I have always loved stories. I created imaginary friends when I was a child, and spent most of my time searching for adventures. Creating fascinating fiction from the most mundane, dull things. My mother found my stories amusing, I think she was the first person I ever heard laughing at my stories and with that encouragement, I would often be found running my mouth around her. She would entertain me, and at the same time strictly caution against speaking lies, the bane of a storyteller she would say. I was to always be careful. Too many stories would lead to fibbing and white lies she would caution. ๐
In contrast, my father was not always amused. According to him, I spent too much time in the clouds. He would constantly remind us all, his children, that respect and provision would only come from education and hard work. He was not wrong my father, indeed, he understood the realities of our environment a lot better than a pre-teen would.
Coincidentally, father also loved stories. I remember how he loved the old man and the sea,- by Ernest Hemingway . The perilous tale of an old fisherman and his marlin. A story about the expansive ocean, determination in loss, sharks and harpoons! The book did not have pictures like bible stories for kids did, and I never really understood father’s fascination with the tale.
Lo! but when he narrated it, you were there, right there in the rocking boat, struggling with a big fish, heading further into the stormy sea- the sea was always stormy in all of father’s stories. ๐ The only difference I fear was that instead of being Cuban, Santiago was suspiciously black in my imagination, with dark spots on his forehead and a gap between his teeth.
Father had a note book where he would write down accounts of almost everything in the house. He was and probably still is the best record keeper in the family. He used to title all his notebooks and diaries oldman, a nod to his favorite book character. He still loves to call himself oldman to date, much to mother’s chagrin, and laughs whenever mother admonishes him against using the name ‘sasa umekuwa ukituitia uzee’ she would tell him.
I never understood his objection to my story telling though, maybe it was fear for me. Fear that the imaginary world would fully seduce me. Or fear that it would somehow rob me of social awareness. ‘Bread is not baked by stories eeh’ and ‘trouble follows a talkative mouth’ were his anthem during our many disagreements. I think he feared for my survival. Survival in a world that he already knew would tear me apart if I did not posses an ounce of pride or value that was commerciable.
What my mind was interested in were stories, mythical adventures and well, love. I valued love, colors, beauty, life . . .not in a hedonistic way, but in a dreamy optimistic way. On the other hand father knew that these values were not practical in the environment we were in.
Well I was sheltered and unaware of the forces my father contended with on a daily basis to create a bubble around us. I deeply value and appreciate his sacrifices, but I love his stories, always will.
FATHER’S STORIES:
My love for history come from father. He made stories from the past take on a fantastic sheen. He told me stories about his journeys around Kenya while working with the department of civil aviation. How him together with his colleagues were once stranded in Somalia during the Ogaden War because the pilot of their small aircraft miscalculated the coordinates to Wajir.
They were to fly to Wajir and service some air traffic control machines. Instead, they flew into hostile territory during war and were kept captive for 10 days. He says they were not mistreated though, as at the time, President Mohamed Said Barre was still in control of the Somali Democratic Republic, the Somali government then, according to father’s observation was organized and the evaluation of their illegal entry by the grace of God was done fairly.
He told me that the pilot was the first to realize that they were lost. They could no longer communicate with Kenya’s air traffic control. So they found a place to land so as not to waste fuel. Then re-group, re-position and find their way to Wajir. They located an airstrip and when they landed, they were met by a band of Somali soldiers. At the time, the soldiers thought that their plane was a soviet plane that was scheduled to fly in carrying ammunition. Father has always wondered how differently they would have been treated had there not already been a plane scheduled to land, perhaps they would have been shot at whilst still in the air. Perhaps he would have passed on, young and un married.
They were immediately detained on suspicion of espionage, though father said it was an assumption on their part. The person who interrogated them never expressly accused them of spying. Their plane was searched and father believes that they probably found nothing to indicate hostile intent. Their plane was clearly civilian.
Father remembers how afraid they were. He recounted how the young British pilot who had flown their aircraft had knelt down while they were in captivity and began reciting bits of the Lordโs Prayer that he could remember. Father also told me of how they were all interrogated. The army was civil towards them, they were given vikoi to wrap around themselves due to the sweltering heat. He told of how they were fed canned soup and spaghetti and on Friday, on the government’s official day off, they were given goat meat. He recounted how the pious Somali soldiers prayed on their prayer mats whilst holding long guns with their hands.
The spaghetti was a legacy of Italian colonization over Somalia. The Kenyan government finally negotiated their release.
Father also remembers operation Entebbe, how the then president Kenyatta allowed the rescue mission access to Jomo Kenyatta airport for refueling. The excitement that followed the revelation of the clandestine night events that morning.
Operation Entebbe, also named operation thunderbolt, was a mission by Israeli troops commanded by Yonatan Netanyahu to rescue passengers and crew of Air France Airbus A300 jet airliner. The plane was flying from Tel Aviv destination Paris and had been diverted to Entebbe airport, Uganda by hijackers at odds politically with Israel. Uganda was then under the leadership of Idi Amin.
(There are several documentaries out there on the subject)
I got interested in these historical incidences because of Fatherโs masterful story telling.
He told be about Gen. Daudi Tonje, a general who brought major reforms into the Kenyan military and finally major. Gen Mahmoud Mohammed. An individual who’s actions he always told me gave this country stability.
Father admired how Gen Mahmoud had risen ranks without any advantage. He is a testament to how anyone can rise on the merit of their character.
The attempted Kenyan coup was a story I heard at school on several occasions, and it was just another historical event to me, until it was personalized through fatherโs eyes. Father remembered the announcement on Voice of Kenya by Leonard Mambo Mbotela, a charismatic broadcaster. The uncertainty and fear that followed the announcement. How people looted shops, the ensuing curfew and disorder. Father has since always appreciated having a stable government.
He told of how General Mahmoud swept in like a hero and restored order into the country. The general is a hero to my father, he represented a Kenyan man who took the uncertainty of a chaotic situation and gave the country back stability.
We remind ourselves from stories that we have the resilience to stand. That God has endowed us with the internal tenacity to withstand the traverse trials of disappointment, negativity, hate or deception.
That we can use our uniqueness to rise. That we are all created with unique power and strength to add value to our environment.
The uniqueness put inside us on creation is our strength. It will help us stand even when our environment is telling us to sit. Remember adversity can only quiet you down, it can never take from you who you are.
Adversity only makes us desperate enough to find ourselves, burst free and rise. We need adversity to call out and amplify our own self, our own voice and our own mind. Adversity is not for us to fear or give up, it is for us to lose our options and rise in our own unique color.
As always,
love,
Ruthie.