Daily Prompt: Panacea

Did I have a bad day?  1 glass of wine.

Did I have a good day? 1 glass of wine.

Do I want to go to Italy but my pocket is laughing at me? 1 glass of wine.

Is today Thursday? Have 1 bottle of wine and then tomorrow, have another.

Do I feel as lonely as ever? 3 glasses of wine.

Do I wish I could cuddle with him right now?  Glass Bottle of wine.

Do I miss my mum and our chitchats? Call mom and drink some wine while at it.

You must’ve guessed it by now – wine is my panacea.

.via Daily Prompt: Panacea

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At some point…

At some point, we all cry;
Break down and feel stabbed.
But if at some point we all cry,
Then surely there must be some point where we get to be free,
Where we get to the other side of the tunnel,
And see, and feel the light.

Culturally speaking #1: Poop

There are so many cultures in this world. And the cultures vary in many ways- what and how we eat, what and how we wear, what and how to address others, whether a bottle glass of wine is a good way to pass time or it is the drink that those going to hell drink. I  currently live in South Korea and the culture here is totally different from my home, Kenya.

One of the things that I have found to be so distinctly different between the two countries’ cultures is the way people talk about poop. In Korea, it is totally normal to say “I had a bad day. I ate really spicy noodles yesterday and I had a continuous bout of diarrhea. It was so bad.” Or even when your pastors are around, you can hear someone say “I have bad constipation, please pray for me.” I think it has grown on me too because I remember telling someone in Kenya that it is hard for me to pass stool over the phone and this person told me not to talk to them again (Hey person..I know you know yourself hehe). However, it had become totally normal for me to say that. It is now normal to say “I cannot eat grilled pork at night. I have bad constipation and the meat does not help me.”(Its true by the way). And no…it is not as awkward or as eeewww-y to me as it might sound to you.

However, I eavesdropped on a convo today morning at work that took this poop-speaking matter to a whole other level.

I have this colleague at work. He recently became a new dad. It’s his first kid and its a daughter and she makes him so happy- She clearly is his bundle of joy. He is always on his phone, not playing games as he used to, but staring at her pictures. She is cute, her name is *Autumn. He is always talking about her. Today’s episode started when one of our other colleagues (Colleague 2) said about how tired she was. I think she said that she did not have enough sleep or something. Then Autumn’s dad interjected. “Tired? Why? What did you do?” Colleague 2 utters something about yesterday night. Autumn’s dad interjects: “Really? You know what I did? Yesterday, from 10 pm to today 6 am, I changed Autumn’s diaper 12 times.” Colleague 2 says that that is a normal number of diaper changes for her age (Autumn is barely 3 weeks old.) Then she asks:
“Is it not the green-poop-period?”
“No, it is brown now.”
“But I thought it is green. That is how my niece was like when she was born.”
“Yeah. Mine too..immediately she was born, she pooped. It was green then. Now it is mostly brown. Actually light brownish. Man…I had one “hell” of a night.”

By the time that that conversation stopped, I was imagining how the same conversation would sound in my mother tongue:

“Rìu ì gatimìaga mai ma girini?”

“Aca nì ma buraùni.”

“Haiya..gwìciragia nì ma girini. Kairìtu ga sista yakwa ka-mìaga ma girini gaciarwo o ùgwo.”

“Onako ka-mìaga ma girini gaciarwo. Marì ma girini no thikù ici nì macenjetie. Rìu nì ma buraùni…akshuare ni ma ka-light brown. Hee…ira kùrare ùtukù mùru.” 

poop

Have a good day:)

Hehe ;)

I was going through my stuff and I found something I wrote a long time ago. Hope it makes you laugh

PS: Where I come from, sssaitan is a word used to refer to the ‘the devil’. 

Also PS: This is a pretty long post…

************************************************************************************

Spicy ramyon…and sssaitan of stomach problems

Please I beg of you in the name of me, myself and my bottom.

Don’t eat spicy food…unless you are Mexican……..or you are sure that you won’t be shooting razors out of your bottom [stolen phrase from a friend] after eating the spicy food.

Let me tell you why.

I have a habit of not eating meals. By meal, I mean good food; by good food I mean something that builds your body for your own good. Stuff like rice and potatoes and beans, or ugali and meat and some leaves of some sort. I am not a good cook and to add to that, I am always lazy to cook. Like I only cook when the Hand of Chefness is upon me and it never places itself on me as often. So whenever I get home at or after 7pm, I settle down to a non-meal called ramyon. For those who do not know what ramyon is, it is a pack/cup of noodles which you add water and voila, you have a meal! Sorry- I mean- voila, you have a non-meal! The mere fact that the only additional ingredients you need to make ramyon is water, flakes of dried veggies and spicy powder (the latter 2 come with the noodles) is what qualifies it to be a non-meal.

My relationship with this non-meal has grown over the years especially after I came to Korea and sweet Mom was not around to make sure I ate well or cooked. (It should not be assumed that my mum spoiled me by cooking for me all the time. In most parts of where I come from, girls are taught how to cook from maybe age 10 to 13.  And we can cook, well not like perfect chefs, but that is the start of a long-term cooking experience in your family home. You cook dinner, lunch, breakfast and the others enjoy it….Or criticize you for it until you move out, get married, or whatever. Anyways back to my story..)

So the non-meal became my comfort, quick to prepare and quick to eat, no dishes to wash after.  Yes, no dishes! Woohoo! Another thing about the non-meal is that it has cousins. There are so many types of ramyon- some spicy, some okay and some are the “why did you make this type of ramyon” types.  Let me now get back to why I was writing this blog.

So yesterday was Thursday. On this particular Thursday, I had planned to meet up with my friends to practice dance (We are a team of 4 girls who do African dances; you know rising up the African flags up high).  Originally we were 12, now we are 4…anyways). I could not grab dinner earlier on. So we danced and by the time we finished, it was 10pm. I got home a bit later, tired and hungry. The Hand of Chefness was not over me and so I was not in the mood to hit pans and pots together in the kitchen.

I looked around the house and found Cheata (she is my Cambodian roommate)’s ramyon.

                  “Hey, can I please have your ramyon?”

                  “Yeah!”

Continue reading “Hehe ;)”

With Others By Our Sides

That day
When we will see each other
With others by our sides
Holding our hands
And we are both so happy
With others by our sides
I wonder what will go through my head

I hope that you will be happy
I hope that you will be learning more about yourself
I hope that you will be learning how to love another
In a bigger and better way
I hope that you will be more grown
Both mentally and spiritually
I hope that you will fight
For the other one on your side
And..
I hope you will hope for the same things for me too.

Always.
Paula.

-Ngari Paula Wanjiru-

On The Other Side

Bridge_1

I have this fear,

That one day,

I will be the one on the other side

Of Love.

Where I will be the open gate for

The hurt,

The negative vibes,

The ‘other people’,

The beginner of destruction,

The one who cheated,

The one who walked out on family,

The one who defiled the marriage bed.

I am scared to give my life to another

Because

I am scared that one day,

I will be the one on the other side

Of Love

 

-Ngari Paula Wanjiru-

I was so tired…

On May 26th Friday, I was so tired.

My Kenyan friends and I finished cooking for a certain food festival at 7 a.m in the morning. I was so tired by 5.30 a.m. when we were about to cook mandazis*, but I suddenly got this energy at 6 a.m. and in an hour we were done. I had asked my friend Sibu to lend me a t-shirt which I could wear to work. After putting it on and saying goodbye to her, I walked in the sun.

 

field-summer-sun-meadow

Walking at 7am in the morning was quiet and so nice. The sun was hot enough to keep me from shivering from the breeze that flew then. At times I closed my eyes and just walked. Oh how I love the morning sun. When the sun rays are out, but are not as hot, and with a breeze which barely brushes my skin but leaves me cool.

I continued walking in my awesome-sunny-breezy-weather. But suddenly out of nowhere, I felt like crying. I was sad all of a sudden. I cried but the tears did not roll down my cheeks. I imagined me at home. In my imagination, I was wearing a white sweater and short shorts. And there was this special person. They came and hugged me. Then they asked if I was okay. But I just wept. They patted my hair while saying “Shh..hush now, it will be okay.” I remember just grabbing them tighter and just bawling my eyes out.

Back to reality -.-

The breeze had grown stronger because it hit me and brought me back from my fantasy world. The balls and heels of my feet felt like they had been standing on stones for the whole night. My eyes were swollen; eyelids struggle to stare in the sun that I really love. My back had stiffened and longed for a good stretch. My arms were stiff when I tried to stretch them out.

The feeling of wanting to cry had gone. But now it had come back. I wanted to cry. For no reason in particular. I just wanted to cry.

And I wanted someone to hold me and just let me cry. No assumptions made, no questions asked. I think I was really tired.

*Mandazi – A Kenyan cake made of flour, eggs, milk and butter deep fried in oil.

Speak Again, Speak Like Rain

speak like rain

Speak again, speak like rain

Your words to me

Are like honey licked from fingertips,

Like rain on dry soil.

One by one,

They get into me,

And water a part I did not know I had,

So speak again, speak like rain,

Water me.

 

Speak again, speak like rain.

Your voice to me

Is like the gentle sound of a stream in the early morning,

When no one is gossiping at the rocks on the bank while washing their clothes

It is like listening to the sound of fireflies,

As they fly about with glows on their behinds in a land full of green.

Your voice to me

Is like the gentle hum that grandmother makes of that old hymn

When she is up at the crack of dawn,

Making the fire for our breakfast.

So speak again, speak like rain

Make me sleep.

 

Speak again, speak like rain

Your lips.

I like the rhythm at which they dance

Upwards and downwards as they bring forth your words

When I see your lips dance,

I feel my heart skip,

So speak again, speak like rain

Since the time my voice dried

And my body refused any command,

That is all I can do,

Listen to you as you speak,

So speak again, speak like rain.

And if you cannot speak to me,

Look at me in the eyes,

Do not say a word

Just gaze into my eyes,

And I will gaze into your soul,

And there I will see you

Speaking again, speaking like rain

– Ngari Paula Wanjiru-

*The statement ‘Speak again, Speak like rain’ is from the book ‘Out of Africa’ by Isak Dinesen. I really liked the statement and I built the verse from there.

If I Could Rip My Heart Out

heart1

If I could rip my heart out,

I would.

The fire that is inside

It is disturbing

It covers the whole heart

It burns

But it is like on the outside only

It barely touches the inside,

But it is ever burning on the membrane.

Sometimes the heat feels like it is piercing through the middle of the heart

Most of the time it feels like it is just burning all around it

And I can only stop it

For the shortest of time

By breathing in deep.

And for a moment,

Like the gas fire when blown,

The flames grow short,

They lose their heat and strength of standing up straight,

But immediately come up,

Once again forming the love heart of flames

Around my heart,

With the same heat as before,

Maybe bigger,

And with the strength of standing straight

If I could rip my heart out,

I would.

 

Most times,

It is red,

Expands and contracts in a beautiful normal rhythm,

Then a friend says something,

And like a fountain pen placed at the bottom of my heart,

The ink leaves the pen,

And like on a tissue paper,

The ink blots out,

First on a small potion,

And then the capillaries pick up the foreign liquid,

Forming crystalline shapes,

And within no time,

My heart is not red,

It struggles to expand,

So it does when contracting,

Its rhythm however fastens,

So the expansion and the contractions are painful.

And my mind jumps to the Overthinking Mode.

“Is she boasting?”

“Why not me?”

“Why are they doing so well in life?”

“Why don’t I have what he has?”

My brain is heavily laden.

Jealousy and Envy have finally made their Grand Entrance into my small heart.

If I could rip my heart out,

I would.

-Ngari Paula Wanjiru-

I Have Stopped Loving You

I have stopped loving you.

You call me your woman but you do not respect me.

I tell you to go but you insist on staying,

I tell you to stay but you suddenly have appointments.

I have laughed when you made me laugh,

But I cried as well and it was because of you.

So go ahead,

I have stopped loving you

 

I have stopped loving you.

You call me your man but you have two more by your side.

When I tell you goodbye in the morning, you kiss me goodbye telling me to go because

‘I will be late for work’,

Only for number two or three to come by later.

I have laughed at your cute silliness,

But do you know that I cry too? And it is all because of you.

So go ahead,

I have stopped loving you

 

I have stopped loving you.

You left and you ignored me,

But I have heard that you are doing good.

Congratulations.

I am still trying to work on myself.

But I have learnt, A LOT.

I have learnt that I can love fiercely,

I can be the Lioness to another Lion, only this time, the Lion will be a Real One.

So go ahead,

I have let you go,

I have stopped loving you now~

 

You told me to go,

You said it in the letter that you wished I was gone.

Here I am now, not in the darkness you wished for me,

But in the light I found in being free from you.

I moved on, I show up on new dates.

Even if you call me fake, she calls me Her Lion King and that is all that matters.

So go ahead,

I have stopped loving you.

 

Yes, I even wrote a letter to you saying that we are done,

But what are these feelings, these emotions which threaten to tear the last thread of my nerves?

I want you back,

I miss our times,

I want to hold you but you are gone.

Have I really stopped loving you?

 

I am looking at our pictures,

Someone passed and I smelled your perfume,

The yellow wall across the road reminds me of the dress you wore on our first movie date.

Just like our relationship,

The trees beside our estate’s compound dried up after you left.

I hate my bed, it is too big now.

Her? I kicked her out,

I learnt too late that she was in it just for the paper.

Have I really stopped loving you?

 

Everything now reminds me of you,

You really miss the apple when you can no longer call it yours.

Hopefully I will let you go,

Someday.

But now, I wish you were here.

-Ngari Paula Wanjiru-