AND WHAT IF?

And what if?...
We let everyone define their own version of 'good'
Add an auxiliary to exceptions of 'crude'
Then deduct the objectivity of life with a little 'could'

Yeah, and what if we let that happen
Permit it to empty itself into the minds of our children
Much as it is now and they tell it to us that it's 'perspective' that's hidden
Yet it really is awry, awful, and make of more tender heathen

So what if no one stands up and speaks out
Then freedom gains another literal sense, inappropriately with clout
And the legal say-so are not even able to gavel the doubt
Because what is liberal has become too large to oust

But then again, what if?
Just thinking...

THE LITTLE BALD TECHIE

Shiny polished shoes
Not a speck of dust
White hair brushed up stiff
With a balded top full of wisdom

Watches are his specialty
He sells some
Fixes some
And then sells some more

Been at that corner shop for 4 decades
Good long time, huh?
Never tires of those time machines
Opens shop with such consistency

His wife, a tiny quiet lady
Wrapped in sari and a warm cardigan
Sits at the shop's desk
Obediently passing him the tools of trade

The techie wears the one-eye spectacle
Looks into its 'dead hands'
Or the torn and broken straps
Winds the battery, replaces the strap
Sets it back to a wearable tik-tok

It's a fascinating sign for a keen observer
The order that the pair seem to work with
Among the burning incense sticks whiffing rich scents
Their silence is a great source of communion

(kenakimathi)

LA GRADUAND

Graduation congratulations for my nail model Lucy!!!

Glad to make of them something elegant on her nails during her big day after enduring my neon colours, long hours of nail art drawing, the nail clippers and nail polish removers since 2nd February 2012! Thanks Lucy, go get em! 

Here's a sneak peek of the nails; 

 

 

THE POLYGAMOUS POT (3RD & FINAL!)

Shanga was here, and then Shanga was over. It was a flurry of merry-making activities but for once I did not feel the life of it. Here I was, convincing myself that I was alright with meeting the incoming female. That evening, I met her. Correction, I was introduced to her by her tribesmen. She spoke softly but firmly. I must add that her countenance was of good cheer. It was quite a combination for a young soul. At first, I was incredulous, wishing to withdraw and leave at the thought of a second wife but I had to pay my dues first to tradition and second to fortitude. We did not converse much till dawn. Her name was Salwa.

I showed her the water pots that we used to fetch water from the river in the wet season, and the well during dry spells. Then I taught her how we prepared breakfast yams and herbal tea from forest herbs for Okuchu and presented the meal in dried banana leaves. All this time, the man had said nothing. It slightly puzzled me. The young girl was mostly silent, responding with a single word and affirming with a nod. I wished she could speak up and tell me what was brewing in her mind but I would be reminded of my grandfather’s words, ‘Often times, you will need to get into someone’s skin and wiggle in it’. Well, she was probably adjusting, in the same way that I was six years ago.

The day dragged on slowly, little Kitamake stared at ‘the stranger’ while the other children began warming up to her presence. I hoped to eventually accept her in the same way, deep down, with the innocence and wonder of a child. Finally that evening, Okuchu called us in his hut, breaking his silence. He instructed us on how life would proceed, put in a few more rules and threatened to invoke tribal punishment for any revocation to the same. 

Week after week, Salwa was seemingly fine with daily life at the village. We switched days on which we cooked, fetched water, planted seedlings, ground maize, prepared mud to remodel the walls of the hut, rearranged the thatching at the top, all that and more. Her delicate presence remained though, with her few words being all she had to say. Sometimes I felt she passed by unnoticed, keeping her concerns to herself. Even Kitamake would attempt to get her to speak slightly more by tugging at her ochre-laden hair.

One twilight in the cooking hut, I decided to probe her slightly, asking how she felt after a few weeks of living around. She confessed that it was slightly tough and that there were days thoughts of  jumping over the fence at night and returning to her mother sufficed but in return asked me, ‘Don’t you think that even the bravest of warriors would much rather stay away from frontline battle?’ And she turned to her pumpkin soup boiling in the pot, the polygamous pot that we had learnt to share.

CALMLY CHIC

Nude brown and bright tips turn into some chic stuff like this...! Awesome!

THE POLYGAMOUS POT (PART 2)

…And back to my clay pot I lit the firewood, tossed in a few dry leaves and made some yams with coconut sauce for the family, letting them all serve before I did. That is how it worked. The man of the house got served first, and then the children would eat after he has had his share. He ate the best pieces of chicken, beef and fish… if the mother had nothing left to cover the pit of her stomach, it was alright, she was the home-maker and brought up to endure the pangs of marriage, but they never mentioned the pangs of strange retrospective tradition; that you knew when you got married and it would make sense why mothers had such minimal helpings. Maybe if we lived in the Pekechu highlands, it would be better. The land was richer, greener, more fertile and the rains clearly adored her soil. They said women there were well built and could carry two children with their shapely hips; interesting, I had never met any though.

Now Okuchu would come home slightly late, having had the brew by the elders. These negotiations were consuming a lot of time, not to mention his energy. He barely touched his dinner; he only ate the nuts and wild fruits that I stashed in the basket I wove from reeds in my early years. His countenance upheld a blank look, emotionless. I sensed that this decision was wrenched out of his free will; but I could not mention this. No matter how the man felt, his wife could not share in his sorrow or joy. She was just meant to do her duty and let him be. That broke my heart, to think that he could not speak his mind and now I had to embrace a second wife, from a foreign tribe. Tough times those were.

My friend Haumu would sit with me on Sunday afternoons for an hour after morning prayers by the village priest. We would walk home with our children and while they played around the hut, we would sit under the cashew nut trees and chat the minutes away. Then we would enjoy each other’s silence while pounding dry maize in the mortar. Our friendship was one of those. On certain days she would simply sit with me in the kitchen hut after preparing her evening meal, sip some herbal tea that I made from forest herbs and not say much. I was simply glad when she graced me with her tacit presence, it warmed my heart.

The festival now draws closer. We have to prepare to receive a new individual in the community; we call it the Shanga festival. The one being received is adorned with beads, and a lot of feasting and dancing is done. The inhabitants of the homestead into which she is received undergoes quite some preparation, purification and reconstruction, ready to accommodate another. Change is not the easiest of things to welcome, but it is one of the inevitable things after death and the noose of the taxman.

VERDE!!!

Verde is spanish for green...

So the beauty stores now have magnetic nail polish and in this random green colour, it looks like this! 

THE POLYGAMOUS POT (Part 1)

Same compound, different huts. I am the first wife of Omuwale Okuchu, mother of six children. My hut, just as tradition requires, is the first in the compound. Omuwale is the sub-chief, wears the woven hide that defines his position, speaks softly but with few words, smiles occasionally but mostly bonds with the little snuff pot that he hangs around his neck.

As young as sixteen, I was married to the Okuchu clan, my clan name ceased to exist. All I remember was my aunts sitting me in our hut. The last I saw of it; telling me that I would be a wife. I was betrothed, some gently giving me counsel, others violently shoving it with a harsh pat on my arms or back and others turning me to face them at the spit of every word.

My mother simply sat on the bamboo stool near the door, preparing ochre for the big day. Her countenance had a solemn look; they said all mothers wore that look when giving their daughters away. However, that look, I had never seen before; not even when she gave away my elder sister. It haunted me but between the jubilation, hard words and hugs, it was clear to me…my time had come.

Six years now with the same number of children as my matrimonial years. 12 long rains, 12 other short ones, two desert spells and another woeful period of floods; 2190 moons and 2190 suns, indeed I had lived on.

Now I am told that Omuwale eyes another as I wean the last child Kitamake; this one was born with some teeth. I hear she hails from the Haumu tribe where the girls are bathed in eucalyptus before marriage and their hair soaked in coconut oil for its luster. This is the gift that the peace accord gives to the sub-chief. I, Malaka, the first wife of Omuwale has no say in this.

I return to my hut, to my firewood, to my clay pot…

MISS ABSTRACT

This defines nothing in particular...hence the abstract title...but a weekend with this is a sure do!

MISS SIMPLICITY

This one's as simple as it gets, a diagonal of pink alongside a purple, cute mani though!

 

Indeed..simplicity is the ultimate sophistication!!!

MISS VIBRANT

The Watermelon band...I think they play cool jazz! 

Well, here are some 'water-meloned' nails in green and red for the vibrant miss!

A vibrant day with that, won't you?

MISS NOBILITY

Purple's long been the colour for nobles...so, how about?

Majestic! :)

TURN THE PAGE

I sit,I ponder,

I smile,I saunter,

One time holding a quill,

I let my mind have a feel,

Of moments laughed,

Of moments cried,

Of moments great,

And of those laden with fate.

Then I grin and in I lean

Set to begin this jotting scene

Turn the page…

Life?

One special gift,

Of love and light,

Of strength and might,

Maybe black then white,

But mostly a worthwhile fight.

And then…the people?

Turn the page…

Owing none nothing,

Safe from loving,

And then forgiving,

Allow for living,

Ever more with true meaning.

…people? Now I say friends…those you’ve eaten salt with…

Turn the page…

Ah! Those closer to the heart,

Never let depart,

Unless the season truly does part,

Don’t relent the friendship pact,

Make it more than social art.

And of family?

Accord even more,

Appreciate and spend time with them all,

Send myriad gifts, sorry cards and thank you notes,

Let them know they’re cherished most.

…But what of fears?

Turn the page…

Fears? We all have those,

Different thorns but the same rose,

Don’t let them impose,

Accept them in their prose,

But drown them in a daily prayer dose.

Hmm…and regrets?

Those life lessons?

Often, chances we’ve taken…

They don’t mark your future destinations

Rise above the pain they awaken.

Then there’s work…and study…?

Turn the page…

Work, perform with zeal and zest,

Deploy in it your very best,

And study, seek unity of knowledge,

 Make wisdom your lifelong pledge.

No more pages left to turn,

Bind and tuck the treasure away.

(Kenakimz)

MISS PENITENCE (Easter edition)

In the Easter Spirit, I thought of a nail-do to tell the story... a cross, nails and the Risen Christ!

And for the great message!

Happy Easter now!!! 

MISS WATER-ME-DOWN

Here's for the calm kind, easy-going, watered down!

MY ACOUSTIC

I swing the strap across my chest,

Position the guitar across my lap

Adjust the tuning pegs

Pausing at the tune that tickles my day’s fancy

A gentle slow tune for the evening

I shut my eyes and take it in

Bit by bit exuding a gracious symphony

A harmony that I can create and experience

A peace from the slight screech in switching the notes

Then I swing on a cowboy hat

Strike along a country tune

Maybe some Kenny Rogers or John Denver

But often creating my original piece

As the sun sets in the orange horizon beyond the ranch

I then warm up to a louder nature

Clasp the guitar pick between my lips

Playing with more gusto

Drumming at the guitar’s sound piece

An aggressive tune with great vigour

Then I slow down and play my first piece

The gallant one that unites my present will

No fiddler, no clarinet, no oboe yet

For I have sought and found serenity

All within my acoustic.

(Kenakimz)