleased with the little authority he could command.
“And make sure you clean the shit before you leave,” he added.
The hungry cattle hurried through the gates with bent heads tugging at the tendrils, crowding the entryway and causing a brief jam before the gentle prods and whistles of their masters urged them on.
“Asante --” Koinet began but the guard interrupted him.
“You will give me some chai, eh?” Kitui said.
“We have nothing left; we used the last of it to buy our water.” Koinet said.
Koinet and the herders steered the cattle through the well-tended property. Except for the herders’ subdued voices and the gentle snorts of the cows there was stillness, a feeling of being in a sanctuary, witnessing the orderly grazing, ruminating and resting of cattle. Unlike the barren landscapes of their homesteads this was a temporary reprieve for the long suffering. The bore-hole and the stream running at the bottom of the garden assured its sustenance.
Could he still talk to the gods,
Could he still tell it to the wind?
(Part 1 of a short story)
Hana Njau-Okolo © 2008-2016. All Rights Reserved.
Hana Njau-Okolo © 2008-2016. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, January 25, 2016
A first look at the memoir of Kenya's pioneer writer Rebeka Njau, author of The Sacred Seed, Books Horizon (2003), Ripples In The Pool, Heinemann (1978) and The Scar (1965). Here is the first chapter of her soon to be completed memoir.
In Quest of Justice, a Memoir by Rebeka Njau
WHEN I decided to write the story of my life, I struggled to find the best way to express my deep and complex emotions. Finally, in memory of the poetry of my earlier years as a writer, I chose to open this memoir with the following lines:
My ears are plugged up
By poisonous spittle of a grimy tongue;
Times without number,
Little birds have been twittering, joyfully at my backyard,
But I cannot hear them.
Falsity, scattered like seeds
Everywhere I tread,
Has driven me to extreme bitterness and pain,
Making me feel powerless to forgive and forget.
Like a piece of rock that stands on its own,
I stand alone beside a sweet-scented bush
To ease my heavy heart.
Then in desperate helplessness
I approach the Mugumo tree, in my compound
To offer my supplications
To the Comforter, the Maker of all Things
And erase the agonies of pain.
But my attention is diverted;
I see images of Ondiri’s swamp,
Looking like a large carpet of mossy green;
Decades ago it was a sight to behold;
A sight to take one’s breath away.
Memories of that natural spectacle, flood my mind.
I recall the day I waded through it
The ground swayed from side to side
Scaring me to the uttermost.
When I recollect that act of courage
Inspired by Guka’s captivating words of wisdom
And the amulet he wore
To shield himself against evil forces,
I ask myself:
Who will shield me against the fangs of the unjust?
As I lift up my eyes, suddenly an apparition flashes across my face,
Leaving behind haunting images of a day I will never forget.
THAT DAY, August 1975, lunch-time. Very cold. I had had a restless night, for no clear reason. I picked up a book by Henrik Ibsen, one of my favourite playwrights and decided to finish reading A Doll’s House.
But before I reach the part where Nora, Helma’s wife, decides to escape from the clutches of male egotism, my telephone rings. I pick it up, but hesitate to answer. The caller says ‘hallo’ twice. I recognize the voice. It is my sister, Keziah. We exchange greetings. Then unexpectedly, she drops a bomb-shell that almost lacerates my ear-drums.
“Your husband, Elimo Njau has formalized his marriage to his African-American girlfriend.”
“What?” I exclaim in disbelief.
“Don’t say you do not know. It is a public scandal. They were joined in so-called holy matrimony in Moshi, Tanzania and they have a baby girl.”
“That can’t be true. He is still married to me,” I gasp. ‘It is against the law.”
“What law? Take courage, my sister. It is not the end of the world. The sky won’t fall on you,” she says and hangs up.
My mind reels. My lobes are on fire. A sinking painful sensation stirs inside me. I take a long deep breath to calm my palpitating heart. But like a withering leaf blown into a windstorm, my entire body is hurled to the centre of a whirl-pool, where my energy is sucked out of me, making me feel like a swamp drained of its water. I keep taking deep breaths. I shake my head with disbelief, anger. I try to convince myself that my sister's words cannot be true.
To me, polygamy is not an option. It goes against the Christian values that my mother, a devoted Christian evangelist instilled in the whole family. As growing youngsters, brought up among Christians who were ‘born again’, we were taught that a Christian marriage was meant to be monogamous. If my mother had suspected that my future husband would one day become a polygamist, she would have refused him permission to marry me.
I rested my head on my desk and appealed to my Creator to grant me courage to overcome the pain and bitterness. I appealed for strength as I did not want to let humiliation devour me and wreck my confidence, my hopes. After a while, I stood up, walked to the window. A six-storied building in the horizon held my gaze. An image flashed through my mind. It was the picture of the Mukungugu tree, a hardy tree that grew on Guka’s land near the banks of Nyongara river. Clinging to the tree was a tender yam plant which had twined its delicate limbs around its mother’s neck, like a child. That image captivated me. I fascinated over the bond of love and harmony displayed by those two creations of nature, linked together like the inseparable needle and thread. The image conjured up different strands of my life, and like in a dream, I heard the echo of my mother’s voice singing one of her favourite songs, “Blessed Assurance.” And my voice joined hers in the chorus, humming. “This is my story. This is my song.”
Before I could complete the chorus, ugly memories pervaded my mind. I recalled all the lies that my husband had drummed into my ears, regarding his relationship with his girlfriend. I felt humiliated when I remembered the sworn oath we took on that warm day of December 19, 1959 at the chapel of Alliance Girls High School, Kikuyu where I was a teacher. All the talk that we engaged in concerning sticking together was now meaningless. And as those corrosive memories continued to flood my head, I saw the images of my son, Morille and my daughter, Hannah, in their early teens, groping in the dark trying to reach me.
I returned to my desk, shaking in helpless fury. The tears came and I let them flood and cleanse my face. After a while, I composed myself, opened the last page of Ibsen’s play and read the final conversation between Nora and her husband, then left my office at the National Council of Churches of Kenya (NCCK) where I worked. That night, in the seclusion of my room, it occurred to me that the little goodwill which might have existed between Elimo and I had finally blown itself out. The faint light of understanding that might have been glowing inside our hearts had been strangled.
The next day, I got out of bed earlier than usual. I took walk outside and stopped in front of a leafy tree and listened to my favourite bird and her joyful twitter as she jumped from branch to branch. I circled the garden and stopped to lean against a huge blue gum tree. I looked up and the sun rising in the horizon caught my attention. As I gazed at its blazing beams, I recalled the words of my Guka (grandfather). “Focus your eyes on the rising sun whenever you feel distressed and the dark clouds will dissipate.” With these words, he always sprinkled his bare chest with tiny drops of his own spittle, reciting a prayer, not only for me, but for many of his kin.
The image of the ‘Mukungugu’ tree and the yam plant continued to ha"nt me. After debating with myself about my future, I made up my mind. Unlike Nora, I decided not to leave. I had no other place to call home and no resources to start a new life on my own. Moreover, I had to stay for the sake of Morille and Hannah. I could not leave them under the care of their father who had clearly shown that his uppermost allegiance was to his art and not to his family. I had to wait and see them not only growing but fully grown.
It has been some time since I first blogged about my mother's mission to write her memoir, HERE. Today, I am so proud of, and thankful to my mother for her staying true to her goal, her dreams. And I will keep you posted on progress and publication.
I read somewhere recently that to have imagination is so important, because when you have the ability to imagine, you can put yourself in someone's shoes, you can understand, you can empathize, you can create and inhabit healing spaces...
Copyright © Hana Njau-Okolo 2008-2016. All Rights Reserved.