Me in the Old Album, Part 1: Me
When I look at those pictures,
I feel something tantamount to
a forgotten dream, a lemon freshness
that seems to evict me from a dreamland
and cast me into another. I cherish my childhood
and anything good and tricky that came with it;
my first love, but before that, me.
So me:
I mean, if I were wine, I probably would
get better with age but my looks? Nope!
Those pictures convey a beauty that
sometimes leaves me clutching my face,
looking in the mirror, thinking, wondering
then asking: what happened?
Whatever happened, I know I had my share
of the first half of the beauty and the beast.
Those days I dreamt of my nanny
going to heaven and returning to me
clad in white and giving me the purple bananas
she used to give me. And I would retell the story
to willing ears of my mama who would give me milk,
or anything I wanted, take very good care of me
when Malaria was chasing me like I robbed it,
and just sit there with me, praying;
and I would dream of one day becoming a doctor
learning to the highest levels achievable.
Aunt Kezia, with her remarkable cigar
taking care of little me when mama was at work,
feeding me and pointing at the passing aeroplanes
and saying ‘eat so that one day you become a pilot’
and I know she wanted me to soar above the clouds
and not resting until I reached my final destination.
As little as some things looked, they are there
part of me and ineradicable from my memories.
Memories of a village child attending
First Communion classes, then Confirmation -
White top, black shorts. Kneeling. Receiving.
Blessings from second nanny before the exam.
Ndururu my beloved pet cow, Sophia,
Ndururu’s daughter and Mrembo,
Sophia’s daughter.
Issa the old dog succumbing to cancer,
Then Simba, Issa’s son who inherited the estate.
Cats were a handful, so we did with none.
Some photos in my mind remind me of love.
Just love. The love that was there whether
or not I was there and the love that was not
always smooth but there nonetheless. The love
that didn’t shun me when I made mistakes,
the love that was rarely in words but always
in actions. The love that has lived as long as I have;
that from those that mean the world to me.
There are so many changes negative -
not limited to looks! But that childish,
playful, mischievous soft spot dies
only with the last breath
and these pictures tend to bring the spot
to new life and spring a new identity in me,
I sink back to my childhood days,
and I try to remember who I am.
©J.Kisiah 22/05/10
Facebook Comments