Mama Shujaa

I am very excited to share that my story The Shady Taxi Driver has been published in The StoryTime literary ezine, which showcases weekly new fiction by African writers. Click here to read the story. Enjoy. Mingi Love!

I turned away from the manicurist and looked out at the throngs lined up at registers, cashing out groceries to the din of hundreds of shopping carts. The sprightly manicurist's pseudo-professional explanation was still ringing in my ears. "Ma'am, I can fix only the two nails that are messed up bad, I am sorry," she had said. Her Daisy Duck voice grated my frayed nerves. I am never coming back to this nail salon, I vowed to myself, as I looked into her eyes, searching for the faintest hint of remorse. A tactic best used on my children, not on nail salon workers, not the ones in Walmart. "Have a seat over there, ma'am and I'll take care of you in a few minutes," was how she rendered my pressing matter into an almost trivial request. So, while she tended to the redhead in a Waffle House uniform who had arrived before me, I sat in my assigned seat and fumed over why I did not have the gumption to make a real scene. I mulled over whether to take over...

For first two installments click 1 and 2 . Ramona is particular about the pronunciation of her last name. Moreover, she is selective in educating coworkers and the umpteen late bloomers she has met in Atlanta’s social settings. Not every moron who mistakes her for a slender Mexican gets details of her mixed heritage. Atlanta is a city with a deeply historic eighty-twenty percent cultural more that recalls segregation. On a given evening, nightclubs hosting at least eighty percent African-American clientele will balance out with twenty percent Caucasian clientele; flip numbers, race, and the same is true. It is boring, and Ramona’s cosmopolitan nature struggles to stay afloat. In her view, the so-called ‘Little Apple’ she relocated to must grow in leaps to the multiculturalism of her tri-state New York-New Jersey-Connecticut stomping grounds. Fortunately, the workforce has provided some solace; because when she felt the stirring recognition of a fellow multiculti’s sensibility, she...

“Big plans this weekend, Larry?” She forced herself out of her reverie with a rote question void of sincerity, and prepared herself for his legendary preview of a football viewing booze filled weekend. “Sure do,” he said boastfully, “unlike you, Amani, I have plans. Matter of fact, you are welcome to join me and my boys at our get-together; bring your own beer!” “Thanks for the invitation, but I have stuff to do.” She preferred her mind-numbing chores to potentially tedious hours with her amply endowed cube-mate Larry and his bruisers; and their mouths, vessels of slipshod utterances passing from one to the other like an award winning ping pong competition. “You guys have fun,” she said merrily, returning to her cubicle, certain she would be regaled with the events of the weekend the following Monday. In the meantime, Ramona, the new secretary was on her mind. And the ‘idiot’ attorney Pete, who by chance walked by her cubicle at the exact moment he crossed her mind. He appear...

She hastened the clatter of her fingers on the keyboard. Like most people, she detested eavesdroppers. Yet, given the cloistered confines of their workspace, who could fault her for learning of his dreadful connections? "You are not a materialistic person," she overheard his affirmation to the caller, and she angled her head further towards the cubicle partition, fingers arrested mid-air. His unusual positive message was a sharp contrast to his habitual excuse-filled avoidance of tasks-at-hand, petulant complaints and nagging criticism of office policies. "But, what you need to do is put your foot on his back and kick him to the concrete, that's what you need to do," he continued. Her memory of the rumor-mongering lesson she learned as a teen was as fresh as the dewdrops on the banana leaves in Bibi’s* plantation. Nobody would ever finger her as feeder of the office beast. "If that doesn't work, we'll wait and see," he continued, "...

The much-anticipated match-up between our youngsters and the boys from Ohio was finally underway. After the first whistle, more than the static energy emitting from our blankets charged the air, as we watched from the sidelines on that freezing 27-degree morning. It was day two of the Adidas Invitational and our boys had shed the lackadaisical approach they displayed in the match on the previous day, which ended in a poor result. This morning, they exhibited energy and focus that reminded me of the cliché: “When the road gets tough, the tough get going,” as our boys rose to the occasion of playing the No.1 U12 boys’ team from Ohio. I tucked the blanket tightly around my body, silently praying that my husband would feed off the almost tranquil atmosphere that had settled onto the pitch within minutes of kick-off. Tranquil, because the self-assurance displayed by the Ohio boys was mesmerizing, their playing style was one of validating each other, as one player talked to the other in...

I could never squat by the roadside and relieve myself, in broad daylight, on sprays of grass in South Africa's breadbasket, the Highveld. No amount of decent cover could convince me to diversify the soil's fertility, to contribute tributary rivulets to fecal mounds of the animal variety scattered on the vast land; dried up, brown black swirls, no longer Swiss cakes to the bluebottle flies buzzing around. I assure you; you would not come upon me crouching behind a clump of bushes as cars speed past on the N1 freeway towards Free State Stadium in Bloemfontein. I am not, after all, an African woman. I be lady o. I no be woman. I be lady o. Market woman, na woman o. I am an acculturated African lady.  And that van load of Nigerian soccer fans, men and women gathered on the side of the road, within inches of each other, in varying positions of relief; spouting, spurting, oblivious to the hundreds of World Cup road travelers, the men of course, having it easier than the women...

Before my arrival, I had heard about South Africa's world-class infrastructure. Now, here in Johannesburg I have seen for myself, the modern, highly efficient systems in place.  Everything Public works!  The malls are mind-boggling in magnitude (Monte Casino and Sandton City, to name just two of the hundreds) boasting four or five concourses, resplendent with shops dealing in everything under the sun, from high-end to designer to modern basics, you name it!  And the people that traverse the malls halls emerge from every corner of the world;  milling about in the enclosed spaces, amusing, indulging, scrutinizing, profiling. Ah, Johannesburg is rich in diversity. Cream colored or ros é , cement walls stretch across homes, opulent and modest alike.  Ten foot walls topped with barbed wire looping in endless menacing revolutions; alternatively, slender, pointed pieces of metal driven into the walls, thorny ends up, jutting with purpose towards the sky, establishi...

Ellis Park, Johannesburg - June 12, 2010. "Excuse me.  Can you please tie your hair up?  Put it in a pony tail or something?"  My husband, cloaked in our Nigerian flag, said to the young lady in the front row, tapping her shoulder one time too many. "Every time you flick it, it flies into my face," he completed his request, addressing her horrified glance, expecting full compliance. The damsel in distress turned anguished eyes to the fat guy to her left before swinging back with a retort: "It's my hair!" Not sure what to expect, I stole a quick look at hubby and "WTF?" was written all over his face. We were now more than thirty minutes into the match and the couple's euphoria was temporarily disrupted.  The fat guy's Argentina was leading Nigeria 1-0.  With fantastic Category 1 lower level seats, just five rows up from the pitch, right behind the press folk, there was nothing to complain about, except an inconsiderate fan...

There is a lack of smiley faces here in Johannesburg. And I need them, thrive on them. Just a little something to bid me Welcome!  The slightest hint, I'll take that.  A change in expression, enough to fool me into thinking that you embrace my presence.  Because I want to identify with you.  Whether symbolic, or fake, like the nanosecond ones dishe d in pulsing metropolises like New York . Transform your face, let your smile hold sway over your mind.  Summon the god of laughter, of joy, even if temporarily for the World Cup, because the world has converged on this great country for a month. I've recovered from my initial hurt on day two, when I discovered that you did that to everyone: talk to them in your own language - Zulu, mostly.  I believed you thought I was one of you, felt momentary compatibility, somehow. All these tourists here, staying in apartments, hotels  needing to shop for groceries in supermarkets, for AC/DC converters in hardware ...

I learned the meaning of “déjà vu” when I was thirteen years old, thanks to Uncle James. With striking clarity and detail, before his car appeared, tires rolling on the jacaranda-strewn gravel driveway, I knew that he was coming to visit: every, single, time. My father would have picked him as brother, if we could choose relatives. He settled for Best Friend: and their souls married into the spiritual and intellectual strivings of their day. One fed the other in endless conversations driven by an intense urge to survive stagnating aspects of neo-colonial Kenya. They were concerned about culture and life in Africa, about reviving indigenous forms of East African art. My father Elimo Njau, an educator-artist, Uncle James Kangwana, a communications guru who began his career with the British Broadcasting Corporation in the 1960s. The two were co-founders of Paa Ya Paa in 1965, along with Sarah Kangwana, Rebeka Njau, Terry Hirst, Jonathan Kariara, Pheroze Nowjoree, Primila Lewi...

Her ample chest heaved two quick short bursts, her nostrils flaring in defiance.  This is it, she thought. Manicured fingers moved feverishly over the short dense strands of the white berber carpet; then slowed to a soft rhythmic caress.  She could feel the sinewy muscles of her lover beneath her palms, comforting like midnight under Nairobi skies. Sorrow overcame her as the air from her lungs made a final escape through her glossy lips.  Two tears began their journey down her cheeks.  This is it, she thought. One of these days I will write a romance, what do you say?  Right now, I'm deep in a piece (working with an editor) for a literary magazine, not a romance; but I'd like to distract myself and continue with this, and see where it leads. Weekend njema! Mama Shujaa. Copyright © Mama Shujaa 2010. All Rights Reserved.

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 mos...

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. ...

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, s...

My baby taught me a lesson last Sunday but one. A lesson so sweet it should be a dream summoned for sleepless nights and mundane days. When I think about the arm twisting that went on, what I promised in order for him to accompany me to the Christening’s after party - because he wanted to stay and watch Ogochukwu battle it out with aliens on the Xbox360 - I realize that kweli hindsight is 20-20 and he probably would not have given me such a hard time, had he been able to see into the future. Since we had set out early we took the long route, driving down a windy road through lush neighborhoods with green lawns, some were large enough to graze horses and we saw a few lazily munching the balmy afternoon away. We arrived at the house promptly as was requested on the Evite - 3:00 pm, exactly fifteen minutes before the hostess and the food (thankfully some was already prepared, like the mind-blowing Jamaican Roti). Anyway, her groovy husband had graciously let us in, phoned to tell her ...

I can see Diana on the 800 pound vibrator she talks about, her weekend ride. In full regalia, no less; two-toned black and red braided leather chaps, black boots, black vest, black gloves, and a partial face helmet. It won't surprise me or fellow vanpoolers if underneath it all, she dons a thong (Size L) with my vibrator has two wheels emblazoned on it. Routinely now with the good weather, she’ll announce to the van, “I’m ridin’ this weekend.” “Ridin’ dirty?” Martha will ask, on cue. She, of course would own one with a trailer large enough to fit her bag(s). “Come, what may,” Diana will say, “I’m getting on that beast!” To hear her describe the anticipated rides you’d think she was ringing in the New Year every weekend…with a bang! She certainly comes back on Monday looking brand new. I listen keenly to her prep talk simply because I’m interested in folks and their ways and means to find thrills, and freedom. She’s certainly not an oddity in Atlanta, where bikers in unison re...

Photo credit It was tantalizing, my weekend. Friday evening, we pull into the parking spot directly opposite his car. “He’s already here, fellow vanpoolers.” I keep this observation to myself because there is no logical reason to boast. Instead I blow him a kiss through the windshield. Martha and Monica (names changed to protect the horny) giggle at imagined pleasures in the offing. Brown skin. Red and white striped shirt. Brown polka dot tie. I know those generous lips. And they are moving. His earpiece is on. Another conference call is my guess. The three of us 'last stop' ladies disembark the van. He steps out to assist with my bags. Handsome. Bow-legged. Clean shaven. Sweet lipped. We watch as he carefully places my new running shoes in the trunk. Monica, in that ill-fitting dress she likes to wear on Fridays, looks like she could give him more than the current eyeful. But she has to settle for her husband, who is late. Martha steals a solid glance as she sashays...

Sunset in Freetown, Sierra Leone. Sometimes Life speaks a spontaneous language at once personal, dynamic and formal. Other times Life dares to challenge it's sensitive students, immigrants and their polite existence. Most times Life finds them elongated away from homelands with the swift movement of time a constant feature moving them through realms of expression deeply involved in life deeply involved in death. At all times Life speaks a natural language rhythmically unfolding the story of immigrants and their preoccupations driven by an urge to live and a will to survive aspects of their lives they would rather forget paths to permanent residence defenses against permanent removal. Then a loved one passes far away in the homeland in a world close to their spiritual habitations where the traditional magic of the village cock crow echoes across the compound and there’s never an end to human drama and dance where long, flowing fly-whisks sweep the air and revive the spirit. Whe...

("Saving For Old Age," by my father Elimo Njau, co-founder of Paa Ya Paa Creative Arts Center in Nairobi (in the 1960s and it is still standing today). ) It does not matter whether or not we are among those who let it happen. We are all guilty. Actors and spectators. Eye-witnesses and plunderers. We recognize each other in our indifference, our slow poison, our greed for power. African First Lady So-and-so, Professor of this-and-that. We profess our concern for the enterprise and culture of Africa. Tell me, modern day Judas Iscariots, what have you done with the joy and the power of the land? Witness, as the people of Mayotte, voted to be recolonized by France . A vote, of no-confidence in Africa’s independent future. The death, of a sovereign nation, the despair in a continent wrought by corruption, cruelty and brutality. A harbinger of future recolonizations in Africa. It is my prayer that Africa is liberated from the human tragedy playing out, fashioned by th...