Edwin's Corner

The other day, I was invited to meet a senior military man. I expected a stuck-up person with poor social graces. ‘Tick a box and return to your comfortable civilian existence,’ I told myself.    As a young boy, I attended a military school and interacted with the children of military personnel. Military folk are warm when order prevails. Not so when they are dealing with chaos and discord. And I always felt a thin veneer of order kept them in check. For that reason, I always wearingly handled them. Yet from the moment I met this old man, he was the warmest, most joyful person I could imagine. He had a story to tell, one that needed my full attention. I sat down by his side and listened. It was one of pain and loss, one filled with deep emotional disturbances and healing. As I listened to him, I wondered how many stories are told truthfully and how many are delusions. Almost all the stories in the first account carry the teller's assumptions, perceptions, and beliefs. ...

One of the hardest things to accept is that most of us are unhappy with our work. We strive to make progress only to look in the mirror and struggle to keep a smile. Yesterday, I took a walk and watched the wind rustle leaves on the trees in my estate. As I navigated around potholes I contemplated a contradiction. Why is it we work hard to build castles with no foundation? Chase after illusions so that people can celebrate us.    The job, the house, the clothes, the trips, the accolades, Lord forbid that relationship you have; all an illusion to gain acceptance. If I asked you to take some time off and go somewhere secluded alone. Would you experience joy, or dread? The dread of being forgotten. Dread of your existence being irrelevant in the grander scheme of things. And for that, you hold on to this life desperately. Grudgingly.  Keep those castles up in the air with all the fiber of your existence. A few days ago my fridge capitulated after years of faithful service. I...

A couple of weeks ago, I visited a church. My bike rider kept going further down a dusty path with nothing more than white chalk to direct us along. The noise of the poorly fueled motorcycle kept me focused on an important topic: death. I believed we were lost and surfaced from my trance. "I think I'm going to that church." "Which one?" "That one," An attempt to have a conversation since there was nothing else for miles around except banana trees and maize fields. "The one with the large cross at the top." I entertained my new friend, my inner eyes-rolling. "Woah, that cross is big, bro," I nodded in agreement. We had become fast friends, him sharing his life in intimate detail in the thirty minutes it took to get there. The cross grew more prominent as we got closer. What structure lay below it? Could it support all that? I had arrived at a funeral. Expensive four-wheel-drive cars clogged the large parki...

We all had those days, weeks, and months when something snapped, and we went a bit crazy. This is one such story I kept in the recess of my mind. I was barely ten years old.   "The phone is really nice and shiny," I said, reaching up. It was placed on a high cupboard, in a corner right outside my parent's room. It was kept there so we could also receive calls since our parents were always away working.   Unlike the one before, a quaint rotary system, this one was white and had buttons. It looked so light caged and padlocked in a metal contraption that held it down, hiding the buttons.   Big Sis was standing on a chair beside me engrossed. Her focus was on the manacles holding the phone buttons out of access. With no social media back then, and with little interest in television, Big Sis was looking at her only source of entertainment. The brightest girl in Laikipia District, based on her last award, was stumped. My eyes moved from her to the phone and wondered wha...

I was standing there with a rose. At least that's what Mr Patel told me it was. It was red and spiky. "Watch your hands and heart," he said. I was too flushed to say anything. The edges were wilting. I was sure I was a novice buyer for Mr Patel.     I walked into the restaurant and sat at the table closest to the door. I looked strange, a ten-year-old on a first date. My uncle had chided me for looking presentable, I wore a white shirt, trousers, socks and shoes. My nose assaulted by Brut, 'the essence of men'. So here I was nervous, and my heart pounding. This went on for a while before worry took over. "Had the girl forgotten to come? Was she held up in traffic?" Outside was a Saturday afternoon. The two streets in Nanyuki were deserted. I sighed, trying to calm down. My thoughts went back to when I had seen her. She was a new girl in our sister class, and the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Flawless dark skin, and teeth as white as dair...

My ears were sensitive to the noise and babel outside - loud music blaring, and cars honking. We were seated in a small room, deprived of light. There were other sounds, not as loud, of crawling creatures scurrying around. We were on the second floor of a building, that had sucked in air, to fit between other buildings that lacked a hint of design or flair in their construction. For a moment, I remembered the mason who did odd jobs at our house and wondered if he had constructed the buildings in this part of the city.   I looked outside the window, the lone window that allowed in reflected light. The lone window from which you could never see the sun, but still sense its presence. I wondered if a prisoner in solitary confinement desired the sun, the way I desired to leave that office.   Yet, we were there for a good reason. Seated beside me was my father, in a polo shirt and khaki slacks. He was relaxed and seemed oblivious of the surrounding. I looked across the tiny ...

"Edwin! We are going to the A.S.K. show tomorrow," declared my elder sister. She was giddy and happy. I didn't get it. Why was a teenager excited about an 'A.S.K show'? "Tomorrow is the day," she repeated, her voice rising with excitement. My sister was the family bookworm, while I was the walking question mark. She brought home awards ever since she picked up a book and was top of every class she ever attended. My sister had brains and beauty. Was eloquent and spoke with conviction at most times. She was the cool kid everyone wanted to be. I was glad she was my sister and would tell everyone as she received her umpteenth prize at the school assembly, “Hey, that’s my sister.” Most would look at me funny. As I   turned to my slightly worn-out shoes, angry that their eyes said they didn’t believe me, then promise myself that would not grate my heart.   Anyway! Back to the story. I woke up early Saturday morning. We were at the dining table when Big...