Of wants and relationships

Modern man seems to overly interested in relationships. That same old thing between man to woman, man to man, woman to woman, adult to child, senior to junior, lover to lover, or even peer to peer. Volumes of books and many hours of talk shows have devoted to this topic. On would imagine that given this level of analysis we would have a universal panacea for relationships. The common theme in all these millions of words is how to make relationships work. The idea is always that I want abc and I really need this relationship to work however it doesn’t seem to have def or even ghi that I need to feel I’m in a relationship. We seem to be living in the I want society when it comes to relationships and, thus, quite a lot of relationship gurus are making a killing. What is it, exactly, that we are doing wrong?

Lets start at the beginning. What is a relationship?

Some dictionaries define it as A particular type of connection existing between people related to or having dealings with each other. Simply any interaction between two different entities. Thus that weekly spat I have with the neighbour who parks his car badly after a night out in my parking slot is a relationship. That interaction we have with the local Rhoda at that corner of the month when pockets are empty is a relationship. That minor interaction you have with the city council’s ‘corruption is evil’ parking attendants is a relationship. What you the (sometimes) faceless reader and I have is a relationship.

The relationship that has however caused literally millions of words to be spoken and written is that special relationship between two lovers. That strange feeling of being in love. Fortunes have been made advising people about love. Wars have been fought, whole civilizations died, families and communities have broken because of this thing called love. Why are these relationships such a source of pain? Why do they fail?

There are quite a lot of reasons but I’ll limit myself here to what appears to be the largest failing of modern living.

Men and women in the modern world are beset by many trails. The speed of modern living has conditioned us to always search for the fastest way of getting things done. We are a result oriented society, we want to see results immediately for effort put in. If it were left to us, we’d never grow oak trees. When most of us enter a relationship we imagine we will get tangible results in so many days, and a permanent commitment in a few more days after that then we can move on to a new project. For most men it simply involves getting into bed with the object of their desire, while some women it is in getting into the home of that selfsame object. At this stage we believe the project over and can now look for a new challenge.

This attitude leads later to some of those in the relationship to feel cheated by what they got, and feelings of resentment start creeping in. Unfortunately the lives of the rich and famous as seen on the idiot box make us feel we really are losing out on something that we could have. What a relationship really needs is time, all the time. I do not intned to imply that every waking minute of your time should be hell bent on the relationship, I also do not imply that a once a month phone call will do wonders for you. It’s the time invested in the small things that you do together. All relationships involve some level of interdependence. People in a relationship tend to influence each other, share their thoughts and feelings, and engage in activities together. Because of this interdependence, anything that changes or impacts one member of the relationship will have some level of impact on the other member. Thus the more micro things you do together the closer you get. And for those who might be thinking so, that’s not about the amount of sex you are having.

Think of the last time you told your partner you loved him or her. Think of the last time you cut an appointment to take her to the salon. Think of the last time you gave out a night with the girls to go with him to that dingy bar he loves so much. Think of the last time you surprised her with a bouquet of flowers when you hadn’t done something wrong the night before. Most of us in a relationship tend to ignore the tiny things that could make a difference to your partner. We think because we are in a relationship they should change to suit us while we want to remain what we are. It is a two-way lane. You’ve all got to sacrifice a bit for them and they have to sacrifice a bit for you. You need, even in your individuality, to take time out for your relationship.

African men are notorious for imagining that the lady they intend to marry should give up her independent thoughts and merge into the collective “family” while they can afford to maintain their paths. Careers for women in a relationship are thought to be temporary things while waiting for a man to come over and complete her life. How many of us think that maybe she does like the job she’s doing, or she would like to further her career to very high levels? How many of us even imagine that that lady you are in could one day aspire to the highest office in the land? And how many of us are willing to support them in that dream knowing that sometimes it will impact on our own paths and goals? How many of us are willing to sometimes let part of our dreams go in order to support our partner’s dreams? Your ability to do this will probably more than anything else be what will keep that relationship going strong.

A successful relationship is between partners. They evolve each other’s goals and dreams, encourage each other and support each other in whatever the other likes even if they sometimes have to let go a bit of what they want. We live in an I want and we apply the I want to our relationships not realising that many a time our partners to want, and we should be helping then, nay, encouraging them to want.

War

They were in love. Maybe puppy love, maybe it was real love, but they never got the chance to find out. The year was 1982. The country was in the throes of yet another civil war. Gunshots would ring out at anytime of day or night. Armed thugs roamed the countryside and cities shooting, raping and robbing at will. No policeman could be called upon for they, too, were in fear for their lives. And yet they were in love. He would spend the hours before the bell rang waiting for the time she would be with him. End of class was the beginning of his life, for only then could he see her, talk to her and walk with her. Every hour spent away from her was an agony. Every hour spent with her was heaven. He would walk her home after school, and she’d walk him back just to prolong the time they could spend together. They would talk of everything, and of nothing. They would listen to the sounds of a city in chaos and yet believe the world was theirs, for in the face of love what can prevail against them. Yes they were young. The times and cares of adulthood were yet to fall upon them, but they were sure they would always be together. In each other they had found a soul mate, a lover, a friend and a companion.

That day was just like any other day. Being a Saturday school was out, however he had band practice in the morning, and she had Christian Union to attend to. Band practice was a joy to him. The clarinet was like an extension of his soul, and with all the love he could only but play well. The clarinet was the only other thing that came close to the love he had for her. In his music he could express himself more than words could. He could play his feeling for her and feel the power in the music. She loved listening to him play.

She came early that day. Band practice had not ended so she sat and watched him play. Everybody could see she had eyes for only the clarinet player, and she did not even once look at another player. She loved the sound of the clarinet in his hands, and sometimes he would play for her.

After band practice his colleagues would rib him about how she was looking at him. They would clown around but you could see the envy in their eyes. That day he could hardly wait. They had a whole afternoon to be together! They had planned to go into town and just look around. Nobody would miss them until later in the day and they intended to make the best of it. Hand in hand they left school not knowing this was their last date together.

They decided to walk into town. That way they could have more time just by themselves. Forty-five minutes of walking, talking, and loving. The day was theirs and even the not so distant sound of gunfire could not spoil the mood. Lunch followed. Fish in groundnut sauce and boiled plantains. He cared not what he was eating as long as he was with her. They talked and occasionally touched during the meal. Looking at them you could tell there was something special between them. Something you would want for yourself too. Something that was to end that day.

They knew eventually they still had to go back home. They didn’t want to part, if they could they would have remained together forever. But home time was beckoning. Parents still had to be appeased and evening was drawing near. To postpone the separation they decide to walk back. Hand in hand they walk. Talking, laughing, loving. Hand in hand they face the world.

Suddenly he feels something whiz by and she falls. He hears the sounds of bullets as he turns towards her. He cannot understand the shock on her face, or that red stuff on her side. He lifts her, carries her in his arms. He has to reach a hospital, but there are no cars passing by, there are no people walking by. Everybody had hidden from the sudden danger lurking about. But he cannot leave her there, he cannot run and leave her anymore than he could leave himself. He tries to run with her in his arms but he cannot run far. He stumbles and somehow still manages to keep on. He falls, and picks himself up. He has to get to a hospital.

Exhausted he crawls, she has not opened her eyes for the last hour but now she opens them. He is kneeling beside her. She is cradled in his arms. Blood is all over him. He cannot believe all that blood is from one person. Her breathing is shallow. She tries to speak. He has to strain to listen.

“Kiss me” she whispers.

He kisses her. She closes her eyes. “I love you” she breathes.

Their first kiss.

And their last.

Seasons Galore

Tis’ the season to be jolly and like most of us Kenyans I will be out eating, drinking and doing some of things I’ll later deny I could have done. In the spirit of Kenyan Christmas, quite a number of goats, not a few chicken, and a splattering of cows, fish, and various fowl will lose their lives to satisfy this jolliness that I and my fellow Kenyans will enjoy. This season brings fond memories of Christmases gone by. Some mine, and some certainly not mine. (I still pledge the fifth on those)

In the days gone by we used to trek all the way to our reserves to celebrate this season. Naturally we would carry all manner of things to show how good the city has been to us and hide the kind of lie we really lived in the city. This is the time when we buy exotic foods we never actually eat, wear rented tuxedos, and hire cars to impress the village folks as to what kind of life we lead in the city of lights and garbage.

One Christmas gone by, a friend of mine who had just landed a job decided he is going back to the village to amaze his village mates on his new found success and impress a certain pretty diva who then had had no eyes for him. With that in mind he borrows a friends car, rents a tuxedo and goes for a shopping spree at one of the local supermarkets in town. Remembering how the village diva had looked six years back he buys for her jewellery and a rather expensive dress for the occasion. He also decides to carry a few bottles of some walking stuff to give him courage.

Reaching the village shops, he enters one of the popular bars there and proceeds to spread his largesse. After a few brown bottles, and a few tots of the walker, he gets emboldened and tells all and sundry how he intends to propose to Wanjiru on that day and take her back to his big house in the city. He challenges anyone who would try to prevent him and is rather surprised none of the village lads seem to be interested in taking up his challenge. He proceeds to extol her beauty and imagined charms and calls the village lads cowards for not managing to get Wanjiru. Getting an entourage of now inebriated pals in tow he drives to her father’s house shouting at the top of his voice that he’s coming for Wanjiru.

Reaching the house he meets an elderly woman sitting on a stool. He then proceeds to give her a few lessos he happened to have and asks tells her he has come to see her daughter. The lady looks at him aghast and tells him he is a bit too drunk to see such a young child and anyway at this hour children are in bed sleeping. He tells the lady how he went to school with her daughter and has since spent all his time in Nairobi thinking of her and how he is going to marry her. He also explains how he has brought for her a dress and stuff for her to wear.

The woman looks at him carefully then exclaims “Karuiki! Is that you?”

“Yes” he replies proudly, “and I’ve come for Wanjiru your daughter. I want to take her in my car to Nairobi”

“I am Wanjiru”

“You!” he exclaims, “no way. Wanjiru is not even 25 yet!”

“But I am Wanjiru. How do you expect me to stay young after five children?”

She then proceeds to tell him of the various father’s of her kids who have run away to the city, and how she has to sell cheap liquor to survive since her brothers had chased her away from the shamba her father has left her. All this time Karuiki is getting sober and shrinking as he realises all his dreams have just turned into so much hot air. The village lads are laughing out loud now and telling themselves how those fools from the city cannot even tell a young lady from an old one. They are repeating his boasts and somehow this leads them into louder laughter. Karuiki goes back slinking to his borrowed car and starts it up. It hiccups twice and dies. Apparently he had forgotten to put in fuel.

Why are we harassing our Kenyan MPs?

Today, finally, my faith in Kenyan MPs was affirmed. Now I'm entirely sure they are fighting for our rights. It is evident that Kenyan MPs know exactly why they are in parliament and, from the media coverage, so do the Kenyan people who put them there in the first place.

The first story to bring this to mind was the recent move by MPs to block this grossly unfair move by the former Minister of Finance, Kimunya, to tax their meagre allowances. The acting Minister, without regard for his fellow MPs attempted to bring back this unfair measure to the parliament, and the MPs rightly promised to block government spending if this move was tabled. Just imagine, the minister was putting honourable MPs at the same level as ordinary Kenyans. Doesn't he understand they are honourable MPs. Rules for other Kenyans cannot apply to them too! I mean, how many Kenyans can be called honourable? In fact doesn't the minister understand that all MPs have funerals to contribute to and harambees to attend?

Think of it this way, if the MPs were to be treated as Kenyans then how would they go back to their constituencies and still be called Mheshimiwa. Doesn't he realize every time they go there they have to be made clan elders, have homecoming parties and goats have to end their lives for their sake! Thinking of it even the ka-fuel allowance they are given cannot cater for their expenses. They need to be given something like 300 bob a kilometre for this.

Then there is this issue of campaigns. They have spent a lot of money campaigning for ODM and PNU. In fact it was reported that a certain MP spent almost 20 million bob campaigning for ODM, and that was all the money he had. Sad thing is when the Right Honourable got in this MP was not given any ministerial post! Imagine. 20 million down the drain like that. He should have had a ministerial post or at least an assistant minister. Some people who didn't spend as much are ministers and they certainly do not deserve that.

In fact all Kenyans should support him in his complaint about ODM not giving his people ministerial posts. All that money spent cannot surely go to waste. If they do not get these posts then they should go back to the communities and move all the communities out of ODM into a new party. That will show ODM who the real power is. Maybe then the right honourable can come negotiate with them.

Then there is this Waki thing. How can anybody even imagine that honourable MPs can go to court over this. This is prosecution of their communities. After all it's the communities that were fighting for their rights. The MP as a leader was simply helping the people fight for their rights. Any attempt to arrest an honourable MP will be considered as an attack on the community and will be resisted. In fact we will move our communities out of the government and form our own parties in opposition. Who is this Waki fellah anyway to sit judgement on honourable MPs?

Indeed the MPs are in parliament to take care of our interests. That reminds me, where is the number of this Nguyai fellah. After all I come from his village, I'm sure there is a small parastatal somewhere he can fix me in. I don't want much, just a chairmanship or two. I mean we are practically neighbours...

The beginning.

In the beginning it was just a feeling, an itch, a hunch, a buzz at the back of my mind. I would wake at night and gaze at nothing, think nothing and the nothing would think back at me. Yet it bugged me, it bothered me that I can feel what I do not feel. It was nurtured through the days by the nothingness that I’d feel. It was fertilised through the night by the emptiness by my side. This something that was nothing yet was greater than the sum of somethings that I had.

I battled with myself, speaking to the ghosts in my mind. I tried to run, yet it was me that I was running from. I tried to hide, but how do I hide from myself? There was no solace in my mind for I knew what it was I was trying to hide.

In the beginning it was a fear. Of rejection. Of change. Of hurt. Of pain. Knowing that all those could happen. Knowing that all this is happening, and I was as helpless as a twig upon the ocean current. The traitor was within me, and the saviour, too, was within me. How could joy bring so much pain, acceptance bring rejection? And yet it is just but the beginning.

I told myself all this will pass, but I knew I didn’t want it to. I told myself it is a illusion, though I knew if it was an illusion then reality is not for me. I told myself I’m strong, and felt that strength lead me yet again astray. This is was is and this is what still will be.

In the beginning it was an ache, a gap, a need, an emptiness to be filled. Yet these had existed side by side without demands and now are demanding surcease from the torment. A torment they had never had. A torment that came from knowing it is possible to finally fill the gap. I gap I didn’t even know I had. I gap I’m sure I didn’t want to have.

And yet in this was my fulfillment, in this lies my content, with this I can want to live…

My cousin Obama

The whole world has been following the Obama story, and here in Kenya we have been following very keenly the developments and victory. After all Obama is a son of K'Ogelo. That village where he comes from, you know. As is common with us, we have adopted Obama, renamed streets, schools, villages, churches and even babies after our great son. Grown up men have changed their surnames and even those of us who couldn't are busy trying to see by which route Obama and family could be related to us. His Jaluo speaking grandmother has suddenly become an ambassador and now has an office, an interpreter, a spokesman, a family spokesperson and a whole new staff corps to look after her newly created status.

However we in Kenya are still completely puzzled by the American electoral system. After all we are a democratic country and we know Democracy. We know how it is done and the Americans seem to have their system all wrong and undemocratic. There is this issue of the Electoral College. We think it is akin to the Kivuitu's (Electoral Commission of Kenya chairman) of this country. But strangely they also vote. We know the Kivuitu's are supposed to arrange the elections so that the 'right' winner wins. They are supposed to read the electorate (read rig) so that the people’s choice wins. But these Americans actually let their Kivuitus vote, and more than a month after the rest have voted! So how do they read the electorate in the correct persons favour?

Then there is the campaign. None of the candidates promised anything sensible. If they had done the right thing (Kenyan style) Obama should have promised a multi-lane highway all the way from Washington DC to California. He should have promised that he will remove development away from Texas to California since the incumbent must certainly have been developing only Texas. He should have promised all government jobs would go to Californians and all government projects will go only to sons of California. He should have promised that even the dustbins in California will have electricity installed for the homeless and the council of California will stop harassing small business persons (read hawkers) so that they can lay their wares right in the doorways of the giant supermarkets that are taking away jobs from their neighbourhood.

The funding of the campaign was even more amazing. Politicians are supposed to be rich people otherwise they wouldn't be running for office. We watched with amazement as people contributed their five and ten dollars to fund the campaign kitty. How can that happen? Obama is running for the highest office in the land, he is supposed to fund the potential voters. We expected him to be liberally throwing money around to ensure voters will vote for him. We expect him to send representatives to the local bars with wads of cash to by free rounds for potential voters. We expected him to start projects just before the election in his home area to show how serious he is. We expected him to be dishing out copious amounts of cash to potential voters and promising that when he gets there more will be coming our way! How can he even accept these small amounts of money from voters!

We expect him to attend all harambees and contribute generously. We expect him to attend all funereals and promise to educate the children of the deceased. We expect him to promise that no stone will be left unturned in the search for the deceased killers. Who cares if we know he died of some incurable disease. We expect him at the same funereal not only to contribute generously but also to praise the area senator and tell us to vote for him as well since he needs him to bring development to our people.

And the actual voting? Rubbish. That was not voting. How can you have results almost as soon as the polling stations close? Where were the party agents, the missing form 16A's, the missing names from the electoral list, or even the intimidating presence of party youth to ensure you voted for the right person. Where is the agent dishing out one dollar to every person entering with dire warnings to vote for the right person? And what was this pressing on screens to vote? You are supposed to vote on paper and put in a voting box pre-filled with the correct number of votes to ensure a win! That was certainly not a real election. Where were the politicians throwing chairs at the electoral agents?

About Obama being my cousin? Certainly he is. He's my mother's sister's roommate’s ex-boyfriend's sister's mother-in-law's cousin thrice removed on her father's side by the uncle's friend's brother who was playing football with Obama's cousin's best friend’s uncle's father-in-law's cousin's ex-girlfriends who's best friend comes from K'Ogelo.

October

Not everything I've done in life has been mischievous (well almost not everything) and quite a number of them were done with my small big sister Angela (including the mischievous ones). When we were young and presumably innocent we had mainly each other for company. Dad was working, our mothers were working and our grandmother was rather too quick with the cane for us to keep around her. However she still had the knack of finding us and giving us the most odd of chores. One particular chore still leaves me smiling in nostalgia.

Angela and I loved chicken, however we never quite got round to trying out our hands at killing any. One day after we had bugged our grandmother (well out of reach of the cane) for chicken, she decided to teach us a lesson. We were informed that if we really wanted to eat chicken then we had to slaughter as well as de-feather it before we could eat. Naturally in our youthful enthusiasm we thought this would be a ball game in the park. We had watched others doing the job and we were pretty sure we knew how to do this.

We got a sufuria of hot water, and went chasing chicken. One thing I've noticed about chicken (live ones that is) is that they never seem to want to get caught. Unfortunately we didn't know that. My sister and I ran helter skelter all over the field trying to catch the chicken grandmother had shown us to no avail. After some time it dawned on us that running all over the field may not exactly have been a grand idea. I suspect my uncle's laughter may have helped us in getting to that conclusion. We decided to chase the chicken into a room and after a rather long struggle got it cornered and caught.

Now came the grand ceremony of killing the bird. I'd seen my uncle kill birds before, so I strategically put one of each foot on a wing, pulled up the neck, removed neck feathers and with a grand swipe off came the head. With a smile I hold it up to show my sister and make a small skip. Next thing we notice is a streak as the headless chicken goes off on a tangent into the shamba, knocking banana trees and each time veering in another direction. My sister and I are again off in pursuit. At this time my uncle is weak with laughter and has to sit down wiping tears. My grandmother has seen the action and is in pursuit of the two of us with her makeshift whip shouting all kinds of threats as to what will happen to our backsides if we do not catch that chicken. We certainly believed her and that added quite an impetus to our speed. To date I'm still not quite sure whether we were running after the chicken or away from grandmother.

The chicken did eventually did get caught and cooked. But by then we were too tired to take more than a token bite.

You might wonder why I called this note October and there doesn't seem to be any reference to that month? Well, sometime ago my sister succumbed to breast cancer and October is the breast cancer month here in Kenya. I miss her. We all do. But I certainly hope wherever she is she can remember the times we had, the laughter, fights, fun and life we had with her. Rest in peace Angela. I love you.