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Posted in Experiences, Experiences and Creativity, Short Stories

Who Murdered Mr. Frog?

Photo uploaded from google

My little brother and I have always been partners in crime. I still remember the morning mommy brought him from the hospital, after his birth. Mommy sat by the dining table and told me to sit down so that I could hold him. I took one look at him and decided I wanted nothing to do with him because I couldn’t believe anyone could be that tiny. I don’t remember what happened that brought us close, all I know is that one day, we were inseparable and it has been so since then.

When I was 12, he was 8 then, I don’t know whether it was Nat Geo or the big McGraw-Hill anatomy books we had at home that planted the interest in frog anatomy in us, all I know is that it was there . After our own amateur research, we decided we were going to operate on a frog.

The day of the crime was a hot Sunday afternoon. You know how lazy people get on Sundays afternoon, after church and a heavy lunch. So it was the perfect day as mommy wouldn’t be paying that much attention to us.

After making sure mommy was doing her habitual Sunday afternoon reading , we set out to look for a frog. It did not take us long to identify our victim, a male frog hopping by probably looking for food or going back to his family. We kidnapped him and ran to the front of our house which was our rendezvous crime scene. I sneaked in to the house and stole the sewing kit. We had just cut his tummy open when we heard mommy’s footsteps. We quickly gathered our incriminating evidence and ran to the clearing on the left side of the house.

“Shah… Phil… Is that you?”
“Yes mommy.”
“What are you up to?”
“Mhhh…. Just kicking a ball around.”
“Okay then, don’t play any rough games.”

The two minutes exposure of the frog lungs caused it to inflate. All we wanted to do was cut it open and sew it back up, you know, like people do on TV and the pictures in the books. We did not want him to die on us.

“Hold it down by his limbs to keep him still while I sew him up, okay?
“Okay.”

I frantically started sewing him from the neck down but the lung just kept ballooning. We were now desperate to keep him alive.

“Why don’t you tuck the lung in?”
“He will die.”
“Then puncture it a little to release some air.”
“Don’t you get it? That will kill him.”

After one more failed attempt of sewing him up, I threw the needle down.

“I guess he is going to die anyway. Let us release him so he can spend his last few minutes in freedom.”

We released Mr. Frog and for a moment, sadly watched him limp away before gathering our stolen kit and headed back to the house.

We had planted maize on the shamba at the back of the house and mommy had a habit of checking it every morning before settling for her tea. The next morning, as usual, mommy went to check on her maize. We had just started on our breakfast when she came back.

“I have just seen the most unsightly scene on the left side of the house.”

She liked pausing to let each sentence sink in whenever she was telling a story.

“This frog was lying dead on his back with his tummy open and what looks like a busted lung.”

Our appetite for mommy’s delicious pancakes was gone just like that.

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Posted in Day to Day life, Fashion, Short Stories, Thoughts

What is wrong with my outfit?

Photo by me

I bought the outfit in subject one Saturday afternoon from a woman in a second hand market. It was one of those days when I did not plan to buy anything in particular. I had been in the house for long and I decided to go out for a stroll when I stumbled upon a woman selling clothes at Ksh 50(half a dollar). They were that cheap because they were rejectees: you know those outfits that remain after people have picked out the best or decent ones.

I uninterestedly ran my eyes through the clothes and I was almost leaving when this black and white one piece, sort of jumpsuit caught my attention. I love monochrome, so naturally, I picked it up and tried it on. The saleswoman told me it looks good and as much I don’t trust the opinion of sales people, I trusted hers because I felt good in it. It was unique, edgy and just so me. I paid the Ksh 50 and happily walked home with my ‘sort of jumpsuit’.

Like a normal human being, I couldn’t wait to see myself in my gorgeous sort of jumpsuit. After washing and ironing it, a week later, I wore it with my black pair of sort of oxford flats and went to town to run some errands. That is when I took the photo. A couple of weeks later, my brother, who is younger than me by one and a half years and is a model other than being a student, came home from school for a short holiday. Excitedly, I showed him the photo of me in my sort of jumpsuit and he immediately rubbished it.

“What is this you are wearing?”
“It is a jumpsuit”
“I know a lot about fashion and jumpsuits and that is not it. It is ugly!”

That did not dampen my spirits though. On Monday, at the office, I showed a colleague the photo and asked him what he thought of it.

“You don’t go far from home whenever you wear it, do you?”

Next was my movie supplier. I was sitting in his shop while he was getting me my movies when I asked him what he thought of it.

“Well, it is…uum…different”

That was it! I had to defend my precious sort of jumpsuit.
I put the photo of me in it as my phone and laptop wall paper!

Ps: the original photo is actually good quality but it can’t attach in its original size and the cropping lowers the quality. I don’t know why.
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Posted in Poems, poetry, Thoughts

A Shopaholic

Burning with vanity

And a touch of insanity

The high resisting gravity

Or the thought of being hit by sudden poverty.

Drifting in and out of stores

Seeking whatever gives the oohs

Not bothering to keep the scores

Just seeking more and more.

Posted in Anniversaries, Milestones, Achievements

Happy Blogivesery

My one year blog anniversary was on 20th of this month, I have had a crazy couple of weeks so I couldn’t publish anything.

In celebration of one year in WordPress as a poet and writer, I take you back to my very first article and my favourite one.

Of course I have grown so much from the girl who was hurting and self-absorbed after losing her mom;

Trapped

The room is dark

I can’t see

The air is musty

I can’t breath

The room is small

When I stretch out my hands I can touch the walls

The floor is wet

I can’t sit

My mind is clouded

I can’t think

There is no door

I can’t leave

No window

I can’t escape

I need to call for help

But I can’t make a sound

The walls are so high

I can’t even see the roof

I am trapped!

And the only light I have

Is the hope that somehow

Someone will rescue me.

….to the girl who cares for people other than herself; the girl who wrote this;

The pains of the African woman

Being an African myself, born and bred in Africa, I can say that I have had the displeasure of witnessing/seeing firsthand what the African culture/society has done to its woman.

Sure, I happen to be lucky enough to have a mother who made sure I know that my place isn’t the kitchen, that I can do anything and be anything I set my heart to, but that is not the case for every girl. The average African girl is brought up with the mentality that she is inferior to her brothers both young and old.

She has to serve her brothers as her masters. She has to serve them food and water even if they walk in when she is in the middle of her meal, and when they need a refill, she has to ‘pause’ eating and refill their plates. She doesn’t have a ‘name’ until she gets married and gets her husband’s name thus making marriage her biggest dream and highest achievement. Therefore, she learns how to be a ‘good wife’ from as early as she can walk; she learns to cook, fetch firewood, balance a pot full of water on her head cause, these are the qualities the man’s family will look at when the time for marriage comes.

If she falls pregnant while still in school or before marriage, she gets ostracized by everybody around her, while the boy, who made the same mistake as her, is treated with some sort of reverence because he has proved that he is a ‘man’.

When she gets married, she becomes her husband’s property. She is expected to just be seen but not to be heard. She can’t make any decision regarding the children, the family or even herself except what they are going to have for breakfast, lunch and supper. If the husband turns out to be violent, she is expected to receive every beating graciously because, well, there is no better show of ‘affection’ than a beating from your husband.

In the cases where the husband abandons her and the children, raises her children but at the end of it all, it’s said that the children belong to the man. If one or a couple of them end up ‘not doing so well in life’, then those are hers cause its assumed that they must have got it from her or she simply didn’t raise them well.

Video clips of cats drowning while trying to rescue their kittens, or dogs getting hit by a car or pleading faces of street kids begging for food are as sad as hell, but there’s nothing as heartbreaking as watching an African woman going through all this and so much more with a brave smile on her face.

I dedicate this one year anniversary to my mommy whose love for books was so infectious that I fell in love with reading and writing.

Of all my achievements, this website is my favourite one and it wouldn’t be running without your support, so thank you wonderful artistes and friends for your support.

Happy blog anniversary to me and this little website of mine !

Posted in Poems, poetry, Thoughts

Little Bird

Photo uploaded from google

Little bird settled on my window sill

Looking for food or time to kill

She pecked around for a deal to seal

I think she would have better luck way way up the hill.