Sandra’s Den

My website is almost done. Almost.  But I’m a very impatient soul, lol.  So while Timo is still dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s we can go in and have a look.

 

I am particularly looking forward to interacting with everybody at the forum – Sandra’s Den – the forum is truly the heart of the website, where you are welcome to post your thoughts, questions etc. I hope book lovers (clubs) will share with us about what they are reading.

 

Then there’s Sandra’s Zen – this is food for the heart, mind and soul; quotes, stories and ideas to move and inspire you for change.  Again everybody will be welcome to post and share inspiring pieces with others. A few friends have already posted a few pieces, some being their own work and others are pieces that have been written by others but have inspired them in one way or another.  Thank you so much Reuben, Emelda, Erika, Pamela, Timo and June for rolling the ball.

 

And if you would like to read some of my work, just click on Sandra’s Ten, where you can read some of my stories and my poems.  I have also given you a glimpse of what I am working on – Marrying a Chagga and Chagga’s First Time are two of the short stories that will be featured in my Chagga Series.

 

One of my favourite short stories that are featured in Sandra’s Ten is titled The Plate of Ugali.  A good friend, Al Kags read it at Nairobi Sunday Salon about a year ago and he tells me it brought the house down. 

My mama used to say a real African man doesn’t eat chips or pasta.  That’s food for a mzungu man who gets his nails manicured, face scrubbed and lips conditioned with lip balm.  A real African man eats ugali, my mama used to say.  With their calloused fingers with rough nails he would mould the stiff porridge into little balls, dunk each ball into a stew then dunk the stew covered ball into his mouth with chapped lips.

I would sit at the corner of the room watching his Adam’s apple bopping up and down as he swallowed a ball of ugali and meat stew.  His jaw always moving in super-human speed as he chewed, making the veins on his forehead pop out angrily.  … read more here

I wrote Forbidden Pleasure a while back, when I was trying to find my niche in the world of words.  I had realized that I could write and words seemed to follow me whenever I went – they still do – but I didn’t know what genre of writing was me.  To be honest I still don’t, lol.  I wonder if I should blame the little people in my head for this, lol.

The room was hot and noisy.  Smudged kohl rimmed women were leaning against the black walls of the bar waiting to snatch the single men who would walked in, their faces streaked with neon disco lights, the air was so dark that the tattered black leather booths seem to vanish, making the seated regulars seem to be floating in the heavy smell of alcohol, sweat, cheap perfume and cigarettes.

Slowly, it was getting overcrowded.  The bar was old, but somehow managed to pull a mean crowd.  At the far corner, he watched two middle-aged women were fighting over a man.  He laughed feeling sorry for the poor drunk who had made the mistake of trying to pick-up the Terrible Twins, as they were known.  An older woman in a colourful head wrap with a raspy voice sat on the old piano playing a jazz number.  He asked the bartender to re-fill his glass as his concentration shifted to the music, his body swaying to the rhythm of the song. … read more here.

A few years ago I went to Late Mama Makeba’s concert.  I noticed a young lady who just seemed to be lost and out of place.  She was seated alone.  For a while I wondered who she was.  I later got lost in Mama Makeba’s soothing music, flowing drinks and the company of good friends.  From table to table I moved saying hello to friends and mingling.  I went back to my table to get something only to notice that my handbag had grown legs.  It was gone!  I later came to learn that the lonely lady was a hooker.  After getting angry, ranting, screaming, cursing, pulling my hair and cursing Movenpick Hotel for their lousy security I finally calmed down I started wondering – I wondered what made her chose that route.  Lady Of The Night I and Lady Of The Night II were inspired by her.

Having lived in South Africa and loving my Southern Comfort, ‘babalas’ meaning drunken stupor, is one of my favourite Afrikaans words – that I still remember, lol, such I couldn’t help it but write a poem about The Babalas.  The character in the head my have little people in her head too, but I promise you the prose is not about me, lol.

Sandra’s Ten will be updated every so often.  Just register yourself to get e-mail updates and e-letters.  And if you would like to comment or review any of the writes in Sandra’s Ten, you are welcome to do so at the forum - Sandra’s Den.

 

There will be also updates of up coming events and readings.  As it is the Goethe Institut is organizing “Maneno Mengi – an evening of spoken words” on March 12, 2009.  Do pencil in this date, as you will kick yourself for missing it.

 

And lastly you can get information as to where you can get my book The Rhythm Of My Rhyme.  I must say, I never expected it would be welcomed this warmly.  To be honest I didn’t even know I was this good, lol.  I suppose, I should thank the seven little people in my head for being such wonderful muses, lol.  Maybe, but a bigger thank you is to all of you for your continuous support.  Aksanteni sana!!

 

I really look forward to reading from you.  Please do remember that by participating, you’re making this an actual community.

 

Karibuni sana and happy reading!

 

Sandie.

 

The Rhythm Of My Rhyme

I am so excited!!  Wuu huuu!!!!  

Finally my book is out – THE RHYTHM OF MY RHYME – a collection of poems.  Wuu huu!  With sub-titles such as:

·     A flower is a flower

·     The great orgasm

·     Sun-kissed, bee stung flower

·     It’s just delish

·     I am my dreams

The Rhythm of My Rhyme is just what it say – a collection of poems on the reflections of a contemporary young Tanzanian woman.  It encaptures what the poet sees around her.  She speaks in the voice of whom she writes about – in the form of a journey of self discovery – from women in love; women out of love; abused children; abused women; content women, who have found themselves (emotionally, mentally and sexually) and who at the end just want to be.

‘The Rhythmn of My Rhyme’ is now available at the following book shops in Dar es Salaam:

 

• SOMA Book Cafe
• Novel Idea
• Scholastic Book Shop, Mlimani City
• Malaika Shop, Junction Bibi Titi and Morogoro

Priced 15,000 TZS

Hurry while stocks last………………………………..

I am as nervous as excited – especially about some of the contents – uwiii!  Look out for MY FIRST TIME, once you have your copy.

 

Do watch this space forparticulars about the launch venue and date …

 

Tales of A Thousand Words

I’m almost done with my anthology of short stories.  As the collection evolved, the name changed as well – from Loving, Living and Lying to Tales of A Thousand Words – and it might change again, lol.  I am herewith sharing with you my first draft – I’m usually too excited to edit, so forgive the spelling and grammar mistakes you will find as you go along.

Apologies, the stories have been removed.  Watch this space for publication notice.

Foreword

 Like many I suppose, I have always been fascinated by rich cultures that colour our continent.  Many contemporary authors have written about Africa, but instead focus on themselves in Africa. With this anthology I have decided to tread were many have tried.  This collection talks about Tanzania, its cultures and its people.

As anywhere else – there are usually spectrums of cultural groups – in Tanzania we have the typically Swahili culture on one hand, which is so vibrant, alive and colourful – full of drama and music – here  one enjoys the udi perfume, the delicious pilau dishes, listening to taarab, dancing to njenje, and hands and feet peppered with henna design. 

On the other hand, we have the cosmopolitan culture – almost avant-garde – they will go to Western spas, have dinners and drinks at 5-star establishments, go clubbing at up-scale clubs, throw brunch parties, enjoy quiz and karaoke nights, have pastas and salads and go to goat races.

The Swahili culture, which is by far the more vivacious and expressive – as far as I am concerned – is unfortunately not that much practiced among the new generation who have experienced ‘western’ type lifestyles.  As such, many find themselves ‘unconsciously’ losing their roots and sense of belonging. 

This anthology, however, will not address this problem.  My collection of short stories look at both of these worlds – the Tanzanians of today – their traumas and triumphs as they tackle this journey of life as they live and love, and maybe lie too while at it.  Despite the challenges and traumas, there are many good things in this anthology – the lessons learnt being one of them.  The challenge here was to have each story have only a thousand words – no more, no less – hence the title of the collection.

 

 

 

While problematic issues, everyday gossip, familial tensions are all the core of this collection, relationships and locations are just as important.  The common feature in all the short stories is an enveloping atmosphere of the unsurely, betrayal and doubts we see deep into our souls when taking this journey called life.
 

Despite the difference in the cultures – these two so-called worlds are what make Tanzania beautiful and rich and make her go round.  

Sandra A. Mushi

Dar es Salaam

June 2007

Big Momma

You wonder about parent – and curse them even. I tell you mothers are the worst! Sijui what happened to them – they all seem have the same plot; always carniving and plotting – to have you together so that you do what you’re intended to do and that is filling the world or split you up – they just have to be there. Well, most of them do, manake if I don’t watch my mouth, some mothers’ children will come sue me. Anyway, I’m convinced when God sends his Holy spirit with that special message about filling the world, I’m sure it’s passed on to the mothers – but mothers being mothers with their, ‘I’m your mother, second to your father and I know it all’ attitude, translate it to suit them. Sielewi.

From the day their sons are born, they start picturing about that perfect wives for theirs sons. Child rearing hips, naturally number one on the list; she should cook like them, and follow the recipes to the tee – from dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s; she must go to the same church as them; and very important she must be able to clean, attend to the son, give birth, mop, attend to the son, give birth, dust, attend to the son, give birth, mow, attend to the son, give birth, pray, have I mentioned cook … yes, she must be able to perform all that and even more. And she is not supposed to comment or complain. Ole wako, if you do.

She must never outshine her mother in law or sister in laws, yaani that’s the biggest sin ever! Even better go in drabs then they will show and teach you how to dress. Sasa that’s the biggest honour and favour she will be doing herself. Nenda na pua juu unalo! Never outshine female in-laws, I tell you.

 “Her ass is just too unbelievably big! Utafikiri kaweka mito bwana! Baba nanihii atamtamani,” mama would probably confide in her shoga. But to her son and the rest of the world, “this one has been around too much. It’s only last week I saw her at Corner Bar with mzee nanihii. Kichunaji hiki.”

 “She is too educated. Hawa waliosoma sana hawa think they know too much. Atakudharau mwanangu!” To her shoga, “wahii, I’m a standard seven leaver jamani! If they start discussing JK, Richmond and BoT sijui? Mimi najua tabloids tu! Halafu worse still they discuss it in English or French! Uwii!”

 “Her father is a minister? This is the one who can’t even boil an egg! I know her!” To her shoga, “the mother is better than me? Never! She can’t me!”

 “Did you see that make up!? Uwii! Can she even peel a banana let alone boil an egg? I bet she spends the whole day infront of a mirror! My son will starve to death!” But to her shoga, “she will wreck my marriage. Baba nanihii will want her.”

 “I tell you, a sugar daddy bought her that car! Unabisha nini while I know her! We have been praying for her at church madhambi ya zinaa yaishe!” To her shoga, “she is better than me? Never! She can’t me!”

Sasa when it comes to such incidents I can never understand the double standards. While the son is supposed to marry a baby making machine-cum-maid-cum-robot, the daughter of the same woman who expects a robot clone for a daughter in law, wants something totally different for the daughter.

 “Unasema nini? Your mother in law wanted you to mop the whole entire house? Pambafu! Does she think you are the maid?”

While it was just yesterday when she was at her son’s house, busy sweeping her fingers through the furniture and forcing sneezes while at it, while crunching her nose.

 “Hivi when was the last time this house was dusted?” She asks the housegirl loud enough for Maya with the chid rearing hips to hear.

 “Maybe I should stay here longer and help you with the house chores, my son? I feel Maya is too overwhelmed with everything,” she asks her son later when he calls her.

It doesn’t end there. The next days she starts rummaging through the fridge and pantry, changing Maya’s soya beans to kidney beans; Maya’s Kyela’s rice to Morogoro rice; Maya’s olive oil to a huge bucket of Kimbo. That evening she throws out Maya’s carrot soup and made mtori ladden with Kimbo. Only if she knew it was her son who chose to start eating healthy.

“It’s that woman”, she would curse as she moves things around in the kitchen, “she can’t cook and now she blames it on my son wanting to eat what? This is what and how I have always cooked for him, now she brings what?”

 “My son doesn’t eat hayo maharagwe yenu ya kizungu. And what kind of soup was that? If you want to make my son soup, this is how it should be cooked!” She later pushes the pot of hot mtori under Maya’s nose.

Once in a VERY blue moon – tena on that day hell freezes over – one fed-up daughter in law would throw her hands on her waist like an English tea pot, shaking and bouncing her head away like a child high on sugar, she would blow her top.

 “Listen mama, the last time I checked, I am the one who was married to this man! Why don’t you go back to your home and take care of it – and let me take care of MY home,” she would shake her finger as if it was boneless as she stresses the MY.
 “If you felt you were the woman for him, then maybe you should have married her,” she would finish with a msonyo mrefu mpaka Kariakoo.

But like I said, this happens only once in a blue moon. And most of the times, the fed-up in-law finds herself packed in pieces in a body bag even, and gets sent home. Jaribu uone! Shauri yako!

So I have rolled up the top ten worst mother in laws into one – so sue me – but kwa kweli don’t tell me you have never come across this devil that wears Prada, erm, khanga.Sasa, if you get to see your mother in law only on Christmas and Baptisms because she lives in the villages, I tell you you fast, thank your God, sijui Allah, your lucky stars, sijui ancestors, cows, dogs, mbuyu or whatever schitt you believe in. Sasa start praying there is no other ndugu from the husband’s side of the family, lurking in the town your husband and you live in. Especially not a great aunt whom nobody ever defies …

CALL OUT: The Quaterly Colour Series of Poetry: Indigo Smoothies

This is a call out for entries into the sixth part of The Quarterly Colour Series of Poetry, Indigo Smoothies. The Quarterly Colour Series of poetry are a series of free ebooks, published by Al Kags every three months. The first five ebooks of the series are Gray Spots, Blue Smudges, Red Streaks, Green Piece and Brown Steps that read by over 185,000 people worldwide. The ebooks are spread virally over email as well as posted on different blogs and web sites for Download. Feel free to download them from http://alkags.wordpress.com or http://www.scribd.com among other web sites.

The rules are, that you can download them for free, share them, enjoy them, republish the poetry in there – literally anything you want to do with them: just be sure to acknowledge the author and the ebook.

The theme for Indigo Smoothies is dialogue. In many parts of the world – from Pakistan to South Africa to Kenya to the US, there are important fundamental conversations that needed to have been had. In most cases having these conversations – about discrimination, about class barriers, about racism and tribalism and all these -isms would result in lasting peace and prosperity for the people there. But these conversations must be cordial and positive – they must not be filled with hate and bitterness and they must be sober. We call upon poets from all over the world to submit their poetry of such conversations and engage the world in dialogue – positively.

Please send your poetry in a word document to poetry@alkags.com. Be clear about your name (in the case of Stage Name preference). The selection of the poetry to be published is entirely at the discretion of the Al Kags editorial team

All entries need to be in by March 1 2008. Thanks, all of you that have sent us your poetry, and supported the series by forwarding widely and we are glad that you all have pushed the poetry to such great heights.

Many Thanks

Al Kags
Nairobi, Kenya

Don’t Defy Great Aunt

You think she is mean, huh? She will tell you that she never forced him get married, she will tell you that she didn’t force her either. Yes, she had introduced them but she had never forced them. Yeah, now she hears that she complains that he is never home.

          “Kimezidi na kile! Why does she think God gave us to push a head as bid as a water melon through a whole as small as a needle point?” She curses to nobody in particular, “It’s because He knows that all this is chicken feed to us – we are strong enough to overcome all this. Kimayai kikubwa!”

          “He gives her everything! He bought her a car and she only uses it to visit her equally hopeless mashoga!” She curses loudly, “I have been walking on my feet all my life and fighting for madaladala! And I have never complained! Hell, my husband even brought me two other kids, but I still never complained!”

           “I dressed them, fed them, without asking a question – and I still gave him more kids. Infact I farmed a whole acre of land when I was seven months pregnant! So what makes her so special suddenly? Kidomo juu juu tu!”

Her dried up, cracked feet and equally cracked toes are prove of the marathon walks. Her old loose and shapeless dresses also show submission and having given up. I promise you even a scarecrow looks better in its drabs – oops, asinisikie. Lakini seriously, wee acha tu! and you wonder why she liked Lulu. Anyway, tuendelee …

         “If I had known that she was so spoilt and so soft I wouldn’t have let me son marry her! Kivivu!! She is even too lazy to get pregnant and give my son another child. He should have married Lulu. Lulu would have given him ten kids already! Good old Lulu who worked like a mule.” She goes on, “no wonder he is never at home! I would too! Tena she is lucky he goes back to their bed – she should thank her lucky stars, stupid child!”

          “And how can she dress like that? Walking around uchi kabisa! You can practically see her nipples and crotch! As if she is hunting! He gives her too much freedome. He should get her pregnant! At least she will stay at home. I don’t trust her. She is probably using contraceptives. These kids of today,” she spits on the floor in disgust. “Halafu on Sunday she dares goes to church, sing in the choir and take the communion even! Shameless kimchawi! Na atashindwa kwa jina la Yesu!”

          “Mama shikamoo,” a familiar voice greets me. I know the calves.

          Kitoto hakisemwi hiki. You think about her and instantly she appears. I tell you ni kichawi hiki.

          “Mkwe, I was just thinking about you. You must have a very long life! I have missed you jamani! How are my son and grandson?”

          “I made some snacks for Junior and I thought I should bring you some, Mama, besides I haven’t seen you in a while.”

She watches her she sits, she watches her as she eats, she watches her every move. Yes, that’s baba Junior’s great aunt, whom nobody ever defies. She doesn’t touch the basket filled with samoosas and vitumbua.

          “I tell you, kichawi hiki! She is a witch, I tell you! Why would she make me food? Unless she is trying to tell me that I can’t cook. Halafu ati snacks – if she had wanted to bring me food then she would have cooked proper food. Look at her – too lazy to cook even. She has aborted so much that now she can’t give my sister’s son another child! Look at her acting all sweet and angelic.”

          “Mama, won’t you even taste one? They are quite good – of course not as good as yours.”

          “Hapana mkwe, I just had a big lunch,” she forces a smile – something she is so good at.

          “Should I make you some tea then?”

          “Erm, I shouldn’t bother you, mkwe. Don’t worry about me. Let’s just sit here and talk,” she pats her arm, “so when are you going to give my son another child?”

Tell me, you are familiar with baba Junior’s great aunt! You lie if you say you are not familiar with great aunt – we all have her in our family! Okay, it’s not just a conspiracy, but these people use their kids to make their already miserable lives bearable. Their kids are their puppets – go this way, no that way, no left, no right. Yaani!! I tell you misery likes company!

Suddenly her house turns into a church. Every Friday, great aunt would come with her special prayer group to pray for her sister’s son. Yes, you guessed it – now they are friends now that she has learnt that Maya has been playing the dutiful wife. With these people, there is no pleasing.

Her wardrobe has now been changed to suite the new church – from her knee length linen suits and dresses to preferably ankle length vitenge and her once treated hair is now wrapped behind shawls and vitenge headdresses – great aunt’s church. Her saloon trips shortened and made less, instead she spends her days in prayer groups and her nights in a Bible.

Don’t ask about the money that baba James had been saving up for the States trip – ooh, that had long gone to the construction of their new church. Nobody defies great aunt, remember.

          “That stupid boy! That stupid son of mine! He couldn’t even find himself a wife! I had to go out there and find him one!”

          “Tsk, tsk,” a woman dragging her sandals in cracked up feet shakes her head.

          “Look at how pretty she is! She is so hard working maskini! The other day she brought me the most delicious vitumbua and samoosas!”

“Let us pray for him jamani! Na ashindwe!”

“Amen,” a group of women with cracked soles and drab dresses reply in unison. “Kwa jina la Yesu atashindwa!”

Good God, if there is a mission to fill the world out there, while you send the Holy Spirit to our parents with the message please tell them while at it to go easy on us.

Bless My Child Rearing Hips

Bless my child rearing hips I got a hot snatch, according to my aunts, a really hot snatch. He works for a big company, drives an expensive car, just bought me one as well, we are renting a lovely, huge house in Mbezi – they are adding a pool for Junior next month and we are talking of going on holiday overseas – I’m thinking the States, I have never been overseas before - all I have to do is stay at home and look after his son.

His son, my son – our son. I am married to him, thanks to my child rearing hips. We hardly knew each other when we got married, I was introduced to him by his aunt. It’s not important, I was told, you will grow to know each other once you are married.

I sound as if I am devoid of love. Love you ask – what love? When I mentioned love to my mother and aunt during a kufunda session, they laughed it off and assured me I would grow to love him. I don’t know if I have. Unless if being comfortable is growing to love? If it is, then I guess I have.

          “Will love feed you? Tell me, will it put food in your table?” one of my aunts had laughed, “hembu usituletee ujinga hapa!”

          “Besides you are getting old and the clock is ticking,” another added, “you won’t be able to have kids if you keep on waiting.”

          “Shukuru Mungu that you even have this one!”  Another would snap angrily. 

          “Tena you should be kissing the ground he walks on!”  Another one adds just as angrily, “just look at him – he has it all.”

The engagement ring he gave me made my aunt gave me the-we-told-you-so look for three entire months – bless my child rearing hips. I didn’t know much about precious stones. I didn’t even know there was white gold. Jamani, my jewellery box was filled with a few gold and silver – and of course a lot of custom jewellery. He was the one who introduced me to diamonds. Anyway back to my engagement ring – hold your breath – it has a beautiful bead set diamonds surrounding this exquisite round Tanzanite stone, and then two rows adorn the band of the engagement ring.

To be honest when I first saw it I grimaced – I wanted the good old garnets all my girls get. Don’t get me wrong, I’m just as street wise as the rest of you are – it’s just that I had just never been exposed to this.

          “Kitu gani tena hii?” I had thought, having never seen such a stone before, “jamani kumbe brotha doesn’t even have taste! Kumbe all the fancy ties ni mikwala tu!  Wahii!”

This, I have never admitted to anybody, so please Sssh. Nichekwe, he! It’s my aunt Eva who noticed it. Aunt Eva was once married to an old mzungu, he was older than my babu, I promise you. Anyway, she is now a widow, but she hates being called that – says it makes her feel old and like a mtumba ati.

          “Enhe, would mapenzi have brought you such a ring?” Over made-up aunt Eva scolded me, “that ring can buy our whole entire village!”

He isn’t rich, he always says. No, he isn’t rich, he is just comfortable. He just wants the best for his family and does work hard to get us the best. Imagine, Junior at four taking tennis and piano lessons, jamani! My mashoga whom I grew up with, tease me that I will soon become pompous.

I get bored at times, lonely even. My younger aunts say maybe it’s because I am always at home alone. Monday to Friday he works. While he rushes to work in the morning, I get Junior ready for school, then I drive him there. I don’t work – aunt Eva insists a man should support his family, while the woman should take of it – and that’s what I do.

          “Get him to open you a salon or a boutique,” one aunt had advised.

          “Or have another, baby, besides it’s about time.”

          “Or have an affair like I did,” only aunt Eva would say something like this. She would giggle heartedly as she attempts to whisper in my ear.

Yes, it does get terribly lonely. After I drop Junior to play school, I head to the saloon. Aunt Eva says a woman must always look nice for her husband. Though I doubt if he ever does notice – as he is always tired when he gets home and only has time to play with Junior before he has his dinner, then watch news and sport, then goes to sleep – one thing he notices for sure are my child rearing hips.

          “You are losing weight,” he would suddenly comment as his eyes them, then just as abruptly he would go back to his plate of warmed up food.

On Saturdays he would wake up late, whatever errands he would have to run, he would take Junior with him, some back for lunch and a nap, then leave again with Junior for the gym, come back for dinner, play with Junior, tuck him in bed, then he would go out – alone – unless it is to a wedding.

          “Kwani what more do you want?” my aunts would admonish me whenever I complained, “isn’t he always home and in bed with you? Doesn’t he provide for you?”

         “Hawa watoto wa siku hizi bwana, they are so demanding and so unappreciative! Unless you want him to stop working and stay at home with you!” Another would add.

          “Junior should have a sister. Sijui anasubiri nini,” they discuss as if I’m not in the room.

          “If I had him for a husband, I would have a whole football team,” another would tease, “look at he provides! I just pop and he support. Mwenetu has everything!”

           “Mwenetu has everything, but she doesn’t show support! She is making mockery of his manhood.”

Yes, bless my child rearing hips I do have everything, I sigh.

Go Fill The World

Wazazi bwana, I can never understand them. It’s as if they have this itch ya kujaza the world. Unless maybe God sends the Holy Spirit once a parent reaches her mid forties, and whispers into their ears the secret mission, in their dreams, when they are sleeping of course - after all, God has been known to sending His messengers at such hours.

So you have just graduated from university, you move cities, struggle to get that two bedroom house which you have to share with your two boys so as to cut down costs and finally after wearing the soles of your shoes down you manage to get your first job. You are happy jumping in and out of sardine-like parked daladala and end up smelling worse than the sardines themselves. You don’t mind the sardine smell as you have been waiting for this freedom for way too long.

The pay is not all that but at least it puts a roof over your head, food on the table and clothes on your back, a little savings – and some pocket change for moja baridi, moja moto every now and then.

          “Sasa?” your father starts one day in one of your telephone conversations, “you’re getting old and we have to keep the family name going. So when are you going to get married?”

You look around the small house, your eyes fall on your shirtless belching housemate. Around the two of you there are crumpled up foil papers, old news papers and plastic bags that had chips vumbi, mishikaki and kachumbari that was your dinner – as the stove decided not to work that day.

With the three of you in a two-bed roomed house, you now have to convert the lounge into a bedroom at night. You don’t mind, at least you are not renting rooms and sharing a bathroom with at least ten other tenants. The house is sparsely furnished – with only two beds, a mattress, an old couch from an aunt, a second hand bar fridge, a second hand TV that is placed neatly on top of a crate of beer, four garden chairs that are now used as lounging chairs and a two plate stove that works when it is not on PMS. The cutlery and crockery are just as sparse. Looking around, you wonder where you would put this new wife.

          “This is only temporary,” you always tell each other as you belch down your greasy dinner with warm beer at night – clustered around the small match-box TV.

You love this new freedom – and you have no intention of letting it go that soon. Besides, you have just started life, so what’s the hurry.

          “You don’t want me to die before I see my grandchild, do you?” Your mother starts the next time you call home.

Now you really wonder why they have this filling the world itch. Mbona they never them same itch to want you to have a bigger car, more money or a better paying job. Wametumwa nini, you now become paranoid.  Au is there a competition – au it hasd been written in some Holy book somewhere – the ukoo which bears kids the fastest will get seven virgins when they die – it has been written.

Anyway, so you work hard, the plantation works you more than a mhindi works a mswahili - and see yourself climbing that corporate ladder. Soon you move into a two bedroom house of your own, and before you know it you are cruising down the street at two miles and hour so everybody can see you.

         “Hivi if you die tomorrow who will inherit all your things? Shouldn’t you have a family?” Your father is still on the filling up the world mission.

You wonder if he actually does understand that you are renting the house – and you are still paying for the car.

          “Kwani? Having a partner will make things easier!” Your mother pipes in when you try to explain.

Lo and behold you learn that your aunts and married cousins are also in the mission after they start dropping in with different girls every weekend. You feel like you are a judge of a beauty parade show.

          “Can you see those hips,” your aunt whispers at she points at curvy Maya, “those are child rearing hips.”

          “Look at those legs, if you have a daughter she will have zinga la usafiri,” your cousin Clara giggles at long legged Koku.

          “She is a born again Christian and comes from a very respectable family,” you wonder if you are ready to convert as you look at shy Anna.

          “She is now doing her Masters. She is the only one in her family without a PhD – and she is gunning to get one!” Your shrilly cousin Marianne announces as she introduces you to Aichi, “yaani your kids will be geniuses!”

          “You are not getting any younger, baba,” your great aunt puffs up as she brings in Lulu, “what are you waiting for? This one works like a mule.”

Kweli, Lulu works like a mule and ahem, looks like one too – may the good God bless her, as your mother would say. The minutes she walks into your house she starts washing dishes, preparing meals – she was even going to do your laundry if you hadn’t stopped her. Your mama mkubwa makes sure Lulu is at your house every weekend. She even does a better job of mowing the lawn than Juma, the house boy.

           “Why hire a house-help while Lulu can do the job,” Mama mkubwa explains when you ask.

Who dares defy great aunt? Nobody dares!  You don’t dare either. But the thought of marry Lulu – with her big muscles – uwii - forces you to quickly you decide to re-think about Maya. Forget the stiff face that hardly smiles, those taut muscles and the kikwapa – uwii – are enough to make you run for your dear young life. You are tempted to buy her a deodorant as your plants are suffering though your house is now squeaky clean. Even, Nyau, your old faithful cat who loves seafood has gone under covers – the kikwapa is just too over-powering ffor her – you hear she is hiding at the neighbours, happy to eat scraps even. Hapana!

So to save your poor black ass, you marry curvy Maya with her child rearing hips – and Nyau moves back in again. Yaani people, your family to be exact, jump up and down with such joy, at the wedding, that one would think you got a cut of the BoT money and your family are Maasai warriors.

          “Is your wife barren? Mbona we don’t see any tell-a-tale sign of a baby being on it’s a way?” an aunt asks three months after marriage.

          “These city girls have been too much around,” your mother complains to her sisters, “Dotto would have been perfect.”

Curvy Maya finally gets pregnant and you finally have your first born. As luck would have it, it’s a boy – at least the family will be quiet for a while. The whole family is ecstatic, Junior gets spoilt by everybody.

You want the best for Junior – more than what you ever had – and the best is expensive. Apart from expensive kindergarten school fees, Junior takes tennis lessons, swimming pool lessons, piano lessons, Play Station to name a few – and you are still paying for Maya’s car. You are happy though. You are happy to see Junior happy.

            “When is Junior going to get a sister?” Your mother starts at Junior’s fourth birthday, “au you want me to give birth for you?”

            “Una kufuru kwa Mungu! How dare you have only one kid?” Great aunt gets louder with age, “what if God forbid something happens to Junior?”

            “Your kid sister only got married three years ago and she already has given her husband six children, God bless her,” your mother adds.  “I envy her in-laws.”

Kweli it’s a go and fill the world mission – you now conclude.

Silence

Merry Christmas and happy new year everyone! 

I apologize for being silent.  I have been busy with my anthology of short stories – Tales of A Thousand Words.  I’m finally finished!  Huu huu!!  I must say I am quite happy with them – actually very happy!

Hope you like them!  Looking forward to reading your feedbacks. 

Let me go out and celebrate now! 

Chaggas’ First Time

There is something else you should know before getting married to a Chagga – especially one from the village, kuku wa kienyeji, as vijana wa mjini would call them.  Chaggas are generally not taught about sex – not like our Zaramo cousins who are taught how to gyrate those hips or as Waswahili say – kukata kiuno mpaka jamaa anahonga gari.  Chaggas are taught how to make money and provide for their families. Kyasaka women get married to Chagga men because they can provide – not because they are the Don Juan’s in bed.  Believe me, you’ll be highly disappointed. 

Surprisingly though, Chaggas have nyumba ndogos left, right and centre – again because they provide well, I presume. Chagga men don’t know love – or rather how to love, so we hear everyday from those who are married to Chaggas – but I’m stressing again that they are the best at looking after, erm, provide for their families.  A wife complaining to her Chagga husband about his nyumba ndogos and this will be his typical answer …

             “But Mama, I have given you a butcher, a beauty saloon, a BMW, a Vogue, you go shopping in Paris, London, Dubai and New York.  Your kids go to school in Cape Town.  I provide for you, Mama, so why are you complaining?” 

Yeah, I also don’t know what’s up with Chaggas and butchers. 

Anyway, so as I was saying, Chaggas are generally not taught about pleasing each other – but they do have some tricks up their sleeves.  Sasa this guy fresh from a seminary school gets back home.  Most seminary schools are flooded with Chaggas – not because that pious immaculate calling is only heard by them – hell no – they know they can get the best education there for free!   So this guy, lets call him Nderima, comes fresh from seminary school – and he was fresh in every sense of the word, I will get to that.  With his first class credentials in one hand, it was natural for the parents to start demanding for an in-law.  I mean, si umeshasoma, so whatelse are you waiting for? 

Nderima’s mother and aunts get busy looking for that perfect mpora – in a few months they got one.  It was a nice wedding, with a lot of vigelegele, mbege and nyama.  All this took place under the slopes of mount Kilimanjaro, like most village’s customs – Mama Nderima and the aunt naturally wanted to know if their son was virile enough.  Basi bwana, on their first night, Mama Nderima and the aunts had their ears glued on his marital door listening to any tell-a-tale sound. Before long their in-law started screaming and moaning.  Smiling proudly Mama Nderima and the aunts left the door, leaving the two in their marital bliss.  Now that’s my boy, Mama Nderima thought proudly as in law continues screaming.

             “Uwiiii!  Kiruu mbeee!  Uwiiii!!  Eeeh Ruwa!” in law calls out to her God. 

Every evening Mama Nderima heard the screaming and mourning – the first few weeks she would smile proudly, but after three months she started grimacing.  I mean her mpora’s stomach was still as flat as an ironing board!! I know you are now wondering – no Nderima and his wife didn’t live in the same house with his family packed like sardines like Indians do – Nderima was the last born, being the last son he lived in one of the houses on his father’s compound.   

Anyway, one day Mama Nderima just couldn’t keep it in any longer, so she called mpora in her kitchen.  In the company of a crowing cock, a belching goat and a mooing cow, she started her conversation with her in-law.  Maji yalikuwa mazito, so she just had to ask!  Afterall, what’s the point of having all the riches in the world and being a man without kids?  Aibu!  Ptuuh!  Could her beautiful fattened up mpora be barren?  So before concluding she summoned her mpora.

             “Kwani how do you do it?”  Mama Nderima had to ask, when she still couldn’t fathom why her in law still didn’t have a bun in the oven.

             “Well,” her in law started shyly with her eyes glued on the earthen floor, “after we undress, he mounts me and start going in and out – in, erm, um, my belly button.”

             “Belly button?”  Mama Nderima drops the plantain she was peeling in shock.

             “Yes, Mama.” The daughter In law replies quickly not understanding her mother in-law sudden dismay, quickly adding, “but it hurts so bad!” 

Like any Chagga man – Nderima provided well, such mpora didn’t see why she should complain about the painful experience – until after her mother in law brought it up.  Yap, she also had a brand new butcher.  Mama Nderima first covers her mouth with her eyes popping out kama mjusi aliyebanwa na mlango, then her hand moves to her forehead, then to her cheek – then she goes into deep thought.  For a minute there, she looked as if she was doing some Jackie Chan’s moves with that one hand.

             “Before you go to bed tonight, come to me, I will give you something,” she says finally.

            Quickly Mama Nderima grabbed a kibuyu that was at some corner of the room and got to work.  Vigorously she started shaking the sour milk calabash. Later in the evening Mama Nderima gives her daughter in law a smaller calabash.

             “After you have undressed, smear some of this on your belly button.” Immediately after Nderima’s door was locked, Mama Nderima glued her ear to it.

            “Uwiiii!  Kiruu mbeee!  Uwiiii!!  Eeeh Ruwa!” this time it was Nderima calling out to his God. 

I tell you, the grunts that came out of the room you would have thought Christmas beberu was being slaughtered.  the earth almost shook, I tell you!  The neighbourhood kids thought mount Kilimanjaro’s valcano was about to erupt.  If Mama Nderima hadn’t known what was going on, she would have charged into the room thinking that her dearest son was being slaughtered and he was about to get possessed na mashetani - for his pathetic perfomance – thanks goodness mpora hadn’t known any better either.

anyway, the small calabash then became Mama Nderima’s daughter in law best friend – and in no time her stomach started swelling.  Of course she had to ask her mother in law exactly what the concoction was.

             “Butter, my daughter, good older home churned butter.” 

Sasa while Zaramos are taught about the do’s, don’ts and definitely do’s, Chagga can come up with a few tricks.  It had to take butter for Nderima to know that the belly button wasn’t the cherry he was looking for.  It had to take slippery butter for Nderima to accidentally ‘slide’ into the cherry. Kwahiyo before getting married to a Chagga, make sure there is a very smart mother in law.  Ahem … 

Something Different …

My muse has gone leave — again! Tena as usual without giving notice! If you hear of a muse looking for work jamani refer them to me, I’ve just about had it up to here with mine!

Anyway, now you know I try poetry, African fiction, now here is a taste of something a bit different.  I wrote these a while back, you might notice from the writing style.  Anyway PLEASE be warned that they are a bit on the erotica side … …

Computer Love
Birthday Girl
Karma
Forbidden Pleasure

Enjoy!!!

Life After Burying a Chagga

So you get married to a Chagga man. You live through the name-dropping, big houses, big cars and big hair … ofcourse being a Chagga man’s wife you might find yourself getting forced to go big too. Afterall how else will they show that you are well fed and taken care off. If you manage to pull the diet stunt, you just wait until you fall pregnant. Bwana wee, the mtori you’ll get fed will be laden with butter ati in the name of making baby’s food. Sasa your mother in law who is probably Chagga too won’t just put a tablespoon of butter in your bowl of mtori, but the whole tub! Staring at the bowl, you will see all the cellulite that will soon be knocking on your door in slow motion.

Okay, so the big car, big house, big name with big children and a now as big as a house wife, finally — Mungu amrehemu — passes on. The funeral naturally takes place in Moshi! All the Mangis and babu za Mangi are there. The best caterers are there, the best florist and TBL will move there – up front under the lily white marquees sit the big names with their big wives, big children and big girlfriends – yes, Chaggas are quite notorious for that – every now and then big wife will find herself brushing shoulders with big girlfriend as if they live together.

          “Sasa baba yangu, I have given her a mansion, a salon, a boutique, a butcher, a Mercedes, a BMW and a Vogue, four cell phones and she goes overseas twice years on holiday, what else does she want?” Big name explains as he sips on his VSOP, when asked about not being attentive to his wife.

Now, back to TBL being at the funeral – well, a Chagga gathering without booze, uwii, it’s like a West African gathering without kola nuts! With Chaggas booze always get 50% of the festivity budget chunk and meat get 25% of the chunk – I kid you not – the rest will go to the food, decorations, sijui tables and chairs; and if there isn’t any remaining for music, some shangazi will offer to sing the famous ‘ulee ulee!’ Okay, so I’ve exaggerated a tab bit about the songstress shangazi, but I swear I won’t be surprised if such has happened. Lol.

The self-made big names are also seated under the marquee wearing the ugliest but most expensive tweed jackets and spotting Stratton hats, smoking Cuban cigars and pipes. Self-made through car jacking, mining Tanzanite at Mererani, robbing banks and some from honest hard working. We might be the business-oriented and money-mongers ethnic group in Bongo, but we are not all thieves jamani!

Anyway, now in the migomba, the small names are seated, few lucky ones will be seated on chairs. By the way, beers and brandy don’t go under the migomba, these poor small names will be drinking mbege from one calabash which gets shared among ten small names.

So there are the mourning women seated in the lounge, on mats that are scattered randomly on the deceased’s floor – tumekaa matanga. Everybody is sitting there looking gloom and sad – some shaking their heads in sadness; others trying to shake away the headache that was slowly creeping from too much beer. Since it is a Chagga funeral, so naturally there will be enough beer to wipe away the tears.

Anyway, as others are sniffling away and others whispering, a shrilly is suddenly heard at the door. Naturally you all turn in shock. This woman stumbles in, shaking with laughter like a crack-high hyena, clutching on her big tummy – she’s Chagga too – as she chuckles away. Mouths drop – I mean, you are supposed to be mourning, now what is up with this mad woman?

          “Eeh! Now the name is gone, let’s see how your mother is going to survive!” Big crazy woman tells the big red-eyed daughters of the deceased.

The three daughters who have just flown down from the UK, Canada and Switzerland where they go to school look up at the crazed woman wide-eyed.

          “Uwiii! Aunt Rose!” Someone tried to hush her.

          “I know, you all hate me because I always speak the truth!”

          “Aunt Rose,” someone whispers at crazed Aunt Rose. But the hushing and tugging at her khanga doesn’t seem to faze her at all. You see, she has been there.

Aunt Rose was once married to a big name Chagga man. Whenever there was a celebration somewhere, invitation cards were always personally delivered to their place by the groom’s parents. At the parties, Aunt Rose and her late husband always got the royal treatment – ushers would quickly attend to them as the host quickly found them the best seat in the house. During speeches the host would always acknowledge Aunt Rose and late brother, stressing on ‘how they would always be indebted by their kindness and how they would never be able to pay them back.’ The parking bay at Aunt Rose house was always filled with Mercedes, Land Cruisers, Rovers of visiting friends. Aunt rose even started walking with a swagger, snorting at the small names she met, her nose proudly pointing to the heavens.

Now big name passed on. Life took a total different turn after that. Nobody visits her house anymore, it is so bad that the beers that they always stocked up in their fridge are now getting mouldy. The gates have gotten cranky as they are hardly ever opened since no convoy of big cars has driven in ever since his passing on – the only thing that has ever passed through the gates is the bicycle of the Juma who sells her fresh fish. Forget about the fleet of visitors who always visited her house, even her late husband’s family have forgotten her. Invitation cards are now delivered by the invitee’s houseboys – tena on the last day, after somebody had remembered that there is a Rose.

          “Yes, we would like to thank kaka John and his wife Thecla whose Mercedes drove the bridal party, kaka Joseph and his wife Maria whose house we are using now for the reception, kaka Peter and his wife Vivian for the TShs. 10 million contribution, shemeji Thomas and dada Sarah for the thirty bottles of Bollinger vintage Champagne, Grand Annee and …”

As the Master of Ceremony calls out each name, the mentioned couple seated at the high table would stand up and wave their hands to the invitees proudly. Their women wearing so much gold, they could blind you stretch plastic smiles smugly.

          “Rose,” someone whispers to the Master of the Ceremony.

          “Huh?” the Master of Ceremony who is one of the brothers stares at the interrupter angrily and blankly.

          “Wifi Rose,” the wife continues, “you forgot wifi Rose!”

          “Oh yes! Rose,” raising his voice he goes on, “and Rose, she was the wife of our late brother Steve. May the good Lord rest his soul.”

A murmured ‘Amen’ is heard and glasses and clinked – Aunt Rose already forgotten. Nobody bothers to look for Aunt Rose, who is seated near the entrance way of the marquee, as nobody had ushered her in, smiles weakly.

Chaggas and Status Quo

So you got lucky and married a Chagga. Let me warn you – Chagga’s have a thing with status quo. When you meet a Chagga and he rises an eye brow, by that gesture he doesn’t mean he’s trying to place you, he actually means, “and you are?” Granted, names are everything to many people. They says it’s connections that get you places. But duuh! I used to think our cousins up there are bad, but kweli us Chaggas deserve a trophy! If your family does not have clout – then consider yourself status quos – no name – a nobody.

          “Shimbonyi mbee. Yesterday I invited Mushi over for some brandy, that livestock thief,” I want to hear a Chagga say that one day.

You go to a Chagga funeral or wedding – kama ni jina fulani, you will see all the big shots seated at a ‘high table’, where they will be doing what they do best – erm, telling it as it is … If there is no high table, which is most unlikely – anyway, how to spot a Chagga with clout at a big gathering – there will be a bottle of VSOP, blue label or black label something on the table.

          “Yesterday I wired my daughter who is studying in Canada US$ 10,000 for her birthday present.” One would start with a goblet of the best Cognac in his hand, “she wants a car … when I was working for the embassy in the UK, Nyerere used to be the guest in my house … you see my Mercedes, it’s custom made … my daughter can not speak a word of Swahili. She didn’t grow up here, you see … my first born got his degree from Harvard, my second born from Yale and the last is doing his degree at Oxford … I’m alone today, missus has gone to Dubai for shopping. She need a new car, the X5 is getting to familiar – everybody has it. Even Rweyemamu has it jamani!”

Lets take this story about this Chagga boy, lets call him Lelo.  Lelo had accompanied his friend, lets call him Nderima, to the airport to pick up Nderima’s father. Lelo was the one who was driving the car. Lelo loved cars – so whenever he got the chance to be behind the wheel, he would beg and gravel. Anyway, so Nderima’s father got into the car and after brief introductions, like any typical Chagga (man) he wanted to know more about Lelo.

          “So Lelo, what’s your father’s name?”

          “Massawe, baba.”

          “Aah, Massawe with the gas station? Great man1 Very intelligent!”

          “No, baba. Not that Massawe, baba.” Infact they were not even related maskini – even by clanship

           Nderima’s father kept quiet hoping that Lelo would say something else, say a bit more to the story. After what seemed like a mortuary silence, he went on, “so is the Massawe with the chain of butcheries your father then?”

          “No baba.”

          “Massawe whose daughter is married to that tycoon of …”

          “Hapana baba,” Lelo interrupted even before Baba Nderima could finish his sentence.

          “Okay, it must be that Massawe with the hotel in …”

          “Hapana baba.”

          “Aaah, it must be that Massawe who has been with the UN since …” Baba Nderima started off dreamily as he leaned on his walking stick – but again he got interrupted.

          “No baba,” Lelo replied, with his grip getting tighter on the steering wheel.

          “Then who the hell is your father, boy?”

          “John Massawe, baba.”

          “John Massawe? Hmmm … the name doesn’t sound familiar at all,” Nderima’s father scratches his balding head. “what does he do?”

          “He is one of the labourers at the coffee plantation …”

           Before Lelo could even finish his sentence, Nderima’s father tapped him on his shoulder with his walking stick with ivory and  a gold plaited tip, “stop the car boy.”

          “Dad, what is wrong?” Nderima asked his father.

          “The boy has no name! His father is a labourer, for chrissake? What will I tell my friends? Whom will I tell drove me from the airport?  A nobody?!”  He growled.

Marrying a Chagga

I have always known that getting married to a Chagga woman is a headache, especially if you are a kyasaka – but my girlfriend’s dad took the cake and the cherry on top!  The cream even!  With a mchagga father one never wins! You see, most Chagga parents don’t believe in inter-marriage.  When the topic of marriage comes up they will always insist that home is always best.  Infact some parents are so fast at hooking their children up!

             “When is daughter coming back?  Is she done with her law degree?  My nephew is just about to finish his doctorate.  Maybe we should introduce them when they get back from overseas.” 

Naturally when you hear degrees, overseas and such arrangements it only means prominent families – with names and clout. Anyway, so there they were, the two of them, sharing that father-daughter moment.  They used to have that, those two.  So my girlfriend brings up the topic that makes any possessive Dad freeze.  But since they always had that bond, he was down with whatever.

             “If I ever get married I will get married to a mzungu,” she announces.

             “Where from?”

             “Hmm, say German.”

             “No, his parents will always make you feel like a second class citizen.”

             “England?”

             “They will never see past your race and colour.”

             “Okay, an African then.”

             “Great!  At least we are home.  But where from?”

             “Okay, South Africa?”

              “They will abuse you.”

               “West Africa?”

               “They will probably sell you for your organs.”

                “North Africa?”

                “They will put in a harem.”

                 “East Africa then.”

                 “Great!  At least we are home.”

                  “Hmm, Uganda?”

                  “Uwii!  HIV/AIDS!”

                  “Kenya?”

                  “They will harass you!”

                  “Jamani wapi sasa?”  my girlfriend had started the topic to get at her Dad, but now the tables had turned around.  She was getting highly agitated. 

                  “How about home?”  Her dad offered. 

                  “Okay, how about Wagogo?”  She asks about the tribe from Dodoma. 

                  “Omba omba wale.  You will be as poor as a church mouse!”

                  “Wahaya then?” 

                  “They are too arrogant!” 

                  “Wapare?” 

                  “They like sex too much!” 

My girlfriend giggles at this, thinking – as if there is something wrong with that.  The dad seeing his daughter’s reaction gives another point quickly.

                 “And they are misers!”

                 “Okay, wakurya?”

                 “You’ll be beaten black and blue!”

                 “Wasukuma then?” 

                 “They will fatten you up and force you to bleach your skin.”

                 “Okay, I take it you will be happy if I got married to a mchagga?”

                 “That’s what I have always been telling you!”

                 “Wakibosho?”

                 “They will beat you black and blue!”

                 “Wauru?”

                 “Very smart, educated but no maendeleo.  You husband might end-up being a shoe shiner with a pHd.”

                 “Wamachame?”

                 “Wachawi!  They can even bewitch the dead!”

                 “Wa-old Moshi?”

                 “Washamba!”  He spits on the ground, “they are so ignorant they don’t know the difference between a cell phone and a remote control.”

                 “Wamarangu?” 

                 “They are too arrogant!“

                “Okay, so I guess you will be happy if I married someone from our village.”

                “Absolutely,” he smiles.  “But they are too …” 

                “I hear you, dad,” my girlfriend interrupts, “someone from the same community then?” 

                “Which clan though?”  

                “The Tembas?” 

                “The great grandmother was a witch.” 

                “The Machas?” 

                “I hear the aunt’s cousin’s sister’s son’s father was a mental case.  Your children might inherit it.” 

                “The Mushis?” 

                “They are thieves.  They are so bad that they even steal their very own livestock jamani!” 

                 “The Temus?” 

                 “They haven’t gone to school!” 

                 “The Lyimos?”

                 “They drink too much!  They will forget the baby’s milk but never the beer.”

My girlfriend then coughs, not because there was something irritating her throat, but because she was so tempted to remind her father that his blood pressure and liver problem were – by the way - because of drinking too much – tena hard liquor even. 

                  “The Teshas?”

                  “Their late great grandfather owes your late great grandfather!”

                  To this my girlfriend raises her eyebrows, but since she didn’t want to get into it – clearly – she went on, “Okay, I guess you will be happy if it was from the same street then?” 

                  “Absolutely!”  The dad replies with a grin, “but which family though?”         

Loving, Living and Lying

I’m back to writing again, after duuh, many a couple of months!  I’m a lunar girl – only get inspired to write in June.  Or I have a very nasty muse!  I mean where did you hear of one getting a six plus months leave jamani?  Lol.

Haya, this is my first jaribio to write a collection of stories about love, life and lying …   Quite excited, I must say, and ideas are flying left right and centre.  I’d better catch them fast before my muse decides to take off.  Lol …

Anyway, since one can easily get carried away when writing about such topics, halafu unajikuta you are writing a novel instead of a short story as initially planned as there is so much to write, erm, vent out – so I gave myself a challenge – all the stories to have exactly a thousand words. I have so far posted five short stories, but there will be more to come …

Hope you enjoy my short stories collecion … … 

LOVING, LIVING AND LYING

A Thousand Words, A Thousand Seconds

Apologies, the stories have been removed.

As promised, more to come… Watch this space … …

Keep well & God bless!! 

Sandie.

Manka the Woman-Child

Hey my good people!

I have finally finished my novella – roughly about 160 pages – MANKA THE WOMAN-CHILD, and I’m absolutely thrilled.

After getting such great reviews from published writers at AuthorsDen I thought I should try my hand at writing a book. I wanted to do something that would be entertaining as well as educative. So I thought a story addressing cross-cultural issues as well as socio-economic issues teenage girls face would be ideal. The character Manka was then born. In her journey to coming of age, Manka will face issues such as pregnancy, circumcision, sugar daddies, prostitution et cetera. The target group of readers I am looking at is teenagers and young adult. I tried to keep the language as simple as possible. MANKA THE WOMAN-CHILD is my first book of a series of novellas.

I would now like to have it published – but I thought I should not rush it before seeking advice from friends. I understand that the publishing industry is a competitive (serious publishing) and that it can be complex at times.

I have contacted some agents and I already have a bunch of them who are looking forward to reading it. However, as I stated above, before I send it to them, I would like to show it to my friends first and will do any necessary revising before I show it to the agents.

Please do let me know if you are interested in reading it – and commenting.  If you are do leave a message in the comment box and I will forward you the manuscript.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Thanking you,

Sandie.  

There Is Hope

There is still hope I must tell you.  The kids I run into these days make every hair on my body stand, lakini there is hope.  While some parents are appease their spoilt brats in the name of uzungu, others are doing otherwise.  A sister and a good friend has been blessed two beautiful kids.  Kids being kids – the first born, a four year old boy decided that eating was taking to much of his time and he would rather play.  So while nobody was looking he dumped his plate of food in the rubbish bin.  Kumbe his nanny saw him. My smart sister decided that kumchapa won’t do – besides she has done enough of that and it hardly got them anywhere – and there is that worry that mtoto atakuwa sugu, of which in most instances ni kweli.   

My smart sister decided that kumchapa won’t do – besides she has done enough of that and it hardly got them anywhere – and there is that worry that mtoto atakuwa sugu, of which in most instances ni kweli.   

Calmly she told him, “baby, you know that there are hundreds of kids who go without food?  We sometimes see them when we are driving around – and they always come to the car begging for money.” 

Little boy said nothing, he just looked at his mother, his big eyes getting bigger and shy ati, cutely pouting his mouth.  Si unajua watoto – when they know they are guilty, they pull the saddest and cutest face ever!  Sijui wanafanyaje!?  I need someone to teach me how to do that.  Yaani I would have been getting away with murder! 

                “I’m not going to whip you,” dada continued. 

To this little boy heaved a sigh of relief.  It doesn’t matter how sugu you are, fimbo is always fimbo bwana.  And by chance you can be spared the rod, lazima you heave a sigh of relief. 

                “As you punishment, tomorrow I will not give you any food,” my dada said is more calmly, “you will have to experience what it feels to go hungry.” 

The next day, he looked on as his sister’s was having breakfast of Cocoa Krispies™.  At first to him it was all a joke.  He knew mommy would cave in eventually.   

                “Mommy,” his sister called out, “may I have more milk in my Cocoa Krispies™?” 

                “Yes baby, but be careful you don’t spill any on your uniform,” dada replied from the lounge. 

Watoto bwana, of course we all know that – that was done purposely, kumtilisha donge kaka yake who was standing by her side gulping air maskini. 

                “Mommy, I am done with my Cocoa Krispies™.  May I have a banana please?”  This is a kid whose number one enemy is fruits!  Lakini when you want to rub it in, you rub it well in! 

Okay, little boy told himself, so I didn’t get breakfast.  Surely nanny will pack lunch for me.  So again he looked on as lunch was being packed.  So he stood there watching – an apple going in the pink lunch box, then a packet of crisps and a chicken and mayo sandwich at the side of the apple and lastly a box of juice. 

His cute big eyes then go to the cabinet where their lunch boxes are kept, waiting for nanny to reach for the blue lunch box. 

                “Wako tayari?” he hears mommy calling out.  “Hurry them, we are getting late.” 

                “Dada na mimi je?” he then asked his nanny when he saw her closing the fridge and clearing the kitchen worktop. 

                “Hukusikia mama alivyosema jana?’” Nanny replied, clearing feeling sorry for little boy but knowing for sure this experience will teach him a lesson 

                “Come, come, let’s go children!  We are getting late.” A well dressed and fresh smelling mommy walked into the kitchen hurriedly.  She quickly grabbed her children’s bags and her lunch of salads and crackers – yeah, si unajua mambo ya diet tena. 

                “Mommy, may I atleast take water,” little boy asked when he realized that this was a serious game for sure. 

                “Okay I will let you have water this time because this is your first offence,” mommy replied sternly.  “Dada naomba mwekee maji huyu.” 

At twelve they are back from school.  Lord and behold, nanny made any kid’s favourite food – chips and parmesan chicken.  Little boy looked on as he watched his sister gulf down the crispier than crisp chips that were drenched in ketchup.  His stomach grumbled wildly. 

After lunch ya hewa, little boy went outside to play – his hunger completely forgotten.  I tell you kazi kweli disciplining a child!  Yaani in two minutes they completely forget what the long lecture was about – and they go back to their merry ways. 

After an hour of playing, they had to nap for two hours – so says mommy’s rules.  Sleep came very easily for little boy – with fatigue and hunger.  When time came they were woken up.   

Again little boy, had to watch his sister have afternoon tea of chocolate chip cookies and chocolate milk – she usually likes strawberry milk, but she was on a roll of kumtilisha dongo kaka yake, so she asked for his favourite flavour – before they headed to doing their homework. 

At that point, little boy couldn’t take it anymore so he started bribing and blackmailing his sister. 

                “Go steal some food of me,” he suggested when nanny was out of earshot. 

                “No,” little sister replied stubbornly. 

                “If you don’t I will tell mommy that you had spilled her perfume in the toilet.” 

Little sister tried, but she was caught by the nanny as she was rummaging through the fridge for any left-overs. 

                “I will buy you lollipop and let you play with my spider man if you get me some food.” 

Again little sister was caught by the nanny as she was getting stools to climb on so that she could reach for the cookies that were on the wall units’ shelves. 

When mommy arrived, little boy ran to her and gave her the biggest hug ever.  He didn’t cry.  He didn’t sulk either.  She was actually taken aback – she didn’t expect that reaction – infact she was expecting to find a pouting, tearing boy. 

                “I’m sorry, mommy,” he said as he hugged her tighter. 

                “Do you know why mommy did that, baby?” 

                “To teach me that there are little boys like me who go the whole day without food so I should never waste food.” 

                “Good,” she replied as she returned the hug.  “Mommy love you.  You know that?” 

                “I know, mommy.  I love you too.” 

That Sunday, he surprised his mommy when he gave her part of his pocket money – they earn their pocket money, by the way.  Every Saturday they do chores of minding the garden.  Anyway, he gave his mommy some of his pocket money to give the little boy they always find sitting outside their church door begging. 

I guess not only did he learn a valuable lesson he was also touched.  The next exercise, dada says is to teach him not to tell his sister to steal and not to lie.  It will be interesting to see how she will manage this – as once again she is not planning to use the rod. 

Child discipline is one of the most important elements of successful parenting, yet more and more, parents just don’t know what to do. Discipline (or training) might simply be defined as a process to help children learn appropriate behaviours and make good choices. In addition, loving, effective discipline aids a child in exercising self-control, accountability, and mutual respect.
Through proper discipline, children learn how to function in a family and society that is full of boundaries, rules, and laws by which we all must abide. With it, children gain a sense of security, protection, and often feel accomplishment. Without proper discipline, children are at risk for a variety of behavioural and emotional problems. 

 

My First Time

The music is merry and right
The room is shiny and bright
Your kind eyes dance as they smile at me
I am nervous, scared as tense as I can be
You approach me, over me is your big frame
To agree to come myself I start to blame

The earth seems to shake with my fear
My heart beats you can almost hear
My body is numb with such fright
Thinking of you entering where it is so tight
As I lay back my muscles with dread do tighten
The sight of the tool you will use does frighten
 
I try to look for an excuse to leave
As you refuse to be swayed a sigh I heave
The music is supposed to be soothing
But now in my young ears sounds so brooding
Fast and faster my heart beats also pump
From my mouth my heart will jump

With a warm smile, you ask me if I’m afraid
Bravely I shake my head, nervously toying with a braid
You have had more experience, you calmly say
Finding the right place, your finger does play
You probe deeply and I shiver; my body tenses;
I moan, groan, tears sting, as you bring down my defenses

You are as gentle as you had promised you’d be
Looking deeply within my eyes, my fears you see
Urging me to trust you, you beg me some more
Saying you have done this many times before
I open wider to give you more room for an easy entrance
The pain is so intense I seem to be in a trance

Begging you to hurry I begin to plead
You slowly take your time I can’t stand the deed
Gentle and slow you must be, you say
So not to cause me much pain as you pray
Your gray hair and tobacco smell reminding me of Daddy
To your fatherly figure I then give in gladly

Pressing closer, going deeper, trying to hold you at bay,
Suddenly I feel the tissue rip and give way;
Throughout my little body excruciating pain does surge
I feel the slight trickle of blood as on you urge
You looks at me concerned and asks me if it’s too painful
My eyes filled with tears I try to be as brave as a bull

I shake me head and bravely nod for you to go on
My braids with pink ribbons shake as I tremble and moan
You begin going in and out with such skill
But I am now too numb you within me to feel
I feel something after a while bursting within me
You pull it out of me, I lay panting, glad its over and I’m free

My little body shudders a sigh of relief that its over
Smiling warmly over me your big frame does hover
I have been your most stubborn yet most rewarding experience
You say with a chuckle, sweet stubborn body of brilliance
Straightening my wrinkled school skirt I get up
With a wink, you reward me with a lollipop   

Lick 

Lick

Slurp

Slurp

Noisily I lick away at the delicious swirl of sweetness bout
My cute little lips no longer in an annoyed sulking pout
I smile and thank my dear old dentist as I merrily hop out
It was my first time to have a tooth pulled, have no doubt

                    Copyright Sandra A. Mushi . All rights Reserved
 

Necessary Noise

I have decided to start another blog … Necessary Noise … where I will be posting all my occasional rantings and ramblings – my necessary noise.  This one - well, I will leave this for the soul talks … lol …

I am therefore going to copy my rants that are here to Necessary Noise – and later on taratibu will delete them from this blog.

Westernization au Ulimbukeni?

I was at church the other Sunday.  I had walked in late, as usual – I still don’t get this though – I always wake up so early, but I always get to church late!  I have decided to blame it on the mirror.  Somebody has to take the blame, but definitely not yours truly. Anyway, the church was jam packed – again as usual.  Us, late comers, the young and the old, always get to enjoy the fresh morning breeze as we sit outside on the garden plastic chairs.  Halafu the late comers are the ones who are always reeking of booze.

                 “Moan … God, do I have to go to church today … I’ll pray in bed … besides I always talk to you when I’m intoxicated …” is it just me or do we all get really religious and one with the Almighty when really sloshed.  Once I even saw the pearly heaven’s gates.  Kweli tena! So the negotiations with God continue, “… okay, I agree because of you my week was fruitful and beautiful … I agree, without you I wouldn’t be where I am today … “ at this point, your bed is getting cozier and warmer – but He always wins. 

So groaning you get up and drag your heavy head to the bathroom.  Between negotiating with your eyes to open, your feet to walk and finally arguing with the mirror that the face you are seeing on the mirror is not yours – you find yourself getting to church late again!   Anyway, so basi bwana, this heavily pregnant older woman comes in – there is a bunch of kids occupying some of the plastic garden chairs – but they don’t move.  Imagine, this heavily pregnant woman walks in and these kids in minis and loose pants just sit there – some of them chewing gum even!  Yes, chewing gum kanisani I tell you!! 

Anyway, the kids do see the woman, two girls look at her and start giggling.  The mothers have also seen the woman.  They steal quick glances at their spoilt kids and proceed fanning their heavily made-up faces with the Chinese fans they got from their shopping trips in Dubai. 

Ingekuwa enzi yetu, one of the mothers would have given one of her kids that eye, that look – we used to call it the laser beam look as it sliced right through you with no warning at all.  Anyway, so if it was our time, one of the mothers would have flashed one of her kids that look that would have made him get up as quickly as a flash and let the older person sit on his chair. Tena if you are late getting up from your chair, she makes you go fetch ten chairs – from God only knows where – of all the other late comers who have just walked in.  Halafu lets not forget that you are in church, so no talking – mama wa enzi zetu would remind us with just one look.  Without knowing your bearings, you go around like a headless chicken until you find the chairs. 

So the poor heavily pregnant woman wobbles to this chair.  It was unoccupied at that point.  There was a 3-4 year old who seemed to be high on something was using it more as a jumping castle than a chair – one minute he was sitting on it, the next he was running around, chasing his own shadow.  Again, his mother did nothing to stop the chaos he was causing.

                   “Ni mtoto bwana,” she would have said, if she was asked, “mwache acheze.” 

Hello!!  This is a church!  Not a goddamn play ground!!  We are here to pray not to play!!  Duuh!!  Anyway, so the heavily pregnant woman wobbles to the chair.  Bwana wee, the baby mama wacha ampe lip!  I promise you even the Almighty  all the way up there stopped concentrating on the blessing he was showering us with at that moment and stared at the baby mama, bewildered. Quickly I got up – to the rescue – and offered the woman my chair.  Manake ilikuwa ni aibu!  And the kids, hell, they kept on blowing on their gums and giggling.   

What’s happening to the African adabu and heshima, our parents and the parent of our parents and so-forth have been instilled in us for years?  Why have we failed to do the same with our kids?  Yaani their morals have gone out the windows kabisa!  Haya basi, this other day I went to visit an old friend.  Well, she is more of a dada than anything.  You know, those older girls you grew up with whom always whacked your ass, just to prove that they were older than you so they knew better.  Anyway, dada’s house was packed to the brim – with her daughters’ friends enjoying a sleep over.    Getting a ‘shikamoo’ from them was an issue.  Simply because they were as tall as I am – and ‘hi’ is the order of the day – or simply just a nod.  And what did the mother do?  Nothing.  She just smiled and said the same annoying thing – which is about to turn into a national anthem soon, if we don’t start discipling our kids.                 “Waache watoto,” grr, I’m so getting tired of that sentence, “ndio wakati wao.” 

The table then got laid … there was enough food to feed the whole Africa – halafu vikibaki they go to the dogs, no viporo in the fridge, all in the name of Uzungu.  I think dada saw the surprised look on my face.  There was savoury rice, chips, pizza, pasta, mash – there was even pilau and biriani – not to mention the poultry, seafood, meat dishes and salads.  There were six girls and each had her own special dish.  Haya bwana wee.

               “We are having the savoury rice, but the girls don’t feel like rice today,” she explained.  The little guys in my head and I all went ‘huh?’ in unison.  I mean, whatever happened to ‘y’all going to eat what I have cooked!’ 

Halafu have you noticed that these kind of kids always sport those creatively-spelt black American names – such as LaQuanna, Zhan’nee, T’Keyah, LaShonda, Tyrone, YaSheema … and then there are the Precious, Ebony, Candy – these names are so creatively spelt that you have to go to school so as to learn to pronounce.  Don’t the mothers who give their daughters such names know that the Moneeshas, Queetas and Shone’etas of this world can cook a storm as well as they can dance to a Beyonce video?

                  “I have taught them to speak their minds.”  Okay, hold on there, dada.  I don’t think this is what they mean by speaking one’s mind.  This is called – having it their way and being spoilt.   So there is dada Mary, the kids’ nanny, busy laying the table while the girls are dancing to Beyonce’s video.  I call two of the girls and asked them if they would help dada Mary.

                 Dada quickly jumped in, “waache tu watoto wacheze.” 

Lunch was delicious – yaani it was finger licking good - and loud.  We could hardly hear each other with the girls jumping into our conversations.  Again, if it was enzi zetu, duuuh!  Tena a separate table ya mbali would have been set for us kids, lest we made noise and interrupted the elders. 

So when we were done, I expected, well, I thought the girls would clear the table.  Again I asked – okay, don’t go groaning on me now!  I’m not blonde for nothing – jamani, I am sometimes slow.  I just never learn fast enough.

                 This time the girls replied me from the lounge - while gyrating their teenage hips to a Shakira video - in unison, “dada atasafisha.  Kwani kazi yake ni nini?” 

                 “Can they cook?”

                “Ooh no!  What for?  Heaven forbid, no!  Si dada wapo?”

                “How do they manage at school?”  I just had to ask – my lower lip was hanging on the floor, I promise you.  The girls then went to a boarding school you see.

                 “What do you mean?”

                  “I mean when it comes to washing and cleaning?”

                 “Oh sometimes they pay other kids to wash for them.  Sometimes when we go visit we take the dirty laundry with us,” she explained proudly, “unajua I’m teaching them to be Westernized.  Besides apart from wadada, we have washing maching, microwaves, blenders … blah blah blah ….” 

I swear I never knew microwaves could cook!  I was too flabbergasted that day to remember to ask dada to show me this miracle microwave.  Next time I will sure remember – for I really could do with one!

Anyway, sasa huu uzungu utatupeleka pabaya!  Maybe our parents were right when they insisted that ‘children are meant to be seen and not heard?’  They have been given the chance to be heard, now look at what is happening.  They were so right to teach us the value of money and hard work.  Huu sasa ni uzungu au ujinga?  Ulimbukeni?!