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In her other conscience, her relationships had been like miscarriages. . . she put her body, soul and mind into them, but they failed her and died. . .the last one had not surprised her when it came, she only cried once, . . .then suffered her pain silently. . . when they led her to the arid plateau, that open, dry desert, she had not cried like the others did. . . she had welcomed it, the desert expected nothing from her, and took nothing from her that she had not already lost. She silently moved about, and created a life for herself within that everlasting drought. . . made some little light for herself. . .she created her own personal oasis. She shares her light. . .but never much or little. . . she does not begrudge, but she does not also freely give. . . this is her balance

There is a secret meanness in her nature, deep down she is not kind, the need to maintain balance around her can at times hide situations that call for kindness and empathy from her. . . it gets a bit dangerous when she believes that she is righteous. . . it makes her companions thankful that she is of little consequence in their community. It gets dangerous . . .that attitude.

Her face looked calm, the depth of the pool of her eyes gentle, she can come of as placid to some, somber to some, a snob to most, yet the keenest of eyes, can see that her under eye sinks deeper everyday. The smiles are shy, never eager, never bright, but always present. . .a sheen of optimism glowers under her skin. . .embers of a dying sun, glimmering but never dazzling.

Today is bright, the sun is at its zenith, she is afraid of dusk, the depth of that fiery purple is intense, it pulls her soul to it, that age old powerful pull towards beauty, yet. . . she knows not to give in to the pull, for that bold fiery light will disappear suddenly, and darkness will set in, with despair in its wake. She is never sure she has the strength to survive till daybreak, so she lingers in the periphery of dusk, close enough to see it, close enough to greedily take it in with her eyes, but still on the edge, . . . never fully embracing the beauty, in a kind of purgatory. . . neither in the brilliance of heaven nor the deep, dark, despair of hell.

There she stays, within the bounds of deluded security, not quite living, watching. . . those who burn in loss and those who live, luminescent and alive, she never attempts to engage that bottomless pit of emotion, that is her soul.

Dawn is here, . . .another morning. . .”that wasn’t so long, maybe I can stay alive till dawn. . .” The bright morning shines a light on the carnage. Before her are the anguished, lifeless faces of the dead, they died heartbroken, forsaken in the darkness. . .left by Dusk. . .dusk of the purple lustre.

Yet there are those that survived, after their agonized screams through the night. She sees the angels, those that dusk will wed. They who stood resilient and have been embraced by dusk. How radiant, luminescent, incandescent bodies of power, elegance and grace. Their joy blazes into purgatory, my current home. They represent the hope that pushes me to the edge of purgatory every evening, to witness the allure of dusk, that seductive reddish purple, begin its magic.

Today I take a step closer, drawn in like a moth to a flame, I take another step, then another. . . this triggers alarm in my fellow purgatory dwellers, we are among the few that have eluded that maddening snare of dusk,

. . .then another. . .they start to scream, shouting out my name, calling on me to stop, I’m walking too close they say, I will die they say, . . . yet another step, their screams are shrilly now, embodying the extreme, maybe irrational panic and fear, . . .that I should also be feeling . . .yet. . .is this what sailors felt in the presence of the sirens call, . . .the allure, the beauty, the joy, every nerve ending in my body is tingling, the intensity washes over me, stringing me up so high I am sure I’m drooling from the sides of my mouth, the potency of feeling is like I have never experienced, I am living and dying at the same time. . .

What have I done. . .,

‘Dusk never lasts long’. . . this thought echo’s the beginning of true darkness. The icy fingers of darkness are a death grip on my shoulder, the despair sets in slowly, it increases in potency. The loss and the cold . . .not the pain drop me to my knees. . . I thought it would be the pain. The courtyard which once entertained the splendor of dusk is now empty. . . there are cries of agony, I am silent, trapped,. . .I’m folded into a fetal position, I hum silently, as pain vibrates through my body. . .I resist the urge to close my eyes, as I pray and wait on dawn.

I went back to that place of ruin,
I once more held out my hands. . . knowing they would be burnt. . . wanting to be burnt . . . so that at least the longing and pain would become dust at that pyre. That as the embers died out, I would finally be cleansed. . .

I stand and start to walk away from the carnage,
I walk back towards the light of hope; I cannot withstand the darkness alone. . . I reach the court yard and sit at the top of the ivory gold step. . . He sits above me, places His hand on my shoulder. . . we sit in silence for a minute. . . I open up my hands. . .and begin to weep brokenly. . . my hands are bleeding . . . as they enclosed the splinters of broken glass. . . little piercing representatives of my rejected spirit, once again I opened my hands. . . but the other`s hands remained closed. . . He removes the glass pieces, every single piece, He takes my hand and leads me further into the light. . .

• 

Even as we silently walk, He gives me hope,. . . hope in His light, that He created more than enough, that I should not let my mind limit His capacity, the earth is immense. . .its people many, he reminds me that in loss, doors are opened to many other potential gains, He reminds me to stay strong, and Walk on. . . believing the best, trusting that after every rain shower he paints the sky with the brilliance of a young star, and the radiant colors of hope.

I start to hear squeals of laughter, dripping with the gift of the sun, the joy intertwines itself with the muscle of my heart, it is twin sparks of light, shinning white hot, they wrap around my heart at the speed of light, then from the inside the light moves out, elevating me from the ground, I start to laugh, . . . the laugh bursting out from my heart, originating from His. . . He looks at me smiling. . . then joins in my laughter. . . His is strong, empowering. . . everlasting. . . a burst of love and strength. . .

I raise my hands and start to twirl in the sky. . .He never lets my hand go. . .

we land, He kisses my cheek. . .touches His forehead to mine, I smile my gratitude, He firmly reminds me, He walks with me.

We walk further into the light. . .

What do we really truly know. . . is it not a mere drop in a vast ocean, not even at our peak of understanding can we really grasp all things. . .even the things already uncovered and known. . . yet there is still so much more to discover. . .the exciting intricacies of our minds . . . how they influence our lives, behavior, character, how they limit our ability to be our best. . . the quality of our lives. . .

We are more, much more than what people like us tell us. . .we are each uniquely created to serve a niche, and in serving this niche, we serve others and enrichen the quality of our own lives too.

Kisses!

Hope.

There is so much life around us, so much to learn! so much responsibility, and with our environment especially the value that you add to it, it gives back to you, simple example, at home, your house, and the surrounding vicinity, keeping that clean, clears up your own mind, and a clearer mind makes better decisions. That is a Super simple way that a well organized environment is giving back to you after putting in some little effort. As Africans it`s so sad the funny relationship we have with our environment, a relationship steeped with issues, insecurity and a poor attitude overall. We have, some of us, believed the lie that a clean environment is affluence, so we settle, keep our houses clean then leave the outside to other people, the county workers, the help at home. . . I made a commitment to myself to never litter regardless of the area I was passing through, even when everyone else is littering at the side of the road, I carry my litter in my bag and dispose it at a rubbish bin. That’s a fairly easy commitment, it asks no extra effort from you, just simple discipline. If even half the country made this simple decision, and committed mentally to it, the change would be tremendous and sustainable. We hear environmental sustainability and some of us think. . . eeh not my problem, or I have no idea where to start, honestly its just an attitude change, fixing our approach towards litter, we can start small, then progress to say, clean energy? We will never understand why we do not need Nuclear Energy, if we can`t relate to the basics, e.g cleaning up after ourselves, living litter free! Back to nuclear energy though, real talk, considering we are the last frontier of natural resource! and that we do not have seasons of changing weather, our sun is as regular as a period! *well some cycles anyway*

Why don’t we exploit these natural resources A lot more!? Yes it`s expensive,. . . a good investment is never cheap, it batters you financially and psychologically, but the benefits, oh those benefits. Yet. . . lets go the tried and tested way right? *sarcasm*, let us try nuclear energy. . .the one form of energy that is risk free! and that no other country that has, is desperately trying to get rid off!! Not to call us idiots, but the main reason we are ‘third world’ isn`t so that we compete like a ‘1st world’ but that we mine lessons from the failures of the 1st world and CHART OUR OWN PATH. *pardon the aggressive tone if you can please* that’s why potentially being a last born is so great, *chuckles* you get to watch all who came before you, learn, then boldly chart your own path. Being the last is an opportunity to finally became the best. . . again. . . potentially, depending on the attitude we are willing to adopt.
Anyway back to litter and the environmental issues ‘closer to home’, making a choice to treat your environment better is more of an intrinsic change first. A change that might need the following, 1. some level of humility and 2. lots of self love. I believe individuals that litter fall on these two categories whether informed or not. 1. those that are arrogant and approach the environment with a cavalier attitude, expecting it to bend to their needs, I remember one time walking around Mombasa town, seeing this young man, step out of his car carrying a Java coffee house, RECYCLEABLE! coffee cup, then throwing it into the drainage at the side of the road, A drainage that was already blocked, honestly! between Java Nyali and smack inside Mvita no litterbin was available? and shame on you! honestly when you have the resources to act better and choose not to. . . my self-righteous self wanted to scream at him! haha yes I say self-righteous because I have also committed my sins against the environment, and remembering keeps me humble.

2. Severe! lack of self love, yes, loving yourself triggers the need to preserve people and the Environment around you, self love equals higher levels of empathy, higher empathy levels equals sensitivity and awareness and ultimately a higher form of enlightenment. . . I won’t touch on being uninformed and illiteracy. . . those are excuses we use so that we can blame other people overtly! for our own covert, secret misdemeanors. Pointing fingers would be the easier way out *said she whilst pointing a finger herself, the irony isn’t lost on me. . . though. . .I promise it is a little finger*. . . The truth is that we have a skewed attitude that is focused on short term goals such as Monetary Wealth. . yes I said it, and runs away from that long term commitment to actually change our country, . . . that is why you will drive past that rubbish heap smack in the middle of town haraka sana, can’t get to the leafy surburbs fast enough, (remember when we called them that,) and you have capacity to make change and/or push and lobby for it. It is so paradoxical really, and hilarious in a sad, scary way, actually, how we drive on the same terrible roads, complain about them and do nothing, the same rubbish! and do nothing! the same bad drainage and do nothing! if you have influence as an African Man or Woman of enlightenment use it! don’t be too busy trying to protect your relationships, trying stay in the club, honestly chances are, if you are all honest with each other, you all suffer the same fears and doubts, just be the leader we need and leave a better world for the people coming after you, otherwise you can be sure somewhere down the line, a descendant of yours will suffer that fate you drive away from at top speed!! be better, then be happier, then more productive, then add value, and the circle of holistic growth comes full circle!
The ramblings of the young. . . ish? romantic, idealist come to an end. May the pragmatic feel influenced and endeavor to give ideas practicality. Otherwise if you can do something to make our little world better . . . just do it!

I was inspired by this video, I thought to accompany it with the piece above.

Before I sign out, I feel it important to point out that our classification as a third world isn’t the most equitable. Let us not forget that those that are classified as first world, have had years and years dedicated to growth, change and development. (I leave out conveniently slavery, colonialization, the exploitation of natural resources in colonies, the resulting brain drain and scamper to get ahead triggered in Africans, negative/toxic competition. . . its a layered subject truly. . .these complexities though are enough proof that we very well have a fighting chance, all we need is the fresh wind of change-in form of radical change in attitude)

in summary the developed world has tried different ways to get better, made errors and improved on them, developed basically over time, their success has come from finding solutions for problems unique to them . . . (we can learn from that and find originality in our approach, let go of the tried and tested and find our path?) anyway we are TODDLERS in comparison, so no need to adopt and accept ‘third world’ as an identity. It is merely a season and a time, there is ample capacity to be better as a country, as a continent, all the challenges we face are surmountable. If Asia is doing it, we can and we will also do it, and maybe just maybe, do it better.

Thank you,

Hope.

. . . I want to kiss you, but I find emptiness. . .,

I hold your face in my hands, look into your eyes, trying to find her, instead I see emptiness. . .

Where is she my love, . . . Where have you hidden my woman of valor, my woman of remorse, my woman of feeling,

Where have you hidden my hardworking woman, my woman of passion, my woman of strength, . . . Or was she never there?

I miss my woman. . .

I doubt my woman. . .

All is empty,

Your words are empty, your laugh full of malice, your eyes full of craft.

I can no longer see my woman. . . When I look at you, I start to doubt if there was really ‘my woman’ . . .or was I reflecting my own ideals into empty eyes.

Yet my heart still bleeds for the woman I believed there was. . . As I look at you through my rose colored glasses. . .

It is morning again, the light hurts my eyes as I try to open them, is she still asleep? . . . no . . . I can hear her whistling. . . then humming,

I feel peace flood my heart, a euphoric dam bursting with joy . . . that fine clear, happy tune, welcomes a great, intimate Sunday morning. She enjoys making breakfast on relaxed, quiet mornings, she says its therapeutic.

The scents from the spices, the crackling of the onions in the frying pan, the heady, sweet slightly pungent scent of fried garlic, the fresh, sharp scent of the herbs and zest of the fresh lemon and orange shavings. . . breakfast smells soo good. . . I can smell the sharp, inviting scent of spiced tea, the ndumas’ boiling, are those fried eggs I smell? . . . no, that’s the French toast she loves to make, I smile, she went all out. What day is this anyway? Haha. . . I laugh at myself. . . the week has been rough, exhausting, I welcome a weekend of hearty breakfast and some sleep. . . why won’t she stop the whistling? . . . probably my cue to go join her.
I throw off the sheet and sit on bed, whoa! I’m overwhelmed by extreme dizziness, why I’m I feeling so tired? . . . my stomach hurts so much I’m nauseous . . . My head starts to swim. . . ‘Andrew, Andrew. . .’ I can hear her soft voice calling, it’s starting to fade. . . the last rain cloud after a rare outpouring of rain in a dessert,. . . her voice starts to sound rough, angry . . . distorted. . . why can’t I see her? I try and grab on to my bed-post, my hands catch nothing but the bare air, my arms start to flail uncontrollably around me, I’m trying to latch on to something for support . . . What’s happening to me! It gets darker around the frame of my vision, blurred shapes are moving around me, the harsh sounds of frustration and panic grow louder. . . that’s not her voice though, its someone else’s, there’s some commotion. . . the darkness takes over completely and that extreme panic at lose of control is replaced by a sudden burst of euphoric peace again, . . . I smile. . .

My eyes are struggling to open. . . they are glued shut. . . I make another valiant effort. . . it’s a battle between my will and my eyes now, I will them to open, . . . the effort is exhausting, I’ve run 7KMs trying to get them to open, where I’m I? I hear voices, one similar to the gruff one from earlier and another softer one. . . my sister? What is she doing here? I haven’t seen her in years, this is great! Asali will be so happy. . .where is Asali? And why can’t I clearly hear my sister? I call out to her, but no sound is forthcoming. Why do both the voices sound so somber?
‘How long has he been like this. . . ?’ the gruff voice asks,
‘He’s been in and out since the Service.’ The soft one answers.

The gruff voice continues. . . ‘He was severely dehydrated. . . that should explain the hallucinations. . .’
The soft voice continues, ‘he’s been smiling a lot, telling me I’m burning the onions. . . ?’
‘yes yes!’ the gruff voice harshly continues, ‘sensory hallucinations’ ‘the drip should fix that, he’s body needs hydration and nutrients,. . . are you still giving him the Tricyclic injections?`
`every now and then when he asks for them`
Releasing his breath suddenly

‘you should follow the prescription!!’. . . ‘and he should be getting better. . . ‘he finishes off more softly. . . ‘he should be getting better. . .’

The voices start to fade and an awful horrifying memory bursts through my consciousness,

the young student interrupting my lecture with a note, . . . then I start to view the memory from an aerial angle, I see myself walk into the staff wing. . . the Dean meeting me at the foot of the flight of stairs, leading to her mezzanine office, how she held out her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, the words, the ensuing commotion, running into the hospital. . . the shock after hearing the doctor’s words. . . the quiet from disbelief and denial. . . lastly the discombobulating, out of body conversations with everyone after,

‘It was so sudden Andrew, we were laughing, she turned to cross the road. . .’

‘That driver . . . he lost control. . .’ words, words, many words. . . And tears, I tasted salt in every hug, . . . I didn’t want people to leave. . . I didn’t want them to stay either.

I had to give her a fitting send off, this sense of purpose came with euphoria and adrenaline that lasted the week, after her burial . . . all strength abandoned me. . .

Here I am, with a body wanting to sweat off its memories, fighting to go on. . .

I can’t see her but I hear her, I feel her presence. . . It’s my only source of warmth.

No poem this week, but a bunch of lessons,

1. The sun will always rise. . . When you are caught up in situations of instability, and you can’t seem to latch on, focus on the one sure thing. . . So long as you are still alive, . . . the sun will rise.

2. Find the stillness within yourself,

when the noise outside is too loud. . . listen selectively. . . even to the voice in your own head, that voice can also lie to us, it is not always factual, sometimes it listens to our distorted emotions. Filter all the noise, because as we grow older, voices that attempt to influence us grow as well, it will get noisy, we need to be selective, to focus on the voice that encourages us to be better, to add value,. . . then let the rest go.

3. Learn not to rely too much on peoples’ sense of justice and/or goodness, rather try and instead focus on what we can do at any one time. Focus on doing better, then it won’t matter how loud our surroundings are.

Remember that you cannot entirely fault people and fault yourself, most humans can only relate to other humans to the extent of their own experiences. The views of most will likely be one spectrum, extending to ourselves and the range of our experiences.

4. Find your Centre, that one place where you can be yourself, that shield when things are confusing or difficult. . . because they will get difficult at some point.
-My Centre has always been my faith, my belief in God, and the relationship we are both working on. This Centre is my shield, my help, my love. . . I trust my Centre when I can trust nothing else, even when I betray myself and do things that hurt other people, when I need forgiveness and the strength to bounce back.
It is this Centre I hold on to.

4. I guess lastly would be forgiveness, it’s a bit paradoxical this one (shaking my head) but forgiveness is the fruit of life (hands raised emoji).

Forgiveness is protection from a negative or/and toxic environment. It’s not really about letting someone get away with it, in so much as it is about not letting people pull you into their own darkness. Forgiveness clears your own mind, allowing you to objectively analyze a situation, place responsibility on the right parties, account for your own conduct and swiftly move on, be it towards self improvement or away from toxicity.

Hope Nyambura.

I envy your strong strides,

How good you look in jeans. . . You carry them, they don’t carry you. I envy how sure your laugh is, how you clearly state what you want,

I miss watching you stride beside me, your steps strong and sure,

How your strength made me feel stronger.

I envy your Independence,

How you never stop trying,

I envy how you make everyone around you happier, how the lights look brighter when you walk into a room,

I envy the memory, of the strength I felt when you held my hand, how confident I felt knowing I was part of a team.

I envy the memory of our talks, how you managed to untangle the cobwebs of unresolved thought, how you helped the unscripted, raw thoughts morph into butterfly ideas, how my worries felt alittle less dounting.

I envy how you are not afraid of sorrow, how you stand firm and offer comfort, but know when to leave and recharge.

I envy the memory of your belief in my ability, how you refused to tolerate mediocrity, because you knew I could do better. . . I envy the memory of knowing that I was loved, even without it being said.

Above all I envy how you are not pretentious, how you say what you mean and mean what you say.

I envy the decisive.

I met Ms. Maya’s work in my early twenties, when I was still full of idealism and brush about aged words, not that I was in anyway anti-learning, just anti listening.

Aged words like aged wine require an appreciation, you need to give your palate time to appreciate the flavor of aged wine, the aroma, the richness, then finally . . . an acceptance and understanding of the taste, finally you can clearly articulate to another what the wine tastes like, how it makes you feel.

When you give in to the kaleidoscope, the riot of flavors, the rich bouquet of aroma and essence then you are better placed to explain and appreciate what you are tasting. Words, aged words, like wine, need time, they can only be fully appreciated over a stretch of seasons.

Back to my story, I came across her work, and at the time I read it in a rush, trying to catch the flow of her prose as opposed to taking in anything she wrote. I did not want to absorb her meaning, her intent, or maybe my mind was not enlightened enough, my experience mature enough, for me to sit, read and digest her words, in turn developing an appreciation of the words that she wrote. An understanding that they are not to be be used loosely . . .without care, but that her words are a precious trove, a gem of learning, a reminder that nothing is really new, and as such nothing cannot be overcome.

I read one of her poems again recently and found it so relatable, the ability to relate was partly because of the development of my exposure and experience, since I last read it, I’ve hurt a little, fought and won some battles and understood a little better the strength in silence and the victory in humility.

So I begin with an appreciation of one of the greats, a bowing to the lessons of age, experience and time. An appreciation of tragedy, hope, wins and loses. An understanding that in every single experience a lesson can be drawn and an opportunity provided to learn and to grow.

thank you.

Hope.