Mufasa and I

On the day I was leaving my former high school after sitting my KCSE exams, I took a pup with me. The decision to separate this pup from its mother's warm breast trickled downward like a tributary does along its path. It was common sense. The Traditional Village Dog (TVD) after all did not have much to offer this pup. It did not have an owner; how would the pups survive the pavvo virus? Who would ensure they are safe, warm and fed? I was making a wise decision which would pay off in the pup surviving besides, the mother would have less pups to 'worry' about. I committed myself to the pup from day one. It was my baby. During that time, an awesome movie was featured and one of its characters depicted the nature I desired for my pup, Mufasa became its name.

A year later Mufasa had had all her shots and did amazing dog tricks. She was obedient but fierce, playful yet loyal, powerful but amazingly gentle. I was so proud to have watched Mufasa grow from vulnerability like you read about to an independent dog. A time came and I had to move away from home and stay in school on a permanent basis, "becoming an undergraduate resident shall help you do better in school, summa cum laude, ehh!" On that night, it is reported to me that Mufasa howled for most of the night. If those were the days of mobile phones, I would have had my family put the phone next to her ear, that would have brought comfort her. If only!

At the beginning, this separation weighed heavily on me and thus it was effortless for me to leave school for home every Thursday, spend time with Mufasa then on Monday morning I would take the 0630hrs bus to school. In time, I opened myself up to the activities that took place from Thursday evening culminating in Soul at the Simba Salon on Sunday. The days I had previously dedicated to Mufasa narrowed. I was not too negligent though, I made sure that the she was taken care of. With time it became obvious that my vision for Mufasa was just that, mine. I came home one day after a long spell in campus, 'summa cum laude, remember! Lo and behold Mufasa was in the family way. I could not find anyone to explain to me how this 'exposure' had occurred. Now that I think about it, how was finding which mongrel's seed was responsible help my cause? It is not like I would have it or the owner pay for ‘pup support’!

I took it all in stride, after all, I would be fully involved once the pups were born. On that day, I vividly remember, it was raining. Mufasa had been jittery all evening, howling and pacing all over. Something told me that it was time; I prepared a warm and dry place for her at the deepest point of her kennel. It was in the dead on night when she gave birth to the pups, they were six in total and soooo beautiful. They ranged from black, brown, white and a mixture of all in others. They started to suckle immediately they birthed, they crept steadily over her belly till they reached her breasts and begun to suckle noisily. I looked over to Mufasa and she appeared to doze off. I decided it was time I called it a night too. The following morning, I woke up with a lot of enthusiasm to see how my expanded family was doing. Whistling towards the kennel, I had with me a sufuria containing warm milk and on the other hand some water. As I turned the corner to face the kennel, I caught sight of what looked like a furry creature. I smiled to myself and thought it was wonderful that the pups had begun to explore barely 12 hours after their birth.

I cannot quite put into words exactly how I felt let alone account for what was going through my mind when I absorbed the mutilated image of the pup lying on the ground. Shock, confusion, pain, tears, fear all seemed to be squeezed by time in one small space that did not allow me time to know what to do or what to think. After what seemed like forever yet split second, I gained my composure. What was the meaning of this? Had someone come to check on the new family then when they were leaving the pup followed and was accidentally caught and squeezed in between. How could the person not see after all, to lock the door, one must face it and one cannot fail to see the pup because they are facing the door. That could not have been it. It made no sense. Okay, maybe whoever came to check on them closed the door using the leg and was facing away from the kennel so there was no way they could have seen the pup. Yes, yes, yes, this was beginning to make sense. But why leave the pup like this? Why not come and alert me maybe there is some swift action I could have taken to save the life of this poor creature. Maybe, whoever it was felt guilty and they feared my wrath because my attachment to Mufasa and by extension, her young ones. Yes, that made sense. But I would turn that whole household upside down to get the confession of whoever was responsible. But wait! Were the others okay, Mufasa and her pups? I peered closer cringing as I lifted my leg over the mutilated body of the dead pup so I could bend and access the kennel.

The image that met with my eyes was an assault. I wanted to retch. I wanted to let out a loud shriek. I was deeply horrified. Right there, laid out across the floor of kennel were bits and pieces of the pups. I muffled a cry as I tried to make sense of what I was looking at. The air was filled with the smell of raw blood. It was a slaughter! Who had done this? What was the motive of such a heinous act? What would one benefit from doing this? No no no!!! Whoever committed this atrocity must have scaled the wall in the wee hours of the morning after I had gone to bed. Mufasa, oh my God, how was she? I now crunched down and squeezed myself through the door of the kennel and right inside. Mufasa was lying with her face away from me. I reached out and touched her, she was warm, she was breathing. She was alive, thank God. How could she let this happen? Why did she react to this attack? How come she never howled and barked for assistance? I could not make sense of it all. Or maybe she did and she is badly wounded and that is why she was not making any movements. "Mufasa?" I called out in what sounded like a whisper. "Mufasa" I called again. She jerked and begun to turn her head and face to the sound of my voice. I needed to find that she was unharmed. As she turned, the hope of her being alright begun to dwindle as a I spotted a patch of red on her jaw. It appeared to be blood. Finally, she was fully facing me. From jaw to jaw, cheek to cheek, her nose, her mouth and dripping from her mouth was red blood.

I felt as though my heart was grinding to a halt as it became so audible in the insides of my ears. Heat was spreading throughout my body like a fierce fire and in its wake annihilating all that made sense to me. I could feel the numbness taking over my mind, wrapping around my lips, tears were welling down my cheeks and I could hear myself making sounds, sounds because I could not make sense of what I was saying.

Finally, I bolted out of the kennel, I do not know how I came to that decision, if I had stayed any longer, I fear something bad would have happened. Mufasa, my sweet Mufasa, my baby, my Mufasa that I held like a baby and fed with a bottle, my Mufasa that I shared my bed with, my Mufasa that I taught me to care, my Mufasa the times and moments cannot be put into words, my Mufasa. My Mufasa turned out to be a murderer.

When I read the story of Banda from Malawi, I am shocked back to the memory of this day. Would the outcome have been the same had I left Mufasa with the TVD of a mother? Does this incident apply to the post partum psychosis where new mothers hit their kids’ heads against the walls, or throw them down the well, or snuff the life out of them by suffocation? Many years later, I have become a mother. I do not want blood on my hands.

The ritual for closure; the drama unfolds

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The journey of understanding-Bite on Bite.

When I was a child, I would fantasise of being all grown up. Sleeping at night I would faithfully pray hoping that when I woke up the following day, I would be 17 going on 21. As I opened my eyes the following day, I would put my prayer to test by carrying out a visual sweep across the room to see whether my surroundings had changed. In my mind I knew that if I happened to wake up in a different environment than the one I previously slept in, then surely, I must be 17, going on 21. I can confirm to you that it took the usual number of mornings and nights to take me to 17, going on 21. Let me confess though that on those few occasional mornings when I woke up in a different environment you could have felt the leap of my heart ; just to realise I had spent the night at a relatives' place.


As certain as time is, I become an adult. Sometime after the grown up honeymoon was over, I begun to envy younger ages;there is so much innocence, being carefree is as natural as breathing. I bypassed the desire to revert back both chronologically and emotionally with swift and readily embraced what lay ahead of me. In my experiences, I have felt it when an innocence has left me. "But that happens to all of us." You might be thinking. "Its called growing up." You assert haughtily at me. Hear me out. I shall be talk about this a little later. Am not talking about chronological age or physical development. "I will never be the same again." Have you not heard someone say this to you in a tone that made you turn your head in their direction, look into his or her eyes and see the conviction? You have heard it when people whisper to one another in low tones, "Anyone would be changed by this." In my observation, it is those 'growing pains' that we perceive punitive that we pay more emphasis on. And it makes absolute sense because they leave the most impression in our lives. I can count the fingers on my one hand of individuals I know who have vocalised capitalising on a pleasant experience. We are simply not as overt about the bad as we are about the good. It is not that we love to complain.I think, it is a way of venting and inviting responses that we hope shall calm our hearts and minds, especially should the responses convince us that what we are going through is a common phenomena.



Coming back to growing up, it is the most painful that is most life altering. I read somewhere that if it does not hurt, it does not instruct. Listen, am all for making leaps and bounds of life. What I am challenging however is the notion that it has to hurt? It may or may not be the same theme each time. What am saying is that does not have to hurt.I am at this phase where am thinking, ENOUGH!Am tired of hurting!I am going to change my perspective on how I perceive on the inside looking out.Am going to start by listening to my instincts. I dare say that I shall beat the juju of repeated cycles. These other outward signs merely appeal to my ID and ego. Like a moth to a flame, I am more than once drawn this way and that way. Consequently, I lose that which I had initially intended to address. Once this understanding sinks in, instantly, I notice a calm dawn in my being. The mumble jumble that comes in juggling the aspects of life with visual perception is suddenly a far distance. It is so far and in between that the sound of dead ground can be heard. Then just like that I realise my true age. No more no less, and that each age of my life has a lesson and knowing too much too soon shall make me old. I may be tempted to discard the fiery light that illuminates my path, thinking its more than I can take. Just a little longer, that is how long I need to hold on. Just a little longer and then I begin all over again.

What I want you about your father's absence

My dear daughter.As I write this, my heart is bleeding blood and tears. Yet I have a calm inside of me because I now know what I must do.Am writing you this letter because I need you to know that you are loved. I know that you are too young to understand what I want you to know today but a day is coming when you will ask these questions; out loud and in your heart.
Let me begin by saying you were conceived in love. Your father and I talked about having you and we would often joke that you will look like your father.Talking about you even before conception brought great joy to us. You must own this fact as you should in all I am going to say to you.I never want you to ever let the thought of being a problem child, either to me or your father, to cross you mind, wound your soul and rob you of innocence.You are very separate from me and him.You have your life to live.We have lived ours by the choices we made.
Your father is not with you not because he did not want you but because he is a broken man. That does not mean that if I found this out earlier, I would have not have had you.No! I came to realise the nature of your father when you were in gestation.I thought I could weather it, if only for your sake.But it became clear that especially for your sake, I had to be as far away from him as possible. It was especially necessary given how your older half brothers had turned out.You will have a fleeting thought that he was the way he was to me and by extension, you because I brought that out in him. You would be right because I thought the same too. My child, let it be just that, a thought that will go up like mist during sunrise. It took me precious time to unveil this skewed thought. I need not wonder how my life would have turned out, or the kind of woman you would have grown up to be, I just know it would have been unfortunate. There were many incidents but I shall tell you some of them, if only to help you understand. It was the time I had a car accident and he accused me of being careless and never bothered to followup on your status.It is when I was unwell in the house and needed medical attention. I called him, he never responded. I justified this treatment with the fact that he did not fully appreciate pregnancy, he's a guy, right?It was on the day of your birth when he said he would be back in 15 min, he never returned.It was the following morning when I called him with information that I had to go for a cesarean section, he said he was on his way, he never came.It was during that time that he saw you for two minutes, three days after your birth and scolded me for not taking care of you since like any newborn child you were crying.It was when it was time for me to go home and I took you with me to my house.
I thought that was not too bad. Now that you were here, flesh and blood, surely he would actively take part in your growth.That too was killed. He failed to remit your child support money. It was after I begged that he would deposit this money in my account.It would be in bits and pieces.It would be at the middle of the month.Sometimes, there would be nothing.
Still I kept the faith.Still I hoped he would come round. In my anguish I felt compelled and drooped you off in the middle of the night at his house.He brought you a few hours later and I refused to take you back.I thought, "you do it, I want my life back!" The following day, he brought you back and I have never been happier to see you. You are my life.
He was to one day accuse me of fathering you with a man who was a mutual friend that we both loved and respected. He would go further and ask for a DNA test. That, I thought was the last straw. I had seen nothing yet. I came to learn that your father married two weeks ago. As I write this to you, I do not know the future. I am certain however that it is one without him.

The ritual for closure

It is motivating to have a reason to do something that you have been putting off for sometime. My reason today is that it is the season of lent. What would I not do for my God? Its more than not eating meat. It is greater than giving up on beer and cigarettes. It is more demanding than abstaining from sex. Going by the tenets of lent, I have to zero in on this aspect of my life that makes me feel like a mad woman, that is to say, doing the same things over and over in the same way and reaping similar dysfunctional results. Thus making me fall short of being a 'good' christian.

It begun about 3years ago. I met him by virtue of the nature of my job and his. I emphasis this because, given what I know now, I would never ever have met him otherwise. It therefore makes sense to me that I had to meet him. My meeting him was all part of the grand design.

I thought he was cute, he made conversation easily and appeared to be a good listener, very charming, he wore a very savvy and manly scented cologne; the kind that when given a peck you would after some time still catch the scent off your cheek if, the wind blew in the right direction. He was always neatly dressed in a suit and tie and very clean. We would meet 'accidentally' and have a drink, share a story or two, make fun and that is it. It was the holiday season, you know the time when family get together. They share nyama choma, going shags or Olepolos, attending mass, decorating the Christmas tree, sharing an overcrowded bed, catching up on who did what, when and with who. As a young single person,you know you cannot spend all the season indulging in these activities. You want to take some time out with your boo and go to Mombasa or The Mara, anywhere really, as long you can get away from it all. It is quite lonely therefore to be on your own during this season. And that is how I was during that season. What compounds the issue further is that a few months ago I had just broken off a long term relationship. It was therefore the first time I was being alone after a very long while. No family. No lovers. Just me.

I decided to take a drive from my house.This ride led me to the club. The parking lot was deserted. At the entrance, the Club Christmas tree stood out with its many lights and multicolored hangons, the star of David proudly illuminated on the peak of the tree as if to say, "I know the way." The usual suspects were not in the lounge area. The Christmas season calls for no compromise. During those visits to shags all must be seen to be a complete and fully functional family. The people I caught sight of were mostly waiters. I picked a table that was overlooking the lawns and as I was ordering my drink, I saw him. We exchanged the usual salutations and yes, I got the nostalgic peck on the cheek then he excused himself. I was enjoying the view and my drink;rum and coke when my phone alerted me that I had message. I took it out, slide it open and observed that he had sent IT. Christmas wishes, I guessed, I clicked on 'read'. "Do you know that I love you?" It announced. I was pleasantly surprised. I did not quite know what to make of it so I continued sipping my drink. In that disposition, suddenly I stopped feeling the breeze on my face, my vision narrowed to the distance of my phone as I read it over and over, my brows were knitted as my awareness slowly but surely begun to turn inward."What the heck!Live a little." The voice in my head said. I agreed. "Do you know that I love you too?" I wrote back. And that is where it all begun. It is on this day, at that moment, as a consequence of my reply that triggered what has come to be the nightmare that is my life.

Valentine Postmortem thoughts phase two.

I still feel lucky. Valentine's day like any other day is what you make of it. You must be thinking that just because the object of your affection is not near presently or you are single,then Valentine's day is not in the cards for you. Courtesy of your indoctrination, you spend the day by staying indoors, not idle,oh no! You go complete the circle by wallowing the misery of your predicament. It makes sense to do this right?After all, how can you bear witness to lovers straddling hand in hand in intimate union, bouquet of flowers displayed in every free space;the whiff of the roses assaulting your nostrils reminding you once again that you are missing out on something. The most painful aspect of being alone on this day is the sense of 'something' that hangs pregnant in the air. Having understood this once then again in the following year, we lay the groundwork to ensure we have a 'handbag', if only to meet the requirements of that day. If we fail, we still fully fulfill the what is expected of us on Valentines day by becoming 'chips funga'. In time though, after this redundancy, it is time to be still.
Next year Valentines day is on a Sunday. Realise it is a day not only for couples but also for the single, for the separated, for the divorced, for the widowed and for the dumped. The only prerequisite is that you love yourself and have the ability to share in the other peoples' love. So. Write a new script!

Valentine postmortem thoughts Phase One

I do not recall what I did for Valentine’s day the year before last. I was in a relationship at the time. This insight was an aha moment. Almost a week after Valentines day which fell squarely on a weekend (pressure!!!) and I feel like lucky. What is it about? To the men, is it the verbal confessions of love and pledging your loyalty in the form of delivery in flowers and chocolates? Ultimately the unveiling of good loving as a reward in the darkness of night! To the women, this day is planned for. The clothes, the makeup, the knickers, the scent and the scene. There is a lot of pressure to be the best that you can be on this day. Is it for ourselves? Is it so it can obvious to all and sundry that indeed, we are loved!
I was witness to a woman beaten on this day. She was chased out of her home barely dressed. Did I mention she was married? I know of a woman who spent that day wallowing in emotional self flagellation. It was in between wiping her tear stained face and sniffling that the agony of her spinsterhood was verbalized.
What is it about? What really are the cracks about it? I braced myself for this day the moment January birthed February. Self-preservation? Yes indeed. Flowers? What if I buy myself a bouquet of flowers every fortnight made up of white lilies mixed with red and white roses, fillers and ferns? It’s the chocolate you say. I never want for it because there is always some in my refrigerator. That is not enough, I know. We want these things to be handed to us by the apple of our eye, with affection, might I add. On the same breathe men to want to deliver these niceties to a warm blooded animal which bears the capacity to appreciate such a gesture.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is where the rubber meets the road.