Color of My Heart

The color of my heart,
Its neither crimson nor white,
Neither dark nor obscure,
It has no color at all.

The color of my heart,
Is what pain can draw,
The paste tears coat over it,
Deep strokes,covered in crystals.

The color of my heart,
Laid atop a  sultry matte,
Is a splash of sunshine,
The paint of a smile.

A beauty like no other!

--Wavinya Nyamai.

I keep you stayed between my heart and soul,
For no where else would I rather have you be.
So keep wandering, lost, in the mystical maze therein,
For I do not intend for you to ever find your way back. -
WN

Standing, to Stand Out!

The first week of my 25th, and life is shaping up in an accelerating  pace. Its time I started making momentous decisions in my life:the things that I did not have the time or guts to do because maybe be I am the genial human that my closest of friends say I am.
For the last four years of my life I found a mouthpiece in my best friend, to word with utter sadism the things that I couldn't say to my fellow species.
My greatest weakness  maybe  is the fact that I think of myself as a greater being who has no time and place for the hoard of human beings who are painfully dramatic, insensitive and annoying in their verbal sense and mannerisms.
That said, this past week found me thrown in the middle of  the lions den,with no mouthpiece to fight my verbal wars and I had to take my claws out to dig at what I consider as threat to my being; taking care of the scandalous business usually involving the most notorious and ferocious of the male species.The potbellied,monied- not so good looking married type that will stop at nothing to drag naive girls into illicit  gallivanting sprees.
Mostly, I avoid their dens,hangouts and social circles but when you have a conspicuous 'future' behind you its nearly impossible to escape the line of vision of their ever wondering eyes.
To say the least, I get the occasional hoot,wave,wink,flashing car lights and as of this morning,a kiss blown my way. This leaves me irked, disgusted and almost always I am on the override with panic and fear.
The only other time I am awash by those Intense emotions is when I see a frog or mice.
The most scary part is when I get a call from an  new number and while I hope it is from a potential employer I  find it is a human bloodhound on the other end of the line offering to give me their version of heaven: a perverse, unholy affair that from what I believe to be the Truth is the path to dark of ages.
As trivial as this might sound to some (if not most of you) and as hard as it is to believe that there are women and girls in this modern day age who loathe the thought of ever finding themselves in as sheer as a compromising position with a married man, I want to assure you that we exist.
And yes it is not easy.
I am way too far from perfection.
It takes Discipline, Prayer and Jesus to make you grounded in times of temptations.
I for one have found new meaning to the Lord's prayer....."Lead us Not Into Temptation and Deliver Us from Evil..." I have made it it my business to pray... " Lord give me the strength to stand and face my tempters, and to stand out from the crowd, to be my own person and to know my worth: for I was purchased at a price,and to me I do not belong...."
 Being human,the fall is always a heartbeat away.
I have had much in life and had little. There are times I look into my wallet and it's skinny as hell and as if on cue someone just points me onto the path of self destruction. 
I choose not  to dance with the fire lest I fall into a trance and forget the promise I made to myself years ago not ever to be the reason a woman cries at night because her husband did not go home.
I choose not to let the cares of the world have their way only to lose hope and faith .
I have been called a fool and many times I have been told that I have no idea what I am missing.
Well, I clearly know what I am missing; the long tirade of curses made by women in desperation and the endless prayers they make to their Maker to fight their battles during those cold lonely nights...
I am smart enough to know I don't wanna be on the other side of the battle line with my Maker.
I am not a Loser.
I  choose  to take the path traveled by a few,
The way of Light,
To Life!
 

The War Without!

On that hot August day when I took my first breath in to this world, I was without question born with equal chances  and rights as my brothers.
I take pride in the fact that my dad, as old fashioned as he is gave me that one gift that most humans of my gender have had to fight for all their life.

This is not to say that it has been easy. Growing up with testosterone charged males who are ever trying to be macho in the eyes of their peers is not a piece of cake.
From declining to do my brothers laundry , having cleaning and cooking duty rotas taped on our kitchen wall, to beating the lights out of a guy who insulted me because I was playing football with a bunch of boys, I have had to literally punch my way into what I perceive to be equality ,so many times such that I lost count along the way.
I remember coming home from school after the first term in high school, super charged from the endless hours spend in the library reading Feminist poetry and literature, like a bloodhound, looking for trouble with anyone who dared insinuate that my place as a woman was in the kitchen or at the laundry room doing house chores. 

Now, I know some of you might be wondering why I could not just do their laundry, cook, and clean and let my brothers be.
I will tell you why.
I went to school as they did, had homework to do just like they had, needed to play just as much as they needed,and I also needed extra time to be a girl, which by the way, I never had;  I was busy learning to do boyish stuff because they made me believe that I was just like them.
So, instead of playing Cook,and changing  doll clothes, I was out in the streets kicking tins and paper balls or making wire cars.There were days I even practiced my boxing skills and ended up going home with sore knuckles from the endless hours I spend hitting rough concrete walls in our neighborhood to make my fists hard.
I will not even start on how I learned how to replace fuses in electrical appliances,or even test if batteries had power using my tongue,or even how I learned how to ride a bike.
Today,we all have grown up and left the nest. We only get together on holidays and no one bothers me with their laundry anymore.
Now, I am facing the biggest challenge of my existence as a woman; annealing my place in a world dominated by men.
Its a crazy place this world.Its a pity that no one ever tells you what to expect in life after school as a girl, or how hard the transition to womanhood is.
The  old cliche told to every girl that 'Men are bad' is very far from the truth. (It only applies to boys)
I find men to be good people, but some are just downright evil ,chauvinistic, egotistic ,close- minded,manipulative and demeaning. They will do anything and everything to make women their slaves.
 They will use Religious texts,and culture to woo you into believing them. They will call you names,brand you until you start doubting yourself.
Nowadays,I find myself dealing with this crop of men.And boy,do they come in all shades,shapes and sizes.The most repulsive and annoying lot, the Potbellied ,married LOSERS who think that just because they paid a hefty amount of dowry,they rightly own every woman.
 Fortunately for me,feminist poetry was my turning point.It gave me a clear picture of who I am as a woman.
 It made understand the reason why I was always at war with people who seemed to take me to be a lesser being. It made me resolve never to let any one put me down just because I am a woman.
Yes! I will fight if I have to.Even if it means I claw my way to the top,I will,because I don't do easy.
 I am not sorry for the numerous times I have had to slap a man because he greeted me in a way that made me feel violated.
I don't even care if they find me arrogant or rude because I refused to let them talk me down,or I declined to make them a cup of tea in the office just because I am the woman.
I don't care if their community,culture or belief states that a man should be worshiped,because i won't.
I don't give a damn if they took a loan to buy that big car they drive or their bank account can feed an entire continent, If they cannot respect  the fact that I work hard more than they  have to ,then we are going to have a problem.
I lack words for those humans from Mars who think that a woman somehow has to sleep her way up the corporate to be in a position of power.. I hope one day ,when your have daughters become Managers and CEO's, you won't expect them to give you 'Bed' money.
As for those who think that I should slow down,grab all this opportunities coming to me from all directions and live on the easy fast lane, may the Good Lord have mercy on you.

Bottom line: I won't ever wash, clean ,cook or kneel in submission to a man because the society expects me to.
I will,because I want to.

Rickety Roadster: Back to School Memories.

The sight of teenage boys and girls in  different shades and patterns of  uniform reporting to school evoked in me deep memories of times in the past where I have found myself in the same predicament: unwillingly being towed back to school after quite a short holiday.
 I must admit I was one of those people who, as the opening dates drew near, and all the Supermarkets went into a crazy frenzy advertising for back to school offers, silently hoped something would come up, say a Teachers' strike or a Presidential decree that would see the seemingly short holidays extended by a week or two, perhaps even a month.
Going back to school was painful ,I hated it and I had a reason  to.
See, Boarding school for me came at a time when everything about you was under the scrutiny of your peers. Everyone else but me seemed to come from Nairobi, Mombasa and other big towns.
 I was the girl from the village. Actually my home was and still is a few minutes drive from the school and my dad didn't own a car to drive me to school, like most of the other kids.
 Suprisingly, even the other children from the village pretended to be town dwellers.
When I was growing up, to be a village kid was a crime.
Every opening day, as my school mates travelled to school by car or bus, I would hitch a ride on my dad's old bicycle, my bag on my back and start the long ride to school.
I would say a thousand prayers along the way, hoping that the  mean girls and boys in the cars ,matatus and buses that sped past that painfully slow,rickety bike would never recognize me.
My dad never seemed bothered by it. He really loved that bicycle of his,much to my chagrin.
That dear old bicycle must have been nine or even ten years older than I was, with scratched paint , dented fenders and a greasy old chain, caked with layers and layers of oil from the numerous times it had been oiled, to keep the paddling smooth and easy.
 How can I forget the dynamo and the huge headlight that would make us spot dad from far when he came home late.
Infact,the only thing that seemed perfect on that bike was the braking system.
My mode of transportation to school was a top secret and it  seemed to work out perfectly until one day my GHC teacher had a slip of the tounge and mentioned my dad's bike during a Lesson about the Colonial Era,where apparently all bicycles had to have a Tag.
As the class bellowed in fits of laughter, I sat on my desk, embarassed and seething inside with fury, asking myself a million questions on why it had to me, who had to endure all that humiliation.
Fortunately, the humiliating Bicycle rides ceased the moment my kid brother joined me in boarding school.
It was not a smooth transition though. It took me days of protesting, tears and endless pouts to change my dad's mind. His arguement : he did not see anything wrong with me sitting at the passenger seat at the back carrying our bagpacks, and my brother,sitting at the front on the stem between the handle bars and the seat.
Fast forward to today.
Its been Fourteen years since my last bicycle ride to school.
 I am alot wiser and all grown up now.
I take pride in the fact that I was raised in the village, and thats where my heart and home will always be.
I miss that dear old rickety bicycle.It now hangs somewhere in my dad's barn at home, old, rusty and battered by the countless rides it has taken, dearly loved by its owner ,and the people it has ferried to different places.
Its a symbol of the sacrifices made,memories created of where we came from amd who we are.
A resonating reminder of our humble beginnings.
I have forgiven myself for being embarassed of my dad's bicycle,and forgiven that GHC teacher for making fun of it.
 The realization that he could have easily afforded a car if he wanted to,but didn't,so that we could get the best education he could afford makes me respect my old man even the more.
And Perhaps one of this days, when I get home, I will bully my brother into taking that dear old rickety roadster down and take it for one last ride.

A Boy Hunter : The raging madness of Puberty!

His name was Nate, and I was barely a teenager!
This is the  scandalous tale of  a shy little girl caught up in the evil,brain draining madness caused by the emotional turmoil triggered by an overdrive in production of growth hormones that tends to drive everyone else to the edge of insanity,leaving them hanging by the thread.
Simply,call it Adolescence.
Now, back to Nate.
I have always been a late bloomer, well, more like the ugly duckling who grew up to be the beautiful swan.
Being in a boarding school was never easy.
I remember back then,while most of my age mates had this  hormone thing raging inside of them like a volcano, erupting into pimples,boobs and booty and every other evil thing that comes with it,
I was mostly inherently stuck with a dormant volcano inside of me, cutting a boyish figure: the baby faced-flat chested,no hint of boobs type,and a little behind supple from an overload of baby fat.
Unlike my peers, all the letter writing, winking, and the secret,daring groping maze that was the characteristic of most night preps passed me with no much ado.
I wasn't jealous as most of you would have been.
It did not  even bother me that I was not a part of this club of the crazy frenzy sorrounding me.
Well, until that day,when girls started fighing.
Fighting for and about Nate.
Something inside me snapped.
Suddenly, I was high on adrenaline, trapped in limbo;an excruciating mix of dare and danger!

He was tall,dark and handsome,and a prefect too.
He was quite the eyesore or rather the eye candy for any girl reeking of puberty,the cause of numerous catfights among the beauties in our class.
I, on the other hand, was the shy little girl,who looked like a boy.
I almost got too comfortable knowing that I would always watch him as he winked at the other girls,smile at them and even let them 'hijack' the long queues for food during meal times,or never make those agonizingly chaotic lines just to get a jerican of water for my bath.
I knew he was out of my league,but, I also knew I had to get him for me.

He became my prey, my Person of Intrest.
 I became the hunter,stalking,waching,waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Days and days were spend dreaming,calculating, and formulating the perfect pick up line....
Then it just happened.
That night,for some reason I was last to leave the class after a boring night prep,and he just appeared at the door,like vision....nah...he was in every way the epitome of a boy breaking into manhood.....
My brain didn't even think.
No flowery language, no blushing, no stuttering,nothing.
Just one sentence ,straight to the point.
" Nate, I want you to be my Boyfriend".....
Bang!
Silence....
He just stood there, spellbound,....no, more like shell-shocked. He didn't say a word, and as I made my exit, I was pretty sure I had scared the hell out of the guy.
Weeks later,with no word from him, I decided to confront him again and ask for an answer. This time,I caught up with him on his way to the Matron's to take some cough syrup.
All he said was he was still thinking about it.
Aha! The good news of hope.
 That Sunday,I recieved greetings ,send through my cousin,from my Boyfriend!
Bingo!
Oh, how I must have sang,and smiled happily through church that day......
I couldn't wait for the next meal time, just so I could 'jump' the line.
Long story short,
My Madness got me the boy,
And we lived happily  ever after.........nah...
More like I got numerous death stares from girls....
Boys started noticing me,
I got lotsa water for my bath,
Never found my name in any of those lists of Wrong-doers we all so dreaded,....
And,The Boy was mine.....
Oopsie, did I just say that again?

As for whether we gropped,or wrote each other those illicit love letters....
Thats CLASSIFIED.
Just keep Guessing!

The End.

Christened The Nairobi Style: The Memoir of a Sewage Waddler.

 Six O'clock in the  PM , Saturday,  the 5th.
Its Easter Weekend, and I am in Nairobi, the City in the sun, My city.
It seems like the perfect  April evening.
The city street lights illuminate the sky, casting a seemingly warm glow over the city's skyline.
The sky darkens,casting a gloomy vibe against the storeys that congest the city center.
It's going to rain. I panic.
I am not prepared to deal with the mayhem that becomes of this lively city once the first raindrop touches ground.
Throngs of people scurry, to various bus stops tyring to beat the oncoming onslaught and get home.
Then without a warning,the skies open!
Chaos follows.
The atmosphere is buzzing.
Engines revv, buses hoot. A dark blue cloud of smoke from bus exhausts envelopes the city. Conductors call out,at the top of thei voices to anyone who cares to listen to the chaos thats the aura of the late evening.
People rush,helter skelter, to find shelter outside the shops lining the streets.

Amidst the heavy splutter of the rain,a somewhat synchronized symphony of Umbrella and shower Cap vendors shouting,no, singing  their lungs out  fill the side streets, each one of them hoping to take advantage of the situation and make some quick bucks.
Beautiful Nairobi girls with their fake wigs and cheap weaves fly from all corners each trying to find a safe spot to hide from the rain,some managing barely to cover their faces,caked with makeup thats already smudging, forming small rivulets down their cheeks and on to the flimsy chiffon blouses.

I stand outside a shopping mall,contemplating my exit from this mayhem before me.
I am in my Jeans,Tee ,a coat that can barely keep the cold away, and flats.
No handbag,no purse,nothing.
I am a self-contained kind of girl, and today seems to be the day of reckoning.
As I stand stupified,clutching on to a frozen Chicken liver pack,my mind wanders back to the house,where my unused umbrella lies and suddenly I wish i could reach out and take it.(Where the the heck are Superman,  and The Flash, when a girl needs them?)
Someone pushes me hard.My reverie is cut short as I stagger into the rain battered street.
Experience from my days as an attachee at a local weather station tells me that this rain is not going to stop anytime soon. It dawns on me that I must make a decision, fast, before the streets flood.
I take a step forward and hurtle my being in the street.
Too late,the street is flooded.
Then, and only then,do i realize that I have made the most unwise decision in the history of my existance.
I waddle through the mixture of rain water and Raw sewage that is Nairobi's streets runoff, a shade of gray... no,black.
As  I step, hop and jump over pools and ponds of  dirty water my mind is screaming in disgust.I make a mental note to buy me a pair of gumboots.
Ten minutes of wadding through this bacteria and fungi  ridden water, I realize that there not much I can do to help my situation,other than plead with the Heavens that I do not catch an infection.
Takin a deep breath,I slowly ease into the comfort of having the street to myself.
There is no one stepping on my toes or pushing me around as I walk, so, like a duck,I hold my head high, and sashay through the rain, singing along to Shakira's Hips Dont Lie, now strumming inside my head,with no care in the world,occasionally raising my hand to wipe the water that is constantly running through the cornrows thats my hair,down my face into my clothes.
Funny how this rain makes me feel sexy.
I won't let this rain beat me down, no, I won't.
Endless minutes of hopping through steets and lanes seem to pass. Finally ,I find myself a bus to take me home.
I shrug off my coat,shake off the excess of the rain water soaking it and get in to the bus.
I am so cold and wet ,my brain is almost freezing and the only thing that is keeping me sane is the
cold pack of frozen liver that I can't wait to get home and fry.

The ride home is short,and as I alight from the bus it suddenly occurs to me that I have finally been christened the Nairobi Style,
Swimming through Nairobi sewage.
So,
Today call me,
WN,
 The Sewage Waddler!