Remember Sarafina? It was a South African movie that introduced me to apartheid in SA and the ‘toyi-toyi’ dance. There, mini-skirts and mini dresses were donned with such charisma and simplicity. They did not attempt to pull them down or hide their yellow thighs when they bucked their knees up as they danced and demonstrated in the streets. Their defiance to intimidation gave such an air of confidence that Kenyan ladies should borrow. This is neither about miniskirts nor Sarafina, it’s about tenacity. But I can’t just jump in without warming you up. We’ll have to start with this one lady, my friend, Sue. To understand some gradations of tenacity you have to know where it started.
At 24, I care for my health more than my looks. Okay, we are getting off to a bad start. I lied. I care for both. Thus, I jog thrice a week for an hour. More for my health and I’ll tell you why. When I was 15, I went for a checkup and oddly, my doctor gave me an appointment with a cardiologist. He said my heart rate was too fast signifying an allergy to medication or something. So I showed up the next week. My only worry then was the two male doctors that touched me, for the first time. They took turns at my left breast, fondling (another lie), then massaging the cold gel on the underside where they were just filling out and then placing the cold metal thing that was connected to the scanner. They called the procedure Echo. There was a whizzing sound from my heart. Like a donkey’s bray. Heee without the hooo. I was slightly perturbed. But the hand on my breast! Then on the screen, there were bubbles leaving my left ventricle!
She grew up in a pretty small world,
A little village, fresh and green not a busy barn,
Every morning she passed the fields, and with every passing glance,
Took her breath as the breeze on the flower buds,
Slowly by slowly strung,
The cords of her heart like a humming bird..
In a scale of crawl (1) to sprint (5), my comprehension of most holidays listed in my diary is a drag. A mere two. There are two plausible holidays in the calendar; New Year and Independence day. The rest are pretty much stringed up to some religious or political conundrum that require years of ‘GH-CRE’.
But the world revolves on an even keel. Thus, for the fucker (sue me) that came up with 5 weekdays and 2 days for the weekend, Kenyans, welcome St Patrick’s Day. The unleaded pencil I call imagination tells me it stems from a ‘Kasalany area guy’ of the pre-medieval times that witnessed Jesus turning water to wine. Going by the name Patrick, he recounted the events of the Galilean festival with consummate euphoria. I witnessed, ni kama ndrama..