Hope Nyambura

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.