Savor

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I want to savor this feeling,

it’s a thread of hope,

unspooling and unfurling

with each passing day,

each encounter,

each conversation.

A hope that is a thought.

That, perhaps, this time…

this edge on which we stand

is leading us to a jump…

into a bottomless pool of happiness,

love and complete joy,

one that was sought so diligently

but all that was to be found, discovered;

illusions, smoke screens Continue reading →

Write about Life

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I was asked to describe my writing style and process. I hesitated. The teacher looked at me, impatience steaming up her face. I looked down at my hands in my lap, my right index finger and my right thumb rubbing the base of my left thumb in a nervous motion. The entire class had turned to look at me. My voice was stuck in my throat, my eyes directed downward. Someone quite close to me chose that moment to clear his throat; I say his because the sound boomed from his throat and seemed to insert itself right in my ear. I jumped. This made me look up involuntarily and I caught my teacher’s eye. She stared at me and then, with her hand, indicated that I stand up.

My scrubs were wrinkled, dirty and spotted with what I called my work fluids. I would walk straight to class from the hospital where I worked, a distance of 5 km. I told myself I was Kenyan, I could hack it. Trouble was when shift change happened and the morning team came in, I had to literally jog the entire distance to make it to her class on time. At the end of our first session when everyone had introduced myself and I had reluctantly introduced my accent to my classmates who seemed prepubescent when compared to my ancient bones, I had approached the teacher and noted that I might be late to Continue reading →

Rooting for my Son

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There are some things I never had to think about until I got to that decision point. Like noting today that if I was in the US, I would likely choose a Black doctor for Austin. Female or male, doesn’t matter but I would choose someone who looked like him. Not taking any shine away from all the other incredible doctors from other races, ethnicities, cultural backgrounds…but I would want him to see his own face reflected back at him.

When I was growing up, our family doctor was an older African doc – granted, we were in Kenya but we had a lot of Indian doctors and, as I recall, I never really saw another Kenyan doctor. After living in the US for almost two decades, I grew into this holder of a double consciousness – being Kenyan (African) and being Black. When I had my son in the US, he was not Kenyan or African, but he was African-American. I recognized, based on my years on the West coast, in the South and a few experiences on the East coast, that he would almost always be judged by his name (I selected a strong sounding name – Austin), or his skin color (God controlled that) so what I can control in this set-up is putting heroes, warriors, role models in front of him that look like him. That he can look up to and say woah, there’s someone who looks like me, someone who looks like my mama, working on the vaccination for COVID19, doing medicine in communities that need it, fighting for policy changes that affect me and my family… Continue reading →

2020: Let’s Do It.

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Six months ago, I moved us to Uganda. A new job came calling, a heavier title and the opportunity to move ‘just next door’ was too enthralling for me to ignore.

I have not written anything because I have been busy being a mom, working, trying to succeed and thrive at this life thing. Uganda had never been in my plans, vision boards, vision thoughts in any professional capacity (or personal capacity as well).

When Austin was 15 months old, we trekked to Uganda. Me, for a week long conference for my former employer and, him, just another opportunity to run around on grass and thirst after the nyama choma we threw together on our last night in Kampala. That was our first time in Uganda. And now, this job popped up unexpectedly and off we went.

This blog is about being in transition, in flux. Physically, emotionally, figuratively. I found myself noting that 2020 was a year of transformation so what better way to get into this by writing more? More about this time in my life when I have turned 40, moved across continents twice and working to really do something with my writing and my photography. To that end, I plan to section off my blog a bit differently than what I have had for the last 6 years.

Short stories – tales that are created in my head then spewed onto paper for your digestion and, of course, feedback.

Photos – pictures showcasing where I have been.

Public health – of course because this is my career, a few snippets based on my work and this sector.

Muse mode – writing about love, relationships, friendships, life lessons, funny things and other things.

 

And that is it.

Here is to an amazing 2020!

 

 

Born a Crime?

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I don’t have the words to weigh in,

to condemn or to cry out in pain

at all the unnecessary deaths,

the targeting of people who look

just like their attackers.

Their only crime is to be born

in a different country.

My words fail me.

Ramblings.

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The rain began to fall down softly, drops tapping gently against the earth. I never felt the urge to run or dash beneath an eave or leafy tree, like everyone else on the street. Instead, my pace slowed and I looked down, forcing my curls to fall in front of my face, to fight the slight breeze that lifted the crochet curls, exposing my cornrows underneath in the pockets by my temple where I had not finished inserting the curls. Strangers were suddenly increasing their pace. I could hear the pitter patter of feet headed towards home at the end of a long hump day at the office. It was 5:30 in the afternoon and the warm Kampala skies had waited as long as possible, grey clouds spewing and brewing as the day progressed until, finally, they could no longer contain the rain their clouds held.

I was aiming to walk to the closest mall, to purchase my contact lens solution. When the rain began to fall, I decided to simply pop into a hotel that suddenly loomed up to the right. I walked up to the guards and, with my American accent, I was ushered in with a smile and softly whispered Welcome. My intention was to find a source of Wi-Fi and to find a socket. A jack. My phone was dying. I needed it alive so I could order a SafeBoda to ferry me home, since I had no actual cash on my person.

The restaurant was blue. An electric blue that was at once soft but also piercing. It was empty, save for a couple who occupied a low table and a mzungu and his African colleague chatting in soft tones at one of the hightop tables. I quickly settled into the corner, immediately noticing that Michael Bolton was gently serenading someone over the restaurant speakers. I also immediately noticed that they had no Hendrick’s on their bar shelves. My disappointment rose so swiftly, it almost choked me.

The couple at the table next to me drew my attention. They sat in silence, slouched into their individual settee chairs, each glued to their mobile phone screens. His Guinness beer sat in front of him and she held a glass with some clear liquid and lemon slices in her right hand. It could have been water. It could have been gin. One thing was clear is that they were together but not really together.

I ordered some red wine. Merlot. Dry. I hoped it was good. It was mediocre.

Then they played Boyz II Men.

A big group had come in and settled in at the corner furthest from mine. Their voices carried easily across the room and I could hear their British accents wafting sharply as they discussed some presentation to the Ministry of Finance…but they also mentioned Cricket and Rugby.

As Wanya hit his crescendo notes, I was the only one bobbing my head to the music. At one point, I started to sing. Looking up self-consciously to see if anyone had noticed my off-key singing, I noticed two large men who had walked in and settled at the bar. One was on the phone, talking in loud whispers in a language I failed to recognize. After a few minutes, he hung up the phone and turned to his friend.

They began to speak in Swahili.

I smiled.

Then I heard one say to the other some words that, when put together, my brain refused to comprehend, but my heart froze in fear. As Wanye petered out and a high-pitched Michael Jackson song floated into the room, I realized what they were talking about and I calculated how quickly they would notice the beaded Kenyan Flag bracelet that I had around my left wrist. And what that would mean for me. And my life.