Limescale

 

limescale  (ˈlaɪmskeɪl)
— n
	Often shortened to: scale  a flaky deposit left in containers such as kettles by the action of heat on water containing calcium salts This is the definition of the word ‘limescale’ according to Dictionary.com (one of my all-time favourite websites by the way!) Now, in order for this story to make sense you have to understand one thing- I love to clean. I clean when I’m happy and I clean when I’m stressed out. With a scouring pad, bucket, mop and various detergents in hand, I am an unstoppable force. Today the bathroom-tomorrow the world! Ahem! Okay, back to reality. That was a slightly manic deviation from what I wanted to say. So yesterday found me scrubbing away in the bathroom. I was cleaning the tiles and paused for a moment to wash the scouring pad. I happened to graze the tap with the scouring pad and to my surprise, a tiny little bit of the murky limescale that covers this tap came off. I was amazed. My curiosity piqued, I scrubbed the tap with the pad. More came off. I poured Vim in earnest on the scouring pad and really attacked the tap. You have to understand, this is a tap that has been covered in murky grey limescale for years.  I scrubbed and scrubbed and slowly, inch by inch, the shiny chrome exterior of the tap was revealed. I stood up and examined my work- all was agleam, all aglow. The tap looked like new. I was so proud! Never mind that my shirt was clinging to my back and my thighs were screaming for mercy because I’d been squatting for so long, determined to clean even the underside of the tap. (Housework is a real workout, by the way). As I scrubbed, I realized that relationships and taps covered in limescale have a lot in common. We start out all shiny and brand new, like the tap. And then the effect of heat and hard water form a small layer over the tap. It’s not so bad. But it does reduce the shine a little. And then next week the layer is a bit thicker. Next month you think “this tap doesn’t look so good.” And in a few months-you begin to think the tap was made of dull-looking mabati.  The heat and the hard water, in the case of relationships, refer to the strains and stresses that any and every relationship goes through. You have a stupid argument with your best friend and because you’re so sure you’re right, you don’t bother to apologize. Life goes on as normal. Layer one. She begins to think you’re unfeeling but is afraid to say anything because she knows she’ll come off looking too emotional and not making sense.  So maybe she stops telling you the little things. You realize something has shifted but you don’t quite know what. Layer two. Or in the case of the family. Your Mum seems to be always on the phone nagging you, “Why don’t you come home more often? Did you go to see your cousin’s baby?”  Or regaling you with the fascinating tales of all her latest aches and pains. Some time passes. You never call first. You miss out on functions all the time. You can’t tell who is whose kid. And so the phone calls reduce and the invitations become less. Everyone imagines that you’re too busy and too important- that you just can’t be bothered. That’s layers of limescale right there. I also thought of the layers that form in us, that prevent us from really seeing  people for what they are. I remember one of my neighbours where I used to live. He was so in my face, wanting to talk to me, hang out and so on. I always ran away because I thought he was being annoying.   “I know you but we don’t have to be friends” was my motto. Well, that was until one day when I really desperately needed help. My friends were not around and this ‘annoying’ neighbour really came through for me in a big way. He went above and beyond what anyone would have expected of him.  Underneath the annoying behaviour (as I had perceived it) was a kind, intelligent and big-hearted person. And courageous enough to try and scale the metre high walls I had put up around myself.  After that day, I could not believe I had not seen all these good qualities before. Maybe I too, had layers on.  Layers that prevented me from seeing who he really was. So the moral of this is: limescale is grey and ugly and it will cost you three litres of sweat to get it off. I’m going to start by removing the layers on me that prevent me from seeing other people clearly. How about you, what layers do you need to remove today?

Yesterday

By Stella Riunga

Yesterday we danced,

You held my waist and I your shoulders.

Yesterday we drank,

Wine in my glass and whisky in yours.

Yesterday your kisses were sweet,

Your touch

Electric.

Today your face is stony.

A cold stare to replace the loving gaze,

A set jaw in place of the easy smile.

Yesterday you said you love me,

Today you say you were mistaken.

Yesterday I was the woman of your dreams,

Today I am nothing but a distant memory.

It’s strange,

How so much can change

Between yesterday

And today.

Opiyo

THE WHITE RHINO IN THE ROOM

I am incensed. I am enraged. I am infuriated, irritated and riled. I am provoked. I am seething with rage. Why? Because of one company’s endemic dishonesty. I’m not politically correct and I don’t have a million lawyers advising me, so I’m going to name names and apportion blame squarely. SAFARICOM! In bold and caps. The name alone makes my fists curl. Let me tell you why this organization has made me so mad. It is outrightly deceiving consumers. How DARE they offer unlimited internet then limit the speeds so severely that it becomes impossible to browse? Why sell modems and internet packages all over the city when their weak signal can barely be traced outside of the Nairobi CBD? Useless, that’s what it is. Thank goodness I only bought a week’s worth of usage. And you know what? So many people have complained about this, but it looks like nobody cares. This company is just selling us hot air and lies. Fool me once, but not twice Safaricom. Unlimited internet my foot. Why don’t I just pay for a large bottle of snake oil?

And on that note, let me just get everything off my chest. What is wrong with people nowadays? Was there a recent genocide of all honest people that somehow went unnoticed? I’m not merely talking about lying here. I’m talking about something bigger than that-the unwillingness to be honest. The culture of muffling, rationing out and distorting the truth until it completely disappears.  Honesty has become endangered, like the white rhino.

Let’s start with ourselves. How many of you reading this are stuck in soul-crushing mundane jobs that you have absolutely zero passion for and complain endlessly about? You wake up and wish you were dead, because every particle in your being would rather be whipped senseless with a barbed nyahunyo than turn up for another day of work. The excuses never end-oh, it’s just for paying my rent; I need to pay my bills; you know nowadays there are no good jobs for graduates; the competition is too fierce- if I let go of this one somebody will replace me in no time; I need to take care of my family, I’m too old to start over…..blah blah blah. Ok, I, for one, am sick and tired to DEATH of hearing people complain about their job. Jobs that they took with their eyes wide open and not at gunpoint. How dare you? How dare you choose a job and then wear everybody out with your endless complaints? You are shortchanging your employer, you are shortchanging yourself and you are driving everybody insane with your whining. For heaven’s sake do something about it! Work towards changing the job or change your attitude; either way something has to change. I truly believe that everyone can do something about their present circumstance, no matter how small. And why do I care about people’s jobs? Am I the CEO of every-damn-body? No, but it is as clear as day to me that people who have no passion for their jobs end up making others suffer for it. These are the sluggish, unmotivated; out-for-two-hour’s-lunch-sorry-we-close-at-3.30p.m people you will find serving you at the bank, at customer service centres, at government offices and so on. They do a rubbish job and have an attitude that stinks from here to Nepal because they feel they are trapped and somehow held against their will where they are. This is my advice to this particular category of people, and please pay attention:

SHUT UP.

Yes. I said it. Shut up. Stop complaining. Sit down and have a very important meeting with yourself; make sure you will not be interrupted for at least an hour. Analyze your life, where you are in relation to where you thought you’d be a year ago. Why are you doing what you are doing? Do you enjoy it? If you don’t, what are you going to do about it? Come up with a strategy, a plan, and start looking for people to help you end up where you want to be. Listen, there’s something about doing what you love to do: the money will follow your burning zeal as you do your best to make it work. Ever heard of delayed gratification? That’s what it is. So step out, stop fearing and making silly excuses and go do what you were born to do. Why would God waste his time creating human beings, all vastly different and uniquely gifted, if we were all going to end up being robotic zombie-clones? Think about it!

I’m not yet finished with my little rant. This dishonesty disease has extended to our relationships. We buddy up with people we intensely despise because we think we need them, especially in the name of ‘networking’. We laugh at jokes we don’t find funny. We pretend to ‘consult’ when in all honesty we are busy ramming our opinions and decisions down other people’s throats with a giant battering ram. We spend our time doing stuff we don’t like for foggy reasons we can’t even explain to ourselves. More than anything, we are most dishonest when alone with ourselves. We have become a breed as fake as silicone implants.

Lastly, let me take a swipe at employers. Interviews have become a sham and a mockery. I wonder how serious all the hundreds of interviews that job-seekers take really are. Articles abound telling people how to pass interviews, and reading them, it seems that one has to wake up and develop an entirely new personality just to be considered a serious candidate for a position.  Some of the questions asked are so ridiculous, it is almost a given that everyone who answers will have to lie, if only to appear sane. Sample these common questions and my honest answers.

 

Q: “So what is your biggest weakness?”

A: Why don’t you hire me and find out? But anyway, come to think of it, I’ve been told I have a temper that would make a wounded elephant look like a pussycat.

 Q: “What was your previous salary?”

A: Ask the taxman-I never had a personal encounter with that salary. My former employer paid me peanuts. I can guarantee there are water-boys in a circus somewhere who earn daily more than what I used to make in a month. I only took the job because I didn’t think starving to death was a viable option.

Q: “What salary are you expecting?”

A: I’m going to quote twice what I earned-maybe thrice if I have the guts-without blinking an eye, and haggle you over it down to the last cent. Times are tough and I need to boost my savings.

Q: “What do you like to do when you’re not working?’

Likely answer:  I’m involved in various activities in my community. I like to help out in church and I have a particular fondness for magazines like Newsweek and BBC documentaries. I also swim a few times a week.

A: Are you the Gestapo or Big Brother?  You can find me any given weekend in a semi-coma in front of my couch watching comedies; I only get up to go to the loo.

 

You get my drift. And what about those clichés you find in all adverts these days: “Must be a team player” or (snort) “Honest”. Employers, if any of you are reading this, and I am coming to you to look for a job, I will tell you I am a team player even though the only team I’ve ever willingly been part of is the group of interviewees sitting outside your office, and I will tell you how honest I am even if I regularly carry home office supplies stashed in the bottom of my handbag. Why don’t these employers just stop being lazy and take their time to assess candidates on their individual merit? It is their fault that people develop temporary multiple-personality disorders just to get a job. And what about the whole ten-years’ experience scam? Yeah, I am twenty-five and you want me to have ten or 5 years’ experience? Dream on.  

I wonder if we realize that in many interviews, everything is an illusion. We are like magicians pulling bunnies from top hats and handkerchiefs from people’s noses. From the suits that the interviewees turn up in (look in their closets and notice there are only two pairs) to the skillsets that they claim to possess. It is time more companies adopted task-oriented interviews that would give interviewees a fair chance to prove their worth. And would they quit already with the 12-man panel for a simple position as a cashier! Is it an interview or did someone wander into a police interrogation by mistake? This is not The Apprentice, no matter how big your organization is.

I could go on and on but time is precious, so I’ll end here. People, can we just try and be real?

 

Stella Riunga.

Invisible

Do you know someone dependable and trustworthy? Someone you can always depend on and rely on to keep their word? Someone your secrets are safe with? Well, that’s me. Honest, no bragging.  People cancel, but I’m there. Other friends lose touch, but I’m there. Things need to be done, and I’m there. People need a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, and I’m there. I’m fed up to my teeth of being there.I know you’re thinking ‘Well, you don’t have to be there’  but that’s not how it operates-I’m simply not wired that way. It bothers me when people I treasure don’t keep in touch, when a friendship that once meant so much  to me begins to deteriorate into superficial nonsense, when a task needs to be taken up and it’s as if I am the only one who can sense the urgency of it. What words can I use? How can anyone hear what I’m not saying? Notice me, notice me, notice me, do you see me or do you see right through me?

Sometimes what I want is not for the responsibilities to vanish. I wish to simply stop caring. I wish to be that person who can pat someone else on the back and say “Don’t worry! It’ll sort itself out!” As if invisible hands and legs are scurrying through the air, just waiting to come and do whatever duty needs to be done. I want to be that person in the friendship who waits to be sought out and does not do the seeking. I want to be that lover who puts not an ounce of effort except for the occasional ‘I love you’ thrown like an appeasing morsel to an over-eager pet. I want to be that person who sees a thing that needs doing and just ignores it. I want to be an island. I want not to need anyone, to only use and dispose of people as need arises. I want-so much!- not to care.  I want to strip this sensitivity from my soul like grease from a  frying pan. I want to be hard-core, hardened, with a heart like a farmer’s callused palms. But……how can I be that person? How can I turn into the very same people that hurt me? So I take it to the one person who understands  me inside-out.

Lord you created me this way. This heart comes from you. You fashioned me and it pleased you to give me this nature. Teach me Lord, how to bear the invisible  hurts that go with this territory. Your Holy Spirit, to temper me. Your wisdom Lord, to know how to bear it without becoming bitter or resentful.Your grace oh father dearest, to let go of unintentional, unnoticed hurts and slights. Your joy oh Lord, for times like these. An ability to see You in the people I around me. The courage oh Lord, not to close off my heart even when opening it up allows for pain. Stand with me Lord, when I  look around and realize that I have been left alone by those I thought would be by my side. Lord I’m not ashamed to cry; show me the rainbow beyond my tears.They might have forgotten about me Lord, they might not care, but You oh Lord, You promised: You will never leave me, You will never forsake me.

Simply me,

S.K.R.

Dear Husband

Dear husband,

Your food is in the microwave,

Grilled chicken with the skin still on and

mixed rice with vegetables,

Just the way you like it.

_____________________________________

Your shirts are all ironed,

I took extra care to keep the collar stiff,

And I removed that stubborn stain from last week.

____________________________________________________

I have placed the remote control next to your armchair,

And I know the Premier League is on tonight,

So I won’t disturb you after supper.

___________________________________________

The match starts at midnight,

And I know today is Friday,

So you will find me in the usual spot,

Waiting for our weekly date.

I will be in my birthday suit,

No frills, no fuss,

Just the way you like it.

It is a bit chilly,

So I hope you won’t take too long with your food.

Last time I caught a terrible cold as I waited,

If you can remember.

I have set my alarm,

So that you can know when it’s almost match-time.

The other time you were in a hurry to get going,

And left me half-way.

I was a bit surprised when you came back at 1.15 a.m. to finish up,

But never mind,

I know you have more important things to do

Than linger with me.

__________________________________

Darling,

everything is fine.

I’m sorry to disturb your peace,

But I just have a small reminder.

I know it has been over 20 years,

but you seem to have forgotten my name.

My name

Is not ‘woman’ or ‘you’

It is Annabella,

The one you once loved best.

_________________________________

Your loving wife,

A.

Lists-various

On  a roll! Two in one night? Unheard of! Incredible! Unforgettable!

(Ok, maybe it’s because the thought of researching sales channels for my New Product Development project was too much to  bear, plus the fact that UCB Gospel is playing music that is soooooo out of this world I just want to keep listening!)

If you know me, you know I love lists. I list everything, my favourite  books, books I want to read, movies I want to watch, clothes to wear on a day-by-day basis (I’m just joking about the last one!)

So I’m adding yet another list.  In fact it’s a series of mini-lists. Indulge me!

Those who make me wonder…..

1. People who say “Sheffad” instead of  “Shepherd.” (I have no reason for this, It just makes me want to scream. Watu wa “Sheffa” in Buru, you know yourselves.)

2. People who watch,play and understand cricket. (Only recently discovered this.)

3.  People who say “Sir God” (as in “Vile Sir God amenishow… I wish I could say why this makes me want to break something, but I can’t. Maybe I’m just old-school like that. )

4. People who kiss their dogs on the mouth (Snout? Muzzle? What do you call a dog’s mouth?!)  Disturbing on like 100 different levels. Plus the hygiene considerations. Ugh.

5. People who enter the loo carrying foodstuff. I still remember the half loaf of bread left in the loo at McDonald’s. Question 1: WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU THINKING?!!!!! Question 2: You only have two hands sooooooo, just exactly what kind of balancing act do you have going on there in that bathroom stall?

Those who make me laugh

1. Children past toddler age being carried in prams. You think there’s a precious bundle being carried in there only for a 6 year old to emerge screaming “Mummy!” Leaves me snorting in laughter. But on another level, is rather creepy.

2. Women with wrongly attached over-long false eyelashes.It just looks painful. Also, does the weight affect the rate of blinking?!

3.  A Nigerian man wooing an unwilling woman. (Double points for this one.)

4. Parents who tie a leash-like thing on their children to avoid losing them in the town centre. Also, why is it mostly dads who do this?

5. People who still think of Africa as a rather big country.

Those who frighten me

1. Teenagers. (English teenagers-the ‘Angry with life’ type.) Just so shouty and angry. Also, very slouchy. What is wrong with their spinal cords?  Do they not work? And WHY ARE THEY SO ANGRY?!!!!!

2. One-second smilers. Umm, was that a smile? Was it a grimace? I can’t be sure, the nano-second passed by too quickly.

3. Strangers making friendly conversation in the bus/any form of public transport. Please forgive me for holding on tighter to my bags, I might be twenty-five but  I’m still aware of stranger-danger.

4. Nursery rhymes associated with horror movies eg. ‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre’   and many many many others whose titles I can’t recall. Horrible. Totally horrible. Forever tainted songs.

5. People who are always in the library. There’s this one girl who has a haunted library look- she’s ALWAYS there (Brookes library, Gipsy Lane), as in , ALL THE TIME. Morning, lunchtime, brunchtime, evening………..Never been there at dawn but I bet you she’d still be there.  I can see her haunted library face in my mind as I write this….. YIKES!

Yep, senseless as they may be, those are my lists. What’s on yours?

R.K, Forgiveness and the Synchronized Volume of Wrongs

Well hello there faithful reader!

http://www.jonacuff.com/blog/the-1-reason-blogs-die-and-how-to-make-sure-your-blog-doesnt/

Go to the link above, it’ s what gave me the motivation to get me blogging again.

DISCLAIMER:Today I want to blog about mushy stuff. So be warned, if you cannot stomach anything that swings into the ‘lurv sweet lurv’ category then best be off with you! Go do something hardcore that involves sweat ,grime and muscles and the rest of us will sit here and enjoy our unashamedly sweet thoughts. If you can relate, or the curiosity is just too much for you to bear, then read on.

 

R.K

My boyfriend is superlatively awesome. This is a burden I am going to have to bear for probably the rest of my life : ) I don’t care if y’alls boyfriends are digging wells in dry areas for thirsty communities, figuring out a way to stop the annual floods in Budalangi or giving up their kidneys to strangers in need; I repeat, my boyfriend is superlatively awesome.

I was having a  chat with a girlfriend of mine the other day and we were discussing how strange it is that our boyfriends find it so easy to forgive us when we wrong them. You know how “Love keeps no record of wrongs?” ( 1 Corinthians 13: 5) and how we are charged to “Forgive and forget?” Well I practically invented the book of wrongs- I can forgive but forget? HA! NEVER! There could be a clump of brain cells somewhere in my brain which could help develop the cure for cancer but noooooo, they are instead dedicated to recording R.K.’s wrongs. (We will refer to my boyfriend as ‘R.K.’ from here on.)

So perfect is my record of wrongs that the entries are even synchronized, for example (for this you have to think of my brain as a very high-performance computer) if R.K. commits the crime of turning up late for an important date, this is immediately linked to previous wrongs of a similar nature,eg. # 634: Late for anniversary date and # 12 ;kept me waiting for over an hour. (As you can see it is a very early entry- #12 because the drama I caused on that occasion ensured it never happened again!) With the complete and chronological list of wrongs compiled, I am ready to present my case, to batter R.K. over the head with his wrongdoings, to make him see just how little he deserves me. And then, when I finally deign to forgive his sorry (at that point I think he’s not overwhelmingly sorry, just tired of TMD-Too Much Drama!) self, it is with the air of a king pardoning someone who was about to be hanged. What a performance! What a show! How does R.K. ever put up with me?!

Yeah, I know, I sound as compassionate and sweet as Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada. (And if you haven’t watched this then please stop reading and go watch it or read it, for crying out loud!) Still, that’s honestly how I have been at times in the past.

But when it comes to me, my oh my oh my. R.K. can forgive me over and over and over….and forget! Actually forget! I could ask him three weeks later and it would take lots of prompting and nudging to remember what I did! He amazes me, he really does. And it makes my whole complicated system just………….useless. Totally useless, unnecessary. I have deleted the volumes (did you really think 634 wrongs and upwards could fit into one volume?!), emptied the recycle bin, ready to adopt short-term amnesia as I forgive and forget.

Forgiveness Bear!

Now that all these loose brain cells are free,looks like I’ll end up discovering that cure for cancer after all (Or maybe just make friends with the people who eventually do).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Girlfriend

Dear S,

Men come and go but you, girlfriend have been a constant in the equation I call my life.

You’ve been with me at my highest highs and my lowest lows. You love me when I’m Jekyll and tolerate me when I’m Hyde. You’re the family that I chose. My heart calls you ‘sister.’

Who else could do all that you do: advisor, encourager, psychiatrist, devil’s advocate, partner-in-crime.  If my life was a stage and I looked out at the audience there you’d be, holding a banner and screaming my name. When it’s just me and the rest of the world fades away I can drop the façade of confidence and success and come rest on your shoulder, tell you my troubles and heartaches. You don’t think me weak when I cry, and just when I think I haven’t the slightest ounce of fight left in me you remind me that I can do it, you refuse to let me wallow in my misery. The most terrible of my secrets are yours, and I know that you guard them with your life. What terrible fights we’ve had when you were right and I insisted on my wrongness, but still you accepted my belated ‘sorry.’

I thank the great God who saw it fit for our paths to cross. You cracked the shell I had curled myself in so tightly, drew me out and taught me to live. ‘They’ say women are their own worst enemies but you and I have proved them wrong girlfriend. We only make each other stronger and better.

Girlfriend, how lucky I am to have you.

Yours,

S.

 

 

 

Memoirs of a mathematical failure

If there’s one thing the 8-4-4 system helped me learn it was that I do not have a single mathematical bone in my body. I have no concept of weight (relative to other things) and distance (relative to other places.) Maps are pretty pieces of paper that other people read and decipher information from. Mental long division-to me- is the stuff that Wallowitz, Sheldon and Leonard of Big Bang Theory dabble in. When I have a lot of money to get change from, I do it before going to buy the item, just to be sure. It’s like a handicap really, you learn to live with it.

It all began in secondary school. Flashback to Form 1. It was Maths lesson and the teacher came round marking the homework. The girl next to me got it wrong and she was rewarded with a hefty pinch that lifted her ear away from her face. I remember being terrified, but nothing of what happened next. Was I pinched too? I don’t remember. But much as I loathed dishonesty, I started copying answers from the bright students. Now, it would never have occurred to me that I was bright as well. I lived by The Fear and The Fear ruled me. Do Not Get Math Problems Wrong.  Simple and clear.

Then followed holiday tuitions, coaching, you name it, nothing worked. It was always assumed that it was my fault, that I had ‘a bad attitude.’ That I would pass if only I adjusted my attitude to the subject-that was the gist of my parents’ many lectures. I couldn’t explain it. When Maths class rolled around some sort of fog seemed to descend on my brain and nothing except  the end of the class could lift this fog and enable me to breathe freely again. The fog was often at its thickest during the lesson. No sooner had the teacher written the problem on the board than the ‘bright ones’ had solved it and were chomping at the bit to tell the answer and show how they got it. Oh how I dreaded it, words cannot even begin to describe. I would stare and stare and stare at the problem. I would look at the example and try to apply it. Sometimes, I felt I was making a breakthrough but before I could finish, everybody else would be done and I was left behind. Again. I wondered if something was wrong with me. Why did so many people seem to understand the concepts while they just floated past me? Sometimes, I would ask the teacher to clarify. He would go into painstaking detail just for me, bless his heart, but it was no good. Soon, I stopped trying. I was brilliant at pretending to think about the problem, while in reality I was waiting for the bright ones to solve the problem so that the show could go on and Maths class could end.

Some days, in the not-too-difficult chapters, were good-the big red ticks on my exercise book would attest to that-but many were not. Exam time was the separator of the wheat from the chaff. I was definitely chaff. The lowest degree of chaff there was without actually being declared clinically brain dead . The teacher (Form 3 and 4 ) had a system where he would read out the grades as he gave back the exam papers. Below a certain mark, he wouldn’t read them out, he would just hand back the papers in silence. I appreciated this small gesture that enabled me to retain my dignity, though in truth, it didn’t make any difference to me.

The end of Form 2 also introduced the evil half-sister of Mathematics-Chemistry. I was doing fine, drawing Bunsen burners and finding out whether soap was acidic or alkaline until The Mole Concept a.k.a The End of Everything was introduced. The zeros seemed to spring up from nowhere, but most importantly, What The Hell Was a Mole? The thing seemed only to exist in theory, a theory far removed, even divorced, from my simple reality. When I asked about the relevance of The Mole to everyday life I was told that I was being rude, and I was punished. A week washing public school toilets because I wanted to know whether what I was learning served any practical purpose in my life. I never tried again after that. I simply copied the correct answers after experiments, or plucked numbers from thin air. I’m not proud of that, but that was no time for high moral standards. The marks were what mattered. Always the marks, never the substance of what was learnt.

As Form 4 neared I came up with a strategy. I stopped wasting my time studying Maths and Chemistry-the sure fire losers. I poured my energies into other subjects. History- how I loved it. It was like a story with dates scattered here and there in the prose. As long as I remembered the story, I could remember the dates. Even on the hottest of hot afternoons I could bear it. CRE, with our hyper-sanguine teacher was a laugh and a breeze, like a brighter, better version of History. Kiswahili, French, English. So much beautiful logic in the arrangement of words, the tenses, their conjugations. English literature fascinated me, as did Kiswahili. Somehow, I just got it. When these lessons came around, there was no fog. I was Stella Riunga the pro. I was in my element. People even asked for my help. ME! Me who did a punishment of washing the filthy Chemistry lab because I had failed yet another CAT. Me whose report card had never seen the light of day of any mark above 50% when it came to Maths or Chemistry. So I did what I had to do. I studied ‘my’ subjects consistently and at the end I had As where it mattered.

I’m not sure why I’ve written this. Maybe I was trying to understand what happened in those high school classes. I know I’m not dumb, but back then when I had nothing to validate myself except a small yellow sheet of paper at the end of every term, I often marvelled at just  how useless I was. I smile now because now I know it truly does not matter, but I wish someone would have spared me the wasted time and told me so. I have people in my life now who are number whizzes-my best friend, my boyfriend. They always laugh when I tell them how much awe and respect I have for their ability to make sense of the numbers, because they have no idea of the struggle I had trying to do the same. And now here I am with nothing but my laptop and my mind, putting down my thoughts for others to read and guess what? Not a logarithm or mole in sight!

I know there’s somebody out there who keeps failing at something and wondering how they’re ever going to make it, now that they’re good-for-nothing. Stop! You’re not good-for-nothing. Sometimes, the failures keep you so focused on what you are failing at that you forget that you are good at other things, that you have other amazing talents and abilities that will take you farther than you could ever imagine. If I could travel back in time and speak to my sixteen-year old self in high school, I’d give myself a hug and a pep talk. I’d tell sixteen-year old me that I was going to be a great writer someday, and to stop stressing myself to death over things that were, in truth, not that important.

And these have been the musings of a mathematical failure who turned out to be a literary success

THE END.