BABY LESSONS

A silent sob takes over me. I really thought I was passed days of feeling like this. Like I don't want to wake up tomorrow. Don't get me wrong, I am not suicidal. Some days are just hard and you want to go to sleep and wake up a year later knowing the problem is long gone. We all feel like that at some point. Life can be overwhelming.

I sniffle and bury my head under my covers as Janelle hops into bed. She snuggles close and hugs me tight. Her face is distorted by sadness and I hate it. She has some fat heart and is quite lovable and adorable.

Oh Lizzie. You suck sometimes.

She bursts into tears and we cry together. Mourning my loss and celebrating our bond together, as we always have.

"Na-na-nakupenda, Lizzie," she coos amidst the tears. "Who should we hate for hurting you?"

See what I mean?

Lovable.

I smile lightly. "Honey, I don't want hate seeping through your pores. You are too beautiful for hatred. Nakupenda so..." she starts snoring softly before I could finish.  So I kiss her forehead and pull her close before my own thoughts swamp me.

Mental note; buy new colouring pencils.

See, my niece is only six years old and she is no snooky baby like me. I was blessed enough to watch her grow up, learning a lot in the process. I used to be some delicate blossoming flower but days around her turned me into a thriving weed. And that, trust me, is a good thing. All the cases I had to solve were of her beating the life out other kids because they overstepped their border. She happens to be quite opinionated and never fails to state pieces of her mind. This little beautiful girl took me under her wings and gave me a new motto: "Don't take shit!"

I really did win some "best niece" lottery. This kid is the object of my affections. She taught me how to love, and give. She is like my second sister. She holds me in affection like the first, but only attends more closely! I share my heart with her more often than most. She does have the color of a parent, if you ask me. I put before her emotions I dare not lay in anyones path. When I send Janelle a sorrow she returns it to me mended. .She always has a remedy. That is because merriment is her finest gown so I cant help but gather delights each time I set eyes on her; delights enough to make my struggles small.

Janelle has some fine sense of wonder. She counts neither past nor future as the present utterly contents her. Watching her tender trusting face does make me solemn especially when I consider the fickleness of possibility. Life really does add weight to innocence.How I wish I could know about her tomorrow and shield her from its darkness. But she once told me that children are nearer to God because they arrived recently. That is the reason she gives for having to be the one to conduct our bedtime prayer. She is closer to God. See, she is the sharpest tool in the shed. But then again, I find proximity to God fugitive-and quite frightening. I am more comfortable with distance.

HOPE

To doubt that health plans a return,
And hope finds her place
Once more against a wrecked soul,
Is the defeat of life
To witness the purple flames dim,
And leaves reduce their stay,
Says more of loss
But hope beats its wings,
Against my funeral thoughts.

Growing up, I wanted to be a journalist. To protect the weak and the vulnerable and take on the bad guys. As far back as I can remember, I had this burning desire for justice. At school I confronted bullies if I saw them picking on the smaller kids. If they didn't back down, I would fight them. You can almost guess I lost more times than I won. In spite of all the beating, I knew I could never give up. I was too much of a believer in the old adage; evil triumphs  when good men do nothing. The only advantage I had was my voice. it was deep and quite commanding. needless to say that I was  a toothless dog. But really it's genetic. My father is quite stern but he is thunder without lightning. Joram, my small brother, and I used to guard ourselves more tightly when the walls trembled but feared no harm from errant bolts. You can almost guess, then, that my mother was the Big Punisher.

I am really not sure why I told you that but hey, am bored. Am surrounded by this deathly silence and sleep ditched me long ago and doesn't seem quite interested in a truce. My keyboard is all I have. I would have loved to get all passionate and intimate with her but my thoughts just went numb. They are rushing but they refuse to form a row. I have never been a strong believer in the writers block. I am however acquainted to the fright that stabs ones heart when there is no sound to shape sense. But I am aware of another terror, a larger one than that, that even after molding, mustering your thoughts to form a row, thought might remain numb, still! Words have always been my loyal friends I can turn to for comfort. They never fear the mind's inciting acts. However much we struggle-and am beginning to fear their disobedience-they always allow me the final mastery, which I consider some honour. Their power is stupendous. Words give breathe to thought, and life itself. With them we shape the world and taste immortality.

At the time of my birth, my mother was a teacher. I bet that explains everything. I was born in Macalder, somewhere in Nyatike constituency before we moved to Kabuoch. Oh yes I have travelled the world. My travels have shaped my ideas and character. The childhood memories remain. She used to teach Home Science and I used to look forward to my knitting sessions with her every Saturday.She was one hell of a strict woman and that was about the only thing that brought us together. She used to travel a lot and in those days that she was gone, the house was always looking windswept, with some forgotten feel to it.The merest plate awaited her return for the imposition of its former order. It was some curious sensation because her absence gave our spirits greater freedom. There was less wrath to risk! But I always looked forward to her return. I would be lying if I said any colourful displays marked her return but I felt the joy she could not express each time she saw us run to welcome. But perhaps I could feel her absence because we two are similar. Seeing ourselves in each other, we feared to bring the mirror closer. We both wore a vail. But while I hid from the world,mother-who confronts the world-hid from her own soul, and from the family that would define her. She holds back her affection and I follow her in this, for the pattern was long set. But though our lips are silent, hearts speak quietly.