So I ran out of bundles from sending too many Bitmoji to someone when I left the office. (Yes, B, that’s what they were. Google that. Don’t know if there’s an app for that for Windows phones. Muhahahahahahahaha! Is there any app for anything for Windows phones anyway?)
Anyhuuuuu, (I’ll be using this word now that Biko hated on it. You know how I’m always trying too hard to be a rebel? Yep.)
I don’t know about you but I can shed tears very easily. Very very easily. I will cry over every movie that is good enough. I will cry when a child sings a song in church or in Sunday school and does not even know the words but keeps on singing very joyfully. I will cry when I see someone in pain or difficult situation. Like a few days ago when friends of our family lost a beloved daughter. I sat at their living room listening to the stories from her friends and family and just couldn’t hold back my tears. I had a headache that night.
This Sunday, I found myself crying on a Metrotrans bus. We were just making that turn around Globe roundabout (can I still call it that?) and I saw him. I saw the little boy coiled into a ball near the huge metal pipe that straddles the Nairobi river.
I wake up at 8 am today. A record. You all know I wake up at 10 am on Saturdays. It’s getting harder and harder to wake up at that time nowadays. I have made a pact with myself that I will not neglect friendships in the name of resting away during the weekend. So I wake up, dillydally in the warmness of the blankets, chat with a friend, let miss cat join me as usual and then I finally make it out at 8:30 am. Someone congratulates me for waking up that early. Well in. I am up because I am headed for a wedding. A wedding I cannot fail to attend. Hannah’s wedding. If you frequent this blog, you know Hannah. Hannah almost always is the one who comments first on my posts. If she doesn’t do it here, she will do it on my Hangouts.
Another week down. Lots of lessons learnt. Lots of food for thought. This will be short.
You harbour dreams of scaling the corporate ladder or birthing a very successful business. You dream of being able to drive the best cars and provide for your family. But do you ever think of the responsibilities that come with more? The responsibilities that come with a raise or a promotion?
I’m seated in this room, my swivel chair positioned right where the A/C fan blows its good stuff. I’m listening to this insurance guy. A new friend. Maybe friend is too big a word. Acquaintance. That’s it. He is telling me about life insurance. The first person in a while to convince me that I need that incomprehensible thing.
I won’t lie to you. I have never been sure about insurance and every other thing adulthood has been throwing my way. Anyway, he weaves a neat story about it. And I am almost sold. But not in between thoughts about how I ended up here in the first place.
I’m in Mombasa.
No, this is not about Valentine’s. Breathe out. I did not do my monthly preacher piece in January. For that reason, I will do two in February. This will be short and straight to the point.
Today I listened to the story of how Bata entered the African market.
I am full. I am tired. I am chatting a million people. Lol. Lie. I am chatting five people. One is hormonal. The other is still at work. The other is from shovelling snow. The other one is complaining of too much work. The other one is lamenting over unpaid work. Millennials. We have problems. I want to sleep. But I won’t until I do this.
The past few weeks have been pretty intense. I moved jobs thus I had to change my commute. I miss the glorious Waiyaki Way, full of splendour and roadworthy public service vehicles. I had never taken it for granted — the fact that the Waiyaki Way commute was awesome. But now I think I should have appreciated the matter a bit more. If you know me well enough, you know I was the girl who said she would rather not work away from Westlands. I would leave the house anywhere after 8 am and arrive right on time. Well, the universe has a funny way of making a point. I was thrown smack in the middle of Karen.
Right where it would be hardest to commute. But then again it was not the universe. I would have chosen to stick to Westlands just as simply but I made a choice. A choice to get out of my comfort zone. Here are eight things that January commuting has brought my way.
“Ciku, nda yakwa ni iratuura,” she groans in the dark. Ciku, my stomach is aching.
It’s been a while since she woke me up in the middle of the night. I turn and grope around for my phone. 03:56. Jesus Christ. I was hoping to sleep for longer since it is a Saturday morning.
As December approaches, we all love to travel and sightsee. If you have a tight budget, and you don’t plan to travel, I would highly encourage you to just take a city walk. I have done this numerous times, and it amazes me how much you can learn by just walking about the city. I should probably come back with a list of the sites to see and why, but for now, I will only speak about Uhuru park, and for a different reason.
Sema kuchoka. Yesterday was a big day for mum and dad. 25 years down the line, they were at my cucu’s (mum’s mum) for ngurario or gutinia kiande. Relax, I will proceed to tell you what the ceremony involves and why I could not write about it yesterday. It is basically the last ceremony in the dowry paying process.
Someone said I should preach more on this blog. Maybe I should. I almost did not do my Saturday share but you know what, a promise is a debt, like we said when we were kids. So here goes. I have made it a habit to read Our Daily Bread (ODB) daily on my phone. I had sort of stopped doing it mostly because of misplaced priorities. I would read it daily in high school, after someone signed me up for it. I don’t know who but it must have someone in Christian Union right around my year in form one. I would read the day’s piece and fall right asleep while praying during morning prep. Lol. Yeah, I was that girl.
High school students are studying up on geography, chemistry and history, but most aren’t learning fundamental money lessons to help them financially navigate the real world.
The last thing I would ever do is belittle anyone’s profession, unless, of course, it involves vices like stealing or killing people. I have no idea, then, why someone thought I did so last week. It made me wonder why we are so vulnerable to the slightest whiff of criticism of our careers.
When I am not listening to VeggieTales and other silly songs, I am usually reading the Onion, America’s Finest News Source. One recent article on the Onion, (it’s a satire publication) was about a teacher by the name Jon Broderick who has been reaching out to promising kids that just need a little guidance since 1996, and to be honest, none of them has really blossomed into anything. Quoting the teacher, the Onion says that “Every year, I tell myself I’m going to be the reason a struggling teenager excels beyond all expectation, and every goddamn year, I’m wrong.”