Dear Tafari,
Welcome to the world. You have come at a time when I am conflicted about your arrival. I wonder whether it is the reason you took your time? Like why didn’t you arrive when you were supposed to? Is this is a sign? You break rules. I like that. If you break rules, you must learn how to make your own.
Your parents should never know that I support you in breaking rules. What I want you to know is that I am here, I am your rock.
Dream! Dream! Dream!
You know Tafari, you have come at a time when there is so much going on in the world. It is both good and bad. The good? These days my dear you can dare dream. Ask me, I know. Growing up in Ziwani and later in the house where you live now, dreams were things to be cautious about. Now you can dream, and you become. Dream my dear, dream. The world is at your little pink feet. Conquer.
Be Careful About Little Lies
There are little things you must be careful about though. Little lies that have been told for so long they have become stale, yet they still do the rounds in random family meetings. I hear them in buses. I see them in the eyes of people who are not even aware that they carry such baggage.
Things like ‘you are the future of this country;. Well, yes you are, until you are not. Take these tales with a pinch of a Mawathe attitude. Ask if you must. Ask. Don’t be afraid to confront and ask, really? ‘How I’m I the future when you all building on
Ooops You Have A Disease — Corruptiliosis!
You come at a time when most of us are ill. We are praying but not hopeful. There is a disease that you have inherited. Corruptiliosis. It eats at you, it gnaws at your being and then watches you laugh at your self. If anyone tells to that a wheelbarrow can cost Sh100,000 ($1000) that is not a joke. If someone tells you that your sugar is poisonous, it is not something to laugh or make memes about. Maybe, I hope, the cure to Corruptiliosis will be discovered in your life time. Me? I am time bad. It is hard facing your own mortality with this kind of reality dancing at the edges of your grave. Inviting you to your death with a bold cynical smile. Mscheeeewwww…..
I am not the kind to search for miraculous regeneration.I know it will take a long time before this disease is finally banished from the face of this beautiful country that you have been born into. I call it beautiful so that you also know that there are places and faces out there that will promise safe havens. You, dear one, this is home. Our home….
It is odd even for me, the one who bares a restless mind. The kind that you cannot cage. I still find my campus gravitating towards home. You will soon understand that the safety net in family is irreplaceable. I hope this becomes your truth too.
Being A Man
You, young man, will hear loads of bullshit stories about being a man. To be a man my dear, has nothing to do with the stories that our community weaves about men. Your masculinity shall not be defined by your tears. If you want to cry? Do so. Anyone who tells you that men do not cry is obviously peddling old and outdated cultural bullshit. Be careful about that especially.
I know we shall return to this one. Often. I know I am putting myself on the firing line, as the word apostate plays in the lips of some. It doesn’t bother me. I want you to know the truth early because as a boy, there are certain things that you will hear that I do not subscribe to. Things like you must take courses that are manly. You must marry from this tribe and not the other. You must …you must….who says? Press ignore and when you go around the corner, delete or even block that nonsense.
If you want to refer back ask your grandfather about uncle K, his own brother. Or look for him. Uncle K carried baskets as a young man. It was an abomination. The village said that sisal baskets were for women to carry. Uncle K was unbothered. He had his own when he came visiting and he had no problem strapping it on his back. Uncle K cooked. He cooked insanely delicious meals. He stepped in when grandma wasn’t around…..That smoky kitchen where the firewood defied. The roof was black with soot. The maize that dried on that roof, grandma said, were meant for the next planting season. It remained there until it became part of the decoration. Uncle K cleaned and ensured that everything was in order.
We were there with him during the holiday. Just one holiday. It changed everything I knew about men, hunger and presence.
He would spin some fine Ngunza (pegion peas and maize meal). We loved downing it with black tea. It had true sugar. The one that was not laced with dangerous metals. Or so I believe. I grew up knowing this, if you are hungry cook. Hunger has no gender. Son, learn the rules. Learn them so well so that breaking them is easy. I will have your back.
A Man Can be Strong and Vulnerable
As you grow, you will know that the word ‘strong’ has many meanings to it. Some are true some are not. Explore it. Engage with it. strength does not mean you cannot be vulnerable. No. Open up to people you trust. Allow yourself some level of malleability.
Know the people who can hold your heart safely. This, you must, because in growing up, you will learn that humans can be cagey, snaky. You will need humans because at times, it will feel as if the door to heaven has been shut and the world is crumbling beneath your feet. You will be uncertain. You will need a hug. A meal. You will desire to pass your ideas and thoughts through another pair of ears. To reach out is wisdom. To know who to reach out to is unrivalled talent.
But again, I have already warned you about the stories our people tell. Be selective WHO you open up to. Me? I am smiling a lot these days. I am having so much fun just watching the house that grandma built grow bigger and bigger. I want to be the dope aunt, the kind that bites and blows yaani kuuma na kupuliza panya style.
I am here, your naughty aunt who will give you all the survival secrets and plenty of chocolate. You deserve them.
Bye,
Auntie Anne.
