9 years old and he has just recently started insisting on getting himself prepared for the school day. It is allowed. Growth is natural, it cannot be stunted. He is much slower on his own but won’t take kindly to any assistance. “I’m not a baby anymore,” he will say to her. She used to sit by him as he went about his morning routine, in the hope that dictating instructions would help him pick up the pace, but even that he objected to. “I can do it on my own mum.” Now she makes sure he is up, then heads downstairs to wait for him, preparing breakfast. Today she’s been anxiously looking outside at the sky, wondering if the weather really was dreadful or if the darkness of dawn was simply giving everything a tint of dreary.
Words have the power to alter the future and change the world.
I cannot remember where I collected these words from, they are not my own. I probably got them from a book. Or something. They have been in my head for very many years.
Here’s a little ‘Taking Stock’ style post, I’ve never done one. There has never been a need to. Now the need has a risen. I’d like to update you guys on a few things concerning a couple of previous posts, but none of the updates is substantial enough to stand on its own as a post so here we are.
I shall back-track in chronological order.
I normally walk to work. How blessed am I to be able to do this? Walk as I watch Nairobians’ productivity melt away like the fuel in the engines of their stationary cars in traffic, all this while I practise my Spanish. Blessings upon blessings upon blessings these are! The Kileleshwa-Kilimani environs are residential so I walk past very many houses, apartment blocks, little gated communities, the likes, most of which have watchmen.
Do loud people know that they are loud? I feel as though this is something I have previously thought and written about. I don’t think it had a whole post dedicated to itself though. So here goes… Do loud people realize how loud they are? Do people occasionally, casually, point out to them, as they so often do with quiet people, how loud they are?
When walking home, there is a dirty and desolate-looking man coming your way. He is limping. His right foot is covered by a plastic bag. A dirty plastic bag that has been trudged through mud. His clothes may have been of varied colours once, when they were still dignified, now they are all the colour of dirt, of dust, of poverty, of homelessness. They are the same colour as the sack that is weighing him down. The sack he carries over his shoulder. This sack that likely contains his life’s possessions. Everything he owns, is on his back. The clothing he wears and the sack he bears.
It’s 6.32am. I am leaving the house 17 minutes later than I should for my morning run. This means everything about my day is going to be slightly delayed but, if nothing else, I must run. It makes me feel good. So good. Plus 1.7km is such a short distance if you think about it and 11 minutes, the duration of my run, is nothing, a tiny little drop if you look at it in respect of the fact that I have 24 hours in the day.
*posting this again because it mysteriously disappeared off of my hosting provider’s servers*
I went for a wedding this past weekend. Aren’t weddings just beautiful? I think so. The marriage that comes after, I cannot definitively classify as beautiful or not, the wedding though, weddings are generally beautiful.
Are you a Harry Potter fan that has been click-baited by the title?