Monthly Archives: March 2018

The need for young Kenyans to be a little more informed before they mouth off on issues😊😊Present tense

Hope this one is a match to the challenge.

 

The- A signifier of something definite. It is usually used when there is no question about what we are referring to. For example- the major stumbling block to the development of our country has remained the deep division into tribal blocs and  holding of tribal identities as prime and superior to any national one.

 

Need- this is something that is necessary. It is a deep urge. The bending of a plant towards the sun if kept in a dark place signifies need. The fact that once past a certain age all conversations start with rejoinders about money, “how’s life?”, “kuhustle tu.” “yeah it’s dry as a dead dude in a desert dump out there because of elections/ corruption/ government mismanagement”- take your pick and repeat. Signifying the need for better economic management before we break apart-body from soul, mind from actions.

 

For- a connector between words in a sentence. Social media was thought to be a good connector between people before we realised the true face of the internet. Words warped by anonymity and stripped of feeling and context by being just words, by being words that are designed as a shouting match, by being words we wouldn’t say in person, by being words we would soften with a smile or a gleam in the eye, words we wouldn’t say to somebody we don’t know well but here, here we do.

 

Young- a feeling that we all share. Even when the bones creak and the grandchildren have grandchildren we will say to ourselves, “I’m not old, now Moi that guy is old.”

 

Kenyans- a difficult thing to define. A living computer was assembled by some white men decades ago. 55 years ago  the computer is switched on. It whirls to life and is made of 40-44 distinct moving parts. The parts are made of other parts too many to count. Their interaction is unpredictable, the result is unknown. Calculations are made inside this computer even as parts of it are flung far and wide and fears of its disintegration shake us all. This computer though may be durable. The different parts of it can begin looking like each other, or maybe not. The computer we live in and are a part of has not yet told us what Kenyans are it needs more data.

 

to be- a state of existence. This shows where we are and how we are. To be screwed is to live in a country with no institutional structures of opposition to the government. To be deep in a hole is to have seen the opposition survive due to the outsize personality of one man. To be reminded by the evolving structure of political parties and government appointments that somebody once said “100 years of Kanu.”

 

A little- not much. We make demands of others all the time but we know they have to live. We also know that living consists of so many things. To eat and work for food. To pray and strive for holiness. To love and look for companionship. To play and then to rest. In addition to all these things we cannot make too many demands.

 

More informed- a state of gathering knowledge. We have the tools to do it. We always have. We can listen to others, we can read things we don’t agree with, we can question deeply held beliefs because if it survives the questioning the belief makes you better. If it doesn’t survive the questions trade up, barter.

 

Before- a held breath, a second thought, a period in time where things are still in flux. When our actions are still clay in the hands of us, their potters.

 

They- a collective pronoun. A sweeping net designed to catch everything in its way. Fishermen have to make the holes in their nets big so that they young ones slip through them and get away. When the Christ talked about fishing men though he made it clear that nobody should escape that net. Who are we to contradict that man?

 

Mouth off- a phrasal verb. An apocryphal etymology of this phrase says that it comes about because once somebody does it everyone listening just wants to take that person’s mouth off. It is anathema to connection.

 

Issues- things important to us. If we ignore them we may need tissues. Ignore them further and they erupt in fissures. Faultlines form, warp the earth and make it vicious. The sid  can effectively be combated by more information as explained above.

 

  • 😊😊- can be seen as signifiers of happiness. Can be interpreted as cheekiness. Can be used to disguise a deep anguish with the state of things.

 

Present- a gift. Something that you give to signify affection, respect, lust, fear, and a host of other emotions. By definition it must be given willingly. The willingness can come about due to emotional blackmail and still be considered willingness. A present can also be a sacrifice. It can be searching yourself and asking, asking honestly if this is the place we want to be. If what we see happening makes us proud, makes us stand a little taller at the sound of our anthem, moves us to salute the fluttering of our flag or causes our insides to retch. But that is not a gift yet. Not to anybody but yourself. The reflections should then inform action. If the country you see and the place you can see it going is exactly what you want then keep doing what you do. If it is not then take a little action. Just a little. Even before you run for office it is enough to find out what these office does and how to make sure the officers do it. Learn something, and give the gift of this learning to the future we all hopefully blink against.

 

Tense- a situation where broken bottles lie all around a table. In this situation you find yourself without shoes. Rusty nails poke out of some areas and any sudden movement could cause a pail of gasoline to dump itself on you. Now, you don’t know if there is a matchstick or other source of fire around, you do know there is a ticking clock but you don’t know why it’s ticking. There are voices right outside the room but you don’t know what they are saying. There may be help coming but this is just faith talking to you, you don’t know that there is or where it will come from. You  need to move but you don’t know where. And for a moment all you can think about is how you wish, oh how you wish, you were a little more informed.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

the greatness of God from a child’s perspective

Marching on. The next challenge is the difficult title up there.

 

All she knew was that she had to catch it. The wind was whispering softly and carrying it on its belly, one of those spherical flowers, the kind where the seeds came off it if you blew gently and yet the strength of the wind, which she could feel in the slight shiver of her skin didn’t damage it.

 

It reminded her of her little brother. He had been so soft, so small, even his head where the skull was felt like it could crumple like a piece of paper. The joints between his hand and arm had been soft enough for even her to crush, and she wasn’t even that strong. She didn’t need to be told that this was something delicate her parents were caring for. It was clear that like the flower the slightest jolt could have scattered him into a million little pieces. Yet for a while the world had carried him just like that flower. Gently. With direction. He had learned to hold her hand, he had learned to smile, he had learned little baby noises. It had seemed like there was somewhere he was going until there wasn’t anymore. There was no him and nobody could explain it, not really.

 

In heaven they said. And at night her mother cried tears so persistent she had learned to sleep through them and to know by their sound in the morning that she really was home.

 

“What’s a will?” she had asked one of her teachers. They took her more seriously now she had noticed.

 

“It’s a piece of paper that people write while they are alive to say what should happen to their property once they die.”

 

“So, you mean God is dead?”

 

“Sorry wha…?”

 

“and that when he was alive what he wanted was for my brother to die?”

 

“I think I may have answered the wrong question. Uhm…. Why do you ask what a will is?”

 

“Everyone is always telling my mother it was the will of God. Then she nods and tries to be stronger.”

 

“Oh… sorry. Will is also just what somebody wants. The will of God is… you know our father’s prayer right?”

 

She did but more as a litany, a string of words, not something that held separate meaning, a sing-song she had…

 

“may your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Her teacher interrupted her.

 

“Oh. Ok. So what does God want?”

 

“I should give you a better answer than this, but the truth is we’re all trying to figure it out. Maybe that’s why we’re all here to figure it out.”

 

“Do you think that’s why he died?”

 

“Your brother?”

 

“Yes, maybe he already knew and so he didn’t need to be here anymore.”

 

“That could be true, yes.”

 

And yet she could see the look that came over grown-up’s eyes when they decided you were too young to hear something. She also knew that when that happened there was no going back. For a few minutes there she had felt like her teacher was talking to her, actually talking to her but now, now it would be emptiness. She could always see the emptiness in their eyes, when they talked and looked off like they were thinking of something else, hiding something they didn’t want her to know, never understanding just how much she did know.

 

She had finally caught the flower. She sat down and began blowing on it, seeing the little flags borne on the wind, flying upwards and away. She wondered for a moment where they were going and then in a sudden fit tried to bring them back. She ran after them and tried to wave them into her hands. They slipped though on their onward journey, unwilling to listen to her as hard as she tried.

 

Her mother had tried too she remembered. She could remember how her mother had tried on that night, doing everything possible and failing. She hadn’t imagined that could happen before, her mother could do anything until right that moment when she saw that it wasn’t true. And she looked for the seeds that had gone and saw nothing there and knew that even her mother couldn’t have stopped them. That they would have gone on going wherever the wind wanted, wherever God willed. It wasn’t true what her teacher said, that we didn’t know what God wanted. God wanted those flowers to fly away, you only had to look around you to  know, to realise that everything we thought and wanted were dreams and that only the will of God turned into reality. That’s how you could know what he wanted just look at what happened.

 

Her mother’s voice was calling her and she turned to the sound. Worried about her. Worried that she shouldn’t be running off when her mother was so weak. Worried that her knowing her mother was weak only made her weaker. All the times she had heard that believing something makes it real played in her head.

 

“Look mama, look.” The sun had been setting later and later, hanging in its setting as if waiting for something or someone to look up and see it. It wasn’t there now but it lit up the undersides of the cloud so that they glowed gold and light. The sky’s colour had passed through just blue heading to the border with green in some places, feather like touches of cloud passed in front of them and a flock of birds cawing and cackling as they went off on their secret missions.

 

She snuck a quick look at her mother to see if she was looking. And she actually was, staring at the sunset with the same intensity as she used to before. A small tear was making its way down the lines in her face, and then it hang there like the sun. and in itself it caught the whole world, she had to stop breathing to see clearly. Right in that tear she could see the sun and the birds and herself and her mother.

 

This was reality too, this tear and all the things it captured, all the things it contained. There was something of God in that tear, in that moment, something of him peeking out.

 

“Mama have you ever seen God?”

 

Smiling down at her in the old way, and looking at her like she had never seen her before her mother simply said,

 

“Yes.”

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Mystery, religion, and sex

The 3rd March

Wherein I was told- Anything that combines sex, religion and mystery

 

“The righteous perisheth, and no man lay it to heart: and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come. He shall enter into peace: they shall rest in their beds, each one walking in uprightness.”

 

The strangely garbed priest intoned the words solemnly. Finished, he reached for his chalice. She took it in wonderingly, just as she had  everything else about this church. The cup was carved out of some kind of dark wood, ebony is what it called to her mind, sprinkled around it were tiny gold sprinkles that looked like motes of dust. She could only tell they were made of gold because her father had once smuggled precious minerals through the country-the running family joke being that he should have been the one issued with those export compensation certificates from so long ago. Anyone though could see the pattern that played while light shone on the surface of the cup, a man in agony hoisting a cross far too big or him, and a hand reaching out from somewhere in the sky to help lift it.

 

She waited patiently through the service- one that alternated between archaic English terminology and queer dogmatic expressions that should have reached out to the inquisitors from times past. When it ended the priest rose to his feet and the congregation knelt down.

 

“My Lord we offer you the meagre sacrifice of the clay you created us with, we hope you look on our pure intentions and not our poor offering, we ask for the blessings of Abel knowing we deserve the fate of Cain, we beseech thee for the bow knowing full well we deserve the rain. Amen.”

 

The congregation then rose to its feet and the priest knelt before the altar. Almost as one they intoned, sending up the sounds like reverberations because of the acoustic quality of the building.

 

“We turn inward to remember the sacrifice of your son, and the pain of his mother, we turn outwards to wonder at the glory of your creation and the destruction we have wrought on it, we turn sidewards to consider the great gift of human life and companionship, we look downwards towards the dirt we will become, and we look up towards the divine we hope to be. Amen.”

 

Calmly the priest unsheathed the sword at his hip. One of the congregation stepped forward and took it from his hand. Then in a ceremony reminiscent of knighting nicked him on one shoulder then the other.

 

“May the blood of the lamb wash the filth of the butcher. Amen.”

 

“Amen.”

 

The congregation filed away after that leaving her in the darkness of the cavernous room. After thirty minutes the priest came back in.

 

“Sorry it took so long but I had to get my wounds tended to, I’m sure you understand-we aren’t crazy after all.”

 

All she gave him was a half-hearted laugh.

 

“You should know though that priesthood in our religion is rotational. Just as the scapegoat from Leviticus was anew every year so is the blood we she… wrong choice of words.”

 

“Yes, on that I agree.”

 

“The attack though, we couldn’t let it change us. As you can see we have built a monument to the Divine within a few  months of it.”

 

“That I can see. You must know why I’m here.”

 

“That my dear remains the mystery.”

 

Her eyes turned cold, fury at such blatant copping out.

 

“Actually I have some idea. Why don’t we walk as we talk.” This was the effect that look usually had. She didn’t know whether it was a result of any inner fire or the firepower commanded by her last name, but this church had been razed to the ground not too long ago and here it was standing straight. The police had been going around in circles, and actually going around in circles not just waiting for the mealiest handout. All her family’s contacts inside the service could ascertain was that it was very important to find a man with a sewing machine.

 

More frustratingly though was that she had got nowhere. The smuggling routes that her father and mother had opened had been maintained and widened over the years. Now they moved not just minerals but people too, drugs, weapons, anything the world needed. The responsibility to maintain them had fallen on her shoulders a few years ago, “maintain and expand. We’re going to try this straight commerce thing for a while. And on your 25th birthday we hand you a port in Lamu for all the expanded volume.”

 

Legacies was what her parents were thinking about, and as this was happening there was somebody arranging the smuggling of weapons without her knowledge. It infuriated her. It bothered her more than the blood that was shed, everyone dies and in this sect of Christianity they seemed to believe an early death to be the mark of favour from God. In Christianity in general she reminded herself, she had recognised the words of Isaiah who spoke as much for the Jewish religion of home as that of export.

 

“It is no secret that God has blessed our hands.” Saying this he indicated murals painted in brilliant colours-purples and reds, stained glass windows bending all the light that passed through them into beautiful playing prisms, and the understated glow of platinum beams. “The secret remains the well. Do you know the story of Elisha and the widow?”

 

An oil fountain that never went dry would explain how they had put this church back up. She nodded silently.

 

“Glad to see that you are read up on the bible. Just as the widow sent out her sons for vessels so do we. Come in this way.”

 

She followed him into a chamber cut into the ground, a trap-door like she used to imagine her father hiding in back in his smuggler days. She had found smuggling to be a little more professional than that- bribing not hiding, and ruthless- murder those who negotiate harder.

 

The priest was smiling as he opened up the doors. “This is what they sought to destroy, our Eden.”

 

Writer’s note-  I just couldn’t find a way to fit in that last one so no sex, sorry. I kept thinking “next paragraph, ok next one” and so on, in the end it defeated me. I’m not even sure if the relligion was relligious or the mystery mysterious actually. Still thank you for the challenge.

 

 

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

A Kenyan in Uganda or a Kenyan looks at Uganda

March Madness challenge 2-A Kenyan in Uganda or a Kenyan looks at Uganda. I want to read a short story from that perspective. How you do it is up to you.

 

 

“Ok, SSebo.” He said turning around to receive glowing green bottle of mountain dew that had been demanded. He winked in thanks and turned around.

 

The night had begun turning chilly while it was still evening and now he wished he had worn something warmer than this tee-shirt. He remembered a few years ago, when he first moved to Kampala and every day felt heavy and sweaty and hot. Back then he had dreamed of nights like this, those and the flat plain of Nairobi. But the body and the mind acclimatise to everything. Nowadays he could almost spot a rhythm in the way the boda bodas moved. He saw their jamming together as a kind of atomic imperative- the laws of Newton being followed to a tee. Their lack of regard for road rules was a wink to the inevitability of chaos, their noise was yet another song lifted up to a universe so silent it needed all it could get. He had been back home and seen the slow infestation of Kenya with the same disease and displaying the same symptoms but what they did in Nairobi could not compare to what happened here.

 

Earlier in the evening he had witnessed the passing of one convoy. The sun had just began setting and the light was weaker as if it had been shaded or now took longer than the prescribed eight minutes to get to earth losing a wave  with every second, a photon every minute. The world hooded itself with shadows and the sounds of crickets announced night’s homecoming. His moment of introspection was spoiled by the show though. Motorcycle after motorcycle whizzed past. They hooted as they passed, four abreast, swarming like locusts. Most impressive though were the women on the back of the motorcycles. Each driver carried with him a specimen worthy of finer study, individual attention. A lady who though robbed of her singularity combined with the one beside her and behind her and in front to form a moving monument to booty. Their higher voices and more carefree laughter dotted the evening. Turning the distraction from an inconvenience into a circus.

 

When it ended he crossed the road and sat down for some soup. He had been coming here for months now and they knew just what he wanted. It was put down in front of him along with some ugali and cabbage to wash it down. He had no idea what they put in this soup, there was a texture so rich and smooth that every sip of it brought to his mind the word baganda. The chilli was mixed in just right, taking up the spaces between the liquid and the bubbles, he had been slurping it so intently that he completely missed Atu’s entrance.

 

“I knew I’d find you here.”

“This doesn’t make you psychic, anyone would find me here.”

“This is how you talk to a girl you are trying to talk to?”

“Would you rather I told you that the very scent of you as you walked in filled my head with so many daydreams I’m still seeing everything orange? Or that I’ve been thinking what to tell you since the last time we spoke?”

“Mkenya, that would be good.”

“It would and I realise you think you want good. In all my time here this soup was the finest taste of Uganda. There is nothing like it at home and yet it feels familiar, like I sampled it in another life and only chose to be born in Kenya by mistake, or only so I could have it later in life when I could appreciate it. Then I tasted you and knew that was all a lie.”

“Doesn’t it feel nice to tell your girl such things? Not all the time this roughness. Eiii.”

 

After supper they had made their way back to his shop where he now had her as a helper, someone to reach for soda, someone to warm his surroundings. He turned away from the customer he had just served. It was time to close anyway. He pulled shut the door of the shop. Feeling the excitement of the next action already building up in him.

 

“What shall we have today Atu?”

 

“A quiet night without the aid of alcohol?” The twinkle in her eye said that this statement meant vodka.

 

He had never imagined that he would spend his life as a shopkeeper in another country. But life gave you what it did. And when it did what was important was to go to the freezer in the shop, slide it open so that mist and cold poured out of it and crept along the floor like a new-born baby, consider the rainbow made by tall bottles of gin and brandy and vodka, reach for the chosen sacrifice and hear its brothers clink in happiness, shut that door,  and pour a gulp down your throat. There was never going to be any lemonade anyway.

 

“Ehhh you Kenyans. You just drink like there is no tomorrow.” Her eyes still sparkled in merriment. He handed her the bottle. She did what he did except somehow she made it classy, there was something dainty in her movements, measured as if to the beat of the music of the moon, something dazzling even in that act. Then she laughed setting off small tremors in him.

 

“Did I ever tell you about the first Kenyans I met?”

 

“The first ones ever?”

 

“Yah. It was a long time ago. I was visiting my cousin in a place called Mityana. She told me there were these Kenyans who liked drinking in this local bar. Waraji and mountain dew was their cocktail. So we went. I had just finished high school, they were in university there for some work thing. I don’t really remember. All that rang in my mind was Nazizi singing ‘Kenyan Boy.’ I was so excited. So we went and my cousin introduced me. Ohhh they were fun. We talked and we laughed for a long time. All the time they ordered more waragi. Poured it into their glasses sometimes, shots for everyone others. The night ended with us walking to their place. I have to tell you Mityana is a semi-rural place, at that time there were no street-lights. People would fetch water from the river-electricity was spotty so it could go for fourty hours or four depending on, who knows. And they lived far away from the bar. We’re walking along, all of us unsteady. Evening dew has already started settling on our toes. These shoes we wear as women sometimes, I don’t even know what they are for. Wet grass defeats their protective purpose. Just that is enough. We came to a bridge and we had to cross it to get there. It swayed as we went, I was really scared but I made it through. The guy I was talking to though slipped just before we got to the end. When we got home I had to wait as he looked for a candle and water to wash with and then proceeded to bathe. I was young though, and not going anywhere anyway. He finished his process and took me to his room. And can you imagine he was unable to do anything. I was so ready I just went to join my cousin and her friend. ”

 

The conclusion of the story had him half-rising already. “That really happened?”

 

“Of course not, but you see the value of sweet lies? Already you’re rising to me. and that’s just the lesson behind the first bead. We call it talking the blood down. You know someone has been knocking on the door for a while now.”

 

He stood hesitant for a minute.

 

“Are you going to open it or do you want to come here and find out more of the secrets of the Nile.”

 

“The secrets of the Nile?”

 

“How it floods, where it flows, what makes it squirt. Other bead lessons.”

 

He went to Atu. The man on the other side of the door stood for a minute and thought back to the sewing machine his men had carried out that day so many years ago. His heart beat faster at the thought of finding its owner soon. He decided that the only thing he could do was knock louder.

 

 

 

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

I’M SO IN!!!

As part of a March writing challenge I asked for suggestions on what to write. The first suggestion was the rather cryptic, “I”M SO IN!”- the results are below

 

 

“I’M SO IN!”

That’s how the words had rang out on that night. This was what everybody clamoured to tell him. The I.O. knew these words weren’t important, he knew they weren’t even peripheral to the case but he had to know what they meant.

 

It was the digressions that had drawn him to police work after all. The devil in the details was the only one that tempted him. He had always felt that God’s reality was only divine because it could be followed on a tangent to a pit that led past the centre of the universe and on to the infinite.

 

It couldn’t be counted as official, these questions, but everyone held police work in sufficient mystery that they quickly provided answers to anything asked, never thinking that half the questions were the muttering of an idle mind.

 

“So what do you think he meant, that  shout?”

 

He was asking the downstairs neighbour. She was pretty in that head-turning way that he’d so desperately wanted to possess until he did and realised that even that kind of beauty was a mask. A face, any face was filled with craters and pockmarks, small scars and mementos from mother earth’s glory. He liked those things ordinarily but faces this beautiful obscured them, he could remember the smile of the girl before as this one spoke to him, how it would loom large over everything else, how he wouldn’t be able to see any of these details for the complete whole they put together, how for a time he was ok without the details, and how finally he couldn’t even see that she had been sleeping with someone else. So he distrusted it and listened to her words instead. Her voice piped high. Maybe it was excitement but it grated on him, distracted him from the rest of her,

 

“He was strange. I said hello to him a couple of times and he’d greet me happily enough but never give me more than a sentence. Always in a hurry I guess, so strange. People around here are usually so friendly so I never understood, maybe it was me he didn’t like. Anyway, my boyfriend was just fine with that- he’s very jealous you know…”

 

“So on that night?”

 

“Yer so I was home. I was reading actually just about that time. I remember that there was an incessant tapping on my roof, his floor. Tap tap tap tap. But that was always there, it was so constant that sometimes I thought I couldn’t sleep without it. This time though it distracted me, the book wasn’t very good. Oh, God, I’ll miss that about him, that noise it always told me if the book I was reading was worth going on with, if I could stand it good book, if not… Well there was a knock on his door at about eight. I had given up and put on something to watch, caught the news previews that’s how I knew the time, someone knocked on his door. That in itself wasn’t very strange, he always had a lot of visitors which is another thing that made me wonder what he didn’t like about me. It started raining soon after that.”

 

The I.O. could remember the rains. Flash floods that had dropped out of nowhere onto parched earth and dry streets. Rains carried down with wind and hailstones. He could remember the size of the hailstones, smaller than a coin, and the sound they made skittering on the streets. He fingered the welts on his hands caused by him putting them out that day just to feel them, shivered a little as he remembered how cold the effluent had been.

 

“That’s when I heard him shout. I don’t know if his visitor had left yet can you tell me? Actually, can you tell me why you’re here?”

 

“Yeah, sure pass me your number and I’ll keep you informed of the investigation.”

 

“Really?”

 

There was a glint of disappointment in her eye, she could tell when her charm hadn’t worked apparently. Well, at least she had her books, and he pondered the fact that a little rejection can make beauty shine brighter.

 

The sounds of some of his men at the door continued. The apartment blocks belonged to some big-shot politician, one of those who got recycled between cabinet posts no matter who was president. Some men considered heading a parastatal a major demotion, and when you went to those men’s places you knocked with a light feather. The IO approved of his men testing their lock-picking skills though. He knew at least 5 thieves in a kilometre radius who would have ensured he’d been in long before that woman thought mention of a boyfriend would pique his interest.

 

 

He climbed the stairs just in time to see the door turning. His men had finally got the door open. Darks shadows crowded inside. It looked like the mouth of some monster from the deep, one of those things with three or four rows of teeth, arranged concentrically around…even more teeth. The creatures that proved nature was always out for blood.

 

A torch was shone in and he saw the house was stock-full of different kinds of clothes. He was impatient to enter, to shine a light in and see what was held at the back, what was being hidden. But the crime they were investigating meant he couldn’t just blunder in. Procedures had to be followed at this point. Guard dogs and machines used to detect faint traces of the chemicals used in explosives. Could someone have so callously acquiesced to the bombing of a church. “I’M SO IN.” This is not what you shouted before heading out to destroy so many, but he couldn’t be sure, he could never really be sure. Maybe this is what they all said. Maybe the pull of death was an ecstasy. A feeling akin to sex, to breaking through the different forms of resistance-cultural and social, biological and financial, to finally enter, to finally go home. Maybe that’s what he meant, a kind of homecoming in his future.

 

They were dragging out the clothes now. He could see the quality and thought that had been put into the suits held by his men. They were all of different sizes yet there was the same love poured into them. The wapt and wefts met and left, interweaved and interlocked in an endless struggle of creation, a brimming tension of discovery, a replaying of the age-old lesson that only opposites give birth to beauty. He remembered his home-science then. He could remember how he’d been completely unable to thread a needle for a time. All the hours he’d spent whittling down thread to its fine points, sucking it and chewing it off. How his hands had trembled whenever he’d approached the hole, completely unable to go in.  He’d been more religious back then and the words of Jesus always played in his mind, a camel through the eye of a needle. And so, as he trembled back in school he’d wondered why that particular metaphor. What made the image of a camel so special, the humps? The fact that sometimes they looked like thread hang from them instead of fur? Whenever he’d succeeded he remembered his utter joy, the cry that came from inside his heart as he lifted up the thread and pulled it taut, as he remembered this he looked up to see his men carrying down tailors apparatus, he quietly thought of the tap-ta-tap he’d been told about and smiled a little at the solution to one of the mysteries,

 

“I’M SEWING.”

 

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized