Our Words Become Our World

The morning I turned 30, I had planned to be standing on the bridge overlooking the mighty Victoria Falls listening to the sound of the water pounding heavily against the rocks and some water vapor covering my glasses. To be living my dream. I’d have been standing close to the edge, as close as I can get, watching one of the most spectacular views in Africa. Counting my blessings. Instead, I was in my house dreaming. Dreaming about the falls and dreading the big 30. By 30, I had so many things I wanted to have achieved. I didn’t achieve all of them, but I did achieve a good deal of them. I climbed Mt Kilimanjaro, and that should count for something. And for that, I am grateful. Grateful because I was in good health( still am), and when you have health, you have everything.

I had planned to take a bus from Nairobi, then a  train from Dar to Zambia; Tazara, but I was too broke to afford it because when you run your business, you’re always living on the edge. When you run a business, money does not always flow in. When you run a business, you realize the customer is king. You are at their mercy so poverty is always knocking at the door. It is only end month you know it is the landlord knocking. Other times, you can certainly guess it is poverty. Though it keeps knocking, it has never gotten in because God’s gracious not to allow it to. Thankfully too, I do not know my landlord because we’ve never had an encounter.

There is this one time I paid my rent and lost my bank slip. So I called her respectfully, I guess I was even standing at an attention position. Like a junior officer addressing a senior. But you know how these things are, landlords are like small gods. She didn’t even let me plead my case. She started shouting on the other end of the phone that I was even late paying my rent. She threatened to kick me out of the house. I had paid, but misplaced the receipt (just remembered I have not handed in this month’s), I wanted her to reconcile the accounts with the bank statement. She said she couldn’t, because she is a busy woman. She also reminded me that she runs so many businesses from that account to keep track of small money. I imagined my rent lost in the many zeros. She made me feel insignificant. I mean, her money is my priority, and here she was trivializing it. Like how could she? I hang up on her. I am sure she still has beef with me, because women never forget. But for as long I keep paying her rent, I still have the aces.

Part of the money I was to use to go to Zambia I paid my rent. Because you cannot afford not to live your dreams and not have place to dream. My house is my cave; a place I carve all my dreams. When I moved in, I told God this is the place where will build my dreams ground up. One corner I have a desk where I do my writing, watch tutorials and edit my photos. I have a couch where I do my do most of my reading. A balcony where I do my woodwork and annoy my neighbors. And a bedroom where I retreat to, to lick my wounds and pray when some of those dreams do not come to pass. Like that morning I turned 30. Don’t be fooled, I was grateful for everything, but I could have been happier. Like a child who has a candy but still wants a balloon.  My house is sacred; in fact, I consider it my sanctuary. To me it is what a monastery is to a monk. I rarely have visitors. In many ways, it is undefiled. So, to date, the Zambia dream still lives on. Soon enough, I will make the trip. Because God hears. And God answers.

A few days ago, I was going to Embu, my favourite place in Kenya, after Nanyuki. Embu is inviting and welcoming, but its women are heartbreakers. Story for another day.  In a mat headed to Embu, there were two white guys, a lady and a gentleman. I couldn’t tell if they were German or Dutch. The accent bordered somewhere between the two. But honestly, I did not care, because they also don’t care If I am Kikuyu or Luo (many people think I am). To them, African are Africans. Same way, to me Mzungu is Mzungu. Unless you are Russian. Russian are big, fleshy and can be cold. Like Putin.

For a country that has a reputation as some of the most dangerous roads, they took the front seat, and that’s boldness. I admired that. They didn’t flinch a bit when the driver negotiated corners at top speed or when there was a road train overtaking. The chic could speak some Swahili. The guy only spoke English. Maybe it is his first time here.  Maybe this is his girl. Maybe she dragged him here after her first visit.

One day, while speaking on phone, she told him;

“Honey (only Kenyans call each other Babe), you’ve got to come with me to Africa (because Africa is a country).”

“What’s good there?” He asked.

“The people. The chaos. The food.  And the women-meaning her; she considers herself an adopted African. Ooh, and the tropical climate. It’s is so warm you can see mosquitoes crossing the road. And besides the scenery, they have Bodabodas which carry everything from calves to beds. Then they have a dangerous form of public transport called Matatus (say it in a mzungu accent), we have to try.” She said.

“Anything for you honey.” He said. He hoped it was a joke. She says such things when she is excited.

It was not a joke, that’s how they probably ended up in this Matatu heading to Embu. Maybe to a children’s home, or they work for some donor agency in Embu, or enroute to my Kenya- hiking the mountain from Chogoria- the hardest yet the most rewarding route to the top. It is treacherous but beautiful. When you are young and energetic you want to do things the hard way, that way, you will have stories to tell. Stories of how you lived dangerously and survived,  unless if you’re Kenyan millennial.

They reminded me what it means to travel( I speak like a seasoned traveler, but I have been to Tanzania twice) in a foreign country, like a sour thumb, you stand out. From the language, to the uncertainty, to the demeanor-you make hesitant steps. Everything about you says you do not belong. I imagined how it will be for me when I finally decide to make the trip to Zambia. To travel in their matatu version. To travel from Kapiri Mposhi to Victoria Falls. To finally see Victoria falls.

Why am I writing this? I am writing because words have power. Our words become our world. Our words create and destroy. Our words speak life. Our words are the deathbeds of many dreams. So today I choose to create, to write on my wall, to make an open prayer. To dream.

Image source:worldpackers.com