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DEAR MINI-HALFIES

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Dear mini-halfies,

Due to contigency purposes, I felt the need to address certain issues that are not too ephemeral to be discussed and analysed in accordance to the “parenting book.”

You need to know, if Twitter and Facebook still exists or maybe new social networks of your time have the ‘trend’ thingy, you will suffer the ordeal of trending #growingupwithstrictparents. See your aunts (your uncles’wives) say am the strict one. In my defence, I wanted your then little cousins to grow up true to themselves. This pretty much lets you know that if I was strict then, you guys stand absolutely no chance of having it easy.

Not to scare you guys or ‘hate’ on me for that matter, but to make you realize what you’re really made of.

I want you guys to grow up morally stable, have buckets full of self esteem and have complete faith on what you can be up against.I mean I would take kindness over smart any day any time, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be hard on you so you can be able to realize when someone needs you and when someone  uses you to accrue their needs. I would love for you guys to grow up with your own definition of personality and not what society makes you, because trust me when I tell you from my experience that she is one hypocritical and double standard bitch. She’ll tell you to be yourself and then judge you for it. So I want you to do what your gut and what your Deen says is right. (Praying hard I do good by you when it comes to your Deen and its teachings)

 

I will base this entire letter to you for when you’re a teenager to young adult period because it is the hardest of all phases of growth and development. I remember this one time your aunts,uncles and I pissed off dad so much while we were under his care so he went “Amma give each one of you an equal share of the estate and what you do with it will be non of my concern and do not look for me when you’re sucked dry.” So you get how serious shit becomes when we’re there.

 

I wanna raise you guys equally, without favoring any of you according to gender. And am not talking feminism, am talking equal chances and belief that you can pull of whatever you’re supposed to. Of course I will always be there to help out.

 

I wanna be there for you, you know how people say they wanna be bestfriends with their kids? I wanna be that too, but that does not mean I will let you do stuff just because you’ll  be mad at me. I wanna be that friend who’s older…I reckon you know how that works. I will not be upset that you find it easier to talk to your friend or even your dad (God bless that poor soul). I just want you to know that I will always be there for you…at all times.

 

Dear XY, you know how they say guys should man up…I don’t want you to hold back stuff just because you feel its a guy thing. There is no such thing as a guy thing when it comes to feelings, whether positive or negative. I want you to feel with every fibre of your being and act on them as wisely as it should be (Again, friendly reminder that I will always be there to help you sort out on your own terms with alittle help…two heads are better than one…or this case three…supposing your dad needs to be involved.)

 

I know we’d fight…and we’d fight alot because when you turn 13 or so and that voice of yours breaks and becomes the ugliest of all bass notes and your shoulders go all broad, you’d think for yourself that ‘you’re the man’. I want you to keep in mind that to me you’re still that little boy I spent nights nursing because dammit you lots’ immunity is as low whatever you can take for a simile…and if need be amma scruff you by your collar like a cat does it’s kitten and lead you back to your room so you figure your shit out and set it straight. You will not get an upper hand or the advantage over your sister(s) and that just because you’re male, you dominate the household or will have an excess of the freedom allowed. I will try my best to raise you and your sisters to be equally responsible to your actions.

I know I cannot talk much about you, because norms depict that you’re your dad’s responsibility. I, however would like to tell you that you can come to me when something is off and not working out. Like I said before about manning up. I don’t care what ‘the male code’ dictates…I want you to talk to me about how Math and Physics are not your favorite subjects and how painting or writing gives you the serenity your heart and soul needs. I want to be there for you when that girl you like friend zones you or she breaks your heart by cheating on you. (I pray I would’ve done good by you so you know your priorities…but this is an unavoidable phase you’ll pass anyway.) And when this phase reaches, I want you to tell your testosterone levels to take down a notch. I would not want to find out you played someone’s daughter and made her literally feel like someone is shovelling out her heart. I would want you to honour girls….because reflect on where you came from. I wanna instil in you the knowledge that a lady is far more superior to you in all aspects except perhaps BMR and body builds. I want to teach you to be humble and not be lied to by the fact that gender is basing you superior. I want to teach you nobility and load you with respect to anyone and everyone. I want you to be the  son and the brother your sibling(s), your dad and I will be proud of. I want you to grow up being able to act wisely and use your brain and sometimes heart where need be. Trust me when I say you will clash alot with your dad, and probably feel misunderstood; and out of rage and spite you’d want to get back at him. My brothers used to keep their hair to weird levels or go shave weird and dad would be so mad he would tell mum “zungumza na mwanao, mwambie staki kumuona ndani ya nyumba yangu with that haircut.”(???) See that’s our predicament. Us women are that unlucky…when you guys turn out good…you’re your dad’s boys…and when it’s the other way around…it’s the mother’s boys and fault the boys turned that way. I want you to know how to work on the issues…I am 80% sure you’d not want to discuss stuff with me because “moooom it’s gross.” I just need you to know you can talk to me about it. I will try giving you a hint here…if you’re  probably too embarrassed to ask…just ask anyway…instead use a third party or ask in hypothetical sense. Or find another way to ask me to talk to you about it. ( I know you’re a smart kid, and you will get the message delivered.) I do not want to overtake your dad’s responsibility or share on how to teach you stuff. I just want you to know that I will help you whenever there’s a fog of tension between you two. I promise to sit us both down and talk and smooth issues over. No judgements no blaming whatsoever. We would both accept and own up to our mistakes and apologize where necessary.

 

Dear XX, apparently norm and culture has it that you’re to be raised in an uptight lifestyle. I hope and pray that I would’ve done good by you on Deen too so you know when and when not to act impulsively. I will tell you one thing, Your grandfather, we grew up almost unable to differentiate whether it was respect or fear we had for him. Am not saying he was a bad person, he was sooo great I spent half the time wishing and praying I got a husband like him (No offence XY snr if you didn’t turn out like him…you’re probably greater than him.) My dad, he used to be strict and very opinionated sometimes, like he would say he’s letting you speak up your terms when you argue about something, but do what he feels like because it’s right. I know in his perspective it was, and so help us God it could be he was right and I was wrong, but I promise I would back you up on what we agree to agree on or agree to disagree on. Again about equal chances with your brother(s)….I will try hard to keep my word. I will not judge you by “your dressing is immoral because your bra strap is showing or your head scarf is off the scale and let his boxer be seen because he decided he’ll pull his trouser ‘a little down’ or put on a t-shirt sooo tight it makes his chest cavity suffocated….(none of you are doing this under my watch btw, or whatever would be trappily trendy in your generation) Or let him have a girlfriend and then be up my sleeve when you have a crush on this cute guy from school or Madrasa and want to pursue him. (Again I pray that I would’ve done good by you when it comes to Deen. May Allah make it easy for both of us)

 

Sometimes I feel bad for you because your grandmother and I were soo close. We would talk from boys to life, to how I felt that she was being mean or hard on me . (This does not mean there were times we did not have heated arguments that lead to me shutting the door and blast my phone high up on  music.) You know how you have an argument and when it’s over you wish you should’ve said something ‘better’ as a comeback? She used to come back waaaaay after the “war” was over and start from A. Sometimes you just let her talk, vent out…so you just say ‘ma…sema audhubillah…or sometimes I would go with ‘oe cheki ma, me naenda zangu…ukijiskia ushacool call me’ and that automatically shut her up. When we didn’t get along (for one reason or another) I complained alot to my late aunty Zou (‘O Allaah, forgive and have mercy upon her, excuse her and pardon her, and make honorable her reception. Expand her entry, and cleanse her with water, snow, and ice, and purify her of sin as a white robe is purified of filth. Exchange her home for a better home, and her family for a better family, and her spouse for a better spouse. Admit her into the Garden, protect her from the punishment of the grave and the torment of the Fire.’ Ameen) and she used to tell me mzoee/muelewe mama…she’s getting old…and she used to tell me stories of how she felt way back on how mom treated her because she was basically raised by her; and she would tell me that it was for my own good because “look how great I turned into” Enough about the bad sides yeah? Because if I am to count, the best of my memories includ mom in them. And I love her alot for her existence. I pray I become a better mother to you.

 

I know there is going to be a time your friends will seem to understand you more than any one of us in the house. You will probably have fights with me. It could be something as trivial as not leaving the dirty clothes in the laundry basket, or as huge as you skipping classes because your favourite artist is in town. (I hope we never get there.) We could fight endlessly but at the end of the day I want to be the one you wanna talk it out with. There are probably times when you’re all grown up and start falling for guys. I will not judge you for it, because it’s a normal thing. I know you’d go lengths to pursue your feelings. Fine too but please be cautious. I know you’d deny it when I will confront you about it, for reasons you know best. (I know it could be because you’re afraid am gonna take away your electronics or stalk you or whatever method parents will be using then but i want you to know, I will be there for you. P.S I know I will totally disapprove you getting into a relationship, I don’t even need to sugar coat it but we will work it out together and resolve it to the best way possible) When it happens and doesn’t work out as planned, say this guy you sort of like did something to hurt you and you’re too proud to talk to me because you know I will obviously hit you with the mother of all I TOLD YOU SO’s…I want you to know that I will not let you cry yourself to sleep. I will let you cry, but I will also be there ready to take you out for ice-cream or whatever junk that will make you feel better.

I know you’ll have friends, and you will probably have get togethers or need to ‘chill’ and get those squad selfies because squad goals? Yeah… I want you to know that there are times I will tell you no, and I would expect you to accept and cooperate. Okay? If you ask me why I will not tell you it’s because you’ve gone out alot lately, but you will have to have earned the permission. Take it like positive and negative conditioning….where one gets rewarded for something or gets their rewards taken away for a wrong they did or a right they did not do. Again I know we will fight alot here but it is what it is. Hail Sigmund Freud! (Don’t worry, this will serve both you and XY)

Still on the fights between you and I, I want us both, after a time out and each of us has had their clarity and sanity back to face and own up to our mistakes. We would both or one of us say something hurtful to the other. I want us to work it out together. Please do not walk out on me when we’re in between an argument. Please lets consider and reverse the situations. I know I will give you the chance to speak out your mind and we can even point out each others mistakes (Tactics on the how to will come when the need be.) I want us to have a family where no ones opinion is undermined or stepped on or considered irrelevant. There are times I am probably going to be the hugest pain in the butt and even my breathing near you would be so annoying, I want you to know those are just hormones. You’d probably be wondering why I am stressing so much on fights…this is because I have had a share of living with my parents, and when I complained because I felt misunderstood Fatma( I hope and pray you get to meet her…amazing lady…God bless her) would tell me after giving birth to your own child, you get to see life in your mom’s eyes and you’d never wish to say or do anything to hurt her feelings. This sort of seeped through and I tried hard when we argued with mom to try to understand her…but sometimes shit happens and you just get out of control. I wanna let you know that you would not know this by then and God knows I did not know anything about mothering when I wrote you this letter, but I hope our fights will not escalate to points where you’d wanna leave and be somewhere without your family. Because I love you that much. Even if I did not say it when we were fighting. I would not want to make you cry or you me…because I am not sure if there’s ever coming back from that. I remember one day mum said/did something that I felt so hurt by it I ended up saying wallahy sikusamehi…I immediately regretted saying that because there was that pained look on her face. It was soooo down and deep it made me want to turn back time and take back my words but Alas! God knows she probably would’ve given anything for me to say I didn’t mean it and by God I did(mean it at that moment); but it was too little too late. So yes…I would like for us to measure our words and be cautious of what we throw at each other.

 

I wanna teach you both to live by your Deen and follow rasoul’s teachings. I don’t know alot of stuff but I know some stuff…and I would want you to learn from me and your dad. I wanna be the mother you mini-halfies would be proud to have. I wanna teach you so many things that if I were to count I would probably bore you to the core, but I want us to teach us all the things and everything we know. But most of all I wanna teach you to be your true self.  This lady on Instagram (@nikitagill) I like once wrote about colors and she went ahead and wrote “This world isn’t made of shades of gray. It is made of colors like azure and coral and emerald and marigold, but it insists on painting everything in black and white and fitting it into boxes that it understands. Do not do that to yourself. Paint your personality a million different colors. Leave them scratching their heads, unsure of how to handle the magic that you are.” It is okay to be weird or odd or depressed or schizoic or introverted,to be happy, sensitive, meek and all other adjectives that are deemed unnormal by society because it means you’re human and a classic one because the rest are all basic. It means you can feel and that is all that is important and matters. I will tell you while growing up I was different. I still am but that did not make me live up to people’s expectations, because at the end of the day they will still judge you; and since that b#$ch judges your character and personality by your parents-and not considering in mind that you guys probably spend many hours away from us-I give you guys permission to be whatever you want. I want you to be shy but bold, to be quiet but at the same time speak up, to be feeble but by all means courageous all the way and to never let any muģgle put you dow; because darlings, you’re the incomprehendable galaxy in the universe that is my life. I wanna teach you guys all the rhymes, read books to you (doesn’t matter religious or otherwise)play board games or weird games I got on TV shows like ‘Pictionary’ or ‘I spy with my little eye’. I know there is a time you guys will grow up and everything we used to do together will feel childish, but I want you to remember that it is what brought us together in the first place. I do not want you kids to drift away from me your dad and among yourselves and seek solace in friends and get safe havens that do not include me and/or your dad and sibling(s). I mean I get why you would want friends…but I want you to know that I will always be there when you come back from that rough phase you had to encounter and I promise to work it out together. I love you. I have loved you even before I was sure I was gonna have you, but that’s not the point. I want this letter to be a reminder to me too. I want it to be a reminder of how I longed for you. I want it to be a reminder for me, for when I am about to give up on you guys.( I pray we don’t get there…Allahumma Ameen). I want it to be a reminder to you, that if we ever have a fight and you wanna give up on me…remember I thought of this way before I even met the guy you call dad and wrote you this way before I got married to the guy you call dad. I want you to know that I was once your age…and I probably went through this phase rougher than you because I perhaps never got to work things out with my parents. I want you to know that I was afraid for you. Still am. It is a maternal feeling and I sort of know this because God let me witness what parenting is all about with your cousins before I got to have you guys. I want to let you know that there is nothing I won’t do to see you happy (obviously you misbehaving while at it doesn’t count). And last but not least…and probably the most important of all things, I wanna leave you with this hadith

ﺃﻛﺜﺮ ﻣﺎ ﻳﺪﺧﻞ ﺍﻟﺠﻨﺔ ﺗﻘﻮﻯ ﺍﻟﻠﻪ ﻭﺣﺴﻦ ﺍﻟﺨﻠﻖ

I want you to live by this hadith…or at least try your very best to live up to this hadith…because Jannah is our final destination. May Allah re-unite us all in Jannah.

 

 

Lots of Love,

MOM

(Yeah I know at this age you’d probably be tired of all my “nagging and constant rants” you’d be calling me “birthgiver” well guess what….I am okay with whatever makes you feel great about yourself ?)

P.S I love you alot and may Allah be with you throughout???

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LEO TANENA KWELI #2

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Mwandishi:Sultan Karama Maji Male (kero)

 

1. Taanda kumswifu, Rabi mola Jalali
Thumma swalatu alifu, zimfikie rasuli
Na swahabaze ashirafu, kina Ali na Bilali
Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walooana?
2. Japo damu huchemka, tumeamua kutulia
Sio kuwa tunataka, kumuasi Jalia
Ila mambo kadhalika, mangi yanotufikia
Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walooana?
3. Mwaogopa ya duniani, ndilo la muhimu sana
Hebu pima fikirani, ndo mwamuudhi Rabana
Eti kisa tu chuoni, hatufai kuoana
Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walooana?
4. Tumechoka kuzini, vijana tumetubia
Tumerudi ibadani, kwa Mola wetu Jalia
Tuoneeni imani, vijana twawalilia
Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walooana?
5. Na la kuzingatia, hamukosi kwa Rabana
Kwenye kutusaidia, tunapo kwaruzana
Tapungua na udhia, hilo fahamu sana
Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walooana?
6. Beti sita nimetimu, naweka kalamu chini
Rabi ndiwe ni hakimu, uhukumuo Manani
Vijana tunalaumu, wakutusikiza ni nani?
Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walooana?

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THE CIRCLE

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Poem by: Ahmed Shayo

 

I have a circle.

A small circle.

And as i grow, it diminishes more & more,,

Devoured by the wounds that tattoo eerie sketches of a forgotten past.

The circle ages like the sons of Adam,

And like mortal men

It writhes and shivers and curls up in a knot

As the heart grows colder.

.

.

I have a  circle,

A sort of small circle.

Its diameter smiles in the warm breeze of joy,

Parting the seals of its lips,

And laughs at the threats of the sun setting down,

Knowing well that the moon will invade its sleep

And steal its light,

And wear it like a ski-mask in the shadowy blizzard of night.

And once in a while,

It swells a little larger.

.

.

I have a circle.

Not a big one,

But big enough to let love inside.

And I let it grow from the little seedlings that hide in the cover of soil & rock,

Into a tree that bears fruits and shelters dwellers of the earth below

And emperors of the sky above.

And in an instant,

I outgrow my small circle

And I find my self at the edge of the circumference,

On a precipice that threatens to exile me from the touch of mortal bliss.

.

.

I have a circle.

And its purpose is to keep me inside it,

To lock me out from the thorns of despair,

Hopelessness,

Sorrow,

And the pale faces of pain that haunt the lives of men even after death.

I have a small circle,

But the things i want suffocate the things i have

And more than once

My desires wrung the thorned rope round my neck,

Squeezing air out my lungs,

Tightening the circle into the device of my demise,

And once after a long while,

I have no circle.

& all that is left is the familiar sensation

Of being alone

 

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LEO TANENA KWELI

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 LEO TANENA KWELI

Mwandishi: Fafi

Picha: http://www.thedigestonline.com/

 

Leo tanena kweli, yaliyo mwangu moyoni

Siezi kustahimili, niyafiche kwanini?

Enyi wazazi wawili, nisikilizeni kwa makini

Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walio oana?

 

Mumetupeka shuleni, chuo kikuu hususani

Twashukuru kwa yakini, ila tupo matatani

Mumetutia mitihanini, hisia zetu kutozibaini

Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walio oana?

 

Hakika huku chuoni, ni wake kwa waume ndani

Twajizuia chanzo dini, si rahisi mnavyodhani

Tutafunga tusizini, ila tutafunga mpaka lini?

Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walio oana?

 

Mnaogopa ya duniani, walasio ya akherani

Miaka yetu ya ishirini, damu iko motoni

Leo niko masomoni, kesho nina mwana tumboni

Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walio oana?

 

Muhimu kuwaozesha, wale waloridhiana

Ikiwa huba lawakimbisha, msikae kuwakana

Msidhani hawana hisia, si magogo wala spana

Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walio oana?

 

Ni vyema kuwaangalia, japo uwezo hawana

Wawezapo watajisaidia, muhimu kuvumiliana

Tueleweni nawalilia, tumridhishe wetu Rabbana

Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walio oana?

 

Tamati nimefikia, hoja yangu nimewaachia

Ni mengi ya kusikitikia, hayasemeki nawaambia

Lau mutazingatia, dhambi mtatupunguzia

Kuna ubaya gani, kuwaangalia walio oana?

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Creative Fiction

SAFARI YA MBINGUNI (SEHEMU YA 4)

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Mwandishi: Mtoto wa Katama

 

“Kesha pagawa! Wallahi ameshakuwa chizi, lakini ole wake akili zikimarudia atatulipa biashara zetu sote” nyuma sauti ziliskika zikilaani kwa hasira. Lakini Khamisi hakuwa na shida nao, ni umbea wao tu uliowachongea, yaani hivi ukiona mtu akija mbio na panga na nyinyi eti mnaamua kukimbia….eti ehh?  Swali hilo. Yaani mnakurupuka tu ovyoo! Na kujijeruhi na kusababisha hasara biashara zenu…kwani hamjawahi kuona wamasaai wakizunguka na sime zao viunoni? Na wala hamjawahi kukimbia, bivi leo mnamuonea ajabu Khamisi. Khamisi naye yeye alikuwa anakimbizwa na ajenda zake, mbio zote hizo alikuwa akielekea kwa ami zake.

 

“Mamake Zeituni hivi umemuona Khamisi!” mamake Khamisi aliuliza kwa mshangao, baada kuona mlango wa chumbani mwake uko wazi na sio jambo la kawaida. “Huyo fedhuli wako bangi zimemparamia! naskia anafukuza watu na mapanga huko nje” akajibu kwa jeuri, “uliskia watu wanazaa na wewe ukazaa! Utakoma this time!” Akazidi kuleta kejeli na kumsazaa mwenziwe “subiri kuitiwa mzoga, maana waja hawatambakisha”.

 

Maneno hayo yalizidi kumkang’anya na kumtia wasiwasi mamake Khamisi hata mwili ukamuisha nguvu na kushindwa kujibu, ila alisimama na kutafakari maneno yale, “hivi kweli anamuongelelea Khamisi ama naye keshapigwa puza”. Maana alimjua mwanawe Khamisi kijana mpole sana hivi leo alfu ulela za kuzunguka na mapanga wapi na wapi na Khamisi. Moja jumlisha moja haikuleta mbili kwake kabisa, aliingia chumbani na kuangalia taswira mle ndani, kile kimya kilichokuwa mle ndani kilikinzana na fikra zake, maana akili yake ilikuwa fikra za ghasi tu. Mboni zake ‘zikaangukia’ kwenye albamu lile, kurasa iliyokuwa wazi ni ya marehemu mumewe. Akasogea na kulichukua albamu lile, akatazama kwa uzuri na makini ile picha utadhani anajaribu kuleta kumbukumbu za kumfahamu aliyekuwa katika picha ile. Wajihi ulikuwa umebadilika teyari! Kiwingu cha majonzi kikampa kivuli, akajifikicha macho na kanga yake aliyokuwa amejitanda mabegani. Akavuta pumzi polepole ya kutuliza kichwa na akafunga albamu lile chap! chap! na kufungua kabati na kutoa kanga nyengine ya kujitanda kichwani, kanda mbili mguuni, akavuta mlango na kutia komeo. Fyuuuup! Na kutoka haraka, kutokomea.

 

Umati ulianza kufurika kwa haraka! Kila mtu aling’ang’ania kupata sehemu nzuri ya kusimama ili kujionea matokeo ya bure. Kweli limbukeni hana siri! kama ibada zingekuwa zinajazwa kwa mtindo huu! wala Mola asingetuletea maafa yeyote na riziki zingekuwa kwa wingi. Wenyewe wanasema uswahilini hakuna dogo, madogo hufanyika uzunguni. Kila anayefika pale alitaka kujua kilichokuwa kinajiri, ila majibu sasa yalitegemea na pahali ulipokuwa umesimamia. Habari zilizotoka kwa ‘wapambe’ waliokuwa mbele ya tukio hazikushahabiana na zile zilizokuwa zikipeperushwa kwa wale waliokuwa nyuma. Kila zilipowafikia waliokuwa nyuma zilikuwa tata zaidi kila mmoja ‘aliongeza chumvi’ kwa kiasi alichokipenda yeye. “Eti naskia kuna jini limeingia mle ndani” mmoja aliropokwa, mwengine akamkata juu kwa juu “sio jini babu ehh! ni joka kubwa limo humo ndani”. Sasa hio ndio ilikuwa hali halisi ya uswahilini, wanahabari wengi walishafutwa kazi kwa kuchukua habari za wanakijiji bila kuzihakikisha mchipuko wake. Mara kidogo kamsa zilisikika “usiniuwe mi toka nikutoke wa mzee wako, mbona watafuta laana mtoto wewe!”. “Kwani nitaanza kuzipata mimi, we bora nikupeleke jongomeo”. Umati ukazidi kupigwa na butwaa! Maana zile habari za awali za majini na nyoka hazikuonekana kuwa na ukweli wowote kutokana na magombano waliyoyaskia.

Fujo ziliendelea mle ndani, kweli mapambano yalikuwa yamechacha  vyombo vilisikika vikianguka. Watu nao nje hamu na hamumu ziliwazidi kila mayoye yalipozidi. Waliamua wasingeweza kukosa uhondo wote huo, maana milango na madirisha yalikuwa yamefungwa yote na hawakupata kuona lolote. Jagina moja likatokea ili ‘kutafuta suluhu’ na kusukuma watu nyuma, akaanza kuonesha madoido kwa kukaza misuli yake ya mikononi. Watu walimshangilia na kumtia mori, akajawa na ushujaa akaja mbio kwa fujo, na kupita na mlango wa nje kwa bega lake. Naye kweli alikuwa na nguvuze, ule mlango kuuvunja kwa kishindo kimoja ni jambo la kupewa kongole kwa kazi nzuri aliyoifanya.  Naye ‘ushujaa’ ule ulikuja na gharama alianguka kwa kishindo ukumbini na kujipiga na meza. Maskini ya Mungu! Alilia kama kitoto kidogo, bega lilikuwa khalas! tayari lilikuwa limevunjika. Watu wakaanza kumiminika kuingia mle ndani, hata hawakudiriki kumpa usaidizi wa kwanza ‘shujaa’ wao aliyewavunjia mlango. Walimuacha akigaragara chini na kumruka bila hata ya kumjali na lolote. Punde si punde kila mtu alionekana akikimbilia kutoka nje. Mlango ukageuka ‘mdogo’ watu waliparamiana na kusukumana ili wapate nafasi ya kuregea walipotokea. Vilio viliskika tu sana kwa wingi,na wale waliokuwa nje walishindwa kwa nini wenzi wao wanaregea tena kwa kishindo. “Anakuja tayari kashamaliza huko ndani”………………….

 

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Creative Non-Fiction

DISTORTED AS EVER

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Photo Courtesy: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/

By: ‘Mtoto wa Katama’

I remember when I was young, I was a penchant for the history of the world. Tales of ‘great men’, colonizers, freedom fighters, wars, politicians so on and so forth. If it wasn’t for the skewed education system in my country, probably right now I would be ‘languishing’ in the department of history in a university somewhere in the world. My love for history and how society came to be was greatly influenced by my father. A confusing character I must say, I would be convinced if someone confronted me and told me that my father lived a double life. He was an introvert by nature, and you could probably tell he had a ‘blast’ during his teen years, the endless stories of how he was the ‘coolest teen’ among his entourage. Yes, he had an entourage and one of my uncles who happened to be Mr. Kenya was part of his crew, and you can imagine the crew back in the 60’s.

Back to the endless stories, my father would narrate to me about the world war 1 and the sequel of it, and how Africans fought in the two wars which had nothing to do with them, imagine being ‘kidnapped’ a thousand miles away from your family, in the middle of nowhere standing with a rifle being ordered by someone who considers you his ‘subject’ to fight for your ‘freedom’. My father would just make you look stupid by asking you questions randomly in between the narrating like who Otto von Bismarck was, and while your just wondering trying to figure who the hell the guy was, he would pump you with ‘intel’ about the guy he just mentioned and heartily would sympathize with himself for paying school for a person who didn’t know who Otto van Bismarck was, but deep in my heart I knew he was doing all of that on purpose and probably found joy in making people look stupid by claiming that he is all knowing.

I remember this one time I was watching television with him, and all of a sudden a reggae music concert is aired on the television. My father with a lot of confidence he said that he knew the reggae artists, and they came from Taita Taveta, a local town just kilometers away from the city of Mombasa and that the television guys were not being honest for claiming that the guys came all the way from Jamaica. And there after he gave us a proper ‘lecture’ about fraud in the music industry during the yester years and how he gave a local promoter a beating of his life for failing to bring a Congolese artist after luring him to buy tickets for the whole of his crew for the concert and brought a quack artist, I can definitely picture what the guy went through, believe me when I say it was horrible. Later I came to found out through my brother who was an adherent fan of ‘Rastafarians’ who later was given the option to be a Muslim or Rastafarian after my father found that Rastafarianism was indeed a religion practiced by native Ethiopians that indeed the reggae artists truly came all the way from Jamaica but my father would not concede defeat and kept on to his word and even went further to claim that he even knew each artist and their whole clan. And that was my first disappointment with my first history teacher.

Through the years I came to learn that never learn about history through the society including my father but rather through the lenses of the society. This was evident in the history that I learnt in school about my country, its founding fathers, its heritage, its people and if I were to keep that and probably claim to be ‘educated’ I would have end up to be the greatest fool of all time but I hear they don’t give awards for that title. One thing I came to learn is that every society ‘sanitizes’ its own history according to its own political ambition and even betraying its own, I am not saying that we should not learn history from our own communities but rather we should hold its contents with a question mark and not subject it to total credence. Because overtime we have come to learn true ‘history’ after being fools for many years. Like back in junior school, we were taught to believe in that the Mau Mau literary fought the colonial masters and defeated them and such we became a free country, leading to our independence. With all the due respect to Mau Mau for their courage and valor, they were part of the struggle of the dream to liberate themselves and they paid it with blood, sweat and tears. A price so heavy that when we never taught in schools how they paid it in order to be politically correct and preserve diplomatic ties with your former ‘master’. I came to learn of the British transgressions after the former Mau Mau remaining members chose to sue the British government for damages and demanding recognition of the transgression, they were not able to mount a criminal case per say since the claimed transgressors who were acting under the orders of the Kingdom which is still in existence were not alive. I was overwhelmed with sadness for days, after reading through the atrocities committed especially against the women. But one thing that should not obscure our minds is what really happened, during the 60’s and the activities that lead to our independence.

During the early 60’s many African countries were gaining independence and it was by design, like in Kenya that transition was well organized and ‘peaceful’, it was a wave of independence glaring over Africa especially for the so called ‘African nationalists ‘who some neither never participated in any warfare but rather had the privilege to be learned others even in some foreign countries and assumed the realm of power. If Mau Mau so called ‘guerrilla warfare’ was solely responsible for the gaining of independence, why didn’t some of their ‘field Marshalls’ assume positions of power not even a single Mau Mau freedom fighters that I know of came even near to an influential post in the post-colonial  government. It was because Mau Mau was not a nationalist movement but rather an ethnic block which mainly constituted of ethnic Kikuyus and they had harbored no nationalist’s ideologies, their only agitation was to get their ‘fertile’ lands and protest their economic deprivation. Let alone the British, the Mau Mau never came near to defeat the home guards who were mostly Kikuyus and some even considered to be more ruthless than the white colonizers. Their uprising was short-lived and what followed was inhumane crackdown on Mau Mau followers which led to the arrests and detention of many ethnic Kikuyus which some other central and lower eastern tribes. With the continued state of emergency and ruthless crackdown some high profile Mau Mau leaders came out of hiding with the lure that they will be granted amnesty only to be arrested and executed after flawed court hearings.

By the time Kenya was gaining independence through ‘political goodwill’ from the colonial master, some remnants of Mau Mau were still hiding in the bushes not fighting but rather escaping arbitrary arrest and execution. And only after the assurance by the ‘founding’ father that they will be granted amnesty and a promise of having their land back which was the initial reason for uprising, they came out of hiding, and had ‘stints’ with the founding father and after a while their joy was short-lived, even the founding father held them with suspicion and did not want them in any process of engineering the country through self-rule. The questions to ask are if the Mau Mau uprising solely led to the independence of our country? And if yes, why did they come out ‘weaker’ from the bushes unlike other popular uprisings?  Like the Spanish and Napoleonic wars, with the likes of Simon Bolivar. If the Mau Mau were the political factor that lead to lead to self-rule, why did they become political weaker after independence.

The only reason why the Mau Mau were recognized was to hide the shame of the ethnic community which has already produce three presidents and hundreds of influential political leaders, they ‘sanitized’ their own history of betraying the Mau Mau and accorded them statues like Dedan Kimathi and a national holiday called ‘Mashujaa Day’. And forcing millions of Kenya through our education curriculum to learn that our independence was literary fought with armed resistance until we ‘defeated’ the British colony blinding the descendants of Mau Mau that their fathers and grandfathers blood was not spill in vain while they still languish in poverty. The British were so ‘defeated’ by the Mau Mau and thus leading them to ‘humbly’ invite our nationalists leader, the likes of Jomo Kenyatta, Oginga Odinga to the Lancaster house to discuss how they will approach self-govern. It would have made more sense if the representatives in the Lancaster house were the Mau Mau leaders. Long live the Mau Mau for standing and fighting for your land as and being heroes for your own communities. Your struggle shall never be forgotten and never be ‘sanitized’ to fit the political will of those who betrayed you.

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Creative Fiction

SAFARI YA MBINGUNI (sehemu ya 3)

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Mwandishi: Mtoto Wa Katama

Mara Khamisi alitulia kwa ghafla baada ya kufungua kurasa nyengine ya albamu lile, akasita kwa muda, macho yakawa mazito na machozi kuanza kumlengalenga. Akawa baridi na ukiwa ukamtawala kwa ghafla, akajiona mnyonge ajaabu na kufunga albamu na baadaye kulifungua tena. Picha iliyofuatia ilikuwa ni ya marehemu babake. Ni miaka kumi imepita tangu kumpoteza babake katika ajali ya barabarani iliyonaswa na vyombo vya habari karibia vyote. Taarifa za kifo cha babake zilimpa mshtuko zaidi nina yake aliyekuwa mtegemezi zaidi, hakujua angeanzia. Baba Khamisi ndiye alikuwa anatarazaki pekee yake. Tena Baba Khamisi shughli zake zilikuwa nadhif kabisa, alisifika kwa kufanya adala baina ya watu na zaidi kwenye shughuli zake za kila siku. Lakini kinaya kilikuwa ni madhila na unyanyasaji mamake Khamisi aliyopitia kutokana na nduguze mumewe. Haya yote Khamisi aliyaelewa kabisaa na alikuwa ameweka nadhiri kitambo ya kupanga kisasi.

Njia mbili za machozi zilibubujika kama mtoto mdogo, kile ambacho hakuelewa zaidi ni watu alowaita ami zake kuwageuka bila hata huruma na kuwaonyesha unyama wa aina ya mwisho, akajiuliza hivi kweli damu ina uzito wowote? Anaikumbuka vizuri ile siku aliposhuka eda mamake kulikuwa na timbwili la aina yake. Ami zake walikuja na kupiga wanawake kisaramgambo waliokuja kumfariji mamake Khamisi,  walijaza nyumba ya kina Khamisi na umati ili kushuhudia tafarani waliyoileta ya kugombea hati miliki za ardhi za marehemu babake. Mama kwa unyonge akaona yote ya nini haya alijionea aepukane na balaa zote na kuwaachia waondoke na stakabadhi hizo muhimu karatasi. Zegere lote hilo likitokea ndio mwanzo kuanza kubaleghe na angejiletea ‘laana’ tu! Bure kwa kuingililia mgogoro ule wa watu wazima, lake likawa ni jicho. Albamu lile lilizidi  kumkumbusha mavi ya kale, kweli hayaachi kunuka! Fikra mpya zikamjia “mimi nishakuwa rijali sasa, na nina haki ya kurithi alichoacha marehemu babangu” alijinong’oneza.

Ari ya kulipiza kisasi ikazidi kumtawala, machozi nayo yakazidi kumdondoka, roho nayo ikafungama na kujisokota na machungu ya miaka yote ile. Mwili nao ukawa unatetema na kusisimka, utasema kapigiwa ngoma za kula nyama mfu za wachawi kilingeni. Akaanza kuguna na kunguruma kama simba, sasa mwili ulizidi kutetemeka utasema zezeta yaani kiufupi mwili mzima ulikuwa chini ya ‘milki’ mpya, mara ghafla akaanza kupiga nduru “ Uwiiii Leo nauwa babu, natamani harufu ya damu sana” akapayuka payuka huku mate yakimdondoka. Yallahu yalamu, mizimu ya kwao ilikuwa ishaenuka, nani atakayemrudisha chini? Wenyewe husema yakwao yakienuka hata kwa lifti hayashuki. Aliinama na kuchochomeza mkono katika mojawapo ya tendegu la kitanda, baada ya kupapasa alichomoa sime Enhe! Kwa kweli kilikuwa kimeumana aisee! Pyuu! Aliponyoka tu utadhani panya aliyejinasua katika mtego baada ya mrefu wa kukata tamaa na maisha , hata mlango aliuacha wazi ng’waa wote alisahau mle ndani kulikuwa na ‘uhai’ wao wote, japo vitu vilivyokuwa ndani havikuwa na thamani sana lakini ndivyo vilivyowatunza na urathi waliobaki nao pekee. Haswa haswa dhahabu za mamake mara nyingi alishayeyusha vipande kwa sonara ili kukidhi mahitaji ya nyumbani. Mara nyingi aliepuka mialiko ya harusi za uswahilini kwa kukosa herini na bangili, aliogopa kuwa ‘topiki’ ya mtaani, sababu ya kuyeyusha vito vyake ni, wakati mwengine huja kipindi ikawa hana chochote kabsaa sasa na inambidi akate pua ili aunge wajihi. Wajihi ambao ni akina Khamisi na ndunguze, wajihi ambao Khamisi alikuwa anaenda kuuharibu licha ya matatizo aliyopitia mamake mzazi.

“ Uwiiii! Jamani huyo chungeni ana silaha. Atamwaga damu” kamsa zilisikika kutoka kila sehemu, kila mtu alikimbia njia yake kuokoa roho yake,barabara ikaleta taswira ya Rwanda watutsi wakiwakimbia wahutu, wazungu wenyewe wangesema ‘running for your dear life’. Wale waliokuwa barabarani wakiuza bidhaa zao waliziacha na kutokomea wasijulikane wanakokimbilia ililkuwa ni tafarani moja kwa mbili, wengine walijikung’waa na kuanguka, mmoja alijipata akiogelea katika sufuria la uji wa ngano moto, Lo! Alishaharibia watu kiburudisho chao cha muda wa baada ya alasiri bora hata angeangukia kwengine na kujifia. Hivi watu wote wakapati wapi sharubati ya kushukishia viazi vya karai. Ila mchezo kando yale matukio yaliyokuwa yakiendelea pale yalikuwa ni ya mguu niponye, utasema kila mtu anakimbilia hukumu yake ya siku ya kiyama baada ya parapanda kupigwa na malaika Israfil . Mara Khamisi akapita mbio katika barabara ile na kushika uchochoro mwengine, jambo hilo lilimtia wasiwasi zaidi huyo aliyemtangulia katika kichochoro hiko, kosa lake kubwa kuaachana na wenzake na kuamua kukimbia peke yake na wenziwe kuchukua njia nyengine. Sasa hapo ndio muda wa kujilaani na kujijutua kuachana na wenzio maana waswahili husema kifo cha wengi ni harusi, hivi yahkhe leo anajiona akitolewa roho pekee yake. “Kesha pagawa! Wallahi ameshakuwa chizi, lakini ole wake akili zikimarudia atatulipa biashara zetu sote” nyuma sauti ziliskika zikilaani kwa hasira. Lakini Khamisi hakuwa na shida nao, ni umbea wao tu uliowachongea, yaani hivi ukiona mtu akija mbio na panga na nyinyi eti mnaamua kukimbia….eti ehh?  Swali hilo. Yaani mnakurupuka tu ovyoo! Na kujijeruhi na kusababisha hasara biashara zenu…kwani hamjawahi kuona wamasaai wakizunguka na sime zao viunoni? Na wala hamjawahi kukimbia, hivi leo mnamuonea ajabu Khamisi. Khamisi naye yeye alikuwa anakimbizwa na ajenda zake, mbio zote hizo alikuwa akieleke akwa ami zake…………………

 

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Coast & Culture

A ‘SIMPLE’ SWAHILI WEDDING

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By: Imran Abdallah Said

Photo courtesy: http://blackgirllonghair.com/

 

A word of caution for non-Swahili speakers, the Swahili-English translations used in this writing are as primitive as they could get, both for comic reasons and because Swahili is awesome. Learn it so I wont have to translate next time.

 

Deal?

 

Proceed…

 

It’s supposed to be the wedding of the decade. The daughter of a chief marrying the son of a respected doctor. She’s an accountant and he’s a secondary school history teacher. She’s good with numbers, he’s good with dates and today’s is a date that’s been long time coming. She being a pedantic realist and he being a nostalgic dreamer means that they will complete the proverbial ying yang loop, form the perfect couple, and half the stars in the sky will go supernova and turn night into day. At the moment, however, heavy clouds crease the night sky which beams down with malcontent.

 

For the third time tonight it threatens to pour as the groom and his flock of minions walk into the mosque and make a beeline for the front, where the imam and the bride’s father await, the expressions on their faces radiating an unimpressed mien. Between him and his destination, a crazed sea of white and black and green and blue kanzus stretches the mosque’s capacity to its choking point. Kofia-donned heads literally turn as the man of the day passes by, dragging his wedding gear, from the over-size black robe laced with gold trimmings and the blunt ceremonial wooden sword tucked in his belt, to the massive turban on his head that precariously flirts with the physical principles of balance and gravity.

 

He deposits himself immediately opposite the imam and nods to his future father-in-law who is either too distracted by the groom’s excessive decorations or unhappy at his wanton disregard for punctuality, since he doesn’t nod back. The imam begins the ceremony with a short lecture about the highs and lows of marriage and quotes a few verses from the Quran.

 

Then he holds the groom’s right hand and asks him to repeat what seems, to the groom at least, like the recitation of a full twenty-page chapter of the Quran in a single breath. The groom’s heart does the tachycardia thing, a hamster racing a hamster wheel off its hinges. He mumbles and stutters. The imam sighs and repeats, enunciating each word carefully like a nursery school teacher. The groom does better this time, but only just.

 

“I…Matano bin Mashaka…accept…” a year-long pause, “…to marry…” a decade flits by, “…Zubeda.”

“Zulekha.” The imam corrects.

“Zulekha…bin…”

“Bint!” The imam corrects again.

“Bint…uh…” What was the father’s name again? He can’t for the love of everything lovable remember it and the fuming dragon that sits where future father-in-law was a minute ago doesn’t make matters easier either. A century has passed by, by the time the groom finishes his vow. The relieved imam does the Islamic rendition of the “By the powers vested in me…” bit and prays for everlasting blessings to be bestowed on the budding marriage. The father-in-law is now smiling broadly. It’s a smile that could mean anything, “I’ll kill you the next time you forget my name” or “Thank you for reducing the number of stubborn bubbleheads living in my house to fifteen. Now scram both of you, and don’t bring her back!”

 

Then its cheers all round as plates of halwa arrive. After that, the crowd of a thousand or so bludgeon the poor groom with affectionate embraces. His family is big. Half the city’s population is surely crammed within this tiny mosque and since his memory serves him well when recalling names of people who began revolutions or destroyed civilizations ages ago but fails him dramatically when trying the same with the people he called friends and family, the groom is meeting his extended relatives and friends for the first time all over again. Cousin Muhammad is actually cousin Mahmoud and uncle Ali is in fact uncle Alwi. In the end the groom resorts to the only nomenclature he’s always been comfortable with as he thanks Cousin 453 and his father, Uncle 78 as they smother him with musty-odor-sheathed bear hugs.

 

————————————————

 

A motorcade outside whisks the groom and his entourage away to his bride’s home. They arrive to what can only be described as a razzle dazzle peacock fashion show. It’s almost dizzying how many different colors the bride’s relatives have managed to cram into their dresses individually. But now the groom faces a tougher challenge than acclimatizing his eyes to the bewildering scene.

 

The tradition at this point goes so: the bride, having recited her own vow earlier that night, is ‘locked away’ in a room somewhere within the house and one of her relatives stands guard. The groom is presented with two options. He and his lackeys can either try to force their way in, or if he is of a more diplomatic persuasion the groom can bride the guard.

 

Today’s is the case where the groom’s only option is surely diplomacy, for the simple reason that his entourage is locked outside and that the bride’s aunt who has taken up guard duty makes the room’s door look small in comparison. She grins widely as he slips two thousand-shilling notes into her welcoming hand. The deal is officially sealed. He is allowed admission.

 

Inside, the bride sits at the edge of the room’s only bed, white dress pouring out all around her, her face and arms buried under layers of make-up and hinna tattoos, but if you are to believe the groom’s account, she is actually “bathed in delicate radiant light that would shame the sun on any summer’s day and an ethereal fragrance that would push roses and carnations into fits of suicidal fantasies”. He whispers a dua to her as per the norm, their first intimate moment, and wishes they could jump out the window if only to escape the photo session that awaits them outside the door.

 

————————————————

 

An hour or a day or a week later, they escape the incessant paparazzi and the motorcade whisks them away to the groom’s residence. It’s drizzling again outside. Well, no it’s actually pouring dreadfully now. Their driver, the groom’s older brother, focused on the now increasingly treacherous road, accountant and history teacher turn to each other. The groom had prepared a ton of poems for this moment, until the rose-shaming fragrance had wiped his memory clean, but twenty or so years of watching the occasional chick-flick movie have him covered…maybe. He blurts out, “I love you…sweet pump…kin”

 

She’s calm despite the excitement of the occasion as she stifles a laugh and replies in a cool voice, “Well, sweet potato, I love you more.”

 

The groom’s found his courage and confidence again but not the rehearsed poems, so he chides, “Really? How much more?”

 

Then the conversation picks up and they’re soon gone. They’re lost in their own world. The real world around them dissolves away and if the bus and truck ahead of them collided and burst into a million pieces in a shower of burning flames and human screams, they won’t be able to recount it to anyone tomorrow or ever. They’re so lost, they don’t even notice when the car finally pulls up to the groom’s home.

 

“Well I love you a gazillion multiplied by a gatrillion times more.” The groom smirks, impressed by his own ability to remember a very big number, fake or not.

 

She replies with the same calm voice, “And I love you Mugabellion to the power of Musevenillion times more.” In other words, infinity to the power of immortal forever. She’s good with numbers. The groom is stumped and sulks for a second after losing his first contest with his wife.

 

“And I would love it if this awkward conversation continued another time.” Their driver, an unwilling passive third-party to the exchange interrupts.“We’re here.” He announces unceremoniously.

 

Outside stands the groom’s family’s home. Two massive tents on either side, one for the men, the other for the ladies. And people. People everywhere you turn. The couple notice them for the first time and feel dizzy. Hundreds, maybe thousands have come to the wedding, to marvel at and envy the newlyweds.

 

The bride is chauffeured away to a temporary wooden stage under the ladies’ tent, where a thousand phosphorent lights and garlands of flowers festoon across the face of the makeshift stage. Then the ululations pick up and morph into a wedding song as the groom’s mother and aunts serenade their newest family member. There’s a phrase around this part of the world, “Bibi harusi wetu.” Our bride. She’s married a family, not just a husband.

 

The forgotten groom is paraded into the house by his brother who shouts to no one in particular, “Someone feed this oaf, he needs his energy up to prepare for his big performance.” The older men and teenagers hanging around laugh like maniacs.

 

With the groom inside and the bride on the other pole of the house, calm falls on the men’s tent. The topics of conversations that follow dart from football and politics and at some point the death of the groom’s younger brother a few months ago comes up. It’s inherently taboo to talk about funerals at weddings but for these people today, having been shocked by the nature and timing of the groom’s brother’s death, talking about it here is almost therapeutic.

 

The teenagers in attendance joke about marriage and other weddings they’ve attended. One of them waxes nostalgic to the click around him about a different wedding he went to where state-of-the-art amplifiers and 20-feet high speakers blasted the music of Ali Kiba and Diamond into the night sky. “What a dump of a wedding this is.” He complains. That it had stopped drizzling minutes ago doesn’t seem to improve the teenager’s mood.

 

The saving grace of any Swahili wedding, however, no matter how dislikeable to those invited, is of course the feast, or feasts.Tonight’s feast even has a name, Kombe la Bwanaharusi, the groom’s cup or something like that. You know Swahili people love food when they give fancy names to feasts. When the sinias (big plates) arrive and the guests behold their contents, all inhibitions and doubts and ill-will simply melt away.

 

Tonight, the guests are treated to a surprise. Upon inspection of the plates, they discover they’ve been served six different types of foods, from viazi vya nazi (potatoes of coconut), samaki wa kupaka(painted fish), nyama ya kukaanga (fried meat…?),mahamri (I doubt there’s an English equivalent word), kaimati (some round pastry thingy coated in sugar), mitai (another pastry thingy coated in sugar) and tambi (sugary noodles). Seven types it turns out, not six! But wait, upon further inspection, the guests realize the plates come in pairs. There are seven other different types of food in the accompanying plates, mikate ya tambi(sugary-noodle bread), katlesi (cut-less with each bite), viazi vitamu (sweet potatoes!), sambusa(samosas), mkate wa mayai (bread of the egg),mkate wa sinia (bread of the plate) and viazi karai(fried potatoes) You could call it the centenary gladiator match of the calories, a cholesterol and sugars bloodbath. The Swahili people won’t heed you, they’ll continue calling it Kombe La Bwanaharusi.

 

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It’s growing late, the tell-tale signs of the approaching morning begin to show. The groom is tired and sleepy and growing increasingly irritated. He chucks modesty down the drain, rushes up the makeshift stage while the songs and ululations crescendo to a climax, and before anyone can realize what’s happening scoops up the bride, who looks equal parts amused and relieved but not necessarily shocked, and takes off at a canter like a deranged kangaroo, the turban falling off his head. His mother finally jumps to her feet and gives chase shouting, ‘Bring our bride back,’ her singing partners flocking her sides and ululating without let-up.

 

“My bride, mine…” the groom shouts back, head growing giddy from his defiant shenanigans. He makes for one of the parked cars whose passenger door is thankfully held open by his brother, gently sets his wife down on the seat, jumps over the bonnet american-movie-cops-like, fishtails the car out of the parking spot and zooms off, executing a perfect drift around the corner that would send James Bond running for the bank. Cheers and whoops from the men’s side and ululations from women’s side and the groom’s mother’s child-like tantrum sing them off into the night.

 

“Wow,” the accountant laughs, “I didn’t know your family was so…”

 

“Clingy?” The history teacher says.

 

“Affectionate.” She finishes.

 

“They’re clingy. My family’s clingy. I should have warned you.” The dreamer reflects. There’s a long pause and then he adds, “We have might have to relocate to Russia or China or Antarctica where they can’t find us and shove chocolate cakes down your throat every morning and dress you up like Disney princesses every weekend.”

 

The realist wraps her arms around her husband’s free hand and rests her head on his shoulder as she thinks of the long tiring hours she spends at work every day.

 

“I don’t know,” she whispers with a broad smile, “I think am actually looking forward to being treated like a queen.”

 

For more of Imran’s articles log on to: mylitcorner.wordpress.com

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Creative Fiction

SAFARI YA MBINGUNI (sehemu ya 2)

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Mwandishi: Mtoto wa Katama

Picha: http://www.magic4walls.com

 

Kwa mara nyingne Khamisi aliamka taratibu na kuingiwa na wasiwasi kidogo kwani mudaule hakuwa anamtarajia mtu yeyote. Alijaribu kufikiria atakuwa nani huyu? Moyoni alijiuliza bila kupata jibu mwafaka. Akaamua kujikokota polepole, alipofika karibu na bawaba, aliskia mtu akishusha pumzi nzito nzito. Mara kidogo akaita “Khamisi, Khamisi ehhh! Upoo”, Khamisi si muda akaifahamu sauti ile na kujibu “ Nipo babu, haya nipe la mwafaka umefuatia nini?, maana niko bize kiasi”. “ Fungua kwanza nikueleze, usikuwe hivyo” Lipopo akanena. Khamisi akazubaa kidogo na kufungua mlango, akamuangalia lipopo jinsi alivyokuwa anateremkwa na jasho, akajua hapa kuna habari za muhimu ila hakupendelea masahibu zake kumfuatia nyumbani kwao. Alipendelea kumaliza shughuli zote wakiwa kijiweni au nje ya nyumba. Lipopo alipojaribu kujitokomeza chumbani, Khamisi alimzuia na kifua na kumnyoshea kidole akiashiria wakazungumzie nje. Lipopo hakuwa na la zaidi ila kufuata maagizo na kutangulia huku Khamisi akimfuatia nyuma.

 

“ Hebu niambie lililokuleta na mbio zote hivyo ni lipi haswa?” Khamisi aliuliza. “Usikuwe hivyo yakhe, mbona una hasira” akajibu Lipopo kwa kunyeng’enyea.” Mi hapa nimekuja na mazuri, Bw.Salimu atuhitaji tukamuone habari ndiyo hiyo” Lipopo akamalizia akiongea huku akitabasamu. Khamisi akamuangalia Lipopo toka juu mpaka chini, kana kwamba alikuwa anampima hivi katika mizani flani hivi. Akautazama uso wa Lipopo na kisha akatikisa kichwa baada ya kufanya dadisi zake na kuenusha mikono juu na kuleta dua “Ewe Mola! Uliye juu, mpe mja wako huyu shughli ya kufanya na wepesi wa kuongea” na kucheka kwa dhihaka. “Kumbe we ovyo! Hivi muda wote uliopoteza kumbe maneno yalikuwa ni haya, kama ingekuwa umenitaarifu pale mlangoni ulipogonga kungeharibika lipi? na tuonane hiyo jioni” Khamisi akafoka bila kusubiri jibu la Lipopo na alimuacha akiongea peke yake na kugeuka mbio mbio na kuingia nyumbani kwao. “Watu wengine wapuuzi kweli, wanafaa makofi chap! chap!” alijisemea moyoni. Alipoingia chumbani, alijipiga kichwa na kidole chake mara kadhaa na kupiga macho huku na kule mpaka akaliona albamu, muda wote lilikuwa lipo kitandani na hakudiriki kuangalia kwa makini, kisha akatabasamu kwa kujiona bwege kweli. Ikawa anaendelea na kulifungua huku akicheka ovyo ovyo, picha zake za utotoni zimleletea furaha na kumbukumbu tamu sana. Kwenye picha moja aliona kitoto kidogo, puani akitokwa na kamasi na magwanda yake ya kuchanika. “Kweli huyu ni mimi lo! Haiwezekani huu mzaha sasa, labda ni mdogo wangu Idrissa, itakuwa Idrissa tu!” alijaribu kujisemeza. Lakini alipokodoa macho vizuri na kuangalia ile picha kwa umakinifu aligundua kuwa ni yeye. Pichani mtoto alikuwa na alama ya ngozi nyeusi katika mguu wake na hofu zake zote zikawa kweli. Hakupendezwa na picha ile kamwe, ye keshakuwa barobaro sasa na ndevu zilishaanza kuota, tena zilimea kwa ajabu sana. Zilikuwa zimetapakaa kwenye kidevu kwa vifungu vifungu kama matuta kwenye shamba la mkonge. Alishajaribu mbinu nyingi kuzifanya ziote vizuri, huyu huyu Lipopo aliwahi kumwambia apake asali iliyochemshwa na kuchanganywa na haba soda(habbat sawda) kwenye kidevu chote. Alifuata masharti kama alivyoambiwa na mwendani wake wa karibu. Lakini matokeo hayakuwa mazuri, hata siku ilikuwa haijaisha Khamisi alipata mwasho wa ajabu na kuishilia kujikuna kwa wiki mbili mfululizo, mkuno ulileta yale mapele magumu kidevu kizima. Kwa wiki mbili nzima alibaki ndani kwa ndani tu kama mwari aliyeletewa posa na mtoto wa Sultani. Alidiriki kutoka usiku tena mara moja moja kwa sababu ya shughuli za kimsingi. Tena alitembea kwa tahadhari nyingi sana alinyatanyata kwenye vichochoro kwa staili ya kimgambo ili asiwahi kupishana na watu wanaomjua. Lakini waswahili wanasema siku utakayokwenda uchi ndiyo siku utakayokutana na mkweo na naam!

 

Usiku mmoja katika mishe mishe zake za kuenda kununua chapatti mitaa ya ndani usiku, baada ya kukata vichochoro vitatu viwili ghafla bin vuu! mchumba wake Zeituni alitokea kwenye chochoro. Khamisi alipunguza hatua, na kumuangalia vizuri mtu aliyekuwa anakuja kwenye upande mwengine wa kichochoro kama kweli ndiye aliyekuwa anamdhania, baada ya kugundua kuwa alikuwa Zeituni, polepole alipiga kona na kutaka kurudi alipokuwa anatokea. Kweli ile siku anayokufa nyani miti yote huteleza, mara tu bila mpangilio paka wawili shume  waliokuwa wanakimbizana wakatokea kwenye upande wa uchochoro aliokuwa Khamisi anaregea nao. Toba ya Ilahi! Khamisi alikuwa muoga wa paka ajaabu bora hata angekutana na nyoka. Yeye na paka ni mbingu na ardhi. Aliamua kubarutika mbio upande aliokuwa anaokuja nao Zeituni na kumpiga kumbo mchumba wake huku akitokomea kwenye giza bila hata kushikwa na wasiwasi wa kuangalia nyuma. Kwa hasira Khamisi alichukua ile picha ya mtoto na kuichanachana vipande vipande na kuitafuna, hakuweza kukubali kuwa mtoto yule mchafu na kamasi zake kuwa alikuwa ni yeye na cha zaidi alichukia kwa kuwa yakhe. Hakuelewa kwanini watu wengine walijaaliwa mali na wengine kunyimwa.

 

Mara Khamisi alitulia kwa ghafla baada ya kufungua kurasa nyengine ya albamu lile, akasita kwa muda, macho yakawa mazito na machozi kuanza kumlengalenga. Akawa baridi na ukiwa ukamtawala kwa ghafla, akajiona mnyonge ajaabu na kufunga albamu na baadaye kulifungua tena. Picha iliyofuatia ilikuwa ni ya marehemu babake. Ni miaka kumi imepita tangu kumpoteza babake katika ajali ya barabarani iliyonaswa na vyombo vya habari karibia vyote. Taarifa za kifo cha babake zilimpa mshtuko zaidi nina yake aliyekuwa mtegemezi zaidi, hakujua angeanzia. Baba Khamisi ndiye alikuwa anatarazaki pekee yake. Tena Baba Khamisi shughli zake zilikuwa nadhif kabisa, alisifika kwa kufanya adala baina ya watu na zaidi kwenye shughuli zake za kila siku. Lakini kinaya kilikuwa ni madhila na unyanyasaji mamake Khamisi aliyopitia kutokana na nduguze mumewe. Haya yote Khamisi aliyaelewa kabisaa na alikuwa ameweka nadhiri kitambo ya kupanga kisasi…

 

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Deen (Religion)

MENTAL OBESITY

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By: Swaleh Arif

In the name of Allah, The most beneficent, The most Merciful.

One of my great uncles once remarked to an overweight woman that God didn’t like fat people. Needless to say she was reduced to tears. Then she lamented, “But how can that be? He’s the one that made me this way!”. He defended his comment by pointing out that overweight people were generally lazy in worship.1

As cruel as this statement may be, it does hold some truth in it. Imam Ghazali (may Allah have mercy on him) once quoted, “A full stomach fattens the body, hardens the heart, dulls the intellect, and renders man lazy in worship.”2

However, can someone still be obese and appear physically normal at the same time? As much as this world is physical, it is metaphysical as well. It’s unfortunate how most people have solely focused on the material and ignored the immaterial, thereby creating an imbalance that has caused a negative impact on a global scale.

To answer my question, yes it’s possible. This is achieved through what I’d like to call ‘mental obesity’. It’s similar to physical obesity in the sense that it involves the consumption of filth and junk.Once you notice the similarity, it’s easy to draw parallels between the physical and metaphysical aspects of obesity.

As much as I’d like to explore and elaborate these aspects, I’m inclined at the moment to simply explain how people unwittingly (or deliberately) subject themselves to this illness. As I mentioned above, it pertains to the consumption of filthy and unhealthy material. However, I’ll ignore the physical aspect because it’s quite obvious what it’s causes are i.e. junk food, lack of exercise and so forth.

When it comes to mental obesity, it’s a bit tricky to employ a measurement of scale, unlike physical obesity that can be measured by the use of Body Mass Index (BMI), among others. This is because the full negative impact it creates on the mind and soul is often hidden from the naked eye and it’ll take time and keen analysis to actually make an approximate estimation. Nonetheless, identifying the causes of this metaphysical disease is relatively easy.

When we consider the causes, two things come in play: what we see and what we hear. These two senses form the most immediate routes through which information reaches the brain. Never has there been a time when access to information has been made easy, other than this one. And never has there been a time when access to harmful information has been made easy, other than this one. Majority of the world’s population has been exposed to harmful information in the form of films and music that leave little to the imagination, books and magazines that are explicit, video games that perpetrate violence, world leaders that perpetuate hatred and bigotry, the list is endless.

The effect of the aforementioned causes is this: it puts us to sleep, it robs us the ability to think, to focus on the most important things that will make our lives better if we pay attention to them. Mental obesity is a tool designed with the intention of controlling the masses. As I’m writing this, an attack has occurred in the Ataturk International Airport in Istanbul just a few days ago where many lives have been lost and many more have been injured.

Yet most, if not all, of us will simply post a facebook status talking about how our thoughts and prayers are with them, and then nada. Our job is done. Congratulations! We’ve succeeded in making this world a better place yay!

But we actually can make this world a better place. We can turn it into the eutopia that we and our forefathers envisioned it to be, not the dystopian wasteland that it’s going to be. We can only do this, however, if we decide to flex our brains and do those mental push ups while consuming healthy metaphysical food.

So stop watching porn, stop watching pointless Tv shows and films that will not move your soul in the right direction. Stop doggedly obsessing over the lives of celebrities who don’t even know you, who set unrealistic standards in your lives to intentionally make you feel miserable.

Instead, read the Quran or any good book that’ll nourish your mind and spirit, consume good information that’ll open up your mind and see the possibilities of a better future, listen to good music, watch empowering lectures.

You’ll change your life for the better and you’ll be able to change the world for the better.

Stop being a zombie.

Start being human.

Notes

1. This paragraph was not meant for people suffering from obesity due to circumstances beyond their control. I pray to Allah he brings them relief in this life and the next.

2. Ihya ulum-u-din, book 1; the book of knowledge.

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