The Meaning of Being Lonely?

Imagine you get home after a tiresome day, grab something to bite and then settle down on your favourite chair in front of the television to catch your favourite program. But then you have a medical condition, could be a heart condition or something related, you pass out and end up dying in front of your television set. And for 3 years, nobody really misses you, your decomposed body gets discovered years later after your landlord gets concerned about the rent arrears. This looks like an improbable scenario, right? Wrong!

Sometimes last year I came a sad story about Joyce Vincent Carol, a young woman who, in 2006, was found in a London bedsit, apparently having been dead for about 3 years. Her skeleton lay on the sofa, the TV set was still on, on the floor lay a pile of unopened Christmas presents, washing up was heaped on the kitchen sink, a heap of post lay behind the front door and food in the refrigerator was marked with 2003 expiry dates. I read the story with great curiosity, eager to find out how someone could be dead in a house for 3 years without anybody discovering her. Did she not have family, friends, colleagues who missed her? People who tried to call her and became concerned when they had not heard from her for days, weeks or months? Friends who came to see her at home?

The story I was reading, appearing on The Guardian was written by Carol Morley and it is about her journey to find out more about her, a journey that has been captured on a film Dreams of A Life.

I encourage you to read this interesting piece here

For me however, I found it hard to comprehend this and yet I am aware of how we are gradually moving from being communal animals to individuals who are disconnected from a sense of community. Where I come from, we sometimes complain about people ever being ‘in your face’ and want them to leave us alone. If you put off your phone for 48 hours and remain totally incommunicado, I can guarantee that there will be several visitors on your doorstep curious to find out where you are. We still take notice if the neighbor has been away for more than a week. This is why I found this story so compelling and so sad…

As you will read in the story, this was not a forgotten junkie, an overdosed addict, an isolated heavy drinker, she was not an old loner without family… she was someone who had dated, socialized, worked in London firms and mingled with “celebrities” and met and shook hands with one of the most respected icons in the world…

I don’t know what there is to learn from this story (and please feel free to share your views) but I just felt I should share this…

PS: I recently came across an interesting programme on BBC Knowledge where a firm tries to trace relatives of mostly people who have passed on without wills but left a fortune. The idea is to trace people who can inherit the wealth. I find it quite disappointing that there are usually cases where they cannot connect the deceased with anybody alive or dead....

A Play and A Song

My last post indicated that I was going to be watching a play (Wanjiku's Dilemma) by my good friend Oby Obyerodhyambo. Well, I can now confirm that I did go on the opening night and I was not disappointed. And because I promised one of my readers that I will get back to her about what the play is about, here I am (with help from the play's synopsis.

The moot question that ‘Wanjiku’s Dilemma’ explores is, ‘Why would anyone remain in an abusive, dysfunctional relationship?’ This resonated well with me as it is something I wrote HERE awhile back. Oby asks why it is that someone in an abusive relationship cannot simply tear away and leave if they are getting a raw deal, if they are disrespected, humiliated and trod on? What makes a person stay soaking in the pain and suffering? Is it a nagging thought that things could get better if they stayed just a little longer or that walking out could expose them to even worse? What if the aggrieved party decides to ‘do something’ to free themselves from this bondage? Something finite, something definitive, how will onlookers and spectators, who have watched the humiliation all along, judge that action? Will they approve, appreciate and understand? Will they forgive, if that act calls for forgiving?

In the drama Wanjiku is accused of a capital crime; one that her advocate Tunu is determined will not stick. Tunu believes this is a case célèbre that she has waited for all her life as a human rights lawyer to make a point and set a legal precedent. She is determined to use all the tricks in the book, and out of the books to make the point. This is what worries Alice, her mother, that she is too personally involved in the case to assume the objectivity that an advocate needs for clarity. I have watched Oby in action for a number of years so it was not a surprise that he tries to present powerful arguments by both sides and cajoles you as the audience to try to solve this dilemma. The play is a riveting mind-teaser and Wanjiku’s dilemma is shared by the audience all through. Dilemmas have no easy answers and Wanjiku’s is no exception. The acting was quite good for an opening night and the director, George Mungai, did a super job. If you are in Nairobi and have not watched this play, make a point to. It closes on Saturday at Phoenix.

That was about the play, now about the song. Kenyan Mom is a wonderful blogger and if you want the quirky side of mothering in Kenya, please follow her blog, you will not be disappointed. She also gave me some pointers / inspiration through a blog post that got me blogging with more happiness but she does not know that. Sometimes back, she decided that she could randomly assign me a song. I did not pay much attention to this song but I found myself listening to this song by Bob Carlisle over the weekend and enjoyed it so much that I thought I should share it here with friends. Enjoy Butterfly Kisses.

Martina

The previous weekend I travelled to my rural home where I got to meet my paternal grandmother. My grandmother is called Martina. I don’t think anyone is quite sure of her age but it commonly assumed that she was born in 1910, which puts her at 101 years. There is however a strong suspicion that she was born slightly earlier but nobody is too sure. She often jokes that God has forgotten about her, that is the reason why she has not passed on while all her peers have moved on. She says that at times she tries to catch God’s attention so that God will go like, oh, she is still around! Then her days might come to pass.

Because I arrived late on a Saturday evening, I did not get to go to her house till the following morning. Her house is bare. There are a couple of seats in the living room and then an old bed in her bedroom. Nothing else. It looks like she does not own much and yet last year when I visit her she told me that she is very wealthy. This is because she has children and grandchildren who have made something out of their lives (though I have to admit some of us are a bit crooked and we have had our issues! ). At times I think that I don’t have much but when I look at her…

My Grandma, martina

About 17 years ago when I was preparing to go to college in distant lands, I went to see her to say my farewell. By then she was very weak and could hardly see and I believed that I was laying my eyes on her for the last time. Five years later when I came back, she could see quite clearly and easily recognized me. Her memory was still great and she walked around and even attended to the shamba. Now she can hardly see and cannot move on her own. Someone has to lift her from bed and once she has been set somewhere she will not move until someone carries her to another place. When I visited her the other week, she could not recognize me. Usually she’d hear my voice and quickly recognized ‘her husband’. Not this time. My mum spoke to her for about 5 minutes before she recognized her. My dad came in and just by speaking one word, she recognized him. Of course that’s her son.

I have asked myself whether I’d like to grow that old. Be in a state where all if not most of my current friends and relatives are gone, where I’d struggle to move and recognize my family…at times I tell myself no, but then recognize it is a blessing….

The Death Of Childhood, And The Culprits

When I first moved here in 2008, I worried about how my daughter would make it to school now that we had moved further away from her school. I inquired from the school my daughter attended about the pick up times for her. I was told she has to be at the road by latest 6 am for the school bus to pick her up. My calculation told me that this meant she has to be up by latest 5.30 am. Now, I am in my 30s but waking up at that time is a great challenge to me, so what about a 5 year old kid? I promptly withdrew her from that school and now she wakes up at around 7 am in order to be in school by 8 am. Actually it takes her 5 minutes to walk to school.

But if you wake up by 5 am, you will see hordes of kids at the gate waiting for the school bus. And I am talking about kids as young as 5 or 6 year olds! I find it totally unacceptable that kids that young should be subject to such 'torture'. Most of these kids get back home late in the evening, so in other words, they operate like working adults. When I was growing up, we began school at about 7 years old (we did not have stuff like baby class back then!) and most kids went to a school just around the corner. In fact we could count the kids who needed to take a bus to school as they were very few, but today the ones who school nearby are the exception (I am talking about mostly middle class Nairobi). Most of the time, both the kids and parents are too tired in the evening to engage in any meaningful activities to build their relationships. There is no difference between these kids and the adults that wake up at the same time to go to work.

I read something interesting about television and childhood as well (John Corry, My Times).
"Western civilization took centuries to develop the idea of childhood. But television has erased it in a few decades.

What a child once learned through reading was roughly commensurate with his ability to process the information. In the television age, however, we all get the same messages. A child of five and an adult of 40 can see the same images and hear the same words simply by pushing a button.

It shows in our behaviour. Children and adults now dress alike, talk alike and play the same games. The concept of childhood is vanishing."

My verdict is that this type of competitive schooling (mass factory schooling?) and television (mass media?) is denying the kids their childhood.

Hitting Her, Again...And Again

Over the weekend, a story developed in which a television journalist, Wambui Kabiru, was found murdered in her home. It is widely suspected that it is her husband who killed her and now he has gone missing and the police are looking for him (by the time I am writing this). I know a lot has been written and said about domestic violence, and gruesome pictures have been posted to warn or shock women into getting out of abusive relationship so I will not say much about it. Neither will I condemn her husband as I, like many other people, don't really know what went behind closed doors so everything is speculation for now. However what I ask myself is what drives men to hit their spouses?

I have heard bar talk of men boasting that you must hit your wife/girlfriend occassionaly just to establish who is the "man" in the relationship. I have heard stories of women who believe that being hit by their man is a show of affection. But as a man, when you are all alone with your private thoughts, how do you feel knowing that you repeatedly hit your spouse? Even if it is only once?

Some years back, I was involved in organizing an art/performance event in which my wife belonged to a team that was due to perform. She was extremely late and the order of events kept changing because of their no show. When she finally showed up, I met her at the entrance, and she correctly judged that I was livid with her. I stretched out my hand to grab her, my intention being to quickly usher her inside so that they could get going. She cringed backwards, thinking that I was going to lash at her. I was so scandalized that such a thought even crossed her mind, given that I have never hit her.

I tell friends, if someone hits you once, they will most likely do it again. For me, meting out violence on your spouse is the lowest level a man can get to. It is actually lower than the lowest level!

-

(image from http://www.zazzle.com/ )

"There is a subconscious way of taking violence as a way of expression, as a normality, and it has a lot of effects in the youth in the way they absorb education and what they hope to get out of life."
– Salma Hayek

"Long term domestic violence: Being abused in this manner is like being kidnapped and tortured for ransom but you will never have enough to pay off the kidnapper".
Rebecca J. Burns ...TheLastStraw - support in the aftermath and during abuse

“If the numbers we see in domestic violence were applied to terrorism or gang violence, the entire country (US) would be up in arms, and it would be the lead story on the news every night.”
– Rep. Mark Green

Points to Ponder – My Take 3 on Staying Married

“You need to ask yourself whether you want to be right or stay married”, one of my friends remarked as four grown up men discussed marriage experiences while observing pigs on a pig farm. We all had interesting takes on how our marriages have survived and how our parents have stayed married for what seems like an eternity while we divorce left, right and center every other day. This was good advice to me as I grew up believing that I was born never to lose an argument, a belief that has fortunately been tampered by age now. Nevertheless I have still been known to try to prove that I am right when I get into an argument with Janet! I did not mention it then (maybe for fear of sounding like a sissy) but for me, there are three quotations/phrases that I learned some times that I have always held dear when it comes to the “business” of being married. I don’t necessarily practice them faithfully but so far I think they have served me well (maybe my wife could be thinking otherwise?). And they form my points to ponder for this week:

“Most people get married believing a myth – that marriage is a beautiful box full of the things they have longed for. Companionship, sexual fulfillment, intimacy, friendship. The truth is that marriage, at the start, is an empty box. You must put something in before you take anything out. There is no love in marriage; love is in people and people put it into marriage; people have to infuse it into their marriages.

A couple must learn the art and form the habit of giving, loving, serving, praising – keeping the box full. If you take out more than you put in, the box will be empty.” – J. Allan Petersen (Homemade)

The second passage:

“When I was in college, one of the professors said to us, his students, ‘the secret of successful marriage is this: marriage is not a 50/50 proposition. A 50/50 proposition is one where nobody is giving anything.

‘Rather, the secret of a happy marriage is 60/40. The husband gives 60% of the time and expects the wife to give 40% of the time. The wife gives in 60% of the time and expects the husband to give in 40% of the time. In a 60/40 proposition, you don’t clash in the middle and say, “now it’s your turn”. Instead you intersect and overlap because you are each giving 60%’” – Robert Scinller, Be an Extraordinary Person in an Ordinary World (Fleming Revell)

And finally:

“Those who want to become happy should not marry. The important thing is to make the other one happy. Those who want to be understood should not marry. The important thing is to understand one’s partner.” Hermann Oeser

And that is all I have to say on that before I start getting mistaken for a marriage counselor!

Imani Finally Goes To Class, But No Shaving Off The Dreadlocks!

She had been excited for the better part of the month, especially after Christmas, knowing that she will be joining big sister in school. Not that Imani had any idea of what school is like, but to her the whole idea of a bus picking her up in the morning and returning her home in the afternoon like her sister is what was exciting to her. My thoughts about school are well documented HERE (and of course everybody knows that I feel nothing much towards exams as well)but nonetheless for the sake of peace I have had to take them to school at an early age. Anyway, I digress, so, last Tuesday was Imani's first day in school and though these pictures don't reflect her excitement, she was as excited as I will see her in a long time.




Tamia gets ready to take her little sister to school

I don't recall my days in nursery school but I have often been told that when I was first taken to primary school, I ran away from school on that very first day! A few canes from my mother ensured that I stayed in school (and I think I spent the next 12 years in class because of the looming threat of punishment). It is now 30 years since that day and Imani follows in my footstep!





Imani ready for the ride to school

I heard she cried on the first day because she wanted to be in the same class as her class 2 sister. Today morning she cried insisting that she wanted her sister's books. Sometime I try to explain that they are in two different classes, about 4 years apart, at times I give up and hope the mother will sort it out. For now she finally understands that she needs to be in a different class but the fight over books and diaries will continue for some time.



Finally in class

There has been messages brought home by her older sister that we need to get rid of Imani's dreadlocks, they are not allowed in school. I want to see how long we can get away with ignoring that...what has hair got to do with learning?

The Tooth Fairy Deception & Joy

Recently my 6-year old daughter, Tamia had a shaky milk tooth. At first it was not clear to me why she resisted having it pulled during the day and was only too willing to get it done at night. The tooth was eventually pulled out and she went into a brief state of mourning when it got lost. I tried telling her it was only a tooth and she would grow another one in a short while. That did little to comfort her and I only understood her position when she told me about the tooth fairy. Apparently if it was done at night, she would have safely placed it under the pillow and the tooth fairy would later take it and replace it with some money. I shook my head. When I was young, we simply yanked the tooth and threw it away in the nearest bin.

Fast forward a few weeks later and another tooth was loose. I got home to find her gurgling water and spitting blood into the sink, tooth firmly clenched in hand, a smile on her face. Her mother had yanked it out for her (she does all the bloody work in the house while I only take on chores that will endear me to the kids). This time she was determined to place it under her pillow and get her money. I struggled with the temptation of telling her that all this was nonsense and that tooth fairies do not exist. I did not want her to get disappointed when she got up and only found a tooth under her pillow. This is the time to start teaching her the reality of the world, I reasoned.

A voice inside however told me that maybe it only wise to let children enjoy the age of innocence, and the fact that I did not enjoy the same when I was a kid is no excuse to deny Tamia the same. I reluctantly gave the mum some coin to put under her pillow once she was fast asleep. The look on her face when she woke up was priceless. I was glad I did this because it is better for me to see that joy on her face, despite knowing that the whole story is a lie, that to see the disappointed that would have greeted me though faced with the truth. And I went to work a happy man that morning.


I wonder whether Tamia used that money to do her hair!