Into the light

Today I choose you. . . today I choose the light. . . the cave that has been my living space is now a constriction. . .I want to leave it, to be re-born, to find life. My skin itches as the flood of light focuses on my tender skin. . . Skin that has abided in darkness too long, lurking within the stagnant shadows of ignorance, pride, negative pacifism . . . and fear. . . I want to roar. . . to choose violence.

The brightness of the sun burns, I feel like a Phoenix ready to burn to ashes . . . so that I can be reborn a new creature, firmer, newer. . . Stronger.

My skin looks wrinkly, an unhealthy cloud of ashy white clings on my melanated skin. I look like the dead. . . Initially, its uncomfortable,. . . the change,. . .however, as I continue to absorb light’s strength, my skin slowly begins to sing . . . As it absorbs the power of light. . . The transformation is eclectic, multi colored beams of light erupt from my skin, . . . Light has created a luminous, multi hued layer over my skin, I rise, reborn. . . finally strong, healed and renewed.

I became an incandescent creature. My hair glimmers. . .shiny, curly, healthy and the darkest shade of black. My eyes glitter, like two dazzling silver gem stones. . . they are pools of intense light grey, luminous. . .and. . . hungry?. . . My skin is a glowing chocolate brown, glowing. . .no, singing in the light. . .

Then I smile. . . and the spell is broken. . . I glimse my image reflected from the small pool of water outside the cave. My canines have grown sharper and longer, my smile is terrible. . . Predatory. . .
I quickly hide my new fangs. . .

My legs are no better. . . they shake as I stand at the threshold of light`s presence. . .unused to the glare and majesty. . .They are shaking, mimicking the tentative movement of a newly born calf`s.

I slowly move towards light. . . Facinated at the change my previously gnarled hand is going through. I turn my hand slowly around to the right, then to the left. Watching as it gets plumper.

I then lift it up to my mouth, feeling up my new canines with my fingers. . . A wonder. . . My legs feel strong, so I walk out, radiant, dangerous, hopeful. . .

Is reality a consequence and action of the supernatural? A thing we cannot touch, or influence, . . .change or configure. . .is reality this constant, unchanging rock(majaliwa) or do we influence our reality with our attitude, actions and choices. . .might reality be fluid. . .really a thing that conforms to our own nature . . .a thing driven by our own fears, optimism, action or lack there of. . . ? I believe it is a bit of both. . . That belief will always fuel hope and faith, and hope and faith will fuel passion which in turn fuels discipline and action. . . You can do it 😊 you will do it.

Heey! this is about changing our attitudes (we do this together☺️) and about finding my own way. . . finding a new way to navigate this life as myself, imperfections and all( those vampy canines on the new body),

The bad will always be with you, you choose how much leeway to allow it, adopting healthier thinking and growing out of our fears. Understanding that it is in knowing our value that we add value to others, being great full For progress and living to be of value. . .❤️

The day will come when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom~ Anais Nin

I know the truth, what I need to do. . . Deep inside me. . . I instinctively know. . . The day I will choose to ignore any other voice but that one. . . I walk out of my cave.

Thank you!




Daddy Dignity

Daddy Dignity wakes to a dark morning, dawn barely there. . .still a fragile, delicate, light, teasing the horizon. He touches his stubble that has grown a little overnight. . .he looks into the mirror, throws cold water onto his face, slaps his dark brown cheeks to wake up and wipes his face. . .He dresses in the dark, trying not to wake his child and wife.

Daddy Dignity has a regular look, one that enduringly clings to him, an outwardly stern, just neat enough, purposed look. He grabs his tools and leaves his house.

The morning is cold, but Daddy Dignity strides forward with ease, emitting an aura of confidence and a self assured spirit. Braving the cold.

He walks into the work station where he is met by his fellow workers, they automatically defer to his authority, taking instructions and leaving for their assignments of the day.

Daddy Dignity is the owner of a little electrician workshop, he also prepares himself for his assignment. . . Mrs Pundamilia. . . She’s a flirt. . . He hopes grandma Milia will be there. . . It can get difficult.
He slips into his heavy, fire resistant overalls and thick rubber soled work boots. . . then leaves.

Today same as always Mrs. Milia opens the door for him in her dressing gown. He smiles wryly at her before getting in, making sure to give her a healthy, wide berth. . . She was recently widowed. . . And still needs some convincing on Daddy Dignity’s marital status. He stalks quietly into the main room, and moves to the circuit breaker service panel and the fuse box. The quiet movement which was for the benefit of grandma Milia serves little purpose though, because Mrs. Milia soon releases a loud, raucous laughter.
‘She’s not here.’

She tells him, winking slyly, and boldly holding his gaze.
He nods and turns to his electric work. . . What is truly more fearsome than a bold woman!! Daddy dignity always feels some indignation at his own feelings towards the lady. They waver between feelings of second hand embarrasment and the temptation to indulge her. . . Just a little. . . She’s just lonely. . . after all. . . He shakes his head vigorously, putting physical effort to mentally chasing away the errant baser thoughts.

He tinkers with the old electric instalations in the house, fixing and cajoling the old still serviceable ones into smoother functionality, while the less sturdy ones he removes and makes new installations.
He carried all the spares. . . Today is the last day slotted for the maintenance check.
Papa Dignity gives it his all.

When he is done, it is almost midday. He turns into the living area to find Mrs. PM setting up a tea set . . . A heavenly waft of milk, caramelized brown sugar, warm spice and vanilla comes his way. . . The tea scones smell so good. . . his stomach growls. . .He usually gets breakfast after his early morning assignments.

She invites him to seat and have a cup of tea. He looks at her then after a moment’s of hesitation he sits. . .She talks and talks. . . And as she does, Daddy Dignity realizes he read her wrong. . . He misconstrued her loneliness and want for company as flirting. . . He relaxes into the tea and listens to her, judgement free.
Her face becomes animated during the tea and when the snacks and tea are over he excuses himself. She stands with him. . .

The look of kindness and appreciation he sends her way catches her off guard. . . Not as off guard though as her immediate reaction to this look of understanding. . .
Mrs. Milia breaks down. . . She begins to cry, she sobs as tears run down her cheeks. . . She starts to feel distressed at crying in his presence and she begins to fumble with her bag looking for a handkerchief.

Daddy Dignity awkwardly pats her hand, uncomfortable with the very emotional presentation before him, yet totally aware and feeling of the pent up grief fueling it.
She calms down eventually, tells him thank you and escorts him to the door.

As daddy Dignity leaves, he looks back at her, nods encouragingly and wordlessly tries to reassure her. He calls out that the invoice will be delivered to her the next day. . .

As she watches him lumber across her compound to the gate, she realizes his intent and rushes outside. . .calling out to him to wait. He pauses. . . Then watches her run back into her house. . . She comes out and walks towards him, then hands him an envelope with instructions to only open it when he gets back home.

She smiles quietly, waves, then quickly walks back into her house.
Daddy Dignity shoves the envelope into his pocket and walks back to the work station. There, he opens the envelope and finds wads of cash inside.

Carole Spandau, young African man, image downloaded from google.

She had realized. . . that the invoice would not be delivered. . .

Daddy Dignity tries to show support for Mrs. PM by choosing not to charge for his services. Mrs. Punda Milia on the other hand is hospitable, perceives the intended gift and regardless still pays. Showing an appreciation for work excellently done.
This common, easy, show of human kindness seems to be disappearing from the world. . . As narcissism and self obsession increasingly become a global epidemic. . . Self evaluation and empathy should find a way to break into that darkness. Kindness isn’t grandiose. . . It can be summed up by the little almost nuanced selfless decisions we make whilst going through our daily works that add much value to other people. . . We all have capacity for it, our flawed nature not withstanding. We cannot forget . . . Neither can we say it enough times.

‘. . . By the grace of God let’s see each other’s hearts. . .’ Relate, by King and Country




. . . The less I know

. . . I thought I would feel sure. . . My steps firmer. .

A pep to my walk, and a surer swing to my hips. . I thought I would be able to differentiate Tom from Dick and Harry. . .

That I would be financially secure, ridding off to a sunset of my own making . . .

Instead I fly closer to home . . . Afraid of the sun melting away my wings. . .I’m no Icarus. . . that sense of adventure is dulled by the crashing weight of reality. . .

A reality harder to escape. . . A reality forcing me to confront it . . . Come what may. . . the older I get . . . The less I feel I know. . .

Maybe growing means finally coming to terms with me. . .cornering myself and forcing me to come to terms with who I am. . . My choices, their consequences and my expectations. . . And finding my way forward. Letting go of the disney princess and finding love for Ruth. The breathing, living, woman. . .
To embrace that gritty old self discovery.
Loosing an old that was meant to be lost, for a firmer more selfless new. Shedding the old singular dream for a new shared one. . . Which might start out gritty and slippery but become firmer with time.

Understanding that sometimes my lens are narrow, I grieve and agonize over the island . . . When there is an entire mainland to explore. . .



In all things I choose hope, I choose to be bound to those chains so light, driven though slowly, yet surely out of darkness. Than to be free from those easy chains and lost in the darkness of despair’

I turned a year older earlier this week and the experience has been a see-saw of emotions I keep on oscillating between pumped up levels of confidence and colapsing into tears when I feel overwhelmed by the expectations that come with aging. . The little piece above tries to give words to my feelings. Growing older ha? No one tells us what to expect😊😊.
As always, lots of ❤️

Image downloaded from Pinterest
Image downloaded from google images
Image downloaded from google

The song of the unyielding

In the depths of the savannah, where the land is still unseen, quiet, touched, but only by human hands full of understanding and reverence. . . hands of those born under the tree, these are the children of the tree. Feed by the tree, sheltered by the tree. The place where life is at its most innocent. . . where creation and the Creator feel close, intertwined in the very air life breathes. . . almost tangible.

There, in the quiet, natural, savannah. Lives the tree, the tree that sings that old and timeless melody of life and age, a tree of color, a tree of wonder and life.

. . . the enduring tree

a picture downloaded from google

It stands Unyielding, un broken and productive. . .

It is the tree of my fathers. . . the tree that reminded them of their Maker. . . the tree that represented the unending cycle of life

I have met the Baobab tree. . . strong, lasting and un yielding. . .

Gives nutrition to the hungry. . .

A strong hold for the weak and desolate, and a paradise for those looking for shelter, a home. . .protection for all who seek its strength.

The baobab tree. . .

The baobab tree has sheltered the wounded soldier, the weaver bird builds its nest on it, the ground hornbill hides within its hollows and the medicine man finds cures from its bark.

Picture downloaded from google

Such is the tree, a shelter that endures over time. . . it has lived through much sorrows, births, ceremonies and miracles . . .

. . .One of the Baobab`s human children sits at its foot, leaning on its strong aged tree. . .finding protection from the savannah`s evening gusts of wind.

He is wizened and grey. . .the Baobab knows him. . . remembers the eighty seasons past, when he`s mother birthed him. . . under that very tree. . .

Paul Bruins photography downloaded from google

Today he is in contemplation. . .his silent look says nothing, yet his aged, expressive face says so much. With just a glance. . . Baobab`s son casts a spell of curiosity and wonder towards his observer.

What treasures lie hidden, what stories untold. . . his mouth remains closed . . .yet he has gone through the wringer of life and prevailed. . . the fear felt, the love experienced, the pain, the joy. . .the shame?

Who is he? observer wonders, and what treasures lie hidden. . .what stories locked. . . untold in his mind.

downloaded from google images

. . . what wisdom lies hidden beyond the frowns, the wrinkles. . .that silence. . .W hat love, vibrancy, victories, losses, disappointments. . . what lies beneath his hooded eyes. . .that now stare into the sunset. . .as he silently hums the ethereal, spiritual, tune absorbed from nature`s music. . .the song fills him with joy. . .his eyes light up in contentment. . .perhaps. . .observer thinks. . .the old man is reliving joyful memories.

downloaded from google images

Baobab`s son was named age. . . he sits silently under the tree today. . .but sometimes he is found fishing in the great lake . . .he can also be found in his human home. . . on a sofa, quietly reading his journals. . .radiating peace. . .as he nods off to sleep. . .betrayed by his golden spectacles, that drop down to the tip of his nose.

The stories, the regrets, the knowing, the love. . .The love. . .the sometimes eccentricity, all these cling to age. The cumulative of the life lived. . .his choices, their results and the consequences. . .honesty with this process has to be the most fundamental resource age has. . .this perhaps, is what wisdom truly is.


{Did you know? Humans utilize baobabs for many purposes, including shelter, ceremonies, food, medicine, fiber, juices and beer. Animals like baboons and warthogs eat the seed pods; weavers build their nests in the huge branches; and barn owls, mottled spinetails and ground-hornbills roost in the many hollows.}

I was born at the coastal city of Mombasa, and I remember one of my most favorite snacks were mabuyu seeds. Sweet, bright pink, vanilla flavored mabuyu seeds, these are gotten from the seeds of the baobab tree. As I grew older my tastes shifted to the sweet, acidic, mango achari. . .but nothing beats the nostalgia from the bright pink mabuyu seeds.




Her Anchor

. . .She was tired of fatalistic sort of thinking in relationships, `I love, but nothing can be done about it`

It was her belief that it was cowardly, it never failed to incense her, and she marched away from it with the confidence of a thousand suns!

image downloaded from google

Where there was love she believed there could not be fear. People first tried then failed, not failed for not trying!

This was the attitude she wore, and with this same attitude she tackled those airy `We will met again` romances. Romances that refused to get their hands dirty and simply left it all to chance. She found all that chance stuff supercilious, love was incomparable. . .required investment, and anyway what good thing of value did not.

Without determination, there could be no win.

She rather preferred fighters, those who chose to hope in darkness. . . those who chose a side. . . to either love or leave.

She disliked emotional hangers on, there was no in between for her, she either threw herself fully into love or cut off completely. Zero ambiguity.

Her self assured decisiveness come from the realization that people would never make good anchors. She could not anchor anyone successfully and as such she learnt not to attach the same pressure on anyone else.

The human persons proclivity to change is inevitable. A persons promise of love eternal was akin to leaves promising to never change color, even when predominantly green, seasons are known to turn the green into a beautiful burnished red in some areas. Just like leaves seasons turn humans too. An anchor is solid, unchanging, unyielding . . .trustworthy.

Her anchor is God.

image downloaded from google

Hey! So I was having an unrelated conversation with my mum last month, I was so upset with a really close family member I was angry! 😤 my my I spent the whole time venting to her, feeling very unforgiving. After I finally finished my story, mum asked me whether I valued that relationship. . . ‘Well obviously!!’
I replied, but she has made me really really angry and she is in the wrong! I am waiting for her apology! Mummy looked at me and asked me what she always asks without fail! As irritating as it can sometimes be- ‘ what would Jesus expect you to do in this situation?’ the answer she expected was to forgive , in this particular instance though she elaborated her intent. Forgiveness was difficult, and required a measure of self control and discernment, it was choosing to pass over the responsibility of retribution and give it to a more discerning and wiser entity, who will ensure justice is done. This action is counterintuitive as our nature seeks immediate retribution when we feel wronged, whether this is real wrong or a perceived slight. Forgiveness is however not passive, in some instances forgiveness ought to go hand in hand with emotional distance and/or some self accountability.

I was so bitter. I knew I needed external help to forgive, so I prayed, and asked God for help to forgive, I passed on to Him the burden of retribution. It was not easy, but help came, in form of peace and a flood of love. For awhile now God has been who anchors my attempts at being a better human being.




Trial mini novel.

Hi reader! 😊 I tried writting something down today but instead decided to chat alittle. . . I’ve been having an idea for a while now, to share a mini novel I’m writting on this space.

The sample will probably be ready early July God willing. I would love to share a couple of the pages with all of you! and get your feedback. I’ll also take this opportunity to interact with you amazing, like minded individuals who take the time to read this blog, thank you all so much for the support.

So anyone interested in a sample can email me on, I’ll be sure to respond.

thank you all!!

Thank you!


FAULT LINE-my raw, fat tears.

I feel my teeth chatter from the cold. . . My fingers are cold, icy. . . yet I feel numb. . . I feel nothing . . .
“I think she’s in shock. . .”
I hear my friends’ careful whispers behind me. . .
I trudge throughout the ceremony . . . the procession a blur. The service is finally over. . . I’m standing right next to the casket . . . watching it without seeing it, yet feeling a weird sort of reassurance. . . He is only a few feet away from me. . . I hear the master of ceremony call to the pall bearers. . .I hear their footsteps . . . Or see their black suits. . . I’m not sure which my mind first registers. They pick up the coffin, hoist it on their shoulders. The scream erupts from my heart and out through my mouth, as a sudden, vivid pain floods every corner of my stomach, leaking acidity and an extreme anxiety. I’m now screaming in a continuous rythm, building up to a crescendo. My friend holds on to me as we follow the procession,

‘why are they moving him. . .??’

I frantically ask her, as tears form a cascade gently down her own cheeks, . . . She is mourning my own pain along with our loss.
My screams settle into sobs which are drowned by cries from the rest of the mourners. They watch with me as the pall bearers reach that final place . . . And I watch horrified as the casket disappears into the ground. . . My head starts to feel light. . . I rest on my friend’s shoulder as the masses surge forward and push me backwards, hiding the site from me as finally they come. . .

My raw fat tears. . .like torrents of flood waters.

. . . I struggle with you. . . with your memory. . . I want to be at peace. . . To know for sure that you are well, that you are safe, that you are happy, I want to be at peace when your memories flood my mind . . . Your face still so vivid and alive. . . I want peace my love, I want reassuarance, . . . All I feel is more and more fragmented. . . More alone . . . Fighting with pain and a world that does not seem to understand my worry, my loss. . . Where are you now? Are you safe? Are you happy? Or are you afraid? Lonely. . . In fear. Every time I dream I reach out into that dark abyss of grief. . . Longing to feel your touch again. . . to hear your reassuring voice. . . I don’t find rest from my dreams especially in my moments of inactivity, when thoughts of you are at their zenith. You persist with me until I wake, tired, and the cleansing waters of

my raw, fat tears wash away all residue of the pain I felt all night. . .

I want people to look up from their living, . . . I walk the streets . . . Watching the man on his phone live. . . The children running across the road at the children’s crossing. . .People everywhere continue living. . . it’s depressing. . .I went to the travel agent’s office today, in hindsight I should have probably called . . .I cancelled our trip to Switzerland, I had to explain to that kind travel adviser that you were gone. . . She asked me how my PHD was going. . . Just made it worse. . . all her questions were unintentionally irritating, forcing me into a finality that my mind is still grappling with, the plans were for two, the journey to be walked together, I was so excited . . . I will now have to find within me the strength to finish this journey on my own, you already reached your stop.

I passed by a much loved local designer’s store on my way back home. There was a jacket on display at the window, it was navy blue, with flawless tailoring and artful paneling on its pockets, done with beautiful, vibrant, ankara fabric whose patterns lean into a deep sky blue. It was gorgeous, it would have looked great on you. . .I should have bought it for you, you should have worn it on that grey day. . . tears are threatening to flow. . . You would not have cared though would you. . . Not on that day. . . no, you had already left. . .you were not even there on that grey day. . . I saw your face, through that impersonal glass. . . But I was alone. . .as expected, raw, fat tears begin leaking out of my eyes, accompanied by quiet sobs. . .

We laughed remember!? We laughed!! Thinking at the time how we had plenty of time. . . You laughed. . . You once laughed, and the sun shined just abit brighter inside. . . I miss you. . .I should have told you bye. . . I should have reminded you that I loved you. . .I should have told you that I loved you. . . A seismic shift has occured in my heart. You have left an area of weakness in my soul, a permanent fault line.

Why is the world going on like nothing has happened, everyone looks normal. . . The streets continue to wear that uninterested, blank, city dweller look. . . With the necessary splashing of personality from the upbeat, the haggard, the attractive, the busy, the stressed out. That hormonal, restless energy from the young and optimistic, the artistic, other worldly vibe from the bold and stylish. . . The city continues to pulse with that vitality, the incompatible marriage of resolute optimism and lethargy . . . A wash with vibrance from the masses. . . I loved it! Thrived in it, that good, bad and ugly. . .I now resent it . . . That ever forward march . . . I want people to stop, to slow down, to remember you. . .
Some days I want to also forget you, to get back to my own movement. . . I wake up a couple of days later, determined to be bouyant. I put my cheerfulness on like an armor, the tempo of that fake sanguine sparkle growing an octave higher everytime I met someone, and say hi. For weeks my demenour is loud, almost raucous, boisterous in everyway, overarching in its extremes and clearly fake.
Then I break down when I start to get there, to that place of forgetfulness, when my mind tries to release you . . . I panic and look for you frantically. . . You are my fault line, after the extreme I collapse into a week when the feelings are not as tempestous but daily and at unexpected moments. . . I touch my cheek and there leaking out, is a steady quiet stream of my . . .
Raw, fat tears.

My life has settled into a steady rythm, routine and activity are a much needed balm. My rocks miss their friend. . . You appreciated my passion without holding back. Your support felt effortless, so sure. . . Like you already knew that I would thrive . . . I sometimes wanted correct you. . . Secretly wanted to cap it, that steady, reassurance that stemmed from your own self assured nature. . . Sometimes I wanted to give you a glimse into that messed up maze that my life can be . . . Yet. . . I never dared, hope is too precious, and freely flowed from you, and not to mention, everything you called out, came to be. . . Thank you. . .
I don’t know how I will heal, if I will heal. . . For now, I live with an awareness of my fault line, an awareness that brings forth both pain and joy. So daily I choose to live . . . I walk on . . . Sometimes tentative, sometimes assured. As my new fault line pulses, . . . And on the quiet reflective days I still seek out release from my thoughts through the relentless leak of my raw, fat tears.

A dedication to Dorothy from Kate.
In Loving memory of dear Lodenyi, Dorothy’s rock man, twin and best friend.

He is near to the brokenhearted, and binds their wounds’ ❤️

with love,

by Ruth.
Illustrations and pictures by Kate Wachira.

Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction that draws inspiration from real subjects. None of the parties or events mentioned recount an actual event, and any parallels drawn are purely by chance.The work is a project of love from a friend, to a friend by a friend.


To my love, my sun and moon. . . from my selfish heart

I have created a chasm between us. . . I pushed you away. . . my selfish heart speaks

You are always ever kind. . .
Ever understanding. . . I am difficult. . . I make you angry . . . I ruin you. . . my selfish heart speaks

I remember your eyes when you looked at me and told me that I would be ok, you were innocent, believed I was savable. . . I am not. . . at least not by you. . . you cannot save me! you won’t save me! . . .I will not let you. . .
I am angry, angry at myself, angry all the time, I want to be alone yet you always pull me away from my resolute solitude. . . I don’t know what to do, only that when I am broken you always try to save me, and I ruin you in return . . . so you would hate me. My selfish heart speaks

. . so that you would stay away. . .and I would preserve myself. . . my dignity. . .my sense of self. . . I don’t doubt your compassion, your empathy. . .your attraction . . . I doubt your love. . . your love that will always see me as you do now, a weak and fragile thing. . . you do not understand, that were there to be a label I want to run away from, it would be weak and fragile. . . I don’t hate fragility and vulnerability. . .I just hate that it is all that you see, when you look at me. . . so I ruined you, I ruined you to preserve myself. . . my selfish heart speaks



The four sparrows met. . . one blue, one purple, one black and one yellow. . .

The blue wondered when the rain would stop she has feathers to sell. . .

The yellow hates the rain, sunshine is her deal and there is a life to be lived . . .

The black enjoys the rain, she is at home with the thunder and darkness. . .

The purple is royalty, irritated by the rain, eager to go back to her crowds and outdoor speeches. . .

The sparrows found each other on a rainy day . . .

The yellow welcomed them all, hospitality is her light. . .

The black listened to all their problems, empathy is her light. . .

The blue kept them organized, reminded everyone to study for the flight tests, professor Owl is not to be trifled with, she reminds them, neither are their lives, service is her light. . .

The purple led them into battle, in her eyes when one of the sparrows is attacked she is attacked, protection is her light. . .

The sparrows found each other on a rainy day. . .

The yellow is given to insecurity and vanity, that is her darkness. . .

The black sinks into depression and self-pity that is her darkness. . .

The blue can be impatient and she is constantly wrangling with jealousy, which squatters in her system, that is her darkness. . .

The purple can be controlling, anxious and manipulative, that is her darkness. . .

The sparrows found each other on a rainy day. . .

The rain poured, on and on, and the newly acquainted sparrows hurdled closer together. . .even black stopped enjoying the gloom and instead moved closer to purple for a cuddle, blue clutched on to sunny yellow and for purple. . . it was hero time.

Such was the first meeting for our heroines. . . unaware at the time that the long, and sometimes grim flights across the sky were about to become bearable adventures from then on, for a journey flown with friends is shorter and scenic.

The sparrows found each other on a rainy day. . .

On the last day of school, it was all smiles. . .Professor Owl was very distinguished, tooting in restrained satisfaction. . . the little sparrows had not disappointed. . . Blue led the company  with polished, all rounded, excellent grades, the rest each distinguished themselves in their specific fields of interest . . . even black forgot her veneer of despondency and managed a blooming pastel for the day, surrendering her characteristic `artistic` blacks just for that day. . . the sparrows gathered close together each placing a wing on another . . .overjoyed at being in each other`s company. . . yet afraid of the unseen future. . . high spirited promises to be in each other`s lives forever were made, even with the looming, underlying fear of separation. . . the sparrows however need not to have worried . . .their fates are sealed, for in the end, all would recount to their nestlings about how. . .

The sparrows found each other on a rainy day. . .

Blue finished her nest first, but it was Purple who was the first to fill hers with young, not that the others were surprised. . . Purple had begun early, by practicing on them, she had always made them feel secure and dished out wisdom that got them out of tight spots. . . The first of the set of nestlings were welcomed by an armful of excited, protective aunties. Next was the reluctant Black. . . that had been a surprise more so for her than the others, hers was only one nestling, the nestling`s colors were a riot of golden and white. . . auntie Yellow was besides herself, they went on with the little one like bread and tea, quite famously. . .dear Black was constantly bewildered and fully enamored by her child. Black has abandoned her dark fortress for a more refreshing green, the color of life she says, speckles of black are gilded around this new green, the other sparrows are happy, balance after all is good and motherhood sits quite well on Black. Lastly was Blue, she may have been the last but hers was a whole team of nestlings, the more the merrier, how she kept track of her merry circus and maintained organized chaos was a wonder to the rest. . . Yellow never did get on the motherhood train, her cheerful disposition remained steadfast. . . and the girls never got to know whether this had been by choice or circumstance. . . she never volunteered the information, not even to black. . . whose heart bled continuously for her friend, even when words went unsaid. The others would also never ask. . . it was left unsaid. . . The sparrows simply hurdled closer to her, it was never said that yellow was not a mother, no, she was the most loved by all the nestlings, and dotted on them equally, all sunshine and love.

The sparrows found each other on a rainy day. . .

Black joined a new flock, her move had been necessitated by little golden, she wanted to learn how to sing. . .and whatever little golden wanted, Black did her best to facilitate. Auntie Yellow came along to help them settle, she would never admit it but little golden . . . she worried most about her, maybe because she would sometimes see herself reflected in those shiny baby feathers. She would go back to her own life once they settled.

The sparrows found each other on a rainy day. . .

See the source image
Victorian bird illustrations

LATELY. . . all the feathers of the sparrows are gilded with grey. . . the nestlings all flew to their own adventures, and the mother sparrows decided to take the time to finish their long flight around the sky with style.  They are back together again, neighbors . . .planning little adventures everyday . . . bickering, reminiscing, with long days and nights of laughter and tears. . .the sun shines golden, the trees glow deep green and the water at the falls, flowing from the river, pools at the bottom of the falls, glistening like liquid diamonds. . . not that the sparrows would care much for diamonds, after all, they are birds!

The sparrows found each other on a rainy day.

vintage illustrations


The other woman

I lurk in the shadows never in the open, he never wants me to be seen, . . . I am beautiful, I am intelligent, I am confident. . . I also live with the constant fear of living without him. . .

So we share him with the other woman I call her Alpha, . . . the public face to our team, she is so shiny, she is loved in the open, she bore him his children. . .I used to resent her, envy her public love, a sharp bolt of anger used to hit me every time I saw them together, parading their power couple status. I no longer resent her public position, . . . I decided to go philosophical and view my role. . . our role, as complimentary. She is his shield, she protects his public image. . .the persona he has created for the world, . . .That fake awful man I hate, I love the real him. . . or so I tell myself. . .

Maybe its just my mind’s way of trying to deal with the envy and craziness though sometimes. . . I think she got the short end of the stick. . .I am waiting to see if I’ll still think that when he’s dead and she won’t let me even have a scarf of his. . . I dealt with it though, by persuading him to separate his life . . . essentially it’s like we are with two different people but they both belong to the same body.

It should bother me that she does not know about this arrangement, that it is a serious imposition on her . . . but it does not, I am largely unbothered . . . I spend as little time as possible on her. . . I blur her out of my existence. . . I don’t hate her, I really don’t. . . she deals with the ugly I would rather not deal with, and in exchange I present to her a happy spouse! . . . I hate it, that clandestine existence. . . its not me you know. . . I did not plan on this . . . yet I stay, helping Mr. Mali steal from Mrs. Mali’s emotional, spiritual, financial and physical investment in their marriage. Somewhat happy but never satisfied.

The philanthropist is mine, the business man is hers, the happy adventurer is mine while the angry choleric is hers. . . the family man is also hers while I have the one who does not want children. . .Stella told me he wants children, just not with me, that’s why the other woman has children, he wanted them with her. . . I hit Stella, she can be so foolish. . . speaking lies all the time. . . I know, I know he doesn’t hate children. . .he just doesn’t want more. . .and to be fair she came before me so. . .she can have that. . .the passionate man . . .we share . . .I think.

Then there is Anne, who shudders at all my tales. . .Anne is a self confessed ‘positive feminist’ she believes the feminist agenda for the 21st Century is changing attitudes, combating toxic masculinity, . . . was this not the agenda from the very start?. . . no, she says, the focus has been on female empowerment, . . .isn’t empowerment fueled by a change in belief systems? I ask. . .to which she smirks, remarking on the oxymoron that is my existence, a fluidity in walking the moral lines when it comes to my relationship with that man, yet I am unable to understand the subtility and fine lines of modern feminism, ‘tokenism?’ ‘Well,’ I reply, at-least it gives a ‘leg in’ for individuals who would not have had the opportunity? . . . Right?’ To this Anne’s response is that tokenism has a cap. . . “Honey you’ll always be a pretty face to the suits when that is the the niche they’ve carved up for you! You’ll always have to be ‘charming’ towards the special big league client, you’ll have to always abide with the ‘dress code’ and look pretty though your office title is ‘manager’ sawa!? You should fight it! Break those damn ceilings! To this I respond I get a salary no? I get exposure no? And if I keep my head down a promotion is in it too. . . I get to have an independent, balanced life, . . . With work stress and humiliation . . . Sometimes . . . I get you dummy! I finally respond . . . To which Anne laughs. . . That throaty, rich laugh of hers. . . ‘You know what your problem is asali? Your ambition. . . It’s too little, too controlled!’

Dude! Discrimination and prejudice is no longer overt in this Harvey Weinstein, ‘me too’ era, change has come, but male toxicity is still very alive, hidden. . . But present Ok?? So. . .perceptions , the mind is what needs to be reconfigured, sawa? Haha the male mind in particular and its attitude towards the female person. I give her a blank stare . . . On purpose, just to irritate her, . . . In truth I hear her, partly agree with her. . . But my world is settled. . . I believe I have come to terms with my reality and maybe I even resent her for having passion and consistency in her beliefs, her tireless fight for what she believes should be, her relentlessness and inability to settle. . . Also, I would much rather that she take her ideology away from my relationship, she tries to make me her project . . . And my resentment grows. . .

She doesn’t stop though dear Anne, she laughs off my eye rolling and resolutely goes on. . . ‘some women are complicit, they support toxic masculinity by being comfortable when its displayed by males within their circle or complacent about it, they still need empowerment (her words). . .”anyway miss pretty! its time for the boys to have an ideological re-haul”. . . she says smiling. . .how original’ I whisper under my breath.

Anne calls me an emasculated woman. . .whatever that means . . .I tell her to look up the gender ascription to ’emasculate’. . .her come back. . .gender neutrality. . . to which I roll my eyes, but smile. . . I mean. . . it’s Anne, her loyalty knows no bounds, so no matter how zealous, a bit condescending and sometimes in my space she seems, it’s all good, no love lost. I don’t think she fully understands my situation sometimes, you see Anne white washes all women, she believes we should be united as one in our agenda, that competition amongst us opens us up to male manipulation . . . true. . .if we lived in an ideal world with all our experiences shared. . . (And she would make a convincing cult leader with that zeal, I think. . . then smile and do my routine eyeroll)

Truth is . . . I’ve never felt as strong as Anne. . . I’m slightly more selfish, with basic dreams. . . a follower to some degree. . . Anne can invent the ideas, fight the wars, . . .I’ll offer her support. . .you see I’m constantly jealous of Anne. . . her happy, stable family. . .her loving Parents. . .I want that for myself. . .A home, my own North Star. . . that is my goal, my dream. . . I just want a home, full of love and children. I try to tell Anne. . .in response she tries to empathies, but I know, in my heart of hearts she does not understand. . . the pits of emptiness I contend with. . . loneliness even when I’m in a crowd. . .my aversion to holidays . . . because, for all my accomplishment. . .the anxiety and fear that comes from being alone gets crippling. . . I never seem to outgrow that sense of loss. . .like everyone has access to something I don’t . . .so yes I am very jealous of Anne. . .yet I passionately love her, sometimes to a slight obsession. . . the strength of the feelings drive me to the edge sometimes. . . it’s the same with my Mr. Mali. . . he is as broken as I am. . . Anne calls it trauma bonding. . . but again Anne does not like Mali. . . she would rid of him if she could. . . she makes sense. . . I mean I want a family. . . the one thing he has no way of giving me. . . yet my obsessive nature is highly triggered when he is around me. . . transference of the trauma I suffered when my guardians left me, Anne says. . . that I am trying to complete a circle,. . . to get Mali, who is extremely similar to my Male guardian, to not leave me. . . to use Mali to fill up that hole in my soul. . . haha I don’t understand Anne. . . but I love her. . . so I listen to her with little to no comprehension sometimes. . . I think . . . One day when I’m in the space to. . . her words will make sense, for now I hear her, then neatly go back to my little zone of temporary comfort and stability . . . My Mr. Mali.

image downloaded from an instagram account

Hi! So I was thinking how it’s sometimes a tragedy that we ascribe villinous stamps on to people who shamelessly go against the moral standards of society, I try this time to humanise one of these individuals, to listen to her. . . but not agree with what she does.

Asali’s obsession with Anne and Mr. Mali sources from two pots, one, is her need for stability, which she believes she can only acquire from having a functional family and two is her envy of Anne’s ambition and passion, you will notice a similarity between Anne and Mrs. Mali. Asali has all the raw ingredients from which to healthily source for all the things she wants, a healthy relationship, family etc what she lacks is the confidence and belief in these inate abilities within her, so she settles for what she thinks she can get that most closely resembles her vision of perfection.
Meanwhile Anne’s idealism blinds her to common problems and feelings, she approaches everyone and every situation from the lofty heights of her self belief, while inadvertently she does become a symbol of all that is perfect to Asali, she looses the ability to relate and feel for Asali in the basic sense of being human and all the challenges that come with humanity. She is not relatable? . . . or is she?

As always;


Ruthy aka Hope.