“I’ve come to believe that each of us has a personal calling that’s as unique as a fingerprint – and that the best way to succeed is to discover what you love and then find a way to offer it to others in the form of service, working hard ”
Wouldn’t it be amazing if these were Cynthia Nyongesa’s words?
There is this thing about music that it almost reflects the human body. I find it relatively synonymous with my heartbeat and its lyrics echo the vibrations in my soul. To me and to many, music has been a teacher and a safe haven. Music fills the air and our space without effort. We feed so much from it as its rhythm swims through our cerebral cortex.
The Wamalwas
The image painted of Marriage is that of a wedding gown, a ring worn, honeymoon or a paper signed. Signed to pronounce a life commitment and for others, a convenience drawn back before even the ink dries. Till death do us part, they say, assuming no other lifetimes after mortality. If you take this at face value,
This life is an adventure. The thing about it is, where we wander; none have walked before.
Our life is sacramental. Infact someone once wrote, ‘It is lived as a secret and told as a lie. Sure, we share bits and pieces of what happens throughout our days, or within our nights, but that’s all. That’s all that is shared.
When Plato argued that ‘Necessity is the mother of all inventions’, he provoked a storm of ideas on who actually gives birth to inventions. Philosopher Alfred North Whitehead disagrees with this idea. In fact, he thinks this proverb is silly. He says, “Necessity is the mother of futile dodges” is much closer to the truth. ‘The basis of the growth of modern invention is science,
I love my pieces articulate and declamatory. The kind that stirs your mind, leaves it in a trainwreck of thoughts and later buries it in a bubble. Tea or coffee. They are my companions in this quest.
Today, I chose tea. And guess what my teabags reminded me of?… Women! “They are like teabags”, Eleanor Roosevelt once said.
Drinks bring back memories. But so do breaths. Every single one of them. At least for us teetotalers, who don’t need drinks to subject our minds to involuntary time travel.
The year is 2015. I am in love, with a tender soul who smiles charitably and freely. Eyes are meant to see but hers speak, of the journey of sunlight as it enters raindrops and emerges as rainbows.
Who gets rejected and elated simultaneously on his birthday? That can only be a loser who doesn’t give a shilling about the basic rules of charm. That loser is me. I finally understood what it feels to be a Man U fan.
So for the past 22 years, I have successfully satisfied
the inclination of men, both dead and alive,
Probably we are all dead and alive in our afterlife. Or tell
me, when did being gentle and nice translate into affection? I am a confessed
professional judge. I sometimes get so judgmental I forget my own masks. And
today is not the day I apologize for being that. This is the day I adorn my judicial robes and
call conjecture to the stand for cross-examination.
So I heard about this absurd story concerning a hospital. Every Sunday morning around 11 A.M, a patient died in the ICU. This happened for quite a while and it was a wonder and a mystery, not just because of the consistency of deaths but also about their unknown causes. It became a great matter of concern to the surgery team and the doctors on why they had to lose a patient every Sunday just when they thought they had saved them.
