Walls and Coffee.

“What is it about a woman that can make her make a man the single most important part of her life?”

                                                                                            

I don’t like the word ‘naked’. It tends to leave a sour taste in my mouth. Yet, that is nothing compared to how I dislike being in that state. It’s almost like I am afraid of seeing myself. My friend insists that I don’t know myself well enough, so she says that one of these fine days, she’ll drag me to a mirror and force me to meet myself.

And she’ll go “Ananda, meet Ananda,”

What a funny thing to say. The only thing funnier is that I have no such friend, so it must be the voices in my head. Wait, I thought I already took my pills today!

Anyway, even when I am alone in my room, I don’t completely let my towel slide off my body. I fear that someone will see me, and then use what they’ve seen against me. Which makes one wonder exactly how people would use details of my body to win a case against me. I could come up with ways people could screw me over that way but I know I can only do that at the expense of this story I am telling. I mean, I will follow this new line of thought and completely forget what it was that I started out with. I am the self-proclaimed queen of digression, I tell you. I heard it is supposedly a turn off to men (I wouldn’t know, as when it comes to these species of humans, I am as inexperienced as they come.), so I usually keep it in check. This is never that big of a problem as I rarely venture out of my cocoon when I am around people. I tend to keep my mouth shut, speak only when I’m spoken to and that sort of nonsense.

So, back to what I was saying. I fear that someone will see my nakedness, and then know me. If there was ever a list of all of my fears, having someone know me would be at the top, right below my fear of undressing. Simply because I wouldn’t want someone knowing me before I even knew myself. That’s why my psychiatrist will never cure me of whatever disease he diagnosed me with.  Anyway, what’s that they used to say about walls having ears? I figure it would be safe to assume that they also have eyes. So what on earth would drive me to expose my naked self to the walls? Won’t they start talking about my perfect imperfections after I’ve left the room? Because, well, my theory about walls having ears and eyes extends to them having mouths as well, but please don’t give me the chance to digress. I still have a story to share.

“Hey, what’s on your mind?” he says.

He brings me back to reality with those words. I do this a lot, get out of touch with reality then have people bring me back with those same words. Okay, maybe not the same exact words. I was never a master at paraphrasing exercises in my English classes. Back to reality. Man, I hate reality sometimes. This reminds me of this ten year old kid I met in a book. He was wearing a shirt that had the words: ’REALITY IS A DELUSION PRODUCED BY ALCOHOL DEFICIENCY’ to school, apparently oblivious to the message that it sent to other children. I start wondering where these schools were during my primary school going days, where they allow children into their gates clad in such clothes. But I figure they are probably in the Western countries, far away from home. That is definitely the only place where such permissiveness can thrive with such ease.

“Babe?” he says

I cannot even tell him what is on my mind. I mean, how do you start explaining to someone that you sometimes talk to your bedroom walls, envying the fact that their role in life is to just be? Not to do, not to have, but to just be. I guess Common would really relate with them. All they have to do is maintain a good posture and hold in a different hue of paint every three years or so. If they belong to less privileged households, they have to make do with a quick brush of paint in ten year intervals. Or be content with only one coat of Duracoat for the whole of their lives. I really envy them. They seem to have found their passions and are bent on fulfilling them. This validates my theory about walls having ears because that is exactly the advice that Condoleeza Rice gave to young people. Though I’m definitely surprised by the strength of their ears. How they were able to hear things that were said thousand of miles away is remarkable to me.

“Nothing, really. It’s just a bit cold,” I say.

He mumbles something about being able to make me feel warm, and I cannot keep myself from comparing him to a cup of coffee warming my insides on a cold, rainy Nairobi night. Oh, darn my mind!

Now there’s the meeting of unfamiliar lips for the first time and hands that seem not to be able to keep to themselves. And then the sensation of skin on skin, awkward at first but getting better with each stroke. My eyes are drawn to the walls in the room and I catch them looking at me. Maybe it’s the other way round, but who’s telling the story here? Why are they even looking at me? Can’t they close those eyes that they pretend not to have?  I try to shut them out. Impossible. There’s only one thing left to do.

“Do you mind switching off the lights?” I say.

The walls disappear. I hold my breath as the last of my clothes hits the floor.

“God, you’re beautiful!”

I sigh-with something that I’m going to pretend is relief-at those words, blocking out the thought that is now chiding me for even coming close to believing those words.

How can I be beautiful in the dark?

Perhaps such things do happen in the real world, one that my psychiatrist insists I am out of touch with. But in the deeps of me, I believe him because he has told me that which I have been unable to say to myself all my life.

So I believe him. At that point, all I wanted to think about was how I no longer needed numerous cups of coffee to keep me warm anymore. I had him.

I.

“As my friend Tom often remarks, it’s amazing how much time and money can be saved in the world of dating by close attention to detail. A white sock here, pair of red braces there, a grey slip-on shoe, a swastika, is as often as not all one needs to tell you there’s no point writing down phone numbers and forking out for expensive lunches because it’s never going to be a runner.”

-Helen Fielding, Bridget Jones’s Diary

Bahati hardly cared for the fact that the author had chosen a university for the setting of his book. It was for the melancholy that the protagonist-who was a girl, of course- managed to evoke in her that she cared about. It was sad that the girl in the book was desperately in love with her professor; a man who was so engrossed in his work that he forgot that he loved her. Even sadder was the fact that Bahati identified with the girl in the book. The unrequited love (what else could you call a love that was forgotten about, like a book bought and put it in corner waiting to be picked by its owner when finally remembered), and the fact that she was often ostracized for her unusual high levels of intelligence resonated well with Bahati. Actually, if the details were to be slightly rearranged, this might as well have been her. Yet, deep down, Bahati knew what it was that she identified with most in the girl’s personality. It was the way she was ashamed of where she came from, ashamed of her origins, ashamed of her background. And this, the girl did not say with any bitterness or need to justify why she harbored such feelings. That was just the way she felt, and she saw no need to hide it. It was the only thing that was different from Bahati’s personality. Her hate for her origin, if anything, was much stronger. And just like the girl in the story, she did not know how to explain her feelings away; she only knew how to hide them from the world. Deep inside, where no one could get the slightest glimpse of them.

Mornings usually find her in the lounge of the language school she enrolled in last January. She’s usually alone, save for some birds that had made a habit of perching themselves on the windowsill whenever she was in the room, as if studying her in readiness for a test to be later sat for. Birds and the occasional person who strolled into the room by chance were the most human contact she encountered in that room. Most students kept away from this room, owing to the heat it was rumored to hold in. Bahati did not mind. The situation suited her just fine. This way, she would get the much needed solitude that she craved for, and never got at home. The average complaining teenager lamented of a deprivation of love and attention from home. For her, it was the opposite. She was getting choked of the attention she got, and longed for negligence. At least that way, she would get to be alone. She wanted to be left alone so bad, it bordered on becoming an obsession.

The same mornings that found her in the lounge found him in the terrasse. This was the room where the other students ‘hung’ out, and as was expected, it was injected with gaiety and lots of laughter. Girls would compare outfits, as boys talked of the previous night’s football game. This was where Kamanza felt most at home. Though he rarely took part in the conversations, he followed them closely, committing everything to memory. These were the moments he would play out in his head when he reached the empty palace that he called home. Being an only child, and with parents that were always working to make their bank accounts bottomless, he usually spent long stretches of time alone. He had had to invent ways to entertain himself. So he’d sit in his room every night and analyze every character that he met during his day. This was sometimes tiresome, and he’d resort to blast Eminem’s angry selection of music from his speakers. He would then proceed to drink himself silly from the huge drink selection that his father kept. His father never gave away the slightest indication that he knew of his son’s thieving. His way of making Kamanza know that he was aware of his drinking was to have the houseboy make a replacement with an even more expensive bottle.

It was the nights that were usually the hardest. The days, he could survive. He didn’t need to ask himself why he came to school with such zeal nowadays. It was for the girl sitting alone in the lounge, her head always slightly bowed over a book, as if in earnest prayer. But then this was no surprise, because for him, it was always a girl.

Yet, this one was different.

He had to get to her, and then get her. Years down his life, about half a century later, he would count this move as the biggest mistake of his life. But for now, life had some lessons to teach him.

I Need Another Story

E.E. Cummings once said, “To be yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else, means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.” I couldn’t nod my head more vigorously in agreement. Whoever said that the teenage years are the most difficult in a person’s life must have been mistaken. Being an adult is much harder. Having reached adulthood just a few months back, I have been forced to learn some facts about life on my own. And learn them fast I have had to. This comes especially at a time when I am on a quest of understanding myself. And on being myself, here’s what I’ve come to conclude;

        As a young woman just finding her footing in life, it is okay not to have it all figured out. Few, if any, ever see the whole picture when making plans fort their futures. It is therefore not worth it to pretend to be a step ahead of others when in real sense you have no idea of where you are headed to. It is more than okay to acknowledge the fact that you are confused, and you might need some help in figuring things out. Many people I spend time with pretend to know it all, do it all and have it all. They make you feel like they’ve got their lives sorted. Feeling disappointed in yourself for not figuring out your own life, you’re left with a sour taste on your mouth, disgusted with yourself. And slowly, ever so slowly, I have had to understand the fact that people pretend to have better lives than they do. This they do to make themselves feel better and make you have a high opinion of them. Which is somewhat a natural instinct we all possess. That need to have people hold us in high esteem. Even so, it is fine to not have every detail of your life understood. It is okay to acknowledge your confusion. It is more than okay to be yourself.

         It is okay to be yourself. It is more than okay to have a drama-free life. Most girls my age thrive on drama. I am not necessarily saying that adventure in someone’s life should be frowned upon and deemed as self-seeking. On the contrary, a little drama can even be healthy. Look at this way: A little bit of exciting events in one’s life could be good. They give someone the much needed exposure to various situations in life. To various types of people. However, what I am totally against is the action of girls going out and looking for avoidable problems, then label them as drama. This is apparently done to show that you’re not a boring person. That people flock to you, and that life with you is an adventure of sorts. Pardon my excessive use of the word ‘adventure.’ It is the only word I could find that has the dualism of not being insulting and being subtle. Who said it is wrong to be a boring person? We do not always have to fit in. In the words of someone wise;

“Instead of trying to fit in, we should endeavor to stand out,”

We can stick to the way we dress without yielding to outside pressure to dress a certain way. We can choose our own music, the places we hang out in and most importantly, the people we hang out with. Most often than not, people I meet ask me,

“So, what do you do with your time?”

And I go, “Oh, I spend most of time snuggled away in a corner reading. Or in a library looking through books thrice my age.. I also listen to music, sleep and eat. That’s just about it.”

I then see the expressions on their faces saying more than what their words could ever say. Something to do with actions speaking louder than words. ‘What a boring life.’ ‘Nothing out of the ordinary? ‘ And in those reactions lay my trouble. So I went out to look for a way to spice up my life. I labeled it going out of my comfort zone. And needless to say, I found trouble. Honestly, I am my happiest reading a book, listening to good music, eating good food and having deep meaningful conversations with people. That’s when I am in my happy place.

So after all this, I chose to revert to the person I really am. I chose to be completely honest with myself. And being completely honest with who I am entails me being real down to the simplest things I say or do.

I am okay with being boring because even if I come off that way to some people, at least I know that that is the real me. The opening verse of an enlightening song by One Republic (Secrets) goes like this;

                                       “I need another story, something to get off my chest,

                                        My life is kinda boring; I need something that I can confess.

                                        Until my hands are stained red, from the all the truth I have said…”

It is okay to stick to your story. Indeed it is the only one you’ll ever have.

      Love and light,

Idza

How to Buff your mind ( Stolen from NewsWeek)

I have been flipping through copies of NewsWeek all afternoon. You will not believe the goldmine of information that is hidden behind those pages. In one of the issues, they were listing ways in which people can make their minds stronger. Here goes:

1. Be contradicted

Advice is given to contradict that which you know is true. In this way, you are forced to think and come up with interesting theories to things. Apparently this helps work out some part of the brain!

2. Read stuff. But this is quite obvious.

3. Learn new languages. It exercises the Prefrontal cortex. At least this I know. And practice.

4.Master chess.

Master Chess.

5. Zone out.

Zoning out is supposed to help you dream big. By creating a world of fantasy, you’re expanding your horizons. At least I now have a reason to sit and stare at walls.

6. Play word games with friends.

7. Eat Turmeric.

8. Take Tae Kwon do. Or dance. Or squash. Or any other activity that raises your heart rate and needs a lot of coordination.

Tae Kwon Do

9. Watch Al Jazeera instead of BBC News or CNN International.

10. Toss your smartphone away. Yes! And let those of us still surviving on inferior phones be.

11. Sleep. A lot.

12. Download the TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) App

13. Attend a literary festival.

14. Build a ‘Memory Palace’ where you associate whatever you want to remember with an image. Or better yet, read Joshua Foer’s Moonwalking with Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything.

15. Eat dark chocolate. You can accompany it with red wine if you’re that’s your cup of tea.

Dark chocolate and Wine

16. Join a knitting circle. Do I hear the boys say Amen?

17. Wipe the smile off your face.

This goes against my smile campaign!

18. Play violent video games.

19. Follow these people on Twitter.

        @Nouriel (Nouriel Roubini)

         @JadAbumrad (Jad Abumrad)

         @colsonwhitehead (Colson Whitehead)

20. Eat yogurt

21. See a Shakespeare play.

22. Hydrate.

23. Play an instrument.

Play an Instrument

24. Write by hand. It’s supposed to exercise your brain and boost your memory.

25. Drink coffee.

Drink Coffee

26. Delay gratification.

27. Become an expert at something. Anything.

28. Write reviews online.

29. Get out of town.

 

It’s quite a list, isn’t it?

Love & Light

    Idza

Book Review: Twenty Fragments Of A Ravenous Youth- Xiaolo Guo

A Twenty-one-year-old Fenfang Wang has traveled 1800 miles to seek her fortune in contemporary Beijing, and has no desire to return to the drudgery of the sweet potato fields back home. However, Fenfang is ill-prepared for what greets her: a Communist regime that has outworn its welcome, a city undergoing rampant destruction and slapdash development, and a sexist attitude seemingly more in keeping with her peasant up-bringing than the country’s progressive capital. Yet Fenfang is determined to live a modern life. With courage and purpose, she forges ahead and soon lands a job as a film extra. While playing roles like woman-walking-over-the-bridge and waitress-wiping-a-table helps her eke out a meager living, Fenfang comes under the spell of two unsuitable young men, keeps her cupboard stocked with UFO noodles, and, after mastering the fever and tumult of the city, ultimately finds her true independence in the one place she never expected.

 

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’ is bad advice. Well, at least from my point of view. And I read a lot, so I should know. Most times, a book’s cover and how interesting the content of the book is are usually in direct proportion. Yes, yes, I know there are exceptions but if at all democracy were to be applied; I would damn right proclaim that we should judge books by their covers. This is why I applaud Xiaolo Guo- the author of this book- for a job well done on the cover. But I write not only to yap about the cover. Instead, I want to give my two cents (or four, five, six…) on this book.

I loved it. From the first page to the very last one. I mean, how could I not love it when the first lines of the book go like this;

‘My youth began when I was twenty one. At least, that’s when I decided it began (…) If I was going to miss out on anything, it was middle age. Be young or die. That was my plan.’

 

This book is amazingly simply written. Yet it is one that’s likely to stay with you for a long time. This was my first time to read any Asian literature. So, being set in China, it definitely gave me insight into a country whose facts I vaguely know about. Which is a grand mistake on my part since they are the world’s next superpower anyway. But that’s a story for another day.

I got to know about China’s Communism, something which has gotten me very interested. I also got to know of the One Child Policy that China’s citizens were forced to have at some point in their history. I got to look at China through Fenfang’s eyes. The story is in first person, so I had the benefit of getting honest and more intimate reactions to things in China.

The book is divided into twenty fragments where Fenfang sheds light on different aspects of her life. The language used is hilarious and so normal, that you almost feel like you are reading your favorite blog.

One thing that particularly stood out for me was the brutal honesty that Fenfang had. She reminded me of Scott Fitzgerald’s words in The Great Gatsby (A book I would recommend to just about anyone that I met) where he says; ‘Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues and this is mine. I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known’ Fenfang doesn’t lie to herself. Or maybe, she doesn’t know how to lie to herself. That was one of the striking qualities about her.

I also saw two things in her that reminded me of me. Her fierce need for independence, and her love for writing. This is one book that I am definitely going to read over and over again.

Memorable lines

‘   If I was going to miss out on anything, it was middle age. Be young or die. That was my plan.’  –Pg.3

 

‘…So I was the 6,787th person in Beijing wanting a job in the film and TV industry. Between me and a role stood 6,787 other people- young and beautiful, old and ugly. I felt the competition, but compared with the 1.5 billion people in China, 6,787 wasn’t such a daunting number. It was only the population of my village. I felt an urge to conquer this village.’ –Pg. 6

 

‘Fenfang, never look to the past, never regret, even if there is emptiness ahead.’ But I couldn’t help it. Sometimes I would rather look back if it meant that I could feel something in my heart, even something sad. Sadness was better than emptiness.’ –Pg. 111

 

‘…He also said that China was better at being American than America, so he would rather live in China.’ –Pg. 122

 

‘I don’t want to lose the beauty of my youth. I don’t want to see my body aging. The cherry blossom chooses to die in one night. I want to do the same.’ –Pg. 149

 

‘Fenfang, you must take care of your life.’ –Pg. 164

 

And, a poem by Cha-Haisheng (marred by translation of course!) –Pg. 43, 63 and 163.

 

From tomorrow, I will be a lucky person

Feed horses, chop wood, travel the world

From tomorrow, I will think of my health and eat more vegetables

I will have a house facing the ocean; the warmth of spring will blossom.

From tomorrow, I will write to my family

Tell them I am settled, I am calm

A warmth will radiate through my life

It will radiate to everyone in this world

From tomorrow, each river and each mountain

Will be given a new and tender name

Name each river, name each mountain

Name them warmly

Stranger, take my warmest blessings

May your future road be clear and bright

May you be reunited with your true love

May you find real happiness in this dusty world

I will face the ocean. Waiting for spring to warm the air and flowers to blossom.

Grab a book and sharpen your mind, will you?

Love & Light,

Idza

 

 

 

Poetry: A.A Milne

From:  ‘Now we are Six’

A.A Milne

A soul mate is someone who has locks that fit our keys,

And keys that fit our locks.

When we feel safe enough to open the locks, our truest selves step out and we can be completely and honestly who we are;

We can be loved for who we are and not for whom we’re pretending to be.

Each unveils the best part of the other,

No matter what else goes around us, with that one person we’re safe in our own paradise.

 

Our soul mate is someone who shares our deepest longings, our sense of direction.

When we’re two balloons, and together our direction is up,

Chances are we’ve found the right person.

Our soul mate is the one who makes life come to life.

 

Love & Light,

Idza

Oscar Wilde: The artist is the creator of beautiful things…

 

 

The following is the preface to Oscar Wilde’s “The Picture Of Dorian Gray”

 

The artist is the creator of beautiful things.

To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.

They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century’s dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century’s dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.

The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.

No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.

No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an un-pardonable mannerism of style.

No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of art.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feelings, the actor’s craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their own peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their own peril.

It is the spectator, and not the life, that art really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex and vital.

When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.

-Oscar Wilde.

Grab a book and sharpen your mind, will ya!

Love & Light,

Idza

Grey Generation (New Poetry)

Grey generation

(Idza)

Our elders say we are a lost generation, one with nothing to show for our existence.

For our grandparents fought for Kenya’s independence,

And our parents laid the foundation for the prosperity of our nation,

But what have we accomplished?

Like barren pieces of land filled with water craving cracks, they compare us to.

They call us an accursed lot with no comprehensible future too.

With memories so shallow, and with irresponsibility tattooed in the deep of our black skin,

We have forgotten the essence of who we are.

We are a grey generation.

We are a grey generation.

We have succumbed to the beast that came to subdue our culture and heritage.

We have given up our ways to the Western world and spit on our ancestor’s graves.

We have no soul left, not a grain of African substance in us.

We have turned away from our parent’s ways and insisted on treading paths that have never been charted out before.

Bobbing our heads to a tune so different to the one they are used to sway to, They are frustrated.

We have forgotten the essence of who we are.

We are a grey generation.

But of course we are a grey generation!

We mix  black and white to create a hue of grey that aptly defines who we are.

We seek the good in the white and squeeze the bad out of the black so that we can mold a world that will suit us.

We refuse to be limited by dogma and other people’s expectations of us, and we create a completely different channel through which the river of our lives can flow through.

We abandon retrogressive customs that were engraved into the minds and lives of our ancestors.

We shun the degradation of an African woman and place her in an equal place as her male counterpart.

We refuse to judge people based on their tribe as opposed to seeing what they can bring to the table,

We have not forgotten the essence of who we are.

We are a grey generation.

We are a grey generation.

We are modern, not colonized.

We are not afraid to follow our inner voices, and with the tenacity and spirit that dwells in an African’s blood, we go straight for what we want.

And we will raise our voices and speak for Africa, for it is home.

We will revel in the depth of our grace and in the thick of our lips.

We will not bow to the expectations of another people but we will create a new destiny for ourselves.

We will adore the values that our elders have taught us and hand them down to our children.

Yes, we still have soul.

And African substance is what makes us laugh even in the most difficult of times.

We have not forgotten the essence of who we are.

We are a grey generation.

We are a grey generation.

We can be fine on our own, but we still need your guidance.

We need you to understand the meaning of compromise.

For there can hardly be blacks and whites in this things, there can only be shades of grey.

And no, we are not a lost generation.

The skies have changed and priorities have shifted, and change is never comfortable,

What was important for you back then may not important for us now but that is not  the point.

We are not without accomplishments; we are exploring ourselves and the world around us.

And no, We have not forgotten the essence of who we are.

We are a grey generation.

Love and light,

Idzah.

Happy New Year

It’s a new year and yours truly is very very excited.

And this year, I have only one resolution: To get out of my comfort zone.

So that said:

And for this year”s theme song(s):

 

India Arie, Beautiful Flower

Here’s the link,

 

 

 

 

Where I am…

Have you ever looked at your life and felt overwhelmed? Felt like you wanted to start over. Felt like you wanted to pick up everything that you can call yours and start over.

I am confused. I am faced with a lot of choices, yet I don’t know which road to take.

 

 

 

I am on my own.