Worthy Of My Pen

After having been the unofficial Chair lady of the Singles Club for about three years now, it is with dignified pleasure that I announce my resignation. Contrary to the anticipated, I am still a single lady so don’t be thinking that I am now hooked, hitched or whatever you like to call it but like gleaming fresh tomatoes—I now feel like it’s time to be proudly out there in the proverbial market. My Facebook Relationship Status is still as standing. However, my guard is lowered as I finally gave someone a chance into my life. Someone I have known for 10 years now, a time during which they had been trying to make me notice them. But like ordinary people, I was blinded by a veil of bygone loveless relationships, immaturity and the haggardness of dealing with a one-time long distance relationship that only recently started to fade. Now I see and feel much better.

The little things Mr. Mystery Man does like kissing my forehead smack in the middle of the night or my arm in the morning—make me smile. Sometimes we talk about how we first met a decade ago, and then look at present day comparing and contrasting how far we have both come, albeit separately. He’s a good man because he respects me and other women. I am yet to see more of his goodness, if any. He’s thoughtful and sweet. In the middle of the day, he comes by my office just to say hello. When I am on night shift, he turns up in the middle of the night and waits up till I am done, then we sit in the car for hours talking about everything and nothing till the wee hours of the morning. Who really killed chivalry? All these things and some gutsy feeling tell me that I am either too vigilant or he’s got the potential of becoming more than just a friend. I hardly ever feel the need to write about any man so let it be known that this post comes from a special place. A modest and unknown quote goes that; “To live forever, impress or depress a writer.” For these clashing extremes most often act as endless muse. Mine could be yet another infatuation or case of mistaken identity. But since ditching Team Forever Alone (at least mentally), it’s a no-brainer that Mr. Mystery Man has inspired me to be a better woman, in every kind of way. So much that he’s worth writing home about. Oops! I meant blogging about

All That Matters

There are things you did that I can’t explain. Your were the plane and I was the pilot who let you fly. There are buttons I pressed that I shouldn’t have but they saved both us from crashing landing. Adding to my heroism was a subtraction for nobody really cared about our smooth landing, not even us. It’s almost like we were destined to move in a certain speed that neither of us could ever control.

When high above, the world was so small yet beautiful and we were mega lovers. In the real world, what we had—was so small yet bountiful, but not enough. Now all I care about is where you lay your head. As you get out there on your own, I hope that you are okay. As you head on with your life, whether on a plane or plainly flying in thoughts; all that matters is that you are safe.

Our Attempt

I might have said some things I didn’t mean. And you might have said some–you didn’t need to. Makes me wonder if that was just the heat of the moment or maybe simply it was the moment of truth. For strangely enough, I thought about it all, way after we said all those  brief and insane things yet so bravely muttered.

Captain Corelli’s Mandolin- Louis de Berniéres (Book Review)

Captain Corelli’s Mandolin is an extremely comedic yet awfully emotional story about love, war and music. Set in the mid 20^th century during the World War, Berniéres first introduces the reader to the beautiful abyss of the Cephalonian Greek Island, where Dr. Iannis, also a budding literary resides with his lovely daughter Pelagia, an extraordinary cook whose secret wish is to one day, even if just a teensy bit, be a doctor like her father.

She gets engaged to a fisherman Mandras, the first man who makes her swing her hips unconsciously in foolish young love. Soon he joins the army as a non-partisan Greek in a war mainly between the Italians and Germans in the hope of returning to his fiancée as a hero, and not just a poor fisherman. Unfortunately, the man returns affected by the war—sick, enraged and psychopathic. It’s only the island’s cloud of aroma from preparations for Easter’s scrumptious feast that get Mandras out of bed and into lighting a candle and rejoining believers in a holy march, during which both his mother and Pelagia wonder inwardly, if indeed Mandras has also risen like the Christ. After the ceremony, the man goes back to his old crazy and helpless self. During Pelagia’s stay with her man, she finds out that illiteracy hindered him from reading any of the love letters she had sent him during his time in the war. Just as Mandras is coaxing Pelagia to read to him old letters, some of which their intent and heart had since changed, Italian soldiers invade the island—a relief for Pelagia who then thanks heavens and runs away in realization that she’s fallen out of love with Mandras, who then finally rises and heads back to war. Oh the satire.

The Italian invaders chose Dr. Iannis house for their Captain, also a mandolin player Antonio Corelli mainly because the doctor happens to be one of the best Italian-speaking Greeks in the island. The uninvited but noble guest is forever embarrassed by having led this invasion, and even further by displacing Pelagia from her own bed as directed by her father so as to get medicinal supplies in exchange. Corelli spends most of his free time alone with Antonia, his mandolin. He’s mostly dreaming of being a musician while playing and composing songs for Pelagia, who shyly notices. The captain even recruits his officers to sing in his La Scala band, whose memorable times would include singing out loud together with Corelli’s mandolin by the sea and outside the doctor’s house on silent nights.

When the war erupts, two lovers are caught between race, history and allegiances. It’s hard enough to keep alive during war, let alone being in love with an invader. When the Germans invade the invaders, the island becomes crippled as Corelli and his officers face a firing squad. Carlo, one of the captain’s men shields him from the firing bullets with his gigantic body and empowered by the memoir of his long-lost unrequited love, Francesco, a former fallen soldier and ally. The doctor and Pelagia then save Corelli’s life afresh in a night-long surgery with hardly any equipment and medicine apart from a pittance and the captain’s mandolin strings, which the doctor uses to sew up his broken ribs. And would forever be part of his ribs. The captain is forced to flee the island for safety after he and Pelagia promise each other life-long marriage after the war. The now accomplished world musician never returned for at least another 40 years when he coincidentally meets a boy, Pelagia’s grandson Iannis playing [his] old savior Antonia, also after which the boy’s mother was named.

This book is an inspiration that life doesn’t have to be inclined on either side. Whether or not in war, love or music, we are part of history and should make the best of it in the time we have. Long before the war, Corelli complements a woolen colored coat that Pelagia was making for Mandras as “a masterpiece”, even though the owner had just rejected it citing asymmetry. “The human heart likes a little disorder in its geometry,” says the captain who let his rifle rust, and even lost it once or twice, but still won battles armed with nothing but a mandolin. If there were no arms or machines in the world and we had to go to war, what would be your only cover? Maybe not a mandolin or anything as sophisticated, but Louis de Berniéres reminds us all that sometimes to fight the biggest of war, it’s the seemingly most irrelevant things and people around us that will mostly save us.

BONUS: Quote from Carlo, “If there was only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their loves, they would be the very best governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonor, and emulating one another in honor; and when fighting at one another’s side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world. For what lover would not choose rather to be seen by all mankind than his beloved, either when abandoning his post or throwing away his arms? He would be ready to die a thousand deaths rather than endure this.”

Foolish heart

I am the sunshine and you are the rain. When we mash-up, your grey skies and my blue makes a reverie of colors. When night falls, we become one—only separated by distance and invigorated by our trance. When you are missing, I know you’ll be back as the stars serve as a constant reminder. Shining bright, and sending a sign that without you, I must suffer not. Even though, without you I suffer a lot.

Please hold out your hand, body or soul, and reach over to my side of the universe. Lie next to me silently and don’t leave, but listen to these verses I wrote for you. For even before I met you, they were meant for you. To dry my tears, lock out all your fears. For even when we are far apart, our spirits mustn’t be far apart but near. And even if it’s stark dark, you’ll see and feel me. You’ll realize that I am all yours. But you fail to see—that you don’t need anybody else, and that all you needed was my foolish heart.

Keeper of my days

From a land far away and above, he watches over me. It’s hard to understand or explain how he does it but when the London birds sing and the Kenyan drums beat like in Dakar, he feels me. When his flights delay, soar high or his favorite record plays, he reminisces of me. And sometimes, in the hour that memories subside, he tells all his secrets to the wind, which in turn travels miles just to whisper into my ear—that he misses me. And when the sun rises, nobody knows but I adore him the more. When the sun sets, it doesn’t matter because he’ll still wake up mad about me. It’s never like it used to be before, I am not shy anymore but different and open, the good-kind. Like a bird grasps daylight, I want to take flight into his world. For there, I am special and safe. And he’s the sightless bird flying above the skies, blind enough to watch over me.

 

Born in war but liberated at heart: my new Somali friend

“We never had peace in my country, I was born in war,” says Ahmed Ali, one among multitudes of Somali refugees in Kenya turned businessmen living and working in Eastleigh, home to probably half (if not more) of Nairobi’s economy. He owns and manages a textiles shop located at the grandiose Bangkok business plaza that houses a majority of Somali retailers, who mean nothing but business, and will ruthlessly throw ‘Take or Leave’ at you as soon as you start bargaining.

While shopping, a rich jungle green colored silky fabric draws me to Ahmed’s store. I also notice that he is friendly and speaks fluent English/Swahili unlike most of his counterparts. He looks a little older than 23, probably a side effect of tough life. He smiles so gracefully and genuinely, definitely portraying a different man from the one in his past. After the purchase, he also sews the fabric into a curtain for me (at an extra fee). As I wait for completion, small talk leads into a conversation that would later become this story about his story.

The two-decade-old war has torn Somalia apart not withstanding Ahmed’s family. Born in a family of 13 siblings, the 23-year-old has since lost three siblings to the war. “My sister was killed after a grenade blew up our house in 2005. I had just left about five minutes before that. If I hadn’t, I would probably be dead now,” he says. Soon after, Ahmed’s parents coerced him (their youngest surviving child) to flee Somalia into Kenya for safety. “If you have money there are people who can get you through the boarder at a fee.”

Ahmed arrived in Kenya in 2006 with no baggage other than the load of having to start over his life. “I first went to Kenyan officials to get an alien ID card. Then came here (Bangkok plaza), started doing odd jobs and slowly learnt the trade that got me here,” says the self-taught tailor who runs the business alongside his father (based in Dubai) responsible for sending the textiles from Dubai and China via shipment.

According to Al Jazeera, Human Rights Watch and other agencies accuse Kenyan officials of ‘stigmatization’, and have documented 300 cases of police harassing Somali refugees in 2012 only, also adding that there is little evidence to connect the bombings and shootings in Kenya with Somali refugees. Ahmed says he is happy in Kenya because of the booming business in Eastleigh but doesn’t know how long that will last, citing police brutality, political unrest and insecurity. “We don’t know if a new government will allow us to stay here, we are already suffering the blame of being allied to Al-Shabab. And if you meet police or happen to be on the wrong side of the law, they ask for bribes of up to 80,000 Ksh. That’s crazy.”

Ahmed’s childhood dream was to become “educated and have a good job”. It still is. The war also cut short his education making the Eastleigh business his single accomplishment. On a good day he says he can collect anything between 30,000-45,000 Ksh. According to a 2011 study by the UK think tank Chatham House, Eastleigh’s shopping malls make about $7m a year. However, to Ahmed that’s just a tip of the iceberg. “I was never cut out to be a tailor. I want to become better and do business in bigger markets like China.”

For immigrants, every day is literally a chance to mend their past anew. Ahmed doesn’t take that for granted as everyday, he stitches his path towards reuniting with his family and country. “I have no time for dating or anything other than work. I work every day all week. I only get time off to the mosque [which is in the same building where he works].” He’s optimistic that his country will rise above the rubble. “Somalia is changing. People are now tired of the war. It’s been 21 years of fighting for nothing. Other countries including USA are starting to recognize that we are a country. People will stop saying that Somalia is not in Africa, that doesn’t make sense—it’s just like MRC saying Pwani si Kenya.”

The endless war in Somalia has left many families broken, lives lost and memories forgotten but Ahmed weathered the storm and still manages to stitch pretty well (the curtains came out lovely). His mother fled to Ethiopia and has since been trying to get herself to USA to reunite with some of Ahmed’s siblings living in Colorado. “In the mean time, we all communicate via the internet, but it’s never enough.” One of his brothers was killed in Somalia after stepping on a landmine while playing—an unfortunate event among a series that inexplicably and paradoxically continue to liberate Ahmed’s spirit. “I must one day return to my country to play where I used to when I was a kid and also see my friends and relatives who still live there. There’s no sea in Nairobi; I really miss Somalia,” sums up a nostalgic Ahmed.

BONUS: Thanks to the chance meet-up, I am now friends with Ahmed. When we first met in town (he was bringing me my notebook that I forgot in his shop), he said he didn’t know any places in the city apart from Posta, where Eastleigh mats stop. My mission is to one day show him around, not because it’s so amazing out here and not to absolutely discredit the awesomeness out here but so that Ahmed can have just one  day without working to chill and take a look at everything he’s solely achieved for himself at only 23 and in a foreign country. His life story inspires me loads to be better at what I do and to appreciate my country.

Wake up call

If you let me, I will. Take care of you. Never lie to you. Always abide by our rules. Never lie alone, but next to you. And then I will let you … Love me. Hold me. Whisper into my ear. Sweep me off my feet. Then back down to walk on the roads we drove down. For this love is my vehicle.

To Kill a Mockingbird- Harper Lee (Book Review)

Set in a fictional town, Maycomb County in the 1930s, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee is an extraordinarily powerful book essentially about how one’s life is influenced by upbringing and society as a whole, and how [that] affects one’s view on bias, in this case—racism and societal segregation.

The book’s utter beauty lies in its narration by 9-year-old Scout Jean Louise, the assertive tomboy daughter of Atticus Finch, a white lawyer faced with the challenge of balancing single-parenthood and a demanding profession. Through Scout’s eyes, the reader walks inside her world revolving around her family [comprising her father, elder teenage brother Jem Finch and their nanny Calpurnia (a Negro)], school and how the conscious of a town affects [her own].

Atticus has developed a strong relationship with his kids; so much that they call him Atticus or Sir (in dire situations), hardly ever Dad. The lawyer, an avid reader and man of wisdom encourages his children to always remain impartial in a world full of people with different opinions, preferences and beliefs. “If you can learn a simple trick, you’ll get around better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view,” he advises his daughter after a rough first day at school, words that haunt Scout up until an incident that happens to her later in life, becomes an embodiment of her father’s counsel.

When Atticus takes on a case to defend a black man charged with the rape of a white girl, Scout and Jem are ostracized by neighbors, kids at school and even extended family, all calling their father a ‘nigger lover’. Scout confronts her father wanting to know what it means and if he [really is one]. He says, “Ignorant, trashy people use the term when they think somebody’s favoring Negroes over and above themselves. It’s slipped into usage with some people like ourselves, when they want a common, ugly term to label somebody. I certainly am a nigger lover. I do my best to love everybody … It’s never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows you how poor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you.”

The case of a white man defending a black man is unheard of in Maycomb County. It’s an intriguing court battle that brings together a people in a battle of the better color instead of what should have been justice. In a case closely followed by citizens entangled in group think, it’s no surprise that Atticus’ children come out among few souls in the town neutral to the case.

To Atticus, it’s not a crime to be of whatever race, color, belief or association, and nobody should counter what you stand for. When he gets his children air rifles as gifts, it’s the first time Scout hears her father say that it’s a crime to do something—to kill a mockingbird. She asks Miss Maudie (a neighbor) about it. “Mocking birds make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird,”she says.

While Atticus Finch defends Maycomb’s real mockingbird, the county’s deep-rooted racial differences, hypocrisy and sycophancy is exposed. Atticus is criticized for defending a nigger and ironically still celebrated as Maycomb’s top attorney. Regardless, his initial worry is his integrity and what will be left of it for his children to emulate or despise after the case (which later takes an unexpected turn).

To Kill a Mockingbird’s key message is skillfully packaged in subtle humor. As the book celebrates its 50^th anniversary this decade, it still transcends generations and societies. Harper Lee gave the world a timeless and beguiling book that unchains Django and ultimately, inspires readers to reason beyond society’s group think mentality. We are reminded to respect songs of those who sing, even though we might not dance to their tunes. For in one way or the other, we are all mockingbirds flying and singing, sometimes dreaming that someone will listen, but mostly hoping that we’ll live to be heard.

BONUS: The character of Atticus in the book has been humanized by many over the decades, and when some felt like the lawyer has passed on, his legacy never did. The book, his epitaph and tribute always remain celebrated—whose words remain to be among the most shared in this generation. Read Atticus Obituary here.

Why ‘friends without benefits’ is shit.

“Let’s be friends with benefits.”—it’s highly probable that you’ve been asked that before, at least once if not severally. Let’s flip the other side of the coin that indicates it’s also as likely that you’ve already shoved around [the proposal] yourself. If you don’t resonate with either case then you must be in a relationship that benefits all the same. Code word—benefits.

Friends with benefits (FWB) is a typical two-people-pretext allowing them to act like mere platonic friends to the world while in the real sense, frolic in between sheets in the name of ‘no strings attached’ [another post for another day]. The rules of the game are simple: If the sex is good, it’s cool. If it’s bad, it’s probably over. And if in either scenario anyone catches feelings, they are weak players and therefore risk being dropped or dropping out of the league … Silently and honorably. It’s however marveling how the cliché FWB thing has become in making trendy the use of sex as bait or cover up for anything and everything, unconscious to friendship, the very foundation of relationships.

Akin to business, friendship is inherently a give and take affair or if you like, an exchange between two with an objective that both parties should yield considerable returns or at least an equivalent of their investment. And just like the uncertainty of business that once in a while, things might go extremely well or terribly haywire so is the malleability of all sorts of relationships. Things will go fine or dreadful with your partner, wife, lover or FWB. For example, you might find yourself falling for your FWB or vice versa. You might also fall out with a friend, break up with your partner, make up or happily remain intact if not sadly history with your better half. In the universe of relationships, all this is normal. What’s not is when we keep forgiving partners who always end up getting caught up in the same tangled web of unfortunate events that affect us; this is continually rewarding bad business. And essentially a business not working out must be re-structured or closed down. You can only operate in loses for too long.

My point— if you get yourself into a strictly physical FWB contract; while on the streets, don’t expect more from your partner, your territory doesn’t surpass the sheets. In bed however you can stretch your muscles and ensure that standards are kept at par with the initial bar set while entering into agreement. Any friendship or relationship that defies its initial accord in one or more ways than desired or desires more than the union stipulated is again, bad business. And sometimes in these scenarios, we subconsciously subject ourselves to the poison that’s kiss-and-make-up.

Think about it critically, if truly like business, the premise of friendship is based on the prospective profit for both parties then that means, apart from the FWB case coming out strongly in labeling, it’s intent is just as loud; making it perfectly alright for other relationship to emulate it’s straight forwardness—all factors remaining constant, and despite [it] being the home to a whole load of disguise, among them: mere debauchery, experiments and experimenters, sissies and those hiding from responsibilities that come with the exclusivity of relationships.

Moral of this post—Like business, relationships aren’t solely based on looks or love but preference and the promise of abundance, quality and consistency, making it simple logic that all people (single or coupled) need love and company— in and out of bed. And if eventually, the people we acquaint ourselves with in whatever scope of business act shoddy; the pact should be terminated swiftly for an opportunity to explore new markets or different ventures. Pardon my French but no matter how hard or soft you like your world rocked, any relationship/friendship without benefits is bullshit.