Herispeak

The giant is me and no other.  For years, I have done one thing successfully….year in and year out. I have added more and more weight to my frame. Compared to my former self…I am indeed a giant. I know precisely when it started. I know precisely why it started. It is not a complex reason or one that is even justifiable.  I met and started dating this guy in 2001. His name was John and when I fell in love with him…I fell HARD. We met at an IT Conference. He was one of the panelist and I remember spending most of the time staring at him. When the conference was over, I walked up to him and asked him a question that could have been answered by any other panelist. In fact, he even referred me to someone else. It didn’t matter though…I walked out with a smile having told him where I worked and exchanged email addresses. Those were the good old days of Yahoo Chat. The following day, I got an invitation to add him as a friend. As they say, the rest is history. I learnt later on that

I can feel it. I don’t have to close my eyes or reach deep inside me to feel it. It’s right here on the surface, close by. Close enough for me to touch, yet I cannot. On the days that I do not feel it, it is simply because I get too caught up in the present. I see the pain, I see the failure, I see the lack, I see that which I cannot provide. I see that which I cannot offer.   I see too the looks from people around me. Some are looks of pity, some are empathy, some are sympathy, some apathy pretending to be empathy. In some of the looks, self pride stares back at me and I see the mockery deep in their eyes. I suppose I cannot blame them. Perhaps life has been kinder to them and they have made better decisions than I. But then, perhaps they really are just filled with the pride of life.     It will not last this darkness. I know this. What I wonder however is whether I will survive this. I know I must but will I? Do I have what it takes to ? Only I can answer these questions. O

Taking care of her daughter Zuleika was an easy task. Zuleika's mother enjoyed it immensely. No, she ADORED doing it. Zuleika was a pleasant little girl. Chubby yet not fat, with beautiful round brown eyes and deep dimples on each side of her cheeks. Her mouth was love-shaped and naturally lined as if someone had taken a black liner and tattooed her lips. She had long, naturally soft hair which was always neatly held or plaited. Her mother took great care of this. When she smiled, the world seemed to brighten up. It was as if she was the most important person in the room. Well, to her mother she was.   Zuleika was the kind of child who would tempt you to steal her just by flashing one of her smiles. One was immediately compelled to smile back, even the harshest or most severe of persons. Like Mrs Migwe.   She lived a few houses away from Zuleika’s home in the heart of the small village of Mukeha. Everyone avoided Mrs. Migwe. She was a widow and a loner. Her children hardly

She stared out of the window, with tears running down her face. Oblivious to the stares from other passengers in the No. 46 City Hoppa from Kawangware, she was lost in her own thoughts….in her own pain.  Her rural home in Nyeri seemed so far away. She felt misplaced in this big city of Nairobi. This thought immediately reminded her of her parents. If only they were alive. The HIV virus took both of them years ago. Wacu barely remembered her mother. She had a vague memory of her and her maternal grandmother had brought her up since she had been only 5 years old when her mother died. Wacu’s other siblings had remained with her paternal grandparents. Luckily, they had lived only half an hour apart from each other and had gotten to see each other often. Nderitu now lived and worked in Mombasa. Whilst Mumbi was now married and a stay at home mum. She and her family of 4 lived in Nyeri.   Of her father, there was nothing. It is as if he had never existed. This was understandable s

I dream of writing a book. A wonderful literal masterpiece like no other.   I truly dream. I imagine myself at the book launch…signing off hundreds and hundreds of copies whilst swathed by fans from all corners of the world. I see myself at a book reading or at a cocktail hobnobbing with Chimamanda Adichie or Binyavanga Wainaina…or this literal genius from Ethiopia whose name I forget but who wears a beautiful afro and looks as mysterious as can be.  But what I must tell you is this….it is a tough dream to accomplish. Writing a book requires one to pour themselves into the book..completely. It is is difficult for an author to disassociate from their work…because writing comes from the depths of depths. Writing exposes the depth of the author’s knowledge or the shallowness of the same. It exposes their ignorance, if at all and applauds their intelligence…their astonishing imagination..their humour...their...their...their everything!  I dream ..I dream of being a writer and h