For many of us, our blogs are where we go to howl. They are hankies for our tears and ears for whispers of gossip that no one out here wants to waste time listening to. They are walls we drive our fists and head through when we cannot puff up some weed clouds to get over and done when at the edge of it. I do not know what writing does to you, but among the many things it does to me is cleanse me up. Just like my twitter TL, I can say anything I want and not care what anyone thinks about it. It is mine.
However, this sharing of thoughts, the ranting and the weeping on a blog is somewhat becoming a difficult thing. Mojo is of course there, but the courage to strip yourself naked to a crowd of readers who have already met you, who know your mother, know your girlfriend and all is a tad scary. I have wanted to blog about many a thing, about people, about myself and stuff I am going though. I have wanted to strip myself naked and just put it out there because it always feels good when poured down into writing. I have wanted to say things not because I want to be read but because this weight needs a way out of me, the shackles need to be undone, one way or another, and the only easiest way I know is by writing.
I tried once. I wrote about something I had not ever shared with anyone before, not even my family. It is probably one of the posts that has received many hits on my blog. For months after posting it, I felt naked. I battled with the idea of pulling it all down, then stopping immediately after logging into wordpress. I could see the stares on my twitter timeline. The death of previous me and the unspoken element of association with the post. I felt naked! Like everyone could see through me. Like a piece of glass. That nothing else was left for me. I felt defenceless. Exposed.
The nakedness this post brought with it has left me unable to blog. I know I am not alone. Many of us have files after files of posts piled up in our computers. Things we want say but we can’t really let an eye see because we are afraid of the dot joiner readers. Those that can’t let *Mary-not-her-real-name be just *Mary-not-her-real-name. As someone mentioned yesterday, with the death of the invisible ghosts and aliases that people were twitter handles, and the stepping out of these closets for meet ups and all, it slowly became a hard thing to blog about some things. We are all in the same inner circle. Blogging about a night out and #chipsfungarism thereafter might soon be at the verge of dying out. We are all curving in into one crowd. Tweeps drink together, go bowling together, invite each other to church service, do everything together!
I know that a writer should be fearless; as plucky as to call a spade a spade even when the spade is a best friend. However, sometimes it just doesn’t feel safe. As someone once said, If we were to be charged for the thoughts that run through our minds, we would all probably end up on the hangman’s noose. There is a lot of incommunicables that run through our minds. The little there is to communicate is however put at a limitation by other factors, with ‘what-will-people-think?’ being one of the focal.
However, I hear fear in a writer is the beginning of mediocre writing. Tackling that which you think you are safe with. A friend of mine told me to make sure that my writing is good enough to take me to prison. Ruffle some feathers. Do not be too complacent with things. Unfortunately, there is a lot that is always at risk when it comes to fearless blogging. The only other option would be to blog anonymously, but for the most of us that are keen to detail, we will figure you out after four sentences!
*Courtesy of Jacky Ndinda*
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
GOD HAS BEEN GOOD TO ME
For 20 years, I watched him fight cancer of the face. First just a small speck that begin to grow larger. Year after year I watch him go to hospital to have a bit cut out each time. As the years went by, more and more of his face was cut away. When he returned with what is left of his face, he tried to smile. He never complained or was downhearted.
He was a skilful mechanic and carpenter. In fact, he was one of the best. Whenever he did a job, he stood back to see if there was anything left out that could be added to make it perfect. Then he would see some little place that the average person would pass up. He would then touch up this or that.
I suspect he said this to himself “My work will be my face and my life” I doubt if he often looked in the mirror at that damaged face where the cancer ate into everyday. No matter how humble the pace he worked in, how small the job was or how crude the other workers seemed, it never bothered him at all. This was his work and it has to be done right. He never glanced at the work of others; a shoddy work done by others was not his concern. Nevertheless, I suspect when the job was done, he had a sense of inner pride and joy when he saw how outstanding it was. But he never boasted about it.
As the years went by, he became weaker and weaker. His hands did not move with confidence and speed that so characterized him. He was unable to do many things. However no matter what the work or pay, he always had the insatiable desire to do a good job.
The help he got was not able to catch his vision. They thought he was cranky to try so hard to complete each and every detail. So he worked alone. He did not complain or bitterly rail at the others. He would just appear the next morning by himself with no explanation of the absence of his helpers.
During the latter day, he had only the shambles of a face. He would wrap it up in a red bandana handkerchief, leaving only his eyes showing.
When you met him on the streets, he would always give a cheery greeting. As time went on, it was more and more difficult to sayt he words. Often he would move his walking stick. This stick, too, was a thing of beauty, carved out by his skilful hands.
His life seemed to be filled with contentment and peace. I suspect that he thanked God for those hands and the fact that it was not marred in any way.
He would often be missed about his usual haunts for weeks or months. He would make his journey to the hospital for the surgeon to cut away more of his face. Then you would see him again, a bit more gruesome. There would be no complaints, o telling of his operation and pain. He would just quietly go to work that was waiting for him.
In all his time, I never knew him to come back with any complaints about the pain. You would think there was nothing the matter if you did not see his face. When the days of his labors seem to be coming to an end, his chief concern was that his tools might be in good hands. He sent for me one day and told me he wished someone would appreciate the tools and use them properly.
When I took a young man to see him about the tools, there came a look of contentment and satisfaction. His work was finished and he was ready to cash in.
A few days before he died he was walking in the yard. His face was nearly completely covered with bandages. Only his eyes were uncovered. As he hobbled about the yard, he said “I am going to keep young just as long as I can”
The day he died, I went to see him again. The odor was so offensive you could hardly stay there. What was left of his face was a mass of scars and there was really nothing to cut away. You could tell he was in great pain and had many sleepless nights. But still there were no words of complaints.
I shall never forget his last words.
Even afterwards they have made me ashamed whenever I feel inclined to complain. Still day after day, they are vivid in my mind.
The words are “God has been good to me. I had never had any reason to complain”
How many times do we complain of things that really do not matter? So what if you do not have money, so what if you are not beautiful, so what if you lack that killer smile, so what if your nose is bigger? Does it matter that you never went to a good school or you do not have friends? Does it matter that you do not have the latest shoes, or that dress or the phone?
You are alive, you are healthy…… God has been good to you.
I have no reason to complain of my wants. I would have wished for so many things in life but I have what I have!
God has been good to me...
Eddie Ombagi.
He was a skilful mechanic and carpenter. In fact, he was one of the best. Whenever he did a job, he stood back to see if there was anything left out that could be added to make it perfect. Then he would see some little place that the average person would pass up. He would then touch up this or that.
I suspect he said this to himself “My work will be my face and my life” I doubt if he often looked in the mirror at that damaged face where the cancer ate into everyday. No matter how humble the pace he worked in, how small the job was or how crude the other workers seemed, it never bothered him at all. This was his work and it has to be done right. He never glanced at the work of others; a shoddy work done by others was not his concern. Nevertheless, I suspect when the job was done, he had a sense of inner pride and joy when he saw how outstanding it was. But he never boasted about it.
As the years went by, he became weaker and weaker. His hands did not move with confidence and speed that so characterized him. He was unable to do many things. However no matter what the work or pay, he always had the insatiable desire to do a good job.
The help he got was not able to catch his vision. They thought he was cranky to try so hard to complete each and every detail. So he worked alone. He did not complain or bitterly rail at the others. He would just appear the next morning by himself with no explanation of the absence of his helpers.
During the latter day, he had only the shambles of a face. He would wrap it up in a red bandana handkerchief, leaving only his eyes showing.
When you met him on the streets, he would always give a cheery greeting. As time went on, it was more and more difficult to sayt he words. Often he would move his walking stick. This stick, too, was a thing of beauty, carved out by his skilful hands.
His life seemed to be filled with contentment and peace. I suspect that he thanked God for those hands and the fact that it was not marred in any way.
He would often be missed about his usual haunts for weeks or months. He would make his journey to the hospital for the surgeon to cut away more of his face. Then you would see him again, a bit more gruesome. There would be no complaints, o telling of his operation and pain. He would just quietly go to work that was waiting for him.
In all his time, I never knew him to come back with any complaints about the pain. You would think there was nothing the matter if you did not see his face. When the days of his labors seem to be coming to an end, his chief concern was that his tools might be in good hands. He sent for me one day and told me he wished someone would appreciate the tools and use them properly.
When I took a young man to see him about the tools, there came a look of contentment and satisfaction. His work was finished and he was ready to cash in.
A few days before he died he was walking in the yard. His face was nearly completely covered with bandages. Only his eyes were uncovered. As he hobbled about the yard, he said “I am going to keep young just as long as I can”
The day he died, I went to see him again. The odor was so offensive you could hardly stay there. What was left of his face was a mass of scars and there was really nothing to cut away. You could tell he was in great pain and had many sleepless nights. But still there were no words of complaints.
I shall never forget his last words.
Even afterwards they have made me ashamed whenever I feel inclined to complain. Still day after day, they are vivid in my mind.
The words are “God has been good to me. I had never had any reason to complain”
How many times do we complain of things that really do not matter? So what if you do not have money, so what if you are not beautiful, so what if you lack that killer smile, so what if your nose is bigger? Does it matter that you never went to a good school or you do not have friends? Does it matter that you do not have the latest shoes, or that dress or the phone?
You are alive, you are healthy…… God has been good to you.
I have no reason to complain of my wants. I would have wished for so many things in life but I have what I have!
God has been good to me...
Eddie Ombagi.
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