I am a planner. Not just in the sense of planning for my next meal or break. I am literally a planner since I have been training as an Economic planner. As a planner, we do projections for up to the end of the century, plan for 1, 5, 10, 22 years from now. In short, we worry for everybody. We like getting ahead of time.
It is not surprising that I carry this same quality to my life by worrying a lot. I worry about what I will put on tomorrow at work, on Saturday when going out, on Sunday at church, what I will eat for dinner or breakfast tomorrow, what I will be doing 5 years from now. What about 30 years from now? I worry about everything and I tell you, it is exhausting. Both mentally and physically.
Today, while I was walking to work, I was worrying about the town service I will board or I think the amount of airtime I had on my phone, what I would tell so and so…..well it was about a lot of things. As usual, I was exhausting my brain even before getting to work. I started watching my steps, how I was putting one foot forward at a time. I challenged myself to just focus on my next step and nothing else. I did exactly that for the next two minutes. I felt the tension on my muscles subsiding, my shoulders relaxing, my mind freed, a smile on my face. I felt so good.
It is then that I made up my mind to adopt “crossing that bridge when I get there” type of mindset.
After all, Jesus asked His disciples in Mattew 6:27
Which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature?
I am not a big fan of the Swahili proverb “lisemwalo lipo, kama halipo laja” translated to “Whatever is being said is true and if it is not yet true it’s about to be true,” especially when it comes to rumors. But unfortunately, that makes me just one among the minority of the population. Even more so women.
A lady friend told me that someone bad mouthing a girl and spreading malicious rumors about her is either a man who can’t have her or a girl who can’t be her. Which I fully agree with.
What is even sadder is that no matter who started the rumors, whether it’s from the mouth of a boy who can’t have her or a girl who can’t be her, it’s always us girls who do the spreading. And we say it with so much conviction that anybody around us, even the victim herself might start believing it.
We rarely stop to think what if I was her? How would I feel if this was going around about me? What if she was my sister? What if she was my mother? What if she was my daughter? Would I want this to go around about her? How would I feel?
Words are powerful. It takes someone who has been a victim of malicious rumors to know just how powerful and destructive they are. And it takes a really strong person to rise above them. Therefore, the next time you open your mouth to bad mouth someone, stop and think!
Let us stop giving meaning to the common misconception that women are their own worst enemies!
Recently, I felt the urge to talk to a certain beggar I usually see on the main street of my home town. On a hot Saturday morning, after stepping out of the supermarket, I walked over to him and sat next to him. I had it all planned out in my head but once we exchanged greetings, I found myself speechless.
I started fidgeting with my bag before blurting out “why do you sit here?”
“Because I have to get food or because I am poor.” Something similar to that.
In my young mind, I thought asking him about his family was the appropriate next question. So I did exactly that. In a piteous voice, he told me all his family depended on him. I had nothing else to ask or say so I made my apologies for the intrusion, lots of them, deposited some money on his hand and left.
Even though deep down I knew it was no fault of his to be a beggar, I found myself quiet annoyed with him for feeling sorry for himself.
It hit me then that the couple of times I have used self-pity (lost mother card) to get what I want (discounts), I must have annoyed the salespersons . I made a mental note to never do it again.
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?”
“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?
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.
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.