TEENAGE MOMS

Last Friday was the final day of filing returns which in any right thinking fellow's mind is much ado about nothing. I had managed to score a few clients who had serious issues, people who wanted to declare their rental income, a steal from lucrative deals that in my opinion could use some creative accounting and avoidance and others just didn't have a clue on how to use iTAX platform.  At the end of the day I had a few extra coins to cure my headache with some fine liquor and rhumba music. One even has the confidence of bribing the DJ to play NAMISWI MISAPI on repeat. Pesa Otas donge?

It had escaped my mind that the following day I had some charity business to attend to. That's my version of spirituality. I do not practice any religion because all of them are flawed in matters to do with doctrine,consistency and common sense.

With barely 3 hours of shut eye, I was dragged out of bed by a phone call with women shouting at the other end  that they are knocking at the gate and they are being ignored but can see jaber parked outside. By some miracle I was able to crawl out of bed and let them in. "Yaani ndio unaamka, hata mswak wewe bado piga?" they lamented. I was in pain my friends. There was a time when I could party all  night, go home have a change of attire and get on with the day like nothing happened, nowadays my hangovers are the worst. Every morning after, I have trouble getting out of bed, I have to have a meeting with each body part separately and convince them that they need to work together and get through the day. I feel like I should be on an IV bag or something. The clunking of my bones is just embarrassing.

I survive the morning ritual and set off for Marurui, a village tucked along the northern bypass near the suburb of Thome. There are orders for me to roll up my window which I blatantly disregard. My hangover symptoms are similar to morning sickness in pregnant women. I cannot stand the smell of anything that's not oxygen, everything has to be neutral. It makes a nigga nauseous, so women with perfumes and scented lotions are like kryptonite at that time.
We finally found our way to WINGS OF COMPASSION children's home.
The establishment has no sign posts or any indication that it plays host to the less fortunate. It is actually a private home run by a lady called sis Dorcas. Her house stands on the right side of the small plot and other iron sheet structures that have wooden rectangular slabs attached to hinges to act as windows on the left. A small shed shielding a Nissan b15 from the sun acts as the seating area and visiting bay.
The home isn't like any of the conventional ones. It plays as a rescue center for teenage girls and their children. These are no ordinary children. These are the innocent offspring that are sired from rape and incest. Children that are survivors of the savagery that human beings are capable of. I had no prior knowledge of this.

So the ladies sat down with the madam of the house as I went to scavenge the shops for a bottle of water and some panadol. I got back and went to sit in the TV room by myself. I wanted some personal time to reflect on my relationship with the bottle, this shit has to stop, near death experiences and seeing the white light every weekend isn't funny anymore hehehe.
BUT the devil has his plans. Toddlers emerged from the mabati houses. There was pandemonium, some were calling me uncle, some were poking their fingers at my tablet, my moment of peace and tranquility was gone. I decided to engage them asked them their names, took selfies et al.

Around nine teens came out of the houses, they were the mothers. They were so excited to meet me. One asked the name of my school and the  "form" that I was. (18 till I dieeeee :-) ).
We chatted and I could tell there was happiness in their current situations and status of housing. There was music playing from the DVD player and I got to learn with disbelief that there's a song called "Mungu nipe nyonyo." I still can't believe it. How does one start singing that chorus in church? I see the women's guild falling on their knees crying for our youth. When did gospel music become so secularized ?
Then I learnt of "bazokizo" a music video with cool dance moves, I was forced to join in and break a sweat, a cold ethanol reeking sweat. The fanfare was cut short when the lady of the house called everyone to a meeting and introduction session under the shed.

The same girls I had had a fun time with  just minutes ago started sharing their stories and this is when my heart broke.
One of them , very well groomed, confident,talkative and full of wit shared how she had to run away from their home in Western Kenya after she had conceived from being repeatedly raped by her own biological father. This man had threatened to kill her if she ever exposed him to the family. She had suffered the torment of being branded a prostitute by her own mother.
On the very night of her escape, she spent the night in the cane fields where she was attacked by two young men who raped her and robbed her of the little money she had.

Another one, name withheld told of how she came to the city with her sister after her parents died and werecast out by their relatives. She'd been promised work as a domestic help but saw none of that. Her sister was a commercial sex worker in downtown Nairobi and there wasn't a night that she'd sleep peacefully since the studio apartment played host to an average of 5 men a night. She would go out in the street under the cover of night until her sister's business would conclude. On one ill fated night she was accosted by a stranger in a dark alley and was beaten and raped.

They all shared testimonies that no child should ever have to experience. One thing I admired about those girls was their resilience. It takes courage to tell a story like that to strangers without breaking down. In their eyes and mannerisms you can tell that these are still children and have the potential to be moulded into great citizens of the future.

In the evening madam husband arrived and all the kids, about 15 of them, ran to embrace him shouting , "daddy daddy.."  I've never seen something as beautiful as that. These children don't know rejection because they have a mom and dad despite their circumstances.

If you ever get time, feel free to visit and volunteer at WINGS OF COMPASSION home, Marurui village.

BACK TO OLD

I am back to blogging! 6 years it has been. Nobody including myself knows why I took the hiatus. Perhaps I became lazy, unmotivated or maybe I found something to occupy my pass time with. All three reasons are valid. So much has changed in the short time, I finished school worked a few jobs, quit some, got fired twice (hehe) ,found love and dumped soon after. I would confidently say that my learning curve is quickly approaching sunset I am 27 years old now . I have seen the struggle of youth, the hunger to succeed,  the clamor for excellence, the frustration of employment and the suffering of slow but certain death in wrong career choices. Changes are part of growing at least we are told. The blog display picture will stay on for a little while longer, it is good to live with the memory of when times were good, life was easy, bellies were flat and all teeth were present. Not to say that I have missing teeth but weight has been put on, lager has curved a presence on my gut and a little more facial hair protrudes on the base of my chin. A little less bright eyed and bushy tailed and more squarer more confident and less bothered by perceptions of those around. In short there has been reasonable growth.
Wanjiku wa Macharia (my mother) rang me last Friday at around 9 a.m. and wouldn’t have picked the call if it were anyone else, but peering through half shut eyes I realized that this had to be answered. There’s something about ignoring your mom’s calls that gets you an earful from granny in Siaya about how you’ve abandoned your family and the constant reminder of whose blood is running in your veins. Yes I was still asleep at that time, there’s this small matter of getting fired I’ve talked about up there that’s going on at the moment but that’s not important. Distress punctuated her voice. One of our close family friend’s elderly mom was ailing and a resident at Outspan Hospital in Nyeri. I met the Shosho around March this year and she was one of the kindest ladies this side of the Sahara. See I am not good at conversations with people outside my age bracket but was able to relate with her on all levels. Old people don’t want to hear your opinions, they want to dominate the discourse and impose their ideas on you and show you the error of your ways. This wasn’t the case with her, she was actually keen on getting my perspective. The exchanges were nourishing and philosophical. I had indeed made a friend. Something that is difficult in adulthood. We planned to drive up the county the next morning.
I couldn’t sleep until around 5a.m. seeing that when one is between jobs you find yourself occupied by film and literature, this time I was reading Christopher Hitchens God Is Not Great (how religion ruins everything). Sidebar: God is Great, this author is just full of shit.
4 hours later I am on the road. The drive was smooth, jaber was trying out it’s new gearbox on the mountainous terrain of Kirinyaga, she ate the Kangocho hill for breakfast.  Mom slept through the entire journey, I don’t know how she does that.
We were at the hospital waiting bay a few minutes past noon and had to make due with the uncomfortable seats. The sun shone halfway into the room peering through the translucent panes branded span Hospital. The word 'out' clearly faded off voicing a cry for renovation.
With my kabambe in hand there wasn’t much to look at on my phone hence my eyes wandered through the bustle in the hospital, the nurses were all pretty, light skinned and young. I wondered to myself what the HR policy was or that they simply cared for their patients such that the caregivers had to be appealing to the eyes. I have been to a few public hospitals and the looks on those nurses were everything but friendly. Perhaps it’s the long standing union battles they are embroiled in with the government or maybe it’s the frustration of lack of facilities that gives them the hostile demeanor.
Visitation hour crept in and we were all led through a small search point into the ward two flights of stairs into the room. Illness has a way of sucking the otherwise jovial and cheerful personality of people. The old lady could hardly recognize me initially until that point when I was struggling with my urban kikuyu to remind her I was Wanjiku's son. I could see her face light up when our past conversations finally struck her. She asked me whether I’d found a girlfriend yet and that if I was still unsuccessful once she was back to full health it would be her life’s mission to find me a partner.
The homestead was 36 kilometers away in a town called Naro Moru. The drive from Nyeri town was a spectacle. Central indeed is a beautiful place. The thin winding tarmac roads that disappear into grand prix deathly corners stand out for miles, you have to wrestle the wheel like it’s a raging bull that wanted to toss you into the grassland abyss that seemed to meander in  never ending circles. I went past the Kenya Police Training camp in Kiganjo and was in awe of the beautiful landscape that was well manicured. Discipline echoed the manner in which the recruits walked in well choreographed processions in their yellow outfits. They all looked eager to graduate and serve Kenyans with integrity and impartiality. I don’t know what the fuck happens after passing out parade and cops are handed their blue wears.
We get home and were greeted by the mzee of the house. He’s an elderly gentleman somewhere in his late seventies. Well kept and brushed white hair , back slightly bent forward whispering years of hard work in the farm to put food on the table. His shirt was well tucked into his khaki trousers that were properly pressed. The only fly in the ointment were his mismatched pair of slippers. Blue and red. This told the story that the Mrs. of the house wasn’t available and the man was battling to keep things together.
He ushered us into the home and what struck my eye was the homely ambience of the living room.
The whole wall was decorated with memories of a life well lived. Pictures lit the room with precious moments of the Chomba's in their wedding bands in 1957. Photos in black and white of their children taken in professional studios told of a family that stayed together and valued the times they spent in each others company.
Frames of certificates upon appointments to head various posts in the church occupied the spaces between the stone carved tablets our parents had the habit of buying and displaying to visitors. Notably were the all famous 'Christ is the head of this house, the silent listener to every conversation.' Money and wealth come from parents, but a prudent wife is from the lord.' And my all time favorite from the book of Jeremiah ,' I know the plans I have for you, those of prosperity and not evil, says the lord.
One thing that carried the day for me was meal time. The old mzee led devotion and thanksgiving in the similar fashion that my late dad did. The whole family had to eat at the table and together. T.v.was off and we did the old fashioned dinner table conversations that were full if wisdom and intrigue. My dad taught me a particular method of eating ugali that seemed to have fascinated the young children present. Ugali should be rolled and a depression made to accommodate both soup and the portions of beef in one fell swoop. The downside was that the flour was ground out of millet and anyone who has eaten such ugali knows that it gives you heartburn that leaves you praying for death.
 Naro Moru nights are devilishly cold attributed to the place being located at the rainshadow side of Mt Kenya which I can confirm to you is a thing of beauty when the morning fog clears and the rays of the sun catches the ice caps at the peak. Too bad my tablet was out of power, I could have taken pictures.

This is one of the places I would want to retire in. I wish Shosh gets better soonest possible
I love this place.