Human

All the journeys I have ever embarked on have traumatised me in one way or another. They have had me questioning what ‘being human’ means. What do you think being human is? Are you human? Is humanity a good thing?

Last week I was traveling to the countryside. It is one journey I always look forward to and dread at the same time. I love that traversing the five counties on my way is an excursion of itself. However, I dread sitting with strangers and the fact that public service vehicles have no room for long legs. My eyes will love what I see on the way, but my legs will certainly not love how they feel when I touch down in my village. This journey, however, was more filled with dread than it was with pleasure.

It was raining on our way. And rain always lulls everyone to sleep. Except, we couldn’t sleep on this particular journey. A beautiful daughter of a wonderful God was by the window seat and she had her window half open. The wind was blowing rainwater our way as if it was on contract. At some point, I felt like I was a Merc in a car wash being cleaned, except no one was scrubbing my back.

“Please close the window.” The lady she shared the window with implored.

“I can’t breathe with the window closed.” She answered back while removing her glasses and opening the window further.

The lady who had asked for the window to be shut was shivering despite being in a jacket. I could hear her teeth grinding against each other. I had to confirm from my shuttle ticket whether this was a PSV or a privately-owned vehicle we had just been given a ‘lift’ in.

“Sis, next time try sitting at the front seats with the driver.” The shivering lady said as she curled herself into a ball to harness as little warmth as she could from the covered parts of her body.

“As for you, next time also try to sit at the middle.” The lady with the open window retorted slapping some gum against her teeth and staring somewhat into space. As if she couldn’t imagine how we couldn’t understand she would ‘die’ if the window was closed.

I turned back at her and imagined her telling the police during ‘mask-up times’ that she can’t breathe with the mask on and leaving them to live a ‘breath-ful’ life with coronavirus hanging around the air like the homie you don’t like.

I tried wracking humanity up from the depths of her soul and found it all over her. I realised that that is exactly how we are as ‘humans’. She was the best version of us at that point in time and I shouldn’t have found any fault in how she exposed us to cold.

But do I really want to be human? I don’t think so. My encounter with her had me thinking a lot about how loved and taken care of I will be if I undressed all these fast fashion clothes that make me look down upon people or have them laugh at my lack of sense, and moved into an animal family. I will do quite fine as a member of the elephant family because they will love and celebrate me every day of my life. In fact, I will get a befitting send-off when I die and not those two-day road trips we take to people’s funerals as humans.

I wouldn’t mind having animal leaders because we humans have failed. We are out here hating each other and feeling better about ourselves, destroying every beautiful thing that comes our ways and crying about the cruelty of life. In due honesty, good deeds should be termed as ‘animal’ and not ‘human’ anymore. I wouldn’t mind telling a stranger who has lent me a bottle of water, “thank you! That’s so animal and kind of you.”

Because to be animal is to care for family and community, be selfless, responsible, and compassionate, I choose Animal.

Pretty Girls And Yoghurt Cans

Image: National Geographic

If there is one thing I am sure about in this world, it has to be the fact that pretty girls love yoghurt. If you are doubting it, then please go to your messaging apps and type yoghurt in your search button. Tell me, how many responses popped up? Do you agree with me now?

So a few days ago, I was traveling in a PSV. That means I was in the vehicle with thirteen other individuals, and one of them happened to be a pretty girl who could look straight into your heart in her glasses. And as it is given, she had with her a vanilla yoghurt. I smiled every time she drank from her straw because she looked classy and prettier.

I can’t trust myself to enjoy my yoghurt from a straw. One minute in, and I will be ransacking my bag for a spoon to give the yoghurt a decent descend into my stomach. I will even be closing my eyes to savour the taste and feel of the chill goodness rolling off my tongue, and I might even moan a little bit to motivate my mouth to ask for more.

That means I cannot go on yoghurt dates. I will embarrass my date with my lack of table manners, because I will be patting the yoghurt cans to will all the cream into my mouth. If it’s a stroll date, I will pack the cans in my bag for later use and talk about Climate Change like I haven’t done anything serious.

However, pretty girls disappoint me a lot with their yoghurt cans. I was hoping this pretty girl will prove my previous experiences wrong, by packing her own can for re-use or proper disposal later. I was wrong. As soon as the driver killed the engine at our destination, she alighted with her belongings, except for the yoghurt can. She left it on her passenger seat and moved on with her life; with a full stomach and a happy soul, but a sad environmentalist.

She reminded me of another pretty girl I met in July.

 She had these droopy eyes that had me wondering how many days she had gone without sleep. “Achoooo…!” She sneezed inside her mask. A series of heh-hehs followed the sneeze as she cleared her throat. I wondered where she might have caught the flu from.

Maybe she works in a sawdust firm and they are not given any masks, or maybe she caught it from a hot kiss she shared with her husband, or she ate lots of jaggery. I thought.

In the event of trying to figure out where she might have caught her cold and how I could jump on her cold and sell her some eucalyptus crystals to ease her flu, she pulled out a can of yoghurt from her handbag.

That simply pushed aside my entrepreneurial skills. My mouth watered with saliva but I couldn’t even swallow lest everyone in the tuktuk hears me swallowing. Even passers-by were well-positioned to hear me swallowing in that cramped vehicle.

So I kept my eyes fixed on the bumpy road and my mind in the dust that was immigrating to my unkempt afro, until the girl moved her left hand from its resting place on her lap, to the side of the road.

 “Thwack!” came the sound of plastic meeting the ground for the first time. I hadn’t even completely on boarded my mind on other things so I couldn’t believe my eyes nor my ears. A pretty girl littering the place, just like that? Is it that simple? Is it?

These instances made me so angry. The United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP) reports that 400 million tons of plastic are produced yearly, with half of that amount used to create single-use items like shopping bags, cups and straws. And, “every minute, the equivalent of one garbage truck of plastic is dumped into our ocean.” 

The Heinrich Böll Stiftung (hbs)’s Programme Coordinator observes that in Nairobi, alone, “it is estimated that 2,400 tons of solid waste are generated every day, 20% of that being plastic form, mostly single-use plastic like as straws, bottles and packaged consumer goods.”

That, pretty girls and handsome gents, means that if we continue throwing cans and lollipop wrappings and sticks among other plastics outside car windows, we will not only lose beautiful backgrounds to shoot our vlogs from in nature (because it seems like we care about that way too much), but we will also end up ingesting these plastics in the foods we eat through bioaccumulation and biomagnification. Read More…

So dispose solid waste appropriately and you will eat healthily and stay beautiful!

Moon.

I love the moon. I love the fact that she shines against the night sky despite her soul being originally dark. I love how she drifts away from the normalcy of the earth but still shows up to mark her permanence in the universe. I love the moon because she’s beautiful; her beauty comes with the power to move deeps and stirs still waters.

I first fell in love with the moon when I was in primary school. My dates with the moon would take place on Friday nights with me doing dinner dishes outside the house because the next day was church and I needed to keep time, and the moon going about her business as the queen of the blue seas.

I didn’t know that my relationship with her would shift from one of light and counting her phases, to one that shaped me as a lady.
So one time I was walking to my dorm in a beautiful school somewhere in the green valleys of the rift when I felt something turn in my lower abdomen. I looked at the moon and asked her, “is that you, moon?”

Inside four walls of one of the toilets in the school’s darkest corner nicknamed Siberia, I came face to face with a guest; red in the face- I think red from blush, and sparkling against the white tiles of the toilet bowl. My first menstrual period had come.

I didn’t know what to feel. I was excited that I was actually a healthy young lady and there was nothing wrong with me and scared at the same time. I was scared of boys now because I knew if I didn’t keep away from them I would get pregnant. Nonetheless, I looked at the moon in her fullness and smiled at my fullness.

The moon became my companion until December 2016 when I had my first boyfriend: a beautiful Ogiek boy. I believe he was beautiful because he came from the most indigenous of communities; the ogiek. He was a gem to me because he was rare.

One day it was full moon and of course, my guest, who had ceased to be a guest then, paid me a visit. Being an amateur in a relationship, but with great experience from all the Wattpad stories I read, I thought it was okay to inform my boyfriend about my guest. So I told him and he came to see me with a few gifts. It was all okay and I felt great until it was time for him to leave.

It’s not like I didn’t want him to leave, no. It was already evening and my parents were bound to come home at any point in that time. I rose to see him off and our little stroll to the main road was light and full of laughter until it was time for me to bid him goodbye.

“No, it’s okay. I will hug you when your period is over.” He said, declining to embrace my outstretched arms.

I looked at his short frame as he left and realised I didn’t need a hug from him. My head on the grass and my eyes on the moon were enough to relieve me of menstrual cramps and discomfort. One look at the moon and I knew I would drift away from the earth to a different planet full of comfort in the stomach and painless breasts. So I went back to my moon.

I accompanied moon in all her phases and every time she’d swell with growth and fullness I knew I needed to go shopping for a guest was bound to knock on my door without budging unless I didn’t want to see her for nine months.

Never in my experience with the moon did I think I would wish her presence away until last year. Last year I met a big boy whom I thought would trek with me to the moon and back. I chilled with this big boy and he swallowed my days I couldn’t even keep track of what phase the moon was in.

One night as I was hanging my clothes on the line to dry, the moon caught sight of my eyes. I raised my eyes to meet her and my heart jumped to my throat.

“Waait…!” I tapped my head at the full moon.
” Girl, don’t even try and look away. Mmh… Don’t!” Moon dared me not to close my eyes.

I was stressed that my afro that’s as dark as kiwi shoe polish almost greyed. I anticipated my guest’s appearing such that even a stomach rumbling from the beans I had for dinner gave me hope. I prayed that my guest was okay and on her way coming until I ran out of prayer requests. I went out of my way to seek my guest out.

When my guest finally arrived I jigged with her to Azawi’s slow dancing.

It’s Valentine’s season but please, use protection as advised by your gynaecologist. If possible, abstain kabisaa. Don’t cry when your guest misses or comes late. One weekend is not worth your edges or whatever- I heard stress brings about hair loss.

My First Time Traveling To AMERUCA.

I love traveling. I hope you’re not thinking I am one of those girls whose IG stories are pictures of my legs on dashboards of posh cars. No. I’d love that but I am still unemployed and can’t afford a car.

The kind of traveling I am talking about entails: my journey to school since school was 13 hours and at least 8 counties away from home, the random times I’ve gone to town to pick a parcel or buy seedlings for my mum, my Wednesday and Sunday trips to the market, and evening walks to my grandparents’ homes.

In all these instances, I’ve had beautiful times. I’ve snucked my phone out and taken blurry low quality pictures of wildlife, exchanged phone numbers with a goodlooking person, walked my way to the market so I can save fare for airtime, ate wild berries and guavas, and sang with the birds while splashing my face at random streams.

These are just but the few times. I’ve had crazy traveling experiences. Some that had me confessing all my sins, practising kung-fu in my head, and other times I’ve thrown my head back in laughter that strangers have seen my gums that are swollen from growing teeth. This is an account of when I went to AMERUCA for the first time.

When COVID-19 broke out in March, 2020, schools were closed. Everyone was hurrying home and fare prices were hiked higher than Mt Elgon. Now March is planting season in my home and that’s one time of the month parents can cut you off for asking for money. They would literally choose to buy fertilizer and let you starve in whatever part of the planet you claim to be at that moment.

With exorbitant fare prices and March being the month, I knew not to test my father’s faith in the good Lord. I decided to travel to Meru to live with an amazing aunt of mine who cooks mean chapatis.

So I boarded a matatu at my university’s gate and I was the twelfth person to board the fourteen passenger seater. At this time, the government had issued a directive for social distancing in public transportation facilities. This in mind, I thought I was going to be the last passenger to board the vehicle.

The vehicle picked up speed real quickly and soon I felt like we were flying. The tout was telling a story and everyone in the matatu was enjoying except me who was worried I would die from over-speeding instead of the virus I was running away from.

My relief came when the vehicle stopped at a certain centre but this morphed into more worry as four people boarded the matatu instead of others alighting. A wooden sambaza was put in between my seat and the two other seats on my right to create room for one of the passengers. I pulled my mask a little higher and tied knots by my ear so it wouldn’t dare even drop below my nose.

“Songa kindogo, maandam.” The man seated next to me asked me to squeeze a little to make room for him and that meant that I sat on one cheek of my butt.

All this while, the matatu was speeding, almost sprinting, but stopping once in a while to pick two or three and let some passengers alight.

The tout’s stories were picking up and passengers contributed here and there but I was sick to my stomach with worry about catching covid from all the people squeezed in the matatu and losing my beautiful pearly whites when the matatu braked after such high speed.

I started praying to God to forgive me and not punish all the people in the matatu over my sins. There was a time I started praying out loudly because the driver put on some pretty loud reggae and I felt I was going to plunge to death with my prayers floating just below the music and not reaching God’s ears.

I was awash with relief when the signs of a town came to view. I knew I was at my destination; safe although not happy. When the matatu came to a stop, I almost jumped out of the vehicle. I wiped few tears that had collected at the corners of my eyes as I waited for the sambaza man to alight.

“Kuwa mpolee,” he urged me to be patient at his notice of my outright impatience and excitement to alight.

Once on my feet, I went to look for a desolate bench to cry a little and thank God for letting me live that horrific experience down before calling my aunt for further directions. After talking myself down with lots of ‘see, you’re just fine, calm down madam! Calm down!’ I decided to call my aunt and my calls were slipping straight to voicemail.

My heart sank. I felt the despair of boyfriends that send fare to girls when they try calling them and they’re unreachable. I stood on the second stair to a butchery and urged myself to be brave.

I walked to the butcher; a mid-thirties man who was as clean-shaven as some lecturers, looked at him from under my cap and above my mask, and didn’t say anything.

“Mambo sista..” he greeted me his words hanging in the air.

I panicked and might have spoken in my mother tongue because he stopped working on the piece of meat he was chopping on the board.

“Mambo, naenda Kooje. Mtu anachukua bodaboda wapi?” I managed at last.
“Utaenda hadi Meru kwanza. ” He said and I almost screamed when I realized I had alighted at Nkubu town but had paid for Meru town.

Had I known Makena Kirima before then maybe I’d have just boarded a bodaboda to her parent’s address in Nkubu and claimed I was a Jehovah Witness that had been locked in the country and couldn’t travel to my home country Congo.

I had boarded a matatu in Chuka at ten in the morning but was in Meru at five in the evening. The next day after my aunt left for her night shift I cried until I could only manage heaved sobs.

Don’t let my parents read this though.

Rose.

“I am fine china, a fresh sip of red rose’, a hint of lavender and a taste of spicy Jollof rice.” Such kind of captions line our instagram stories, yet we spend our nights soaked in pillows of pain, desperation, regret, covet, broken hearts and haunting secrets; feeling like the choke of a cigarette smoked in an industrial area, tasting like flowers spat forth from mouths unbrushed and smelling like stale and useless pieces of KDF. We lie in bed with all the things we hate, seeking comfort in wild colours, getting lost in smoke and chasing the highs.

Savage replies and callousness have replaced the wills of our formerly good hearts. We have weaved tapestries with worlds we don’t understand yet, where in between thighs is where we lay our burdens; lacing bruising knots of insecurities with other broken pieces of this whole called youth. We are constantly running away from feeling such that despite us craving the touch of love, we give in to cheap body shots and an equal measure of benefit. Why are we wading in the murky waters of partying season after season while boasting of how ‘genge’ we are than others?

“Capre Diem! YOLO!” We shout as we throw our hair and all the care in the wind. We have forgotten how we once sang “Grace! Grace!” Yes we only live once but how about we use our energy chasing energies built in the sun, the buzz and beauty of butterflies and painting the array of colours the rain happens to leave in a bow? That way, maybe life would be like a beautiful girl whose eyes hold mysteries of journeys less travelled but more realized. Or maybe our hair wouldn’t be tangled in people’s hands but in the graceful lead of ballroom music. Where we would flip to sync with how ballerinas do their fall. And Grace wouldn’t just be about the Christian salvation, but a definition of personal religions where we redeem ourselves from demons that haunt our nights. That way, our solace would be in battles we fought our demons and not in drunken ones that might awaken from their stupor.

What if life is actually simple? What if the crossword puzzles and the rubix we’re trying to make out of our very dear lives is unnecessary, however beautiful we want to believe complex is? What if we were meant to stay within cathedrals we all are running away from? What if dreadlocks are actually beautiful unlike how we view them and that studs and makeup aren’t what we need? Or maybe red ochre is just enough and we don’t have to add chemicals to our hair. Or maybe the version of wild girl can actually come true and we wouldn’t have to post about bad hair day or try and braid in our hair. Maybe this way the moon will catch sight of us and cast its light upon us and we would glow in the dark. That way, we wouldn’t chase the winds trying to look for familiar faces of us in varying wigs and weave-ins that we don’t look good in more often than not. And maybe we would trust the figures in our mirrors.

What about those warm hands that we brush off? What about those hugs that we reject from aunties we term as nagging? What about the fathers we mute? The mothers whose calls we ignore like plague? What about the uncles we only talk to when we have spent all our money in booze and booty. Maybe they can actually cut the cakes with the knives they’re holding. ‘Ntanira na mugambo’ that’s what the knives in the hands of our parents desire to do; to circumcise our minds, to shape the crooked parts of our hides, to smoothen our rough edges and make us better warriors for this path. We aren’t ready for this painful part of shaping up because we have forgotten that there’s beauty in pain too.

I just hope we will stop chasing gold dimes we can never find. I dare say that this battle is not ours. I dare say that we don’t need large armies cum squads but that God is fighting for us. Maybe I should reiterate what South Korean ‘armys’ tell their oppas to keep the k pop spirit up: “Fighting!” Omi is saying he thinks he has found himself a cheerleader and I want to challenge us: why don’t we all find friends that rally us to win in life, friends that cheer us when we fall? His word is the lamp unto our feet and the light unto our paths. That’s the psalmist; my personal cheerleader.

I am afraid I have to leave. Before that, I will try fitting in John the Baptist’s jersey: I am bidding you this time to arise from the wilderness of pain, regret and covet. Rip your band aids and let your wounds bleed because scars are beautiful. Don’t be afraid to let your tears be seen; you are mermaids and mermen and your tears are pearls. Believe you’re lotus flowers, that you will live through mud and shine like river diamonds in the sun. It is perfectly okay not to be okay. So let your light dim not, lift up that trumpet and loud let your voice ring. Strum the chords, let the bow swiftly caress your heart and let the hands of love swiftly key you to tune. You are God’s masterpiece so be the mural that you are. Forget not that it’s okay not to be okay and let your light lead you to your destination.

Do you want to talk about anything and everything? The weather maybe? I got you!

Facebook : Marion Jepkosgei Ke

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Twitter : @marionJ_124

Write to me: marionjepkosgei124@gmail.com

It’s Us/ Ni Sisi; Movie Review.

Movie Title: It’s Us/ Ni Sisi.
Year of Production: 2013.
Director: Nick Reding.
Reviewer: Jepkosgei Marion.

This image is from rushlake.media.com

Set in a Kenyan ghetto, It’s Us/ Ni Sisi, is a story of a village whose communities had been living together in perfect peace sharing love and harmony, until a politician driven by the hunger for power and malice, devised ways to infiltrate the fabric of this society for personal gain. Backed by his wife, Mzee Mzito was keen to effect the divide and rule criterion by sparking rumours on different community ends, rumours that would have these communities strangling each other, thrusting spears into hearts and shedding innocent blood. Can still and calmness still be found where evil lurks in the shadows? Is love strong enough to withstand the surging waves?

This movie by SAFE is unique not only because of its timelessness, but also in style. It’s presented in a Many Worldlines style since some scenes in the movie are Jabali’s dreams, and Scola and Roxana confirm that they have an account of such happenings, just like it happens in Adam Guest’s novel Worldlines. There’s a church scene that sparked my memories of a Korean Drama called, The City Hunter.

Although presented in a dream, the scenes mirrored the political and societal crises Africans countries especially Kenya experience despite five decades of self-rule and democracy. Jabali’s dream unearthed horror stories of the 2007/2008 post-election violence that burnt the Kenyan skin leaving wounds that are always being poked by tribal-border disputes and injustices geared towards marginalised groups. It highlighted the game populists and ethno-linguists play on citizens and the levels such politicians reach to dupe their electorate.

This movie although mainly intent on politics, is enriched with themes that are not spoken about in the society. Rape and the mental health issues associated with it, religion and marriage between her and politics, love and daily hustle are well-brought out in this story. This movie assumes a complexity that unravels into a beautiful yarn thread at the application of forgiveness and the wealth knowledge.

It is a must-watch for everyone; Kenyans, Africans and the world as it opens our minds to pictures bigger than a 200 bob bribe, beer and promises made from pot-bellies instead of expectant minds and selfless hearts. It is a call for us to shut the voices that shout that you cannot do it and desist from the unholy matrimony of me, myself and I. It is a call to the new invention of collaboration and forgiveness, a collaboration that believes It’s Us that can end tribalism, it’s us that can end racism, it’s us that can end leadership that eats its own children and Sisi ni Wakenya!

This story has violence scenes and it is therefore not suitable for children. To appreciate this art whose home is in the hills and the ghetto of Kenya, here is the link. https://youtu.be/ZG0tPACDjac)

“I am African. ” He Said.

His 4C hair glistened as sunlight streaked the skillfully-oiled strands.
I am calm. Spoke his gait before his lips parted to say thank you.
He needn’t any charm, his bracelets did the catching.
African, he said he was.
He spoke of centuries, of times whose wealth is still held in copper and gold.
He wrote his name on my book, but he stood out like the Pyramids of Giza. A wonder! Art.
Like a manuscript unpublished, he held adventures no one had dared dig for.
His eyes stilled time. He had me frozen.

Jepkosgei Marion.

I Must Go!

I’ve been stuck in this unbrushed mouth,
it’s jaws closing in every minute I want to yawn.
With every biscuit shoved in me,
the smell of rot fills my space.
I want to be let out,
so I can taste the water that drops from a leaf with my tip.
I want to stick out at the sight of sugarcane.
The guavas are calling.
I must go!

Jepkosgei Marion.

Broken Angels.

Daniel is in the den; God is silent. You have already ripped the mouths of lions apart.
The soil is wet; the smell of July rain is gone with the stench.
Quake! Goes the earth; but not from the thump of an elephant.
The pollen is ready; your catapult has left hawks in place of songbirds.

I am staring at the starry sky; it still is dark. I can’t see the black leopard’s gleaming eyes.
I am torn and teary; the hyena’s laugh tears the fabric of silence in an echo.
I am lost and lonely; Acacia doesn’t feel like home no more. The giraffe is a broken angel now.
” Aarrrgh!” The blood of a white colobus sprays my face. “Thud!” ” Can’t you hear us amidst these silent springs?”

I am tripping on carcasses.
I am weeping, the raven smiles.
The sun is shining, it’s rays everything but pleasures.
“I can barely jump! Here’s my broken hallelujah!” The frog croaks without graces.

Jepkosgei Marion.

Arise! O, Fallen Hero.

” Children are like arrows, happy is a father whose quiver is full” is what the Bible says.
Fathers sired warriors, mothers gave forth daughters of impeccable births.
Daughters let their melanin shine, no one could throw a shade.
Sons went out there and got rejected.
Daughters whined their waists, the moon caught sight of their eyes and dared them not to close them.

“A man can dream,” they say. But the sight of stars brought no dreams to our warriors.
“Black don’t crack,” the warrior was made to believe.
He cried not for he forgot clouds fall too when they’re heavy.
The weight of emotion caught up with him, his demons found a shrine.
The warrior turned to Jack Daniels to drunken his demons so they pass out and peace be with him.
Tied laces of insecurity by making love to other broken ribs, they formed knots.

” The road less travelled. ” A poem’s title. Guess our warriors chose it.
Stepping on ashes of those who burnt to keep them warm.
Letting go of hands that held theirs at the cliff.
Darkness dims the light that once shone in their eyes.
Mothers travel to temples, giving all the broken pieces of the warriors back to Jesus.

There’s salvation in looking back to the golden teachings in our abandoned shrines.
” Is your Fathers quiver full of arrows or full with rusted and blunt arrowheads? “
Dear warrior, how about you collect your scars and let the sun shine on them to become diamonds?
Don’t cover your bruises in jokes, memes and shagboy captions.
Arise! O Fallen Hero! Pose like a lion, if you wanna rule the jungle. Fear not.

Note: I wrote this poem last year a time like this.

This picture is from Twitter.

By: Jepkosgei Marion.

Procrastination the Thief of Time.

Hello Everyone.

I was thinking of introducing myself to you then I recalled something I read one day here on WordPress. “The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s main aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.” That quotation rendered the thought of doing the introduction null. I therefore decided I would do an author’s note instead. That was last week. I have been telling myself, “I will update today, ” and Lo! A new week is here and so, I am going to address the thief of time instead.

I know it is really weird to have a procrastinator write about procrastination but just like HEARTSPHERE wrote about How to experience an experience, I am going to do it.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s take on procrastination.

“Procrastination is a form of fear and it is difficult to acknowledge fear.” This got me clearing my throat because it is so true. The fear of not measuring up and disappointing oneself is the greatest fear a writer experiences. When I say writers, you are included too. You who writes notes and assignments in class.

This doesn’t mean that Chimamanda doesn’t procrastinate. In fact she said in 2018, ” I am actually thinking of starting a society of esteemed procrastinators. ” I wasn’t shocked. It’s human nature to push things until further times. And you know what’s even interesting? Her suspicion that many of us would probably sign up a membership to the society of procrastinators.

There’s a hymn titled “Chief of sinners” that I sang last week on one of my daily devotions and I thought, well I am also the chief of procrastinators. While this might be the case, I, like Chimamanda know that I would eventually get up and write. And here I am, writing this to you. I also know that you’ll get up eventually and write, after all the laziness has rolled away.

So clearly, this isn’t a normal update from me but I thought of the loyalty of all that follow me and decided I’ll be honest with you. “Nothing is more beautiful than honesty.” That’s what Steven Aitchison said. Thank you for your loyalty and welcome to June: The month of love (for me that is).

Yours truly,
Marion Jepkosgei Ke (On all Social Media Platforms)

A Red Letter.

Her back is turned against the sweltering sun as she fans flies off with her hand. Her skin glistens due to the milk butter she applied this morning. Her perfectly set pearly whites in full display are glistening against her skin that’s like she bathed on blended midnight. She’s the type of beauty people term as black barbie.  From afar, you can mistake her mishappen grimace for a smile. She’s busy pounding on dried pieces of meat and millet and as the trains in her lower abdomen lurch forward and jerk back, the intensity of the pestle landing on the food in the mortar increases. Sensing she’s being watched, Chepyatich raises her head and assessess her surrounding. Hiding behind a thorn tree, she can’t see me so she resumes her pounding, not before tightening a thin leso wrapped around her. 

Chepyatich is a sixteen-year old girl in Rerimoi Primary School. Having started school a bit late, she’s the oldest and the tallest in class five. One morning as she was in class three, Chepyatich woke up to find her knickers stained with blood.Panic-stricken, she dashed to the river to dip herself with a hope of ridding herself of the blood so she could officially start her day by milking cows and preparing breakfast for her family. 

Half an hour passed, and Chepyatich hadn’t returned from the river. This raised an alarm on her mother as her daughter was one, time conscious young lady. Have the Marakwet caught up with her on her way from the river? She asked herself. As ten minutes rolled over, Mama Chepyatich pooled with anxiety. She garnered the little self-dignity she remained with and rose with an aim of following her daughter to the river when her bladder let loose. Despite her acceptance of the fact that this was her fate, this very moment played back dark moments in her life. 

“I don’t want to see you touch anything in this house!” He yelled. 

“Chamanenyu (my love) but what about my children?”she replied meekly, her eyes downcast as the elders had emphasised on the day of her koito. 

“Forget it! You shall remain confined to your hut until you stop pissing on yourself like a child!”Baba Chepyatich yelled further his dark eyes emitting sparks of fire.”I am going to marry Pyegon’s daughter, maybe that way I’ll get sons to teach how to raid and rid you off.”

“Chamanenyu kaigai…(please, my love) “She pleaded stoping mid statement at Baba Chepyatich’s raised finger. That was the end of quote. 

Chepyatich, scrubbed repeatedly but the moment she set to get her clothes on,  she started bleeding again. Frustrated, she decided to sit on a submerged stone so the cool waters of the river could wash away her blood. She was worried sick about what was happening to her. The sun beamed at her as it draped over her breast buds. She could hear the cows mooing over not being milked. Pitying them, she sucked it up and plucked a few leaves from the bush on the banks of the river. Aligning them on her now dry sunisa panties, she swinged a twenty litres on her back and set forth for home with great discomfort. 

“Mamaa!” Chepyatich shrieked in surprise at the sight of her mother milking the  cows. Easing her back off of the twenty-litre jerrycan, she sped to her mother’s side. Chepyatich’s mama had obstetric fistula. She couldn’t sit on the urge to pass urine like her fellow women did. After her husband remarried and ordered her to never step out of the bounds of her hut, she was so dejected that she almost lost a grip on her life. She stopped going to sell maize at the market in Kapenguria and even quit  evening women dances she once fancied. This left Chepyatich with no choice but to head her family. 

“You know if it weren’t for a nurse at Kapenguria hospital to come to the village, mama would still be staying in her hut.” She informed me as she winced. “I’ll be back!” she hollered as she ran to a lone tree. Striping a bark, she chewed it up. Upon her return, she informs me that the bark she chewed was to ease the mild period cramps she was experiencing. 

My face etched in worry, contours that I couldn’t conceal. ” Are you okay? ” she quizzed with a raised eyebrow. Despite nodding as an indication of being okay, discomfort at the thought of  endometriosis rattled my bones, despite it being a sunny day. I couldn’t place Chepyatich under the excruciating pain associated with endometriosis.

“Chepyatich, how are you feeling, I mean in your lower abdomen?” I asked. She stretched and smiled, an indication that she was in no pain. Relief washed over me as I matched her smile with my own. As I gifted her a kotex sanitary towels hamper, she broke out in toothy grin, thanking me effusively for giving her an option for her menstrual cap. Her happiness warmed my heart and as my boots hit the trail of the parched land, my heart went out to other girls (One out of Ten) that used dried cow dung to absorb their floor just like Chepyatich’s mum taught her. 

Jepkosgei Marion.

Why are We so Insecure?

I love to blend the sound of music with that of water running from the shower when I am in the bathroom. Today however, I didn’t go straight to turning on my shower. I lingered for sometime before the mirror as I did a map check of myself. While at it, Sauti Sol’s soulful voices started blasting their new song “Insecure”. As if on cue, my brain started stringing up all my flaws into one play…

” I am so insecure mi husomanga messo ukiniachanga phone… ” This line in particular hit some chords within me. Not that I go through his messages when he leaves his phone, No! I just happened to think about you, who has been cheated on repeatedly. You’re probably rolling your eyes at this because it is a sad truth.

I happenned to go through Xtian Dela’s instagram news feed and to say I was shocked is an understatement. I read stories of people whose hearts have been broken by others to extents where they have given in to the familiar waves of indifference. Imagine your beloved significant other having an affair with your sibling, cousin or your parent? Well, I am not bluffing. These things happen right under our noses. If you don’t believe this, ask Anto and Obinna how many times they have heard of cat fishing gone wrong.

I once read that the most painful part of betrayal is that it stems from those you trust most. Quick question; what will you do if the girl that usually compliments you, stalks off with your gym instructor or the captain of your football team? How will you feel if your boyfriend ends things with you only to be with a b-cup level bust lady when you’re below c level?

… As I assessed myself before the mirror, I learnt a few things about me. For instance, I realised I don’t have an even skin tone. Sounds absurd right? Because the ” you’re strong ” movements preach that we should know ourselves. Well, the reason why I have never known I have an uneven skin tone is because for years, I have dwelt much on frowning over my face.

Since I hit puberty, a smooth face has never existed for me even in the wildest of my dreams. My forehead has been like a harbour for break outs while boils have found a home on my nose. I can’t even find the strength to sit on a stool and make you understand how stretched my highschool beanies were because I tugged on them too hard as I tried to hide my flaws. I can’t even express to you how badly I want a nose piercing but can’t get one because well, boils gotta be somewhere.

” Your voice is too deep for a girl, you can’t sing. ” Someone once told me this and to date I have never set my feet on choir grounds. Recently, the “msichana mrembo lakini sauti ni ya Mambo Mbotela ” meme got me thinking about you, beautiful and talented young lady with a unique voice. My heart constricted at the thought of someone tagging you in that meme and you trying all strains of voice to try and soften your voice. I thought about you, tall, lightskin and handsome gentleman with a voice fit for RnBs that girls listen to with their earphones plugged in. I really prayed that you wouldn’t hit Flaqo up regarding his shopping spot for Baba Otis’ fake beards.

…As I traced the stretch marks that wind up the hills of Nandi, images of zebras and tigers going about the national park undisturbed filled my mind. My vision assumed the role of tourist cameras and I could almost hear them exclaim, “Exquisite beauty ” I counted all the scars on my skin and made a mental note to write all the stories they tell.

As I wrap this up, I know it’s abrupt, I would like to remind you that you’re a motion picture just like Bien concurs. I would like to inform you that you are art unfinished since your painter is still holding the brush. I would like to strum the guitar that your voice may break into a song. Most importantly, I would like to install a new sense of aplomb in you that you may rise from your own ashes. It’s not that they burned you when they left, you wilted to the heat of their lighter. Beat your chest even if you are below a c-cup. Stand tall even if you’re below 5’7. They’re insecure because they think you might grow a backbone and seize power out of their hands. That’s exactly what I hope you will do, that you will forgive yourself and let your matchstick burn slowly but strongly.

Share…
Jepkosgei Marion.

Across the Bridge: Book Review.

Book Title: Across the Bridge
Author: Mwangi Gicheru
Reviewer: Jepkosgei Marion

“Love is a wonderful thing, when you have a great queen,” Patoranking sings out. Well, most if not all of us have ever loved or were lucky enough to be loved. Despite the fact that no one has ever mastered the art of loving, love is everywhere; in songs, plays, movies, narratives and even dreams. In all these potrayals, love has always taken a different course.

Mwangi Gicheru’s Acrosss the Bridge isn’t your typical love story. A peasant male servant Chuma, fools around with his boss’ daughter Caroline. Of course sparks fly and in the warmth of the moment, a seed planted grows. Chuma’s need to please his cupcake stretches his ambitions from one of owning a bicycle to the extreme bandwidths of bungalows, servants and everything that was familiar to Caroline.

Like every other journey from rags to riches, Chuma’s journey is expected to be full of setbacks. What happens therefore when Chuma decides to ascend the steep ladder instead of a tortoise’s slow walk to the finishing line? Does the fire of their love keep burning? Or is it doused by the cold reality of their differences in the social ladder?

Across the Bridge is a riveting crime fiction novel that’s exceptionally written in a Kenyan setting. Gicheru hooked me to this novel with his art of vivid description. I felt Caroline’s pain and empathised a lot with Chuma. As if vivid description wasn’t enough, his use of metaphors spiced up the book as it instilled a sense of foreboding in me as I read. I laughed a lot amidst the plot twists due to Gicheru’s excellent sense of humour. Boredom’s blank face didn’t dare show up as I read this captivating novel; hence my recommendation that you book this on your to-read list.

While I can’t say much regarding the quality of the novel since the soft copy I read was blotched with spilled ink, the content is worth giving it a try. These remarkable potrayals of Chuma’s thoughts and words might spark your interest in the book.
“He was a dreamer. A fanatic of fiction and movie seeking escape into the world of imagination. That made the two of us. An odd pair of despondent creatures trying to cross the forbidden bridge.”
“They say love is blind. You gave me your blind love until its eyes started to see.”

A Date with My Sugar.

Yesterday my suga and I held each other as we trailed a footpath that led to the beautiful sides of the village. As we walked, the birds sang some oldies that sounded like James Ingram’s give me forever. As I inhaled the scent of the wildflowers on the side of the path, I couldn’t mask the jubilation on my face at the presence of my suga. I couldn’t stop myself from stealing a sideways glance at the dazzling smile on my suga’s face. “Bless your melanin my plum,” my suga whispered to my ears resulting in zings of electricity all over my body.

“Sunflowers will turn your way darling, the wind’s whistling will whisper pure belleza into your ears and the land would open up, for your dreams to stretch greater than the horizon,” Suga said while cradling my face in his wide arms like I was the most precious porcelain doll he had ever had; or maybe I was.

His eyes burned like bursts of gold and my heart melted into liquid sets. I couldn’t fathom how lucky I was to receive such kind of adoration. As we advanced, my parched throat yearned for a kiss. I held my Suga closely hinting that I was waiting for his hot breath to fan my own when he quizzed, “my plum, we’ve already displayed much affection; how about I make time for you later then I can tenderly tug at your lips without these looks questioning why I am running my fingers in your Afro?” I nodded as my heart sunk a bit.

My disappointment over a denied kiss bugged me that I tried to find things on the way to keep my mind off suga for a split second. I climbed guava trees feigning to be marveled by the dry patches on its bark and bit on one or two of the guavas, I nipped on random flowers and stuffed them in my afro till I couldn’t do it anymore. I was thirsty and since it was suga’s turn to cater for bills, I led him to a kibanda and pleaded with him to get me a sugarcane. Did I mention suga is mean especially if money is involved? Well, he is so I didn’t surprise him at all when I squealed in excitement over his acceptance to get me a muwa.

The happy dance in my head couldn’t simmer down, I was so happy that I bit off my sugarcane right after the lady from the stall handed it to me. As cane juice trickled down the chubby flesh of my cheeks, people started looking at us as if that was something new.

“Plum, can you wait until you are home, so you could eat your cane? ” Suga asked with raised eyebrows. I was offended.”Why would I do that? Can’t a girl eat her sugarcane in peace? ” I raised my voice at him.
“Look, everyone is staring and it’s embarrassing, plum please! ” He pleaded as I closed my eyes.
“So I am embarrassing now, suga? What happened to ‘screw them we can do what we want’? “I retorted hotly emphasising with a tight grip and a fierce bite on the sugarcane. More juice flowed as suga stood there in disbelief. Shaking his head, he turned and left. “Siezi date dame mshamba mimi,” he said much to me flipping him the bird.

“What about all the promises of forever? I tried to register the reality of what had happened but I refused to be dragged around. Nothing could ever keep me away from my sugarcane.

As suga’s smile faded and clouds spread over the sky, I sat on a stone and let my butt feel the hard exterior of it. I needed to be as strong as that stone.

My First Kiss and Something More.

My grandmother loves getting lost in the brilliant green canopy-covered forests of North Tinderet. Her bare feet leave trails as prevalent as dandelion tufts on a windy day every morning she ascends the hills of Nandi to graze her cows. While her whistling pierces through the air, blackbirds caw, crickets shrill and River Kipsiele tones in as this morning band crescendos before silence resumes as the goddess of beauty lights up the hilled terrain with her dimpled smile.

As hoppers marvel over the splendour of grass, lizards slither on the crying stone to suntan while fly fishers pop in for a latte after a successful rainbow trout catch- release on the beautiful rivers of Colorado. The sandals of a few Maasai men make contact with the dusty grass as they travel the navel of Mara in search for Olosida herbs.

While all these narrow down to an album title ‘The Sound of Nature’, I can’t quite help but think about my first kiss ever. I know you are asking yourself, tongue or no tongue. If I am being honest I don’t really think there was any tongue. You probably are thinking, why? It’s because well, we are diverse and I may not have loved tongue that Wednesday of 1999. What I remember though is, sunlight dazzled brilliantly that day and my grandmother’s eyes sparkled like each of her irises had a tiny diamond in it. That definitely tells you there’s isn’t much to tell regarding the kiss. I however have a little good morning story to tell: it’s title is biodiversity.

Biodiversity is simply the totality of all life forms on earth. These simple words sum up an intricate web of breath patterns on earth spreading out to flora and fauna. These plants and animals respectively like hydra, have tentacles of species diversity that give rise to the vast array of life forms here on earth. You probably are rolling your eyes at this so let me make myself a little bit clearer.

Your photographer brother loves birds such that he mopped over the death of the four-year old Osprey and pumped his fists in the air when news about ‘Onon’, the new champion of migration having defied the ban on international flights reached him. Son of Ng’aa in his timelines thinks out loud regarding Madagascar’s alleged corona virus herb, willing his followers to answer if nature might have the silencer to this pandemic. Melody from “The Reel Sisters ” happens to find herself after a solo fishing expedition in The San Luis Valley. This is my first clue for you: all these are attributes of nature that tie itself to biodiversity and are often wrapped up in the hustle of human life.

Why am I writing this? It is biodiversity week and this week is aimed at nurturing nature through culture. Nature is vulnerable in our hands as humans. This is because in our strife to fulfil our role as co-creators as it is in the creation story, we have fallen for the bait of overexploitation such that there’s no pocket of nature we haven’t put our hands in to take whatever coin is hidden under these thresholds. Forests that once held vibrant trees have their heads lolled to the side, aquatic animals are traumatised, deep oil wells are gushing and slicking oil surfaces while dust from dredging reigns oceans. All the elements of the earth’s crust are forked into our bodies in form of arrowroots and the keen wind knifes through tattered clothes street families wear. Disturbing right?

I still want to hear my grandmother’s band play in the morning, I still want to trail the abs of Turkana with an assurance that I can chew on a leaf from a desert plant and spit on any part of my leg an insect bites on.
Note: The setting is all in head haha!
Jepkosgei Marion.

The good news is here. This biodiversity week is aimed at building resilient communities; communities that can sustainable utilise nature as a resource keeping in mind that this is the smile keeper of the society. So while at it register here for today’s presentation https://zoom.us/webinar/register/WN_BhXTyBKjQumCxaCpuxKg-Q and learn more about biological diversity and how you can be a resilient member of the community.

Three am

A cock just crowed and I just snapped back to normalcy. It’s three in the morning and I haven’t even bothered to check my bed out. My head is a perched desert of thoughts and every desert needs an oasis for caravan traders. Right Lulu? Yeah right. So my life is basically in an optimal place. I am not quite sure if the author of Mombasa Raha My Foot agrees with me though but anyway I am happy. My mum usually says I am incomprehensible, a strange melody or just some weird solo with no chorus. Ah! That aside.

So throughout the night, I have been over thinking like every other person that has adopted a nocturnal lifestyle. I mean it’s really hard to have your eyes open when rats are engaging in the Ineos challenge from one side of the ceiling to the other. So while racking my brain up for things to think about other than rats of course, something I read in The Silent Patient pops up in my notifications bar, “Music hath the charm to soothe a savage heart. “ So I hit YouTube up real quick.

I don’t understand what happened because I suddenly thought about weddings. Don’t get your hopes high, I don’t fancy weddings at all. I have never understood where one gets the courage to kiss before people. Scratch that, before the crucifix. As if that’s not enough, you have to sign your certificates after the kiss. Wew! I can’t. I don’t know how married people managed. After kissing before people I believe your hands would shake so how can you sign such an important document with shaky hands? I love my work legibly structured so to digest the idea of shaky hands and sweaty palms, my brain can only come up with one word, scribble. I mean can’t we sign later? Anyway that aside I’ll ask Gabriel how that works or revisit my past paper, Diary of a Miaha maybe I missed something.

As I go through Ethereal music and The Good Melodies, the vibe still is off so I take my chances with wedding songs. Doesn’t YouTube have maneno? Adventist wedding songs line up on autoplay so I listen to them one by one. So there’s one thing about Adventist music that leaves me proding for more. The music is arranged such that you can feel it in your toes as the words are inscribed in your heart. One song in particular catches my attention (https://youtu.be/8a2L_C02_Pk). As the voices like whispers softly prick into my heart like a summer breeze, I feel like I am in for Spring or Christmas concert at Maxwell Academy. I can smell the music all the way from Kajiado. Voices boom in my ears and thumping makes me feel like I am standing in an orchestra pit. Sheet music on metallic music stands and wind instruments in capable hands. This time though, the music is more than just the wind ensemble. It’s blending with the voices and the hands skillfully smoothing showers of strings. Turns out this isn’t a scary night after all.

Another cock crows. It doesn’t bother me this time because couples are singing nicely to each other, before my eyes. I think I have changed my mind about weddings. Speaking of weddings I remember Johny Munyao and Ms Chebet and I can only imagine how their wedding would look like. Ms Chebet would definitely raise her angelic voice with the sound of music. I don’t know if Johny would move his swift hands over the keys or he’ll sit and wait to be knighted as his bow strikes the chords of his violin. I don’t know if Neema would be interpreting or not. What I know is, weddings are beautiful (minus the wearing heels part )

Stay home and stay safe. Sanitise! Oh Sanitise! I want to watch more weddings at three am.

Jepkosgei Marion.

The Animal Farm-Book Review.

Title :Animal Farm
Author :George Orwell
Published : 1945,London.
Reviewer :Jepkosgei Marion.

George Orwell introduces this novel by vividly describing Mr Jones drunk evening. He weaves up a web of the activity that followed Mr Jones drunken-induced sleeping stupor; The animals on the farm ranging from hens and dogs to horses and a donkey Benjamin gathering to listen in to what the wise and benevolent 12 year old pig, Major had to say about his strange dream.

Major, aware of how fast old age was catching up with him took it upon himself to impart wisdom to those that lay before him. Major clears the fogs of ignorance by crystally bringing to their attention the injustices directed towards them by man.
“The life of an animal is misery and slavery: that is the plain truth.”

Major quickly snaps a shot of what their situation is by quizzically approaching the state of England as a country; “But is this simply part of the order of nature? Is it because this land of ours is so poor that it cannot afford a decent life to those who dwell upon it? No, comrades, a thousand times no! The soil of England is fertile, its climate is good, it is capable of affording food in abundance to an enormously greater number of animals than now inhabit it.” This analogy coupled with Major’s dream of the song The Beasts of England was enough to spark the animals in manor farm towards a rebellion they knew not of the day or the time it were to occur; though they felt obliged to prepare for it even after Major’s death three days later.

George Orwell exploits symbolism to its great depths in this novel set as an allegorical representation of the Russian revolution of 1917. Rebellion, like a prophecy comes to pass when Mr Jones having lost a lawsuit battle laxes on the duty of feeding the animals. This prompts an action by a cow that led to animals helping themselves to the feeds and driving away Mr Jones men when they tried to lash out on them. A hungry man is an angry man.

After rebellion came freedom that saw the animals ruling and working for themselves. Under the supervision of Snowball and Napoleon, two polar opposites the dream of ‘Animalism’ had seen the light of the day; Freedom.

This new-found freedom, saw power being bestowed to the pigs who were considered wise. With power, come jealousy and hunger. Napoleon took to no interest Snowball’s ways of educating even the old animals. This brewed am endless debate in every assembly and Napoleon deemed it fit to separate offsprings of dogs and pigs from their young ones so he could teach singlehandely.

With a Napoleon-taught army, Napoleon chased Snowball out of the farm, fabricated lies against him and made his minions of underlings secure him an unopposed position as a new leader. Power swelled in him that he threw the cares of the other animals in the farm to the wind. He even did away with whoever tried as much to audaciously question him. He changed the commandments of animalism as it pleased him and even traded with man, the enemy. Benjamin could even attest that this wasn’t the life they expected after rebellion. With Squealer reassuring them with lies, the animal farm was definitely not a place to live.

Pigs and dogs ate to their fill, slept in beds and wined to their satisfaction while the entire animal family suffered reduced rations in hard times. The commandments mattered no more. The old, who knew about the concept of rebellion died, rebellion was passed only by mouth and soon it became like a figment of imagination. Napoleon called it a truce with man and lifting the final straw to the camel’s back, the commandments ceased to be, man and pigs dressed alike and ate a table while playing cards; restoring the name Manor for the farm.

This novel although set in 1945 regarding the French Revolution of 1917 is nothing far from the political situation in Africa. Resource curse or rather the paradox of the plenty is the reality we are living in. The Dutch’s disease is clawing deep into the flesh of society, yet there’s not a voice loud enough that can redeem us from present day colonialism. Polar opposites shake hands to end political conflict yet states still lay in ruins.

Reading this awakened a nostalgia to The Dawn of Planet Apes in regard to power that births hunger and rebellion: Koba seizing power from Ceasar and manipulating the ape community against humans . It also heightened my thirst to read The Rodentdom.

Kiswahili Version : Shamba la Wanyama.

HOLD MY HAND: OL PEJETA CONSERVANCY

OL PEJETA CONSERVANCY.

Photo courtesy of porini.com

Last year, I embarked on an academic trip to Ol Pejeta Conservancy. Twelve seasons and a fortnight and I have been receiving a monthly e-newsletter from the conservancy keeping me posted on what is making newsflash in the Laikipia based conservancy. You might be wondering how this concerns you in the first place so let me keep you abreast of what this entails.

Ol Pejeta is a rhino sanctuary as well as a chimpanzee rescue centre that relies on input from tourists that pay homage to this legendary site that has an array of wildlife ranging from elephants, rhinos, dung beetles and birds of different species; be it aquatic or terrestrial as well as plant species that are as indigenous as they can be. Input from tourism as well as funding from KWS isn’t sufficient and so every month I read with a sunken face their call for donations in my Gmail inbox. Being the broke 20-year-old that I am, I usually press the back button and hung my face in shame and guilt at the reality that I can’t lend a hand in saving the lives of very endangered and other nearly extinct species of animals the Ol Pejeta family is taking under its arm.

My friends and I love wild animals, the patron of my Writers club loves birds, my grandmother relies on indigenous plant species for medication and all my classmates are environmental scientists. I hope you too have acquainted with wildlife in one way or another. This month’s e-newsletter is what prompted me to write to you wonderful people. As the dark shadow of COVID- 19 sinks its unwelcome claws in the flesh of the globe, the human race is in a frenzy and that means tourism as an economic sector has been hit hard by this tornado; though to our dismay, wild life except rats are oblivious to this pandemic.

 Ol Pejeta family expresses their need for financial support to be able to go forth with its calling to protect lives in the wild and conserve the environment at large. Ol Pejeta conservancy has not only a responsibility to the wildlife and their biological environment but also to the wonderful communities neighbouring them. In the wake of climate change and the need for adoption of environmentally sound livelihood has seen an ally of this conservancy; Namene Solar Light Company taking to changing the game of lighting in 48 households from the gear of kerosene lamps. Wading the murky waters while trying to stay afloat, the conservancy like any man wary of the possibility of drowning is bidding you to support them in the following ways:

1. The Art of Survival

This is a global competition for children of up to 18 years aimed at raising money for wildlife and the environment through artwork and winners will be rewarded with a once in a lifetime holiday in Kenya with their family.

• Fundraising with Ami Vitale

This fundraiser only requires you to donate from as low as 10 US Dollars and stand a chance to win an all-expenses paid trip to East Africa’s largest rhino sanctuary with a guest of your choice, at a time of your choice. Enter this draw and you might win a trip of a lifetime! Exciting right?

To learn more: www.olpejetaconservancy.org

                           reservations@olpejetaconservancy.org

Interestingly Ol Pejeta is fixing you an adventurous sofa safari; a live broadcast on Instagram and Facebook with their managing director, Richard Vigne and their champion guide, Samuel Mbogo. A game drive from the comfort of your living room.

Catch them daily from 4:30pm EAT.

This ladies and gentlemen is my appeal for you, ease me off the guilt of being broke that has rendered me helpless in the bid to protect what I love the most; wildlife and the environment. Environmental conservation is a universal responsibility so let’s pool our efforts towards this and protect what protects us.  The environment has never neglected us so let’s support Ol Pejeta black rhino sanctuary and one last appeal, please stay home to be safe so you’ll visit Ol Pejeta for Safari of a lifetime. Share this to the stretch of your sharing lists.

Thank you in advance.

Jepkosgei Marion.

THE KALENJIN (GENE)

‘People of the mouth’ (bik ab kutit}, they refer to themselves as. The Kalenjin are a people painting the canvas of the Rift Valley in a kaleidoscope. From Keringet to the hill of lightning, Tinderet. From the forested Mau to the mounts of Elgon. This is a people with dialects that stretch the valley’s sheet of music with notes from more than nine tones. While the Kipsigis and Pokot raise the notes, the Sabaot hit the octave with resounding tenors. As the Nandi lift the pride of this people as they wield their shields and arrows to protect this intricate heart of the Rift Valley. The Kale Gene, therefore, comes to you in four intricate ways.

1. As a movement

Popularly known for athletics, Kalenjins have kept the muffin top of our country Kenya up. World records have been set yearly by this people of the mouth. Kipchoge’s Ineos challenge world record is still a flower blooming in the hearts of Kenyans. I believe movement by running is a slogan that started with the Kalenjins.

The kales not only move in athletic lanes but also in runways. Models from the Rift have graced runways and left people in awe. I’ll use a friend as an example, Maureen Jepkemboi. She is a student model who proudly hails from the Rift Valley.

2. As a beautiful people

We, Kales, get teased half the time because our teeth are on the show more often than not. Truth be told, we have the most beautiful of teeth. Pearly whites that many people attribute to our love for milk. Well, can’t dispute that can I?. I mean milk has calcium a constituent of strong bones and teeth, no rocket science there. What does a Kalenjin say about this? Kutit ab chego {the mouth of milk} is what the Kale says.

Other than almond white teeth, we kale are blessed with beautiful skin tones. Light skin Ogiek and Kipsigis and dark-skinned Nandis, Keiyos.Tugen, Pokot, Bok, Bongomek, Marakwet, Terik and Sabaot. When Beyonce’ sings to the brown-skinned girl about how her pearly skin, we the dark-skinned lot move Sauti Sol and Patoranking as they strum to the whining of a girl whose dark skin glow.

As Kales we touch the sky. 5’7 and above feet are the heights we scale. Limitless.

3. As a culture that stays rooted

We boast of a culture that has stood the test of changing civilisations. Despite modern ways of building houses, we still have huts, naturally ventilated, and without the need for ceilings. We are a people that love our language. Regardless of where we are and who we are with, if two or more kales are together no language is going to beat the tapestry woven by only one word: Chamgei. 

Our plants and trees like the Periploca linearifolia (sinendet), still live with us, and the shrines of tradition {kapkoros) still hold our way of life.

We still name our children like our ancestors did.

Did I forget Mursik? No way! We love our food. A Kale wedding ceremony (koito ak chaik} is wrapped up with ugali ya wimbi and sour milk {kimnyet ak mursik}. This has been passed through generations and has stayed afloat despite the addition of animal blood to milk dying down and that’s why every time a Kale lifts the flag of Kenya high, JKIA is graced with a gourd full of milk {sotet}. This is a culture that built the slogan for Chamgei FM, muguleldab Kalenjin {the heart of Kalenjin}.

4. As as a strong people and a home of knowledge

Julius Yego’s hand is the muscle of the Kalenjin. The Kale is a leader; the arrow that points the way from historical legends like the Orkoiyot to present-day leaders like the President of Kenya, jurists to journalists that have kept the people of the mouth informed from Kong’asis FM (the eye of the sun) to Emoo FM. The Kale is a home of wisdom that’s why Kass International insists knowledge is power { kimnatet naet}. The Kale is a listener; kigasin {we hear you} is the anthem that Kitwek FM has set for these people.

Kalenjin is not a tribe. It’s a movement that spells beauty, knowledge, and strength. It is a culture of hard-working people that strive to keep the greenery of tea zones. The Kale is a peaceful person.  It is a warm heart that opens homes to visitors {Taach}. The Kalenjin is a legend; a firm hand that shakes that of friends like the Maasai. The Kalenjin is the orchard of the valley. The Kale is a gene of success, an accent of goodness flowing.

As I finish with Set kobor Kalenjin, I am hoping you will find time to read and write about the people you came from before you became of your nationality.

For Kenyans, find your home in this Utamaduni page.

SHE

Is your hair getting blown by the wind? Or is it tapered at the sides?
Do you sing brown skin girl? Or Black is beautiful?
A size 8 or size 11? Aren’t all these just numbers?

Do you get consumed by the fire? Or are you made out of fire?

Do you step on the ashes or do you get lost in the smoke?
‘Strength of a woman?’ Does your strength come from your brain or your body?
They say a woman shaves her legs, but don’t soap and water clean a body? Does hair make it dirty?
They say you’re poison, a headache. They are picking Tylenol from the chemist.

You have too much muscle. Damn girl, where is your flesh?
Twerking isn’t cool. But they like stripper clubs.

“I need an independent woman!” Yet they say, Ma, you will just sit at home and be my baby mama.
You can’t cook. Sweatpants are a no. Dorn that skimpy dress, it’s feminine.

Dear SHE.

Whether you twerk or land in ballet, you’re a motion picture; you are art.
Exercise gives good shape so does tequila; choose your dose.
Every church girl needs a chorale. Every club girl needs an anthem;
Dance to your own music.

SHE,

Let your hair get caught in the wind. Let your strands whisper to the breeze.
Let the sun set at eye level to witness the masterpiece that’s you!
Till that garden, She; let that sheen of sweat dazzle your face.
Cause She, the moonlight is streaking your face and the stars are daring you to lead their constellations.

SHE,

Whether you have black lips, pink lips, or a made-up face, you need to stand en pointe!
Let the inner you be the applauding crowd,
Cause she, you are enough!

TOTO AFRIQUE.

The heirs of the dark African soil,

Hunting hares in woodlands of the vast African soul,

Sons and daughters of the cradle land of mankind,

Suffered under the hands of the brutal colonialists, so unkind,

Legends as great as Nelson Mandela and as Chivalric as Ellen Sirleaf Johnson,

The great men and woman of Nyadhi,admired by the even the Johnson’s,

Powerful voices as deep as Makeba’s, artistic songs by the powerful Simba wa Nyika,

Living between valleys that overlook each other,like resting lions ,the Nyika.

Now listen Toto Afrique,

You’re worth a thousand likes on every click,

Nawatungia shairi,nawapazia sauti,kwenye zangu sitiari nawasihi muwe tayari,

Brave all the chills,cowardice drill it to the grave, paa kwa kila sayari,

Sons and daughters of the legendary Matabeleland, your land speaks royalty,

Wake from the sleep of culture shock,let’s embrace ourselves toto afrique,let’s get some loyalty,

Daughters of Mumbi,to reign is all your hand got,living in the rain is all your land caught,

Inueni nyuso zenu,mpate mwanga wake jua,zing’ae toka bara Africa kama taa zizagae hadi Jamaica. Mjue kuwa success is what our ancestor’s blood bought.

From edge to edge,let the echo of your voices praise, the African soul may it be appeased,that in peace, they can rest the angry blood of the those that fought for freedom,

Like panthers poise to strike,let’s be animal hunters on strike, let’s take a pause and pose for the new battlefield, the war of books,let’s declare it even in our dorm,

Choose to say I believe,from age to age,let them be at awe at the ores of the African brain,let it be a belief,

Lets sprint, to victory let the medals come,or let’s take the slower steps and bring the runway to a relief,

Oh! The beauty of my motherland,so aesthetic, from Krieger’s national park, to Kenya’s Krieger’s commission,

Leading the seasons ,for we’re the reason behind the world’s vision,

The power of the Kenyan pen,poets,spoken word artists, their penscratch hearts they touch,

Authors,like Chimamanda tuichunge ngozi ya kiafrika,donda aliloacha Waweru Mburu ,with our qualities let us patch.

Finally Toto Afrique,

With vigour let’s join the corporate world,in debates let’s get a grip of the mic,

Tujivunie weusi wetu uliokoza,rangi zetu za kijaluo kama Lupita tutawapita kina Athena,black is all our glow,

The might of our African muscle,let’s relight Conjestina’s strength, let’s give them a blow,

Clean cities,let them back off at the greenery of our pretty Rwanda,

Diverse cultures, as beautiful from the Maasai’s to the Igbo’s, let them wonder

Let’s rise to the peak,

For we’re Toto Afrique.

By:Marion Jepkosgei.

I am Good At What I Do

How did I find myself in this space?

Do I really belong here?

Do I even know what I am doing?

I am here, though, amn’t I?

Will I stay here?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

What will I be doing here, though?

Everything that I am doing right now.

To be honest, I don’t even know how I found myself here. I am starting to believe the phrase small girl big God because the shoes beneath my feet are massive and somehow, I still manage to walk in them and get the people around me erupting in applause.

And no. This is not some self-doubt or imposter syndrome phase I am experiencing. I am literally in my young, a little dumb, and broke phase of the early 20s. And that does a number on you.

One morning I’ll wake up with Maya Angelou’s spirit. Whispering “still I rise!” to only be smacked into point zero by life, expectations, and the weight of everything the business of living brings with it.

I guess this is where my prowess defiantly roots my footing. Because on such occasions I give up for a minute, curl into a ball inside my duvet and let out a muffled scream that reminds me of how loud I ought to be in this jungle called life. So, I wake up and do what I know best: learn.

Accepting this blow from life is not easy and many times I grunt from all the inconvenience my intellect and capabilities experience, before swallowing a lump sum of vanity and opening my mind to a new state of things.

And when I learn, I throw an entire solo house party for me. Full with sodas, cheese, cream, and meaty goodness. Then I call my beau who lets me have his podium, and I narrate to him how smart, magical, and admirable I am at that point in time.

Then I smile from molar to molar, cheerily greet strangers, and I pour myself into everything that comes my way that week. Day and night my eyes will be wide open watching everything I do and tearing apart every narrative in my head that makes me think I know.

I do not know. Every day is a fresh opportunity for me to complete the very task that I know best: learning.

Take Me Back Home.

I graduated on the 17th of December last year. After 16 years of studying, this milestone should’ve been the one I celebrated with a jubilee. I wasn’t that compelled to celebrate my degree with as much joy as everyone did and expected because I had this heavy uncertainty that questioned me from within; who am I?

The obvious answer to this would be my name, my gender, and my father’s lineage. These basic answers to my question weren’t entirely satisfactory in any way because the future was about to define me with my degree.

I was sent to school by my community, and while they were elated by the news about my graduation, I was sure they were hoping I’d take back something more than just papers and English that trickled from my mouth like beads on a cemented floor.

“Without culture, and the relative freedom it implies, society, even when perfect, is but a jungle.“

I could see change audaciously pushing through the great wall of my community’s culture, burrowing through the soil that once held the roots of my community; cracking, tearing, and felling.

While singing: “Sere tumdo nyo! sere!” I could hear strange lilts in their voices and accents different from the creamy and smooth way we the people of good teeth spoke with. I had to ask myself: “who are these people?”

The emptiness I was feeling deepened with the singing. I realized that my community and I were whirling around from new information and new norms from East and West.

I cried a little for me and my forefathers who fought for the sanity of the people of milk. As I stood before men and women from my village, I hang my head in shame; how could I proudly speak a language whose origin I didn’t know of; how could I stand atop the hill that is my home yet not know who I was or who the people that sat before me were?

There was a great need for me to go back home. Other than holding a modern degree, I vowed to embrace my culture because that way I will widen my mind and spirit. This year henceforth I want to go back to being a Kalenjin girl before I become of Africa and of the world.

A photo of me holding a gourd traditionally used by my community to store milk. Photo by: Aron Ng’eno.

Sempeiyo

When I was a child, I wanted to become a lawyer. Some of my friends wanted to become pilots and neurosurgeons. These professional ambitions filled our parents with hope because jobs in these fields were held in high esteem. My brother, however, wanted to become a bus driver. When he first told us about his interest in bus driving, we laughed our butts of. Such kinds of interests were unheard of and so, we brushed this off and hoped he would realise that he needed to dare to dream as big as engineering goes.

Two months ago, a friend of mine from school put me on phone with his eight-year old sister.

“Hello?” inquired a soft voice thickly laced with Maasai accent.

This lovely voice unearthed what had been my dream in form three. It thawed all the cold I had caught from sciences of the environment and reminded me that I had once thought of being a paeditrician before national examination results pronounced me a patient.

“You have a beautiful voice, what is your name?” I asked without hesitating.

I was thinking: this is a soloist’s voice as the girl raved on about how much she loved school. I did a happy dance when she told me she loved singing, but my dance was cut short when she told me she wanted to be a teacher.

I got quite disappointed, partially because I thought she could move crowds as a singer and not as a teacher, and partially because I had never met someone younger than my aunties aspiring to be a teacher.

“Are you sure that is what you want to do?” I inquired as I pondered over the idea of her voice imparting knowledge and not serenading a crowd of shuka-clad men and women with teeth gaps in both their lower and upper jaws.

I realized that I was afraid of the bravery her voice wielded as she declared her ambition to become a teacher despite loving singing. I realised that there was nothing wrong with my brother wanting to be a bus driver. I was only clinging onto the belief that what my parents wanted was what I needed to pursue.

“Tsk!” I sighed at the comfort of the cowardliness that lain me in bed and covered me with the duvet of fantasy when brave ladies and gents were busy changing to courses they wanted to pursue.

” My name is Sempeiyo and you have a nice voice too!” I recalled as I made a mental note to get my voice on radio as soon as the sun shone on this dream.

Marion Jepkosgei.