I sit under the dark shade of wavering palm trees in this new antique joint, just recently opened next to the lake. The breeze is super cool and the sea hums in silent hymns. A group of friends sit on a table a few meters away, chatting and drinking the day away. The men on that table throw glances my way, as if beckoning for me to join their table. I wish they knew how much I thrive on being alone, just listening to the sound of the pleasant wind and the water. I pick my bottle of dry savanna cider beer from the Maasai shawl covered table, remove my brown leather sandals and step barefoot on one of the wet stones on the shores of the lake. The water is cold on my bare feet but that is the whole point of coming here, to connect with nature. In silence, I watch the villagers come and fetch water, bath their kids and wash their clothes next to the lake. It must be nice; I think to myself. One woman thoroughly scrubs the back of her toddler and I watch them for a long time. A gentle smile graces my lips, as she barks instructions to her child. It reminds me of my own mother.
I remember how just like I did, she thrived on being alone. It was not uncommon for her to walk into lavish restaurants elegantly, waltzing on with those 6 inch heels with an effortless saunter. The clicking of her heels has never left my head, it always sounded like some soft classical music that played onward without pause. She always wore a pant suit or a skirt suit and always carried one of those fancy expensive handbags. She was stunning. She always sat on one of the tables, preferably at the corner of the restaurant and ordered a plate of biriyani or pilau with some cold passion juice and salad on the side. She would then retrieve her laptop from her bag and sit for three hours, probably typing her thesis and never for once looking up at anyone.
I remember how always behind those slightly pursed lips, was a beautiful smile just waiting to be tempted out, the precious dimples that crinkled on her cheeks always made my heart skip a beat. Her pink lower lip looked just like mine but she wore it more beautifully, with that huge gap between her two front teeth. It showed that she was from the other community in the furthest west of the country, because apart from that gap, she had beautiful legs and a very light even skin tone. She was short and very small, she often joked that I was her elder sister. I sometimes felt like I was the mother and she, my daughter, walking around with her in market places and seeing men ogling at her. I remember she was smart in the brains, she always had something going on to elevate herself. She challenged my babaa on topics that women rarely discussed and each time, she won.
I remember she was one of many surprises, each day a multitude of tiny things and how these things made me smile from toe to lips. In a life so ordinary it was her that was extraordinary, not because she was given so much, yet because she made it that way. Her in laws were her responsibility. This is where I learnt the value of family, perseverance and the blessings that followed a prayerful woman. Her in-laws called her nyamalo meaning someone who originated from the top. She held the family together and she was the ‘sole’ of the family. It was not uncommon to find her taking care of an orphan or a relative at home. She was a jewel.
My thoughts are distracted by a light tap on my back. I look behind and find the waiter carrying two bottles of cold savanna beer. ‘Yule amesema nilkuletee hii kwa bill yake,’ he says as he points at a muscular 30-something like guy seated on that table. I look at him and smile and he stands from his table and confidently approaches me. I take the two beers and the waiter leaves. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little company to distract these thoughts today right? But mummy, I remember… that when a writer falls in love with you, you never really die…