MY GOVERNMENT IS AS CONFUSED ABOUT ME AS I AM MYSELF

I have not had an original birth certificate since 2015. Together with my parents, we lost it somewhere in town. Possibly in a restaurant near GPO. I have never needed it and the photocopy has always sufficed. But now, as every girl with big dreams would, I need a passport, and that requires the original birth certificate. That shouldn’t be so hard, right? Wrong.

I’ve heard that immigration offices are thorough. They wouldn’t understand why one of my names on the birth certificate differs from that on my national identity card. As far as everything that matters is concerned, the person on my birth certificate and that on my identification card, are different.

In 2022, I went to Huduma Centre headquarters to inquire about how I could get an original birth certificate and have it amended as well. I was referred to the registry offices in Upper Hill. Here, I explained my case and was told that I would need to go to Kajiado considering it was where my birth notification was made. Unfortunately, they couldn’t tell me the exact location of the offices or share contacts to the same. Dad did the paperwork, but he’s no longer around, and I’m not exactly the Sherlock Holmes type. So, I gave up. I was surviving pretty well anyway.

In 2023, amidst conversations with some colleagues, I happened to mention my case. Among those present, one suggested that he knew someone who could do what was necessary to ensure that my papers were in order. I was thrilled. I sent him the money he’d quoted for the services and let him follow up with “his guy” with the promise of having them in order in two weeks. I gave it a month. Months later, there was no progress so I had him put a stop to it this year around February and committed to do it by myself. I’m glad I did.

I took leave in March and had this as one of the projects I’d be following up on. From an office training, I was in last year, I learned that a lot had changed at Huduma Centre and that one could get any government services at Huduma Centre. As such, I expected that things would be easier so I set to it. To get services from Huduma Centre, rumour had it that one had to book an appointment online. So I tried booking an appointment the night before. Unfortunately, systemic problems frustrated my efforts.

I called Huduma Centre the following morning to seek the way forward. Their call centre, is very active and effective. The lady who received my call was professional and was of help. She saved me the trip to town by referring me to the registry offices in Upperhill. I made my way to Upperhill and after walking around and about Upperhill realized I couldn’t trace the offices. Well, sometimes my memory serves me as that of an ostrich. I called Huduma Centre again as Google Maps wasn’t helping much. My call was promptly picked up. This time around, the lady who picked up my call asked me where I was born and I mentioned Kajiado. At that, she told me that the offices at Upperhill couldn’t help me and that they only served those born in Nairobi. She referred me to Hass Plaza at Lower Hill, Bunyala Road, which is supposed to take care of those born everywhere else, and gave me the locations using Nyayo as the reference point. This was very accurate only that thanks to the matatu I took from town, I still got lost.

I walked from Upperhill to Bus Station to board a matatu that would leave me at Nyayo, and mentioned Bunyala Road to the conductor. While at Nyayo I reminded him and he told me that he’d tell me when we got there. This conductor had me alighting at Matter Hospital which was quite a distance from Bunyala road having me board another matatu to leave me at Nyayo. The one I ended up boarding decided to change its route midway. I refused to pay this one this time round. I alighted very frustrated. I walked for about five minutes to clear my head then decided to just get an Uber to the plaza.

I got to the crowded offices and was thankfully able to make my consultation. The lady that served me made me feel as though my case was hopeless and very new and that she wouldn’t know how to help me. She therefore referred me to her superior who gave an attitude showing disinterest as if to suggest to me that I brought this upon myself. I was adamant in her giving me the way forward. She should know. It’s part of her job. She referred me to the offices in Kajiado. I, therefore, asked which Kajiado because Kenya has undergone several changes since my birth certificate was issued thanks to devolution. We have the name appearing in two of the five sub-counties in Kajiado County and five constituencies that happen to be very active. I needed to know if I was going to Kajiado North, Central, East, West, or South. The much she could tell me was that she didn’t know and couldn’t even assure me if they’d be of help. “Enda uangalia kama wanaweza kukusaidia” were her last words to me.

I left the offices frustrated and angry. It was all over my face. The guards seemed more helpful. Two of them asked me as I was walking out if I’d been helped. I said no holding my tears of frustration back. One decided to call an officer whom she hoped would help me. I therefore went back courtesy of her efforts to meet the lady she had called. The lady told me that I needed to go back to Kajiado. She too didn’t know which Kajiado and told me that they didn’t have contacts to the said offices either. How ‘convenient’. Shouldn’t they have this information? Or at least access to it?

I planned my trip to Kajiado North. This is where I was partly raised. I got to Ngong’, got to Naivas and bought some yoghurt and red grapes for the wait I was preparing for at the registry offices. I then picked some random ‘nduthi’ guy and asked him to take me to ‘ofisi za birth certificate’. It happened to be in the same environs where I applied for my ID. Some kind ICEA insurance brokers directed me to the birth and death registry offices. There wasn’t a long queue of people waiting to be served. When it was my turn, I explained my case and the lady immediately referred me to Kajiado Central as my files were there.

This meant another two-and-a-half-hour journey to Kajiado Central. It took me about three and a half hours though thanks to the inconvenience that public transport can cause. I need a car. I got there past their service hours but the receptionist was willing to help. In less than five minutes they had found my file, had me fill out a B1 form, and guided me through the payment process. He was too eager to help that he did not understand my case. It was while at it that I read that and asked him if that would resolve my problem. He referred me to his superior who referred me to another superior. She took her time to explain to me what their offices could help with and their limitations according to the Births and Registration Act and what I needed to do to resolve the entire maze. She was kind. I left the fee due for the facilitation of the service as indicated in their service charter with her colleague. No receipts could be issued considering the cashier had left as it was past working hours. This colleague made the payment for me the following day and shared the receipt with me. I left feeling content. I am currently waiting for the processing of an original birth certificate after which I can involve an advocate to facilitate a name change process. The technical term used was “deed poll”.

I left Kajiado Central on that day exhausted, famished but satisfied. Having survived on red grapes and 450ml probiotic yoghurt.  I traveled the two-hour journey back to Nairobi on the phone with Karembo updating her on the happenings and thanking her for the support and guidance she’d given through the entire process and Eben who had kept me distructed from frustrations and the length of the journey by ensuring my head was occupied with arguments on spirituality, feminism, relationships and all. One thing about Eben and I is that we’ll always be arguing and I’m usually the loudest. Sometimes I win these arguments and other times, I win them too. You read that right. Women don’t lose arguments and Tito can affirm that I don’t lose arguments. I was getting to Nairobi town at 8:00 pm hence could not meet with Slim as earlier hoped but I went for the Afro-Latina dance socials at Yunion, GTC Mall. I freshened up in their restrooms because dust and sweat are an enemy to Afro-Latina dances owing to the closeness dance partners have to have. I also met with Grace who gifted me a very beautiful notebook. The day ended with me falling dead asleep on my bed at 11:00 pm and waking up at 11:00 am the following day.

The entire journey to Ngong’ was an emotional roller coaster and I cannot wait to share this bit of it.

MARCH MUSINGS

I feel like I have abandoned this space for two months. I promise not a single day goes by without me thinking about you. I think about you every damn time I open a book to read. I think about you every single time I pick a notebook to journal or just decompress. I think about you when I’m on the road and when not. When I sit or lay to rest. I hold you dear. Thank you for your patience with me and your agility to read each time a notification from me pops up.

First things first. What have I been up to? Why haven’t I been blogging? I’ve been working, then resting, and for the most part writing and not typing. I had plans to take my annual leave in March hence was swamped with work trying to clear my desk in February before taking leave. I remember blogging on a weekly last year when I took leave and hoped that the same would be the case this year. It sadly wasn’t. I spent my March resting my physical self, walking in and out of respective government offices trying to put some of my papers in order, and drowning in my thoughts and I am grateful Karembo and Nyash ensured that I did not lose breath underneath. I am still gasping for air. March has been hard on my heart, mind, and mental health. Eben is however still trying to ensure that I keep an attitude of gratitude and will from time to time ask me what I’m grateful for. Today, I told him what I had told Karembo earlier. That I am grateful for the pain I am feeling. That I am grateful that I am neither numb nor paralyzed. I am feeling pain. That, for me, currently, is a good place to be. I have developed a form of indifference, but that’s probably because I need to reserve sympathy and empathy for myself at the time.

That notwithstanding, I had some memorable moments in March too. I attended two dance classes; my Sunday afternoons are nowadays for dance class. Attending two means that I did fewer classes. I spent the other two Sundays with Abby. It has been beautiful spending time with her and her people, catching up, eating together, and reminiscing on some terrible old days while grateful that we came out of certain instances and are currently thriving regardless. I would say I made up for the two unattended dance classes by going for the socials at Yunion and Barrels and Stools and grateful for Grace’s company in the two instances. I love being alone but I also love it when there is a familiar face around. Someone I can catch a conversation with when I am tired of sitting with my thoughts. In some instances, I have walked into a restaurant, placed my order, and gotten immediately on a phone call. I wouldn’t know if to classify this as an online date even if the person on the other end of the call is not eating. While talking about restaurants and dates, I went on a solo date in March. Dismissed Pili restaurant at GTC because of its artificial flowers because I love keeping it real. Ken, a waiter there, however, managed to convince me in while leaving Yunion. Branching there was definitely worth it. He convinced me to get a drink and I loved their pina colada. I can’t stop thinking about it. I spoiled myself silly on that day. I bought anything my heart fancied, including a washing machine because my hands are meant for typing for you. Right?

Other highs I experienced in March included attending a screening on Climate Change at Sarit, International Women’s Day celebrations at Arboretum where I especially loved the sit-down session Njerikan had with a woman I love, Crystal Asige, and poetry shows as is my norm. I went for Punchline Comedy once in March. Definitely getting back to it with the usual dedication in April. Art and Flickers top the list as far as experiences at events are concerned. I loved it here. I was rocking my sunset afro at this event and with the jungle green blends on my outfit, I could easily pass for the queen of the jungle. Roba if you read this, I’m hoping Ayira’s café returns the trampoline because it’s the one thing I missed out on and wouldn’t want to next time.

March was for me a month of high highs and very low lows. I’m grateful for the friendships that have bloomed, like that Karembo and I share, and grateful for those that hit a rock and left me in excruciating pain because I now have time to heal from them. There is one that had me regretting the fact that when I love, I love hard but because Karembo exists, I am actually grateful that I love hard and blindly so. I trust fully, and blindly so. I should hate this, but I want this. I want to have faith in people’s ability to just be humane.

I’ll finish this here and open a new document to tell you about my trip to the government offices mentioned above. For now, see you soon.

SOAKING IN SERENITY

The sun is rising. Softly. Gently. I want those rays to pierce through my tainted melanin skin. But I’m in a fast-moving car, squeezed between two men, ear pods plugged in and Njoki Karu’s playlist on.

I want to sleep. Soundly. Lost. I want to make for the hours lost chasing the sunrise. But there’s so much beauty along this road, my eyes can’t get enough. Moreover, the speeding vehicle gives the illusion of mere men chasing the hills. Hills that are in front of us this minute and beside us the next.

The hills cross each other, lush green from a distance, gloriously golden; an effect of the sun peeping from behind them. They are in all shapes, patterns, sizes, and heights both to my sides and front.

The road I’m on meanders through some of these hills. It’s a sight to behold. Different shrubs and trees to my sides in a car chasing the hills? Peaceful. The actual peace I crave. Wondrous. The very wonder I can barely behold.

I’m twirling in the world in my head. Taking in the gentle sun rays I long for and stopping to spread my arms wide as I face the sun eyes closed. I’m engulfed in an imaginary embrace. I take a deep and long breath. Then release it. Back to my twirls with a huge smile. I could get lost here without a worry but the car stops and takes with it my imaginary world. Eyes open. We are here. The sorghum fields in West Pokot; Chesangatat Marich Irrigation Project.

They want to drive us in but how do we experience the vastness and beauty of these fields without walking through them? Drone bag to my waist, a tripod stand in my left hand, and a Sony α7iii hanging on my right arm I set out to walk through the field. An earnest workman does not leave behind her tools of trade.

I can now feel the sun on my melanated skin. The warmth is soothing, the contentment, not wanting. I walk through the trails spotting spirited young men chatting their way through the harvesting. I say Hallo still wearing my sheepish smile and ask if I can take photos of them. They are warm. I make the most of this opportunity and shoot as many as I can from different angles taking advantage of the angled sun.

I am almost getting worried after steps and steps without spotting any women. We all agree that women look like goddesses in photos hence you can imagine my reaction when I spot them. I leave my colleagues to catch their vibrant smiles as they use their sickles to reap the sorghum off of their stems. I engage with them in a small chat, show them their photos and they cannot contain their joy. I’m disrupted by a call from my colleague who needs help hence I bid them goodbye and rush to the next farm where I’m supposed to get cutaways from.

I can for sure end my day here much as it’s not yet noon. I feel great. But I still have work and I am looking forward to every bit of it as we have yet to visit the river Muruny and the water intake point because the harvest from this 1,000-acre farm is made possible by irrigated agriculture as the rain has become unreliable but can we blame it for its unreliability?

Leaving here without an aerial view of the farm would be an injustice to my entire being so I do the needful before getting back to our car to leave for the river and intake. I live for these days.

ANOTHER REVIEW?

I have been away from here for about three months now? That’s for sure a long time. I have been writing of course. Love poems and heart break poems almost in equal measure. Oh, my heart has loved and hurt for fictional and non-fictional characters alike.

I have grieved and rejoiced for people close to my heart and those not alike. I guess I underestimate how empathetic I am. I never knew Zahara’s death would cause me as much pain as well. And it for sure hurts that I cannot listen to her songs without an echoing pain in her voice. Songs which have steered my heart’s healing in times of grief now filled with her pain, hurt, cry… and my heart still struggles to find solace since Tush was glorified.

Despite this, I have still loved 2023. It’s had a lot of wins and joys. Crowning them was my sister’s graduation and licensing. That’s a joy weighing heavy on my heart. It’s almost uncontainable. I’m proud of that girl, I can’t explain it. I am super happy for her as well.

I have ‘peopled’ and ‘solituded’, both indoors and outdoors without a balance. There are weekends I have barely set my foot out of my door and those that have left my house longing for me. I have cringed in solitude in the company of people and been loud in their company too. That’s been fulfilling but very exhausting too. I hope to rest from the loudness of 2023 in 2024 now that I’ve cross over, thanks to God.

I have travelled too. Traversing more counties than I can count but haven’t been to the Northern Rift this year. The Coastals probably have my scent infused somewhere in their environs. How lucky for them. I wished to spend the holidays in Kisumu with my grandmother but that was unfortunately not possible. I hope to get there in the first quarter of the year.

I have loved being in motion though. Enough times, actually, almost all times as a passenger princess on the back left with one soulful song on repeat, eyes glued to the trees, flowers and skies outside and mind finding rhythm, momentum, and peace in the curated motion. My mind is most reflective at such times and heart more sensitive to my spirit. These times have topped my favourite moments in the year 2023.

I have invested quite a lot in writing and the arts this year and I have loved spending time with artists and fellow Public Relations professionals. I am not sure the same will be the case in 2024 but one thing for sure is that I will create. In quiet and peace. And I will write too. A lot. I want to at least promise myself this.

Oh! How I have enjoyed recherché eclectic music this year. Cheche Sessions should keep doing what they are doing because… And I have loved being immersed in poetry and the poets’ processes. It’s been beautiful. To my poet friends, you are doing poetry so much good. I look forward to a day poetry will be bigger in this country and your efforts to the process will be counted worthwhile.

I have tried my hands and feet at dancing kizomba and salsa too. It’s not been easy but I am allowing myself a little more grace hoping not to drop it. I can be very patient but I don’t have much grace and I will need it to forge on.

Punchline comedy has on Wednesday evenings come through to ensure that I had a good laugh at least almost every week and this I’m for sure carrying forward to 2024. See you at Two grapes Wine and friends and halla at me when you tag along.

I love that it has been possible to go on vacation this year. I didn’t take any worthwhile photos unfortunately. I promise to take some if I’m lucky to take one solo in 2024. And I pray that it’ll be worth the while.

I close this one happy considering that in 2023, I can tick positive in all the aspects of growth I need to focus on for wholesome living. Knowing that I faced all the fears I targeted to except for a solo travel. I purpose to conquer it in 2024 and take on summiting as a challenge for the year. I also hope to read books to the last word. I struggle with that except for anthologies.
Have a happy one 😊

TO SOLO TRAVELS

I hardly ever travel alone. I realized that a few weeks back when I travelled to Nakuru by myself. I’m glad I realized that before taking a solo trip to an even further place. Man, my mental stability was shook.

I can trace my last solo trip to 2021. I had landed my first contract with benefits and I had paid leave days. How amazing. Paid to rest? I love. I was given leave as soon as I was legible because I can assure you I was fatigued to the core having worked for almost 3 years without a break except for the public holidays.

I chose to spend the better part of my leave days with my grandma. Sometimes, I may mention the main reason why. For today, it had been almost a decade since I visited her in shags and this was going to be a perfect time for just that. Having two weeks with and familiarizing myself once more with the lands, homesteads, and people that raised me as a little baby was going to be hella refreshing. Meet those ‘aunties and uncles’ waiting to testify at my ‘nyombo’ ceremony about how they carried me, washed me, or took lectures from my grandpa because I was crying.

My grandpa, Babu, may God rest your soul in peace. Sometimes , I think to myself that I am yet to be loved as you loved me. Maybe it’s because the void you left in me when you left is yet to be filled or because yours is to me still unprocessed grief, 9 years later. I hope to one day get a chance to go and see where they lay you to rest. I was never privileged to see that. But our last memories, when I travelled to come give you the blanket I’d been gifted in school is still overwhelmingly beautiful.

I digress. My grandpa’s is a long story. Anyway, when I took leave in 2021, I didn’t go alone, a kind person drove me there. My grandmother made chicken really looking forward to seeing whoever had gotten me home. She probably thought I was going to introduce ‘someone’. The next two weeks in shags was blissful. The highlight was the lemon grass tea with Mamu in the morning breeze with the sun hitting just right, growing onions because I was mad that onions were being bought yet there was a shamba big enough to accommodate some, and of course the evening walks and watching the sun set down at Lake Victoria. My shags is a scenic place. I think I should get land there. Yes? I’ll hold that thought.

After my beautiful stay I had to come back to Nairobi. The kind person that took me home had of course gone back because he still had work to attend to. I travelled alone. Got back to Nairobi to spend a week resting and getting ready for work. You’d think I went back to work refreshed and ready to take it head-on. I thought so too but less than one month later I was walking myself into a therapy room, anxiety and depression threatening to take me down. My therapy sessions then have helped me to gain stability when losing it but I clearly need to get back to them if I still can’t travel alone because what is life without random solo trips?

Pst. The problem is not the journey but the conducive environment to think, overthink, and pessimize.
Also, writing this on my way to Kisumu after Heus just sent me a photo of the teddy bear she just bought me. The exact one I’d wanted for my birthday this year, it’s her birthday month yet she’s the one still gifting me. I was overwhelmed with joy until the driver took a sharp break and the thought of my conversation with Heus being the last crossed my mind. Well, the tears balanced well enough for anyone to notice but that broke me. Thankfully, I am not travelling alone and there is just enough distraction from the company I’m travelling with.

MY BODY

“Ambia dada yako sijapendelea hiyo mwili yake. Amekonda sana. Ama ni stress? (Tell your sister that I do not like her body. She’s too skinny. What is stressing her?)” My mother tells my sister to pass the information to me. Pretty much a day after coming from hers. Mothers… I have no idea why she didn’t just tell me this by herself.

What I know now is that my mum doesn’t like it that I’ve lost a lot of weight. Fat rather, because I’m still pretty heavy. Just a kilo down from my weight two months back before I got really sick. I’m currently 63kgs down from 64kgs. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME is pretty much about what I was like while ailing. For my recovery, aside medication, I had to make several adjustments to my diet among which were shifting to seed oil/olive oil from the usual vegetable oil, no longer consuming wheat, red-meat, and acidic and/or gaseous foods. This left me with a diet that would have me loosing some body fat.

I don’t plan on but I also don’t mind gaining a bit more body fat to have my mama happy. Sadly, I have to disappoint her because much as stress might have been a major contributor to my loss of body fat while I was unwell, my current lifestyle and diet wouldn’t be so kind as to have me gaining as much fat as she’d probably want to see me having.

I walk an average of 6km on a daily. I rarely consume wheat and when I do, I have it in small quantities. I take an average 2 litres of warm water in a day. I have not been eating fatty foods and carbonated drinks. I mainly survive on fruits, fruit juices, smoothies, nuts, dairy, white meat, and whole carbs such as yams, sweet potatoes, boiled maize, whole maize meal and oats. I currently hardly consume sugar. I do not like what it tastes like except when in pastries and in lower quantities than usual (explains why a piece of cake in events is enough for me and why I drink a lot of water or have lemons after having cake).

Nothing in my diet and lifestyle favours a quick weight/fat gain. I think my mum will be worried about my body size for a long while. Maybe months, maybe years… I can’t help her. Neither can I help those who won’t stop talking about my body size. I am healthy and that’s what matters to me. Some of the clothes I was outgrowing now fit me well while those that fit me well are currently a bit big. This doesn’t matter really because what actually matters is that I have clothes that fit.

5.9.2023

Baba,

On this 5^th of September, I dreamt with you. I dreamt about how you protected my life. It may have been symbolic. You may have been symbolizing the one who has protected and preserved my life all this while, God. And you were probably in my dreams because for the past few days, I have thought a lot about you.

The memory that lingered was you singing me happy birthday. It was my last birthday with you alive. Darvin, your heart, made you do it. That didn’t matter. Your voice was rustic. That did not matter either. What mattered was that you sang me a birthday song. For a moment there, it felt like that is all I had been longing for all my life. Darvin proceeded to give me the biggest portion of the chocolate you’d always bring her because I was the birthday girl. I am grateful that her existence opened my eyes to how hard you could love, be consistent, and how much you could care.

Growing up, there is a lot you did not do right by me. In the same breadth, there is a lot that you did right. Both have affected me intensely. Enough times, I sit down and thank you in silence, and enough times, I also lie down and break in pieces. You broke me and made me in equal measure. My foundation is bipolar. I guess it is the best way I can describe it. I have many wounds to heal but I also have the grace, strength, and stamina to deal. Both of them came from you in good measure. I am grateful because how would I have gotten this far?

While writing this, I cannot help but be grateful. Grateful that your rights and wrongs have opened my eyes to how much better I can be. I am still struggling. With so much. Imposter syndrome, anger, people pleasing, opening up myself to receiving… maybe the list is longer. I am however glad that bitterness is no longer in this list. I am also glad forgiveness comes a lot easier now.

When I woke, I asked myself, “What if there is always a battle during transitions?” If there be any, I am glad I get to live another year. I have no idea how many more await me, but whatever the case, I hope to live as wholly as you did. Give myself all the nice things I can get myself, live every moment as my last, face every fear courageously, and love wholly.

Before I conclude, I would not want to end without saying that I have not been the same. I have silenced so many dreams I had. They still linger in my mind. Maybe to assure me that they can still come to life. I never followed your dream for me: becoming a medic and treating you when old and grey. Heusnatt is treating us though… you know this because you left me studying PR. You died still having no idea what PR is or what I’d do with it. I know this because I still remember you telling your friends and acquaintances whenever introducing me that I was studying journalism. You would talk about how great of a journalist I would become. I am practicing PR now and had you been alive, I am still not sure I would explain to you what it is comprehensively. I however love it, especially how diverse it is. I am happy I crafted my own path. I may or may not further my studies. If I do, I’d love to pursue Data Analysis and Analytics or Communication Psychology for my Masters. There is a lot around why I am still unsure. However, should I further these studies, making you proud wherever you are would be my main reason.

I’ll close it in here. Not sure if you can even read this because you are no more and maybe your spirit lingers no more. The truth however is that suppose you were alive, I may still not have opened up this much to you but here I am sharing this piece of me with my readers.

I pray that you are resting in peace Baba, much as some things may have disturbed that peace if at all you have been watching. I pray that you can be easy with things. That you can rest easy because we are all still alive to figure things out. That you understand that apart is sometimes the best way to grow better.

For my thumbnail, is one of the photos that has me laughing or smiling whenever I see it. I cannot remember who took it, maybe Pascal… I also can’t remember the memory, but I love that we looked happy.

I MISS YOU

I was nine years old and extremely happy to have a baby sibling. I couldn’t wait to take care of the new addition to our family. It would be the perfect excuse to stay home and shower the baby with love, rather than fighting with them. I can’t recall if I knew the baby’s gender or if I ever guessed, but if I had a wish, it might have been for a girl. It seems strange now, considering I didn’t like being a girl myself back then.

I used to sit in a secluded spot, wearing my t-shirt and pedal pushers, with my back against the wall and my arms wrapped around one bent foot while the other lay flat on the ground. I eagerly anticipated the arrival of my baby sibling. There were rumors that my mom would go to the hospital, and my baby sister would come from heaven and return with her. It didn’t make much sense, but what mattered was that she would bring back a baby I could love on.

The term “pregnant” wasn’t part of my vocabulary, so I don’t recall any rumors about my mother expecting a child. During her pregnancies, I never remember seeing her with a grown belly. My sister, Heusnatt, probably remembers that, especially when she was carrying Darvin. She loved massaging the belly and feeling the baby kick. One would think that would create a strong bond, but shockingly, Heusnatt and Darvin were “sworn enemies” when they were babies.

The day finally arrived when mom went to the hospital and returned a few hours later with a beautiful baby girl we named Nicole. We had looked through a baby names book and selected both a girl’s and a boy’s name, but I can’t recall the boy’s name we chose.

Coming back from school to carry her, play with her, and watch her feed brought me immense joy. Many people visited to see her, but I didn’t recognize most of them, as I wasn’t good at remembering people I hadn’t interacted with frequently. I have never been. Not to date.

Nicole filled our lives with happiness, and we captured many precious moments with her through photographs. I remember a mini photoshoot we once did in the living room, a rare occasion when I wore a jean skirt and a red t-shirt, standing barefoot in front of the TV. The only people in the photo were our immediate family. If my memory serves me right, the people in the photo were Dad, Mum, Vincent, Pascal, Heusnatt, Nicole, and I. I recall the TV not being a flat screen but rather an older model with a “belly.” Though it was a beautiful moment, I can assure you I wasn’t smiling in that photo. Smiling wasn’t something I did ever as a young girl, except maybe in front of Heusnatt.

However, there came a tragic night when everything changed. Nicole passed away in my parents’ bedroom, just a few days after being discharged from the hospital following several days of ailing. Mum had just breastfed her to sleep, and the routine was to carry her on her shoulder until she burped, and then lay her down to sleep. That night, I had said good night to my family and pretended to sleep before we (Heusnatt and I) could sneak back to the sitting room to watch TV.

Suddenly, I heard mom screaming, and I rushed to her room. I saw some white foam coming from Nicole’s mouth. Dad urgently called for help from the neighbors, but the person who had promised to help had gone back to sleep. A stranger eventually arrived, but it was too late by then. They rushed Nicole to the hospital, but she was pronounced dead upon arrival.

Losing that beautiful baby girl left an emptiness I never imagined I could feel. I often found myself lost in thoughts, wondering how her life in heaven was and if she was as happy there as we were when she was with us. I remember singing Vanessa Carlton’s A thousand miles at her burial, and even now, the song fills me with nostalgia, taking me back to that moment when Heusnatt, my stepbrothers, and I sang the chorus on top of a lorry.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME

For the past few weeks, I have been unwell, braving through the days and trying to manage all symptoms without medication. In “FOR MY FIGHTERS,” I talk about my struggle with medication as I don’t like taking it.

I continue this non-medicinal approach for a couple of days until I can no longer bear it. Succumbing to the pain, I take a break to seek medication. I think to myself, “this is just going to hurt today, and tomorrow I’ll be up and running,” only to wake up as a disappointed soul that has tossed and turned all through the night, craving comfort and a painless sleep. Moreover, the prescribed medication brings about discomfort before allowing my gastrointestinal system a few hours of relief.

Sadly, my gastrointestinal system is not the only source of discomfort; my whole body is. So when my mind is not focused on the pain caused by the acid burning what I assume to be my stomach or the heartburn, it is concentrated on the itch my body feels. Tiny rashes have spread across my skin, starting from my stomach and continuing to my back. By the time I started using the prescribed medicinal cream, they had spread to my back. Now, they have extended to my neck, thighs, legs, and arms. I have even noticed a few on my face and occasionally feel some on my head, although I suspect those on my head are but in my head. Sometimes, when swallowing something, especially if it’s not hot, I feel an itch in my throat too.

Today, I noticed that my skin was lighter. Under other circumstances, I would have said ni pesa but not in Zakayo’s economy. I believe there is something more significant ailing me, hidden deep inside. It is highly likely related to my gastrointestinal system, although I can’t be certain. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe even the lighter skin I am seeing is a figment of my imagination. All I am sure of, as of now, is that I have mild stomach ulcers and I am not suffering from H. pylori infection. Additionally, this type of itch is usually associated with a change of soap, water, or occurs during the cold season. I have been trying to keep warm, and starting tomorrow, I will go back to using my usual soap.

I finished the prescribed medication tonight, about an hour ago; except for the cream whose effects I have not felt so far. While I am not in pain, the itch on my body is causing a lot of discomfort. I applied some more cream, but it did not help.

Tonight, I hated living alone. I wondered why I didn’t just go to my mom’s after work. After rubbing, rubbing, and scratching my thighs purple, I remembered the last time I had a similar itch. My father used heat to soothe the itch, and it worked. Therefore, I got out of bed, went to the kitchen, and prepared what I needed. I have burnt my body with heat and the itch has eased.

Now, I miss my grandfather. He was a herbalist. If he were still alive, he would have sent those herbs he used to send to my mom. We would have boiled them, and my mom would have covered me and the boiled herbs with a blanket (the learned call this steaming). I would have inhaled the steam and cleansed my body with the water when cooler. I would have woken up feeling well, without any itch on or in my body, and without a rash.

For now, I have managed the itch. I wish I had Piriton in the house. That way I would pop some of those pills and be confident to wake up no earlier than my alarm. As of now, I’ll only sleep until the itch is back. Then I will wake up to burn the rash patches with heat and get back to bed. Soon, it will be morning and I will ready myself for work and report to the office ready to serve this nation as the dedicated public servant that I am, or do they call us civil servants? Is there a difference?

ION, I had fun shooting the image on my thumbnail.

MY MOTHER

My mother.
My mother was trained by her mother who was trained by her mother to be a good wife
That wasn’t enough. My auntie took her in. Know what she did?
She trained her on how to keep her house and manage her household.

My mother.
My mother was a student, good as she was a teacher
A reliable woman with whom much was entrusted
As such, she taught me all that she was taught.

My mother.
My mother was smart. Very smart I dare say
She taught me all she could while I was still a child
That way, I would not depart from it when I grow old.

My mother.
My mother did abide by the book and failed to chase her dreams
I know it because every now and again she’ll talk about them
We, her children, are her joy and honour but she still had dreams.

My mother.
My mother has tried living her dreams through us
I know it because of how supportive she is of us
Each of us, her daughters, carries a piece and is pursuing something she wanted to.

My mother.
My mother is the strongest and most sacrificial I know
But sometimes I think she carries an emptiness and sadness
An emptiness and sadness her dreams could have filled and enraptured.

My mother.
My mother taught me a lot. Just not how to be happy
Today, I know a great deal about how to be happy. For, by, and with myself.
I hope to teach it to my mother, sisters, and maybe one day, my child/ren.

My mother.
My mother, I dare say, is a warrior. Trust her to fight on whatever day
One day, when I saw her broken, I broke too but had to put myself together to fight for her
I have never wanted to imagine a world without her. Not in my wildest dreams.