It has been raining since last night and still dripping as I write. I love the rains! I decided to write a poem.
Yeah! The rains are here
Caution us to beware
Strong and unusual rains
April through May.
As I write
Sure, I like the rains
When the rains come,
The earth re-gain consciousness
When the rains come
The leaves display its lush
When the rains come
The flowers beam and smile
When the rains come
Rivers and ponds quench their
When the rains come
The atmosphere feels
When the rains come
Wipers dance to clear the
Yeah! The rains are here!
The striking question was
sooner than later going to birth the dawning of a six – year old author.
As we headed through the main
gate on our way home, I got reminded to stop by and say hello to the guard as I
had promised myself.
We went over two speed ramps
and pulled up in front of a grocery/stationery store to buy some eggs.
With a puppy dog face’ she
asked ‘mum, can I have another note book so I can write in?’ This was immediately
followed by another question, how is paper made?
I seized the moment as a
teaching opportunity for her to nurture her curiosity, by way of encouraging
her to value and record her wonderful questions.
I could make no better decision
than buy her the note book. We decided the notebook would be split into a story
category and a question category
Should have seen the
excitement on her face.
What amazes me was how
closely she has been observing and tracking the slices of my life stories. In fact,
little did I know that she watches me slice whenever I came back from school
and hears me talk about day 6, day 8 and so forth.
Once we reached home, the
first thing she did was write down her first question in her wondering book-how
is paper invented?
What surprised me was her
first story. She titled it
Oh mine! My daughter is
beginning to slice!
Late this afternoon, I picked
up my daughter from school and it was one of the most defining moments of my
She starts the conversation
with the striking question’ ‘mummy, can I use your laptop to write my flower
story?’ I had no idea what she was up to, but I was thrilled by her sudden interest
in writing- (she has been writing letters to her friends lately).
Our conversation was shortly
interrupted at the sight of a pile of fresh coconut packed in an open truck for
sale by the road side. I couldn’t help but felt the urge to stop to drink the
coconut water and eat its soft fleshly pulp.
Just as I pulled up next to
the truck, she intimated she wanted coconut.
We waited as the enthusiastic
coconut seller picked a coconut, peeled the first layer off with his cutlass
remaining the fiber. He then cut a small opening on top to enable us drink the
water. I passed it on to my daughter. A second coconut followed which was
passed on to my son who appeared uninterested initially.
The striking question was sooner than later going
to birth the dawn of a six – year old author.
I feel privileged living in a gated community of about 300 residents. With its three entry points only two are accessible and guarded by security personnel whose duty it is to ensure we the residents are safe and secured during the day and night.
The main entrance which is opened 24/7 has at least 2 guards at any point in time who check the content of unfamiliar vehicles that enter and exit the community.
Besides, these guards are
constantly at the gate to let in and out residents.
What an arduous task for
these guards who I strongly believe deserve to be appreciated for their
This evening as I approached the gate after work, one of the fine guards opened the gate to allow me in. It suddenly dawned on me how much we owe them for their tireless work in ensuring we are safe. I purposefully slowed down, raised my hand and greeted him. For the first in a long time I felt deeply touched and broken by their selfless commitment as I drove in. My conscience was suddenly awoken to the fact that these selfless guards deserve more than my indifference.
Today after we came back from Church, my six-year- old daughter taught me to be mindful of her need for my attention.
She couldn’t have enough of me as she clasped onto me- stretching her arms for cuddles and hugs, thrusting out her hands for grips
All these done lavishly.
She excused me for a few
minutes, and returned with a five – line writing titled ‘A Word for Mummy’
‘Mummy, in the morning, call
me Nyameye (cultural name meaning God is good)
At don call me star
In the afternoon call me Mimi
In the evening call me Ajoa (
A name given to a female born on Monday)
At night, call me sister ‘
At the center of it all, I knew she needed my attention
As a mom and wife in the
home, it’s natural for me to be the first to wake up in the morning. This is
very important to me and has more or less become part of my life.
I need the early mornings to organize my
thoughts for the day. Besides, I literally enter each room, tap and call out
each family member to get ready for either school or work.
This has been going on for over
18 years. There are days I hear comments
like –‘do you ever sleep at all?
Well, this particular morning
was quite unusual by all standards. I woke up in total darkness, as the
midnight showers had caused a power outage. No power supply to iron my clothes,
I got sorted out on that one though.
After I had gone around calling and tapping, I made
my way to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Suddenly “I heard the trap door
into the living room creaked, thinking it was my daughter. It was my husband
saying to my 17 year old, ‘you have to thank
your mother for waking you up every morning.’ The next thing I knew, my husband
was at the kitchen door and saying to me-‘we appreciate you, mama for waking us
up every morning’ .
This particular morning’s rush hour witnessed a procession of vehicles queued in a ‘go slow.’ My mental energy almost drained by the intense traffic and the fear of arriving late to school. In any case, I brought my anxiety under control with a short verse my daughter had earlier on shared with me. (still working to keep my inner peace)
I drove passed a number of
people on foot to their places of work. One of such pedestrians immediately
caught my attention. He marched briskly along the edge of the road with his
backpack strapped on his back, squeezing and squirting the last content of the
sachet water into his mouth.
The last thing I saw was the
empty plastic sachet waving in the air.
My heart literally caved in as
the crumpled sachet flew helplessly in the air and landed itself in the company
of other scattered plastic. I could feel the earth resisting the trashing of
yet another plastic dumped on her.
I thought to myself, this
poor guy might not be aware of his actions? He probably needs to be informed
rather than criticized.
In the coolness of the
Beaming with enthusiasm
She clutched onto the book
Won’t let go
Nosedived in the book
Nothing could stop her
My heart warmed within
Resisting the edge not to see
How far she’s come
May not be at grade level reading
But progress she shows
Made me grin like a Cheshire
In an unwavering manner
Read most words
With accuracy but one word
Not as choppy
As used to sound
For the first time
In a long time
I could not but
Acknowledge the growth
Draping himself into the sofa
to unwind from the hustle and bustle of the day, my husband held the bottle in
his left hand, uncorked and tipped it towards his mouth.
Mmm! Immediately, he noticed the content in the bottle looked weird. ‘What happened to my peanuts?’ He wondered.
Gazing at my daughter in suspicion, he asked, who did this?
With excitement in her voice, she replied, ‘it’s me, daddy, I was doing an experiment to see if the peanuts will float or sink in water’. My husband and I were speechless but grateful for her curiosity though.
At that point, I remembered her own words – ‘But mummy, I’m curious,’ after she got queried for sending a message on my phone to a colleague without my knowledge.
Often times we question a lot of things about who we are and even wish for changes if possible. Some individuals will go as far as spending huge sums of money to change our physical appearances. What if we celebrated and appreciated who we are. Who knows? This might be the source of our success.
I happened to read about Amy Carmichael
today, who was born in Northern Island in 1867. The oldest of seven children,
she loved colors and the sounds of the ocean close to her home. Amy loved the
color blue. Interestingly, her mother had the bluest of blue eyes, and Amy
wished she had blue eyes too. But her eyes were brown.
Amy at age three prayed one
night begging God to change her brown eyes into blue. In fact, it is recorded
that she never doubted a minute that God would give her what she had asked for.
She sprang out of bed early the
following morning to find a mirror so she could stare at her eyes.
Would she see blue eyes? No!
Her brown eyes stayed the same. How disappointed she might have felt then. I
can imagine her dashed hope making her heart sick.
Years later Amy was glad her eyes did not change to blue.
I may not have control over the way I look or appear, but there’s a reason for who I Am!