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 kikwapauwii – 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.

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~ by saharasoulfood on January 21, 2008.

13 Responses to “Go Fill The World”

  1. I would love to know Maya’s side of the story!!! Bless her child rearing hips!

  2. Watch this space, Pets.

  3. pets… you kill me.. i knew you would say this.. sasa, i would love to hear the women’s side too.. koku, maya, eventeh one who smells like ferry fish market…lol. sandra, you really do know how to keep one’e eyes and mind on those words… i can imagine you reading it aloud to me.. haahha, with all the gestures, etc… waiting for sequel to this one…mwaaah.

  4. heheh…very well told…i am still ducking and feinting, HARD!!

  5. kwa kweli… wewe ni taahira.. just re-read it… you are nuts!!! but so well spoken.. so true…

  6. Doh! I have not laughed that hard in a crowded waiting room at the doctor’s like today. Pple were wondering kwani hiyo sms ni vipi? Ama he’s just showing off a blackberry! “ah! Hawa washamba shtuka!” Their faces scoffed.

    Lakini it is so true – na East Africa everywhere. They have been sent to torment us – just as soon as we seem to settle down. Mine actually told me that they have suggestions for me if I can’t find one! I expect that one would be like Lulu the hairy, ferry fish, mule looking,mule-like-working ogre.

    But wait, even if we were not serious with our lives, they would say, “get a wife, she will help you get serous with life.

    Lol. Maisha haya.

  7. […] 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 […]

  8. very nice girl. you are definitley a good with your words. I like the way you add in a little swahili here and there …. it definitley gives it that extra punch. as for the theory…sadly seems very true. but thank god for my parents for they have not been on any of our (siblings and i)cases at all. stimes u begin to wonder why not cos been conditioned to think ‘fill the world’??!!!

  9. @ Alkags: I always ask peeops, what do they mean when they say “utatulia” when you are married? What is that that supposed to mean? Au at send-off receptions here, the parents will be like “umetutoa aibu!” Aaaah! I could scream!

    @ Jackie: I only wish parents knew the damage they are doung to their kids. Anyway, Dr. Phil a.k.a Sandie is here to tell it as it is – from a kichaa’s point of view, lol.

  10. […] 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 […]

  11. nataka nizijue hizo child-rearing hips zikoje…..

  12. Ujambo – I like your blog – and your fans have some good responses

    Ken – Mkenya – Oklahoma USA.

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