Return of the ex

The persistent knock on the door had gone on for almost an hour, putting to bed my attempts to sleep in and sleep off the stresses and exhaustion of the past week. I rubbed my eyes, opened them to the dim light of early Saturday morning, then fumbled around the bed for my phone, and finding it, checked the time. It was barely 7.

The knocking continued unabated. I couldn't ignore it any longer.



Photo: Rolf meme from the Internets

"It must be really important," I thought to myself and grabbed a dressing gown and leso as I shuffled to my front door.

I didn't recognise the woman standing outside my door, but I suspected, with great irritation, that she was looking for a laundry job. "Hunikumbuki ...?" She implored, startling me out of my stupor. I shook my head. "Nilikuwa nakufulia manguo..." "Hmmm..." "Halafu nikaenda ushago nilikuwa na shida kidogo huko. Nimekuwa nikikuangalia lakini hukukuwa ..." "Eeeh." "Nataka kukufulia manguo ..."

Jeez! I thought to myself and swallowed a lump, how do you wake me up this early, without prior notice, to wash my clothes?

"Sina nguo za kufuliwa, na nilishapata mtu wa kunifulia nguo," I answered. Then a wave of empathy washed over me and I stood there listening to her tales which eventually reignited my memory.





Photo: Pexels.com
I remembered how rude her husband had been the last time I called to ask if she could come do my laundry (the number she had given me was always picked by the husband), then I took her number and promised to call her some day. And with that, she left to look for another client.
As I made my way back to the bedroom, my sleep long vanished, I thought to myself: didn't she know I had already moved on? Was I supposed to be waiting for her to come back to my laundry till now? Did she not realise that once I move on, I never look back?

Part 2 coming soon.

Life after trauma: The suspicious carjacker

Last night I left work late and made my way to the bus stop with a friend.


We got into a bus that was filling up fast, but finding no joint vacant seats, our plans to seat together were foiled. I sat at the rear of the bus, in the second-last seat, next to a slender guy in a charcoal-gray shirt and gray pinstripe pants with a swelling at the crotch.


The jovial men on the back seat were chatting animatedly, and deciding that they didn’t “look suspicious”, I turned to the pair of seats on my right. On the aisle seat was a petite girl, while the window seat was filled by a heavy, pot-bellied man. They exchanged knowing glances furtively, looking forward to the night ahead.


Satisfied that they also didn’t “look suspicious” I relaxed some more and sunk back into my seat. The bus had tinted windows and a luggage carrier above the seats that made it too dark for my liking, but the blue light from a long, thin bulb on the right side of the bus offered some comfort. But not enough to forget the guy in the seat beside me.


I trained my eyes on my seatmate. He was breathing suspiciously. Short, fast breaths, as if his heart was racing with excitement and his veins flowing with a rush of adrenaline fueled by what he was about to do. He formed a mean, angry scowl that forecast ill-intent. Was he angry at the world and itching to avenge himself for all the ways it had failed him? His eyes darted back and forth and in and out of the bus.


I was overcome with a sense of foreboding, and it didn’t help that the bus was hurtling down the clear road, as if on steroids. I suspected that it was fueled by the muzzle of a gun sticking into the driver’s side, held by the man sitting next to him in the cabin – my seatmate’s accomplice.


Resigned to my fate, I wished that I had carried pepper spray. Then I decided that whatever my seatmate was up to, he would not catch me unawares. I would stare at him brazenly, taking in his entire being and imprinting his photograph in the fore of my mind. I wanted him to know that I knew what he was up to. My eyes followed his every move. I watched him clench and unclench his fidgety hands, noticed when he clasped and unclasped them, and took in the folding and unfolding. Then he slid his right hand down and reached into his pocket.


Was this it?


I watched intently as he drew out a thin, dark object.


It was a phone! A mulika mwizi with a neon green backlight.


I sighed.


He looked at the screen and typed something on the keypad.


Now, this must be it. It was time and he was sending a signal to his accomplices.


My friend alighted.


I was tempted to alight with her and take a taxi home, but I wasn’t sure I would get one … and the price would probably be inflated. I thought of moving seats. Moving to the empty seat that my friend had just vacated, but as I toyed with my thoughts, someone else sunk into it. I was stuck.


The bus was still hurtling down the road suspiciously. We flew past two black spots and then a police road block. Maybe there was nothing there. Maybe I was just being paranoid.


I wanted to fish out my phone, to send a message to the world that I was scared. But that might work against me. It was best not to use it. I remembered the valuables in my bag and tried to figure out how I would hide them.


I thought about how my seatmate would brandish a gun and ask for my bag. How I would hesitate to buy time, enough time to hide my treasures. But where would I hide them? Maybe I could talk some sense into him ...


If anything happened, this guy would kill me. I had studied him too closely, so blatantly. I imagined him sinking a knife into my neck; the blood gushing out as I reached for his neck to strangle him in return.


I had nowhere to hide. A wistful smile formed on my lips. I should have alighted when I first noticed he was suspicious. I should have alighted with my friend. I should have taken a cab home. But here I was. Maybe I was being paranoid, but who could blame me?


Suddenly he moved. I made way for him to pass.


Was this it? Was he finally taking position before he struck?


I watched as he made his way to the front of the bus. I was ready. I had been waiting for this moment all night.


The bus stopped.


He alighted, throwing me off with this twist in the tale.


As the bus swung back onto the road, I looked at my (former) seatmate one last time, glad that he was now outside. He still had that mean scowl on his face, angry at the world and full of ill-intent.


It didn’t matter anymore. I was home and my imaginary carjacker was gone.

Diary of a retrenched woman

"Are you happy?" I asked myself.

"I know I'm not sad, but what is happiness?" I answered pensively.

Happiness is a feeling of contentment, resilience (knowing that you can bounce back), hope and optimism, came the answer from deep in the bowels of my heart.

With this in mind, I was no longer unsure about my happiness or lack thereof.

"Yes, I am happy!" I beamed.

And this is my mantra for 2017. 

Last year's mantra was: 

"There is only one success - to be able to spend your life in your own way." ~ Christopher Morley 

And I'm keeping it close this year because it still rings true and will continue to do so for the rest of my life.


Photo | Pixabay

Being fired/retrenched doesn't define me. 

I have always been a hardworking and passionate employee. My work ethic is admirable. I have always done my best and given my all in everything I do. Everything I do is well-thought-out and that won't change because I was fired. It is who I am and I can't do less. 

Being retrenched/jobless doesn't define me. My work appraisals have always been in the very good to excellent category. That won't change just because I'm jobless at the moment. Being kicked out of work doesn't mean I have nothing to offer; in fact, it has opened my eyes to the many things I actually have to offer, things that I couldn't quite see before when my eyes were stuck on my job, and they are much more than I can count. As one of my friends reminded me, the world is my oyster and I have so many options to choose from. 

I am not as young as I used to be, but there is a decade or two before I get to the official retirement age of 60, and slow down to enjoy the fruits of my lifelong labour, so I'm not old either. Obviously, I can't stay idle for decades, unless I choose to remain idle, so I'll find something useful to do. I just pray for humility because pride can be a major impediment to progress. 

I hope to remember to shut out any whispers from people who say all sorts of unsupportive/unhelpful things which can either take my eyes off the goal or bring me down completely. I pray for humility, strength and courage to get in the trenches and do the dirty work even though people laugh and say that what I'm doing is beneath what a "person of my stature" should be doing. I really do pray for humility because it is one of the first stepping stones of success, whatever I define it to be. 

Obviously being jobless changes a lot of things. Some relationships dissipate because the only thing that was holding you together (work) is gone. 

I remember Bitange Ndemo talking about the loneliness that followed the end of his stint as a Permanent Secretary. A phone that was always ringing off the hook, now remained silent for days on end. People no longer had reason to call him. 

I understand that a lot of things might change, but as my friend Lillian keeps telling me, don't take it personally. I'm listening, so no matter what happens or changes for the worse or the better, I won't take it personally. I'm not taking the job loss personally, and I won't take all the things that happened before this and those that will happen after this personally. 

The initial shock has worn off. My family and friends have been very helpful and supportive offline and online, and so has been my doctor, a psychiatrist, (whom I can no longer afford). They have helped me keep things in perspective and offered very useful advice in the midst of the initial confusion. I see a very bright future ahead, and I'm glad that I have so many things to do despite the fact that I am not going to anyone's formal office anymore.

27th January.

Depression diaries: The thing that is eating me

"Mental illness is not a brand that you wear. It doesn’t scar you (unless you self-harm, of course, in which case you, like I, have carefully hidden the evidence). It isn’t visible, it isn’t something you can easily spot. Partly because when I’m really, really ill, I won’t be there for you to see.” – Joely Black

Photo | Pixabay.com

When I came across this piece by Joely Black on Medium, that articulates what it’s like to have depression so well, I remembered my own account, which I had put down in an outburst one morning when I was starting to feel better, and a trigger jolted me to put down the multitude of thoughts about suffering from depression, that I now suddenly had energy to articulate. I wrote and wrote a note on my phone, until my mind was empty, then I saved it and made a note to return to it later when I got another burst of inspiration, enough to divide it into sections and put it up on my blog in a series of posts.

That was never to be: A thief stole my phone and with it my story. I never did get another urge to articulate what it’s like to be depressed until yesterday. I have the momentum now, but the story will come much later, when it is ready.

The first thing you learn when you get depressed is that nobody understands what you are going through and because of their ignorance, and in a bid to help, they make recommendations about what you should do to be "un-depressed." The most common is: It’s all in your mind. Just think positive thoughts and you’ll be okay.” I’ll tell you for free that when you are depressed, no amount of positive thinking will make you feel better. You can spend a full 24 hours trying to think positive thoughts and proclaiming positive affirmations, but they’ll do nothing for you.

 Here are some other things that people tell you when you have depression that won’t help:

Things not to tell a person with depression or other mental illnesses (with the help of Joely's article):
 

Photo | pixabay.com

1. “Have you tried meditation? You totally should! It works like magic!”

2. “You need to take [insert vitamin] and [insert supplement]. They’re great for depression.”

3. “Exercise is great for mental health. I run every day and I feel fantastic. You should try it”

4. “When I feel a bit down, I do yoga. Do yoga and you'll be fine.”

5. "It's all in your mind. Just snap out of it. Just think positive thoughts and you'll be okay."

6. "What you need is to read the Bible and pray and maybe go for exorcism and you'll be fine. These things are spiritual ..."

Again I’ll tell you for free that I pumped my body with vitamins; in the early days I tried to exercise, before chronic fatigue got the better of me. I tried to meditate, I went to church, went for counselling and prayers ... I tried positive thoughts, I tried everything I could to feel better, that is everything except yoga, but I didn’t.

 I was in constant despair. I was continually exhausted. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t talk. I didn’t even want to. Not even to listen to someone talking -- it was all very exhausting. I just wanted to sleep it all away, to have a blackout that would take away the pain that I felt inside. I was numb. Keeping my head above the water every day was a constant struggle. I was drowning. And I only started out on the right path when I had a breakdown one morning that saw me admitted to hospital for a few days. There, I finally got introduced to the one thing that would work, the one thing that would drive the depression away: treatment.

A lot of people don’t understand that depression is an illness. I didn’t understand that too, or rather, I fought that thought. Surely, doing all those things that people recommended would make me better, not so? I was just feeling down, so if I did all the right things, the clouds would be lifted and I would feel better, right? How wrong I (and every other well-meaning person) was!

Depression is an illness just like malaria and it cannot be wished away. You can’t wave a magic wand on depression and boom, it goes away. If someone told you they had malaria, you wouldn’t say to them, “just take a multivitamin, think positive and exercise and you’ll be healed.” Instead, you’d tell them to go to hospital and adhere to the treatment and the doctor’s direction. Then and only then, would you prescribe prayers and Bible verses, after all, faith/prayer that is not accompanied by action is dead, right?

So why is it different for depression? Why do we assume we can fix depression, an illness, without proper treatment? Treatment in itself is another process, and I only started to get better after more than two years of treatment (that’s another story altogether). And the minute I started to feel better after following a treatment regimen for what felt like ages, that was when it dawned on me that depression is truly an illness and treatment works.

Treatment for depression is multi-pronged, combining medication, lifestyle habits and cognitive therapy among many other approaches. And when it comes to treating depression, one size doesn’t fit all, you have to keep at it, keep fighting it even without energy, keep trying something until it works.

Before then, like Joely says, I wore a mask when going out. I sucked it in and tried to act like everything was fine when it was not. I didn’t want to be outside the confines of my bedroom. Every time I stepped out of my house, all I could think about is how many more hours until I retreat to my cave again? I didn’t want to go out and did not go out unless it was absolutely necessary, like if I had to go to work.

 If anybody asked why I wasn’t showing up, I’d tell them I wasn’t feeling well and that would usually suffice and if they insisted, I’d tell them it was my head – I had a severe headache, if they pressed, – and that would be it. I didn’t want people to know I was depressed because first, a lot of people don’t understand depression, and second, while trying to be useful, they end up being very unhelpful and third, they wouldn’t know how to handle you. But now that I am better, I can speak about it, and I will resume re-writing my depression story. It is quite long, but I’ll do it in bite-size pieces.

What happened in Zanzibar?

Zanzibar at last: Part three

Catch up with Zanzibar at last: Part one here

And read part two: Foray into the Zanzibar night here

And then catch up with the final part about what exactly went down in Unguja, from the photos I managed to salvage from the trip, in the slideshow below. Enjoy! (Not visible on blogger for mobile)

Foray into the Zanzibar night

Zanzibar at last: Part 2

Read part one here

The best time to experience Zanzibar, at least during Ramadhan, is in the evening. The days may be dull, humid and dreary, but the island comes alive at night, more so at Forodhani. I discovered this three hours after setting foot on the island; by then I had parted ways with my German companions, found my host, Ahmed and cruised around the island in his car; met Muumin, a local tour guide who would be showing me around during my stay, gone to my room, freshened up and napped and was now ready to get a proper taste of the island.

 My initial impression on arrival was that, Unguja looked nothing close to what I had dreamt. I had always imagined that it looked somewhat like Lamu, with narrow sandy streets and buildings that took one back in time to the days of the sultans. What I saw instead were streets that could have been anywhere – the exotic feel I had expected was going to be a mirage, but I could live with that. What I did like about it was the hospitality and friendly brotherliness of everyone I met - it all made me feel at home. I also liked that my room had a balcony and window overlooking a neglected building – not much of a view, but the few palm trees towering over it and the houses surrounding it built in the traditional coastal design gave me a sense of being on an island.

  Muumin came to get me at 7pm after iftar (breaking the fast). We would be walking to Forodhani Gardens, the nightly centre of attraction, through the city centre and the labyrinth of narrow roads through Stone Town and into the food market at Forodhani. Earlier, that evening as we docked at the harbour, there had not been much activity going on at the gardens, but after sunset, the area came alive with a bustle of activity from food vendors, tourists and locals swarming the gardens to get a piece of the action. The warm orange light from the gas lanterns and sizzling sounds off the grills added to the lively atmosphere that interspersed beautifully with a breeze from the sea. Muumin and I shuffled around the stalls, he making small talk with the food vendors, while I sampled what I would have for dinner. I settled on a Zanzibar pizza, freshly-squeezed sugarcane juice and a bunch of deliciously red Shokishoki –an indigenous fruit from the lychee family, with a tasty white pulp, for dessert.

 I watched as the vendor rolled out the dough, put it on the grill and made the pocket-size pizza. Then I sat on the edge of the sea wall overlooking the waterfront and savoured my meal of choice. This sure had to be a people-watcher's paradise, I thought, as I took in the splishing and splashing of the young men and boys diving and swimming in the cool waters below. Muumin explained that in keeping with abstaining from worldly pleasures during the holy month of Ramadhan, people could only take a dip at night. He suggested that I also cool off in the sea and made as if to give me a mock push over the edge and into the waters below, as I squealed in frightened laughter. 

After dinner, and as we made our way through Stone Town again Muumin regaled me with tales of Zanzibar and why the young men were fed up and wanted independence from Tanganyika. He left me after making sure that I was safely inside my room, and tired I curled right into bed and drifted to sleep. Muumin would be back in the morning to take me sight-seeing around the main Island.

Part 3 coming soon.

 

Zanzibar at last: Part one

I hadn't planned to go to Zanzibar last year. I knew it was one of the places I wanted to check off my bucket list in the shortest time possible, but I had thought that would happen months later. However, life is spontaneous and when the idea sneaked into my mind I jumped on and sailed with it.

I went to Zanzibar, at the worst time - during Ramadhan. At that time everything is closed down in the predominantly Muslim island as most prefer to show their piety by keeping life as simple and as entertainment-free as they can. It is all about holiness and fasting.

I was in Dar all this time trying to pick out the best day to travel, and then suddenly my host's friend - a German volunteer worker in Tanzania - came for dinner with her family and they quipped that they were headed to Unguja (Zanzibar's main island) the next day. My host subtly tugged at my knee and whispered that I should tag along with them as it would be more fun than traveling alone, and I thought, why not? The Germans equally welcomed the idea and we agreed to meet at their hotel in the morning, and leave for the harbour together. My host had warned me against taking any other ferry save for MV Kilimanjaro, as it was the most modern, and with fresh memory of a ferry that had capsized just a few weeks before, I was wary to heed her advice to the letter to avoid a similar fate. However, that was easier said than done because as soon as we got to the harbour, we were ambushed by touts, who tugged at our luggage at every side and yelled that they would help us buy ferry tickets. Since Niki - the volunteer, had been to Zanzibar before and was technically a Dar resident, she told me she could handle it and went ahead to talk to a man whom she claimed to have consulted during her previous trips. The man insisted that his was the last ferry to Zanzibar that day and booked VIP tickets for us at a cost of Tsh27000. We made our way to the waiting area, with a view of the ocean and I was shocked to see an MV Kilimanjaro docked at the harbour; I realised we had been duped.

Our waiting area was a basic, unlit and overcrowded, warehouse with concrete benches and non-nondescript walls; on the opposite side the Kilimanjaro waiting area was well lit, with painted walls, nice lounge seats and uniformed attendants. I cursed under my breath, knowing that I had paid much more to travel in a ram-shackled ferry that could come apart and sink with my dreams of Zanzibar any minute. I swallowed hard as I boarded the creaky and rusted ferry and though we had paid for VIP seats, there was no such thing. We went atop the ferry and were welcomed by hawkers selling all sorts of wares. I bought cashew nuts and bottled water. There was no sinking back into the wooden benches so I plopped my bag and butt on the wood, before shuffling to the edge of the vessel to stare into the sea.  For the next three hours I drifted between drowsiness, staring, chit-chat with my German companions and a conversation with a prying stranger; but before I could complain of boredom, we docked at the island.

It was four O'clock and the last ferries back to Dar were just about to depart. I took a pic of my German friends against the background of the ferry and bid them goodbye as they headed to their hotel in the Old Town; and I called my host and waited for him to pick me up just outside the harbour. Despite all my earlier disappointments, I was happy to be at Zanzibar at last.

Zanzibar at last:Part two

The struggle to find a fitting name

                               f -e-l-e-p-i-p-h-a-n-y

I would never marry a man who couldn't get my name right. Instead, I'd dump him in the box of people who contort straightforward names and insist on adding letters to a name that is already complete. Mine is one of those clear-cut names, but like any other, it is often subjected to unnecessary distortion.

I once wanted to change my name. Not to anything simpler, but to something that would get me into heaven.

I must have been about six years old or so, and I had just read one of those doomsday booklets. From the message in that pamphlet, one thing stuck and terrorised my naive brain no end: those whose names were not in the Book of Life were thrown into the flaming fire, and there was weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I already knew that fire was not something you wanted to be immersed in for eternity; and I thought my mum had deliberately set me on the path to hell by choosing to give me a name that was not in the Book of Life (which I assumed was the Bible). Why did my siblings and everyone else in the family, except me, have a name that was in the Book of Life? I had to do something fast before Jesus came back, as then it would be too late to get my name in and I would be thrown into never-ending fiery torment, complete with an ever-present horned devil turning up the coals with his fire fork to keep the heat at its peak.

The knowledge that Jesus was "coming soon", made me even more desperate. However, I couldn't ask my mother for a new name, nor could I change my name behind her back, because as anyone who grew up during my time as a child can attest, an African mother's decision was final and the thought of questioning it was enough to make the contents of my ready-to-leak bladder stream down my trembling legs into an unwelcome puddle.I just had to wait it out, and hope that Jesus delayed the Second Coming, until after I had succeeded in getting myself a name like Mary. Thankfully, age intervened and I discovered that the Bible was not the book in which my name had to be for me to be let through the Pearly Gates.

Nevertheless, even after I figured out that the Book of Life was something other than the Holy Bible, I still flirted with the idea that I could have had a better-sounding, sexier, more glamorous name. But with billions of possible forenames to choose from, I suffered from the paralysis of unlimited choice and I let it go. I have since come to terms with my name and even began to love it.

Going back to my roots

I am a woman of many names - originally named after my aunt and my great aunt before her. Traditionally (among the Kikuyu), children are named after their ancestors according to a laid-down naming system, with little or no alteration. Most of those who had been on earth before me and my peers, and whom we were named after, had unexciting forenames like Loise, Esther, Mary, Naomi, Priscilla, Anne ... but by the time I popped out, my mother's generation was already experimenting with more exotic names like Yvonne (this sounds very plain now), so I did not take my great aunt's full name as was the norm, but it was still mine to have and the really old folks refer to me by her first name, Loise. It was the name on my birth notification, before my mother was hit by a wave of inspiration and found a better name - the name I struggled to love and accept for a better part of my life. I have always loved my middle name, though; I'm convinced that no other name would make a sweeter-sounding replacement. My love for my middle name had my heart racing when I toyed with the idea of dropping my English name so that I could be true to my roots and be fully "African".

I also went through a phase of matching up the names of the guys I was interested in or dating, with mine, to see if they rhymed or went well together when put together. I also checked if the men's names would sound awesome when appended to the names I had in mind for my future children. Then in defiance of tradition, I decided that I did not have to adopt the name of the man I married. If he was too fussy, I would hyphenate it to include his while maintaining my original name in a double barrel that almost worked for everyone. This is also the time when I questioned why men couldn't take their wives' name instead.

I have flirted with changing my name on many occasions, but I didn't and now I'm kinda stuck with it, unless something really drastic happens and I have to change my entire identity. What surprises me is that almost every American celebrity you read or hear about has had their name changed at least once. This is especially true for those in the arts. Most times it is usually because their given names could supposedly not work in the world of the arts where image matters. They needed a more salable name.

I would not trade my name for anything now. I have become accustomed to it, and even like the sound of it, and if a man can't get my simply simple name right, I would probably marry him, but only if there was something funny about the way he couldn't get it right.

One last thing:

Before I was baptised at around age five, I took baptism classes as was the tradition before the all-important Anglican (Christian) ritual could be performed. On the eve of the ceremony, at the rehearsal, a lay leader took us, the baptism candidates, through D-day's programme and demonstrated what would be expected of us. We did some role-playing just to get it right: the lay leader acted as the priest while we responded to his prompts in our capacities as baptism candidates. And so it went:
  
Lay leader:  Mũtungatĩri akoria, "wĩtagwo atĩa?" Nawe ũgacokia [na rĩtwa rĩaku]: "Jĩtagwo Josephat Karũri." 
(The priest will ask your name and you will answer e.g. My name is Josephat Karuri, and the minister will proceed to baptise you with that name that you have proclaimed.)

Having listened carefully, I was picked to go first.

Lay leader: Wĩtagwo atĩa? (What is your name?)

Me: Jĩtagwo Josephat Karũri?
(My name is Josephat Karuri! [said with enthusiasm to an audience which immediately burst into roaring laughter]

Thankfully, I got my name right during the actual baptism, otherwise Josephat Karũri would be part of my already long name.

On becoming thirty before my time

On my birthday I really identified with this song - Life by Muthoni DQ - because in it she sings that life is what you make it.

                           

Life is plagued by controversies, some of which have no chance of being solved in this lifetime. Take the point at which life begins, for instance. Some believe that life begins way before conception, while others believe it begins anywhere between conception and childbirth depending on when they choose to terminate it. As if that were not confounding enough, another brigade insists that life begins after 40, making the problem even harder to solve.

It may not be clear when exactly life begins, but it is clear that age eventually catches up with you. Just the other day I was an impressionable teenager, with little regard for age,  glossing over women's magazines in which the writers went on and on about turning thirty. The big "three oh" - as they liked to call it - was said to be the dreaded age, when a woman began to kiss youth goodbye and to look back on the past with regret at having achieved nothing. No husband, no baby, biological clock ticking and a myriad of other worries about the things that one should have checked off the list by then. Even if the newly-turned-thirty-year-old had an enviable position at one of those blue chip companies, she still had reason to panic if at all she hadn't collected those things that society considers more important.

My mother's friend once mentioned, in passing, how turning thirty is a magical moment in a woman's life because by then, one has formed an identity and can move forward to the next phase of life without hangups.That made me flash back to the day I turned 26. For the longest time I had been fighting off people who insisted on labeling me young. On one hand the remnant influences from the women's magazines had me thinking that I needed to follow a fixed timeline and achieve certain milestones to avoid being one of those miserable women who'd just turned thirty and realised that they had run out of time. On the other hand, every time I expressed my fears that I would usher in thirty with as many cats and no man or baby to speak of, an older person would ask me how old I was and when I said 20-something, they laughed it off and told me not to worry: that I was still young. Towards the end of my 25th year of living, it dawned on me that I really was young. Then I turned 26 and suddenly felt old and unaccomplished. My heart raced as I panicked about not having enough time to do all the things I should do before I hit the third decade of life. I was turning into the miserable 30-year-old at only 26. But that phase did not last long, and I soon moved into the comfortable mid to late twenties. No pressure.

I am a few paces away from thirty, and this year I have had snippets of revelation of what awaits me at the golden age. I am no longer afraid. I am not looking forward to it (who wants to grow old?) but I know I'll feel at peace when I get there (God willing). But before then, I like the things I have seen about turning thirty.

And here they are:

Thirty is beautiful...

• You are no longer trying to keep up with the Joneses. You realise that your path is different from everyone else's. You run your race knowing that you are not competing with anyone nor can you accurately be compared with anyone because your circumstances are different. This results in a quiet, calm confidence that makes your journey easier.

• By 30 your search for an identity is over. You are no longer that confused woman who is all over the place. Instead you have a self-assurance that comes from knowing your strengths and weaknesses. 

• You do what you want without seeking anyone's approval. You couldn't care less what busybodies think about you because you are self-confident and you are not trying to please anybody.

• At thirty, you refuse to take things personally. When people do things it's about them. Some people are just weird and you won't spend your time boiling over on their account.

• You realise that not everyone can do the things you do so effortlessly and you try to develop some patience.

• You know there is no space for excuses in this life, no place for blame games. At thirty you take full responsibility - if something was to be done, you do it and if you don't, you take responsibility without trying to pass the buck.

• The best thing about being thirty is the freedom to say no to anybody without regrets, and to laugh at the weak attempts of people who want to use emotional blackmail to make you change your mind.

This quote by Maya Angelou summarises my pre-thirtieth birthday thought:

"Most people don’t grow up. It’s too damn difficult. What happens is most people get older. That’s the truth of it. They honor their credit cards, they find parking spaces, they marry, they have the nerve to have children, but they don’t grow up. Not really. They get older. But to grow up costs the earth, the earth. It means you take responsibility for the time you take up, for the space you occupy. It’s serious business. And you find out what it costs us to love and to lose, to dare and to fail. And maybe even more, to succeed. What it costs, in truth. Not superficial costs—anybody can have that—I mean in truth." 

One Day I Will Write

Lately I've had episodes of wisdom and flashes of enlightenment that have me thinking it would be a good time to start writing my memoirs.

An apt title would be One Day I Will Write About This Place but Binyavanga Wainaina beat me to it with his critically acclaimed memoir. Though I have not read the book yet, the title alone is enough to get me interested. It has a nice nostalgic ring to it; the kind of nostalgia that would give me a literary high.

The East African edition published by Kwani Trust, is being launched in two days and I am already expectant.

I have read a few autobiographies and certainly The Long Walk To Freedom by Nelson Mandela left an indelible mark. But as I mentioned at the beginning, this year I have experienced events that have challenged me to shift from a memoir reader to a memoir writer.

It began in March. It was a dark month that I would rather sweep under the carpet and act as if it never happened. But something tells me that the March story has to be told at some point.

Now that I mention it, it began way before the third month, with events that lined up like stars to decide my fate. It was a steady downward spiral, sprinkled with an assuming attitude that saw me admitted to hospital.

Yeah, apart from giving me three days experience in a hospital bed, and wishing every moment that this was not happening. I met a loving, but sick mother of another young lady like myself and her words got me thinking. I got a reassurance of friendship and that of a mother's love, that would require a lengthy tribute in itself. If I have never appreciated my mother, that is when I truly understood the turmoil of motherhood and the love that tempers it.

That is a story I tell in bits because I am not ready to tell it fully. But one day I am going to write about it. I have bookmarked it in my mind and I will tell that story fully because I know it will be a balm to another person.

Reflecting on this makes me understand why, many times, the subjects of my writings want to hold back on sharing painful memories. No one wants to open wounds and shout to the world that they  were less than perfect, but the thing is that when you do, the healing begins.

Sentimental stuff is made of this, but what is life without a dose of crazy?

In my memoir I will write about dating con artists. For a person who could easily be awarded an honorary diploma in relationship expertise, by virtue of my work, I have had my fair share of hilarious drama in that area. I'm not sure where to start without breaking into endless laughter, so I'll save it for the memoir.

There are so many other stories of struggle, of triumph and defeat; comedies, epics, dramas and running over. It will make a thick book to tell this story.

Everyone has a story, which when shared will touch another life by way of entertainment, growth and in many other ways. Those who tell their stories find meaning and healing.

This is my story, what's yours?