I got home last night and Charlie wasn't in the house. I'd left a window open just so she could move in and out if she felt brave enough to and assumed that she'd gone and gone forever. I assumed wrong.
I found her on the balcony, cowering behind my compost bucket, scared and bloody. Something had happened to her, what? I don't know. I fed her. She slept until about 3am today.
Around 4:30am, she started to act a little crazy, mewing and mewing and driving me crazy. She'd eaten everything I had that was edible to a beast such as she. She wouldn't stop with the vocal practise.
At 5am, I took her downstairs, outside... and left her there.
She wailed a little. And then nothing. I died a little inside but I'm fine. I hope she is too. That or dead. Fine or a ghost.
I have this cat. Technically, she's still a kitten. Her name is Charlie, short for Charlotte which, if you take the time, you'll realise is very closely related to Carlos (Charles, my baby Passo), which is also very close to my English name (Which I loathe).
So, Charlie... I got her at City Market (Muindi Mbingu Street, Nairobi) when she was no more than three weeks old. I'd gone there to eat fruits one day, and having lost the first stray I'd rescued just a few days earlier, I was still very attuned to the mewing of a starving or stranded cat. I heard this high-pitched little squeak and thought, that I must still be missing the lost animal... then...
"This thing..." referring to the little kitten, "... bring it here and I'll kick it until it dies..."
When it 'cried' again, I had to go and look so, I went and found this little grey and white baby 'tiger' of a cat. She was so tiny, could barely see or hear and this guy - one of those that beg you to eat meat at their disgusting stalls - wanted to kill it. I took it in one hand. So small was it that I could wrap its entire body with the fingers of that one hand.
"Don't kill it," I told the lady who'd stashed it in a box. "Keep it until 4pm and I'll come take it. Where's the mother by the way?"
"The mother took all the other kittens and left this one," she explained. See, it was a market cat's baby. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I know now why little Charlie's mother abandoned her when she did.
Anyway, at 4:20pm that day, I returned to the market and carried Charlie in a fruit carton, all the way home. They'd thrown little bits of fish and mutton into the box and, hungry as she must've been, not having fed for four days, she devoured them fast as her little teeth and jaws could allow.
That was June 3rd, 2014.
She's now two weeks away from being a five-month-old kitten except. She's so big, eats all my food and destroys everything I hold dear. She doesn't know how to play gently. She bites or scratches and only to draw blood. No gentle playfulness about this beast. The only time she runs low on energy is when I have no food to give her. I thank God that bananas repulse her or I'd have nothing to eat, EVER!
I've tried a couple of times to let her wander and get lost only to hear her crying helplessly from wherever. Usually, I'll go rescue her and she'll scratch me in the process.
Today, before I left the house, I opened the front door hoping she'd wander away and never return. The one time I hoped she wouldn't show up again, she came right back to the front door, entered and refused to leave. Talk about prayers answered.
You see, when I let her out I'd told myself that if she didn't come back, I could finally let go, but, if she came back, then it meant that God wanted me to keep her and take care of her. I'm stuck with her now. The best I can do is avoid playing with her now so I can let the scratches I already have, heal. I have to have her spayed because I don't want any more kittens with "attitude" filling my house.
It kinda brings to light though the fact that I don't really like animals as much as I thought I did. They were always just there when I was growing up. Now my philosophy is, if it doesn't lay eggs or produce milk and I can't eat it, what good is it?
Something happens when you realize you're not as young as you used to be. When 25 strikes, you're like dude! I'm old enough to be a mother of about 10 in some cultures, responsible for a company, a household, a life - or ten - what happens if I fail.
When you're in the last year of your 20s... that is 29, and you're still single, don't have a car, a home to call your own, a job you're not quite sure you'll have tomorrow, things really fall into perspective.
You see, just the other day, you were 10 wishing you could turn 18 and leave home. Then you were 18 and had to be responsible for yourself. And now you're almost 30, and wish you could be a kid again, but with all the knowledge you have now, and maybe twice the amount of money.
But it's never that way, is it?
What happens when you accept your age is, you just stop to care so much because, damn! life goes by so fast, before we know what's going on, we're 50 and hoping we'll make 70 without a hip injury, or Alzheimer's. We hope we won't be alone or lonely for the rest of our life (I guess we all do). We hope we'll love our children when we finally have them. Then we begin to wish we'd see our grandchildren, you know, have a sort of surety that our 'awesomeness' won't die with us, that it will continue, for at least a few centuries if not forever.
Religion and God
Another thing that gets awakened, at least for me it did, is the grand awareness of A BEING, A MIGHTY MARVELLOUS ALL POWERFUL BEING THAT CAN DO ANYTHING FOR YOU IF YOU ASK, BUT ONLY IF IT'S GOOD FOR YOU. YOU KNOW?
But see, you haven't been to church in about a decade, or maybe two dozen years and wonder whether, it's not hypocritical to be going back just because you're afraid, hoping to get on good terms with the 'Man' upstairs before you kick the bucket.
You're practically middle-aged because the life expectancy is 55, so you feel like... the end is nigh.
And sure, you feel that you're not afraid of death but, you also feel that perhaps things are not as they should be 'this close to the end,' see?
And church is out of the question, right? So, how about we ask the Mighty Maker a question?
"If you exist, shew yourself."
A random string of awesomeness follows you around after that, only, it's not that random is it?
You realize that you've spent all your life saying No to the right things and Yes to the wrong things. What now?
Unable to get any deeper than that, you decide that you will reverse that yes-no situation, and become the right kind of Yesman! No?
Did you know that Shaba Ranks is gay? totally old and useless information. He's not even the Shaba I speak about in the title of this blog. There exists another, in the middle of nowhere... in Isiolo county actually; Shaba Game Lodge... I think.
Fancy bar where Emma and I charge laptop and phones, blog and send photo to highclass man who live all the way in Los Angeles and is married to Orla Brady. Orla Brady!!! She like famous British actress from series Mistresses, remember that? No? Anyway...
Here we are at Shaba! seated right at the bar with the friendliest barman Ever! Don't want to ask his name because, a brother might get the wrong idea.
About three people have asked us if we've been here. We look that familiar or... it's a tactic they use to strike up a conversation. Well, we're smarter than them because, this place has WiFi faster than the speed of light, and we can stream videos and movies instantly. It's truly amazing. Faster than Safaricom data, faster than any institutional WiFi... this is probably how is like Mrika and other first-world countries, no?
This is the place to be. If you ever save up just a little money, just 7k for a night and about double that amount for fuel, unless of course you're taking Carlos Esteben my trusty 2006 Toyota Passo who was driven from Mombasa, has braved the rocky roads of Olepolos, all of Kajiado County, Namanga, and is now rivalling all manner of 4WDs by making to - and through - the Shaba game lodge.
Like I said in the last post, it's a little like God Himself, told the designer of the Passo to make this particular car himself, sell it to spoiled Japanese teenager, because one day, at the age of 8, it would be shipped to a far-away land called Kenya, sold to a dealer called Malik, and end up with a struggling 28-year-old called Njeri. Njeri's sister would say:
"Hey! You like this one?"
Njeri would lock eyes with the Car and immediately fall in love. No bargaining. Nothing.
Right there and then, she would christen the car Carlos Esteban and together, they would go on adventures all over the African Continent. 20 years later they would enter car competition and win every time.
In between this, they would meet Emma and Gerald and Famous photographer and wife and they would become famous hollywood people, but they would be very humble and when time came. Njeri would pass on Passo to daughter and daughter would pass on to grand daughter until the time came for Carlos to go to car heaven, where Njeri would go and buy him again, because... well, God is gracious that way, you know?
The end.
P.S.: you will have to wait just a little longer for the photos of our escapades, Carlos, Emma and I. It hath been wonderful, but something tells me, greater things are on the way.
... but it all began with me in hospital. I was sitting in a waiting room, but not with other patients. I sitting near an arrogant nurse. Don't know where the idea that she was arrogant came from. I was seated so close to her... too close for comfort, hers and mine, that when it was time for her to call out my name, I could see that I was the last one on the list, so obviously, it was time to go. Apparently, I was there to see Dr Bashir... in my dream I knew her full name but I don't remember it now. So up I got to go to the doctor's office. Instead, I was at Villa Rosa Kempinski. It was royal-looking, beautiful, like an idiot's heaven, perfect, shiny, angular, rich people milling around with their noses up... although I couldn't quite see them. Before long however, I was running. Where to, I don't know, I was still at Kempinski, being chased by people, all over the place. The landscape was breathtaking, like a Golf-course with marble plaques every few metres. Now that I think about it, they were like grave stones, but beautiful and shiny. I was pulling some ninja moves, jumping here, running a little, slipping out of the grasp of a security guard just by a whisker, and then I saw a familiar face, and with an unfamiliar head of white hair. A black man, with a white, old man's hair. Samuel L. Jackson was on my tail, he was trying to get me, but I kept skipping and jumping so that neither he, nor his goons could catch me. Somehow, I made it out. Now I was running up a bridge. A bridge. Not really. It was that overpass that straddles university way. I was running up the ramp shouting. Took me a while to realize what I was shouting. And I only remember shouting it just twice. Once in my head, when I realized that he was standing there, at the centre of the 'bridge' looking towards the Globe roundabout. He was looking at the sunset. Impossible. It was evening, and there's no way the sun sets in the east. Right. So maybe it was a fire he was looking at. He was tall. So tall. Slender. In white. But the light, or fire, or sun that was rising at the wrong time, made his face and gown look the softest, lightest brown. His hair was long, his beard was just right, but I only saw the side of his face. He wasn't happy. When I realized who I was looking at, I cried out his name; twice, like I said. Once in my head, the second time, I heard myself say, in a very loud an desperate voice: "JESUS!" and I had my hand stretched out, like I was saying, "take me with you now!". And just then. Just as I was about to reach him, he either snapped his fingers or waved his hand and everything turned black and white... like a 1920s comic book... and he was gone. I remember thinking in my dream that I was going to remember this dream, no matter what happened. I knew I was dreaming. That was Thursday night or Friday morning. Not quite sure. And I woke up with my hand stretched out, so it's likely that I woke up a few neighbours as well. I was right. I'm probably never going to forget that. It's only my second Jesus dream. When the first one happened, I was a child, maybe 5 or 6, maybe 8... I don't know. But he wasn't happy then either. He was seated among ruins, historical ruins, it looked like, and was surrounded by broken clay pots. Just seated there, alone as I watched from a few feet away. Intense dreams.
More than 100 people remained unaccounted for Monday after a devastating landslide in the US state of Washington which killed at least eight and sounded "like a small earthquake.
Western conservation practice has failed to inculcate bonds between us and animals
It goes on and on and on. Personally, I look for stories that inform me on how to improve my life and the lives of those around me. It wasn't always that way. There was a time I was addicted to danger, death and destruction. That sound a little like someone else you've heard of? No? Starts with a "D"? Still no?
Well, I would love to know how to grow mushrooms on my balcony... balcony? No even that... on my Kitchen window sill. And I'd love to teach people to do that after I got it right. So that we won't have any more hungry people on the street. If they'll just grow the one 'plant' that requires almost no attention. And who says we should ever be broke or hungry or sad or jealous. I'm beginning to understand that it's all an attitude problem.
We get jealous when other people get stuff and we think "I want that." but you really don't. Think back to that time when you got something that you thought you really wanted to because getting it would make you 'acceptable' in the eyes of your friends. Now think how you felt when you realized how stupid that was... huh? Huh?
"I wish we could all lead simple lives... become farmers, keep a few animals, grow our own food and just be happy," someone told me the other day.
So why don't we, lead simple lives I mean. The answer is simple. Point at the thing/person/nothingness in front of you, and then look where the other three fingers are pointing. There's your answer.
So, I'm walking to work on a Saturday afternoon. Around the University of Nairobi, there are a bunch of birds just going round and round and round in circles... and then I see it. Scientific reasons aside, it was lovely. Having never seen or even heard about it before, I was transfixed.
I continued to walk, on the overpass, telling everyone I met to look up... they loved it too. Some just thought I was crazy and missed out. I couldn't stop, I kept walking, and nearly bumped into a few people, got hit by a few cars, fell off a few curbs. How, though, is everyone not as jazzed by this. It's not that common. And it's beautiful, breathtaking actually. Hence the near bumps and falls. This is what it looks/looked like. Wonder if it's still there. I'm going to have to go out and see it one more time.
I’m on my way to hospital… a clinic rather, to see again, a doctor who’s treating my acne. It’s barely 8am, and there’s no traffic anywhere, human or otherwise. It’s free crossing all the way. In a minute, i’m inside an old building – put up in the 50s perhaps – navigating my way through back ways. The building has two towers, see?
I need to get to the other side, so I can take the lift that stops on the floor I’m going to. No, it’s not a dingy backstreet clinic. It’s a branch of one of Kenya’s finest medical institutions. But that’s not the story. The story begins when I find a lady waiting for the lift I want to take. I’d hoped I’d take it alone.
It’s here. She get’s in, and punches ’4′ on the panel and it turns red. I go next and punch ’6′. I remember that it has a problem so I’m not surprised when it doesn’t turn red immediately. I punch it 5 or 6 more times before it finally obeys. And then another woman, about 40 years old, enters the lift, glances at the panel, stands still as the doors slide shut, and then starts to hum. There are three of us now.
The first woman turns around and starts to check herself out. Her wig (which is horrible and coarse-looking) suits her perfectly. Like it was made for her and she made ONLY to wear it. Full story here
The two things I love most about Lupita Nyongo - and no, it is not her acting - are her flawless skin and her tiny breasts. Here's why, forget what African men say about flat-chested women, you can get inflatable ones if pleasing a guy who doesn't even take you out once a year or treat you special... ever... is what you want to do. Those tiny breasts are the bestest. You can have a couple of kids, or three, breastfeed them just fine, and those tetas shrink back. Just like that (I've seen it happen) and you're back to jogging and not wearing a bra under your vest... aaaand just generally not worrying about the jiggle here and a nipple peak there... you know, that kind of thing. I always imagine that small boobs = 1000 times more freedom than anything above a D-cup. She never has to worry about sagging flaps of skin as she gets older. And when she goes jogging, it's just her muscles glistening with sweat (does she jogging by the way?). No fat-tremors, or birds being scattered out of the trees by the tremendous shakes of your cellulite. And it's not just Lupita though, is it? It's every tiny woman with an almost flat chest that I look at and think "wow, can we trade?". The fact that Lupita's gotten so far just as she is, is testament that anyone can do anything. And there have been many who've done the impossible. We just keep forgetting and need to be reminded by people who were nobodies last night, but are being worshipped like gods today. So, yeah, maybe I'll just stick with what I have and say... My dreams: validated. I want to be a ballerina.
She's now two weeks away from being a five-month-old kitten except. She's so big, eats all my food and destroys everything I hold dear. She doesn't know how to play gently. She bites or scratches and only to draw blood. No gentle playfulness about this beast. The only time she runs low on energy is when I have no food to give her. I thank God that bananas repulse her or I'd have nothing to eat, EVER!
