I didn’t even want to post this but the renegade in me, this stubborn quest to know all about everything could not let me rest. The question of my origin is still not answered and so shouldn’t I keep asking?
The origin of man has remained one of the most controversial topics that humans interact with. The more you try to understand it the more confusing it becomes. This is not my problem though, my faith has given me a sign and I know that God created the world and everything in it and his presence is evident in everything he created. That said all the accounts of creation do not explain why we have different colors. I know that we owe our origin to Adam and by extension to Eve, and Adam was created out of dust (we are not told whether it was loam, clay or a collabo of both).
I am not very good at reading the bible but I have studied the bible long enough to have met a verse that spoke of color of man- why we have different colors. I also know that the Israelites who were God’s chosen people were grouped in twelve tribes, we are again not told whether some of the tribesmen were molded out of clay or loam.
The evolution theory of creation is one of the creation theories that I will never approve of. For one if man originated from apes, why do we still have apes, why haven’t they evolved to human beings? The pioneer of the creation theory; Charles Darwin did nothing to explain why we have different colors and so the question of loam or clay is still not addressed. What is funny is that some people who if all of us were made from soil then they were made from clay do not want to be clay products- they want to be of loam. I don’t think they are to blame when history knows that ‘claymen’ had been useful all for the wrong reasons. They were traded like kolanuts as slaves, they were the first to be suspected of crime in the USA (I hope this has changed) and their continent is considered the Dark Continent. Who would love to be associated with that? Ironically, the loam products once left their continent and fought for the Dark Continent against themselves. Which is better loam or clay? My guess is they are all equal or at least they should be. If anybody understands this issue better than I do please enlighten me.
It’s been long since I saw a woman worth putting pens to paper for, a woman worth every stain the pen leaves on a paper as it glides on it in the name of ink. I am talking beauty. Not beauty potentiated by unnecessary meat exposed and lips stained with cheap lipstick. Not beauty achieved by doctored boobs and hips pumped with myriad injections of silicon. Neither Am I talking of beauty sandwiched between multiple clothing of behind nor beauty trapped on ears burdened with heavy metals in the name of jewelry. I am talking raw beauty.
I had just come from a meeting, no a debate that was successful despite disappointing absence of the expected attendees. The dusty road had got the better of me as I had to trek from Kariobangi to roundabout to catch a mathree to my hood. In my hoodie and timberland avunjas the dusty road was the least of my worries. But still that wasn’t what I thought of as cool, the dusty road was not appealing but the constant harassment by the touts who operate Makadara bound matatus was worse. These people have no respect; they are goons to be exact. They are very touchy. They will not only touch you but will literally pull you away in a bid to convince you to board their vehicle. It wasn’t funny seeing a woman old enough to be my grandmother almost getting ripped apart by these nincompoops. They treat people like items of trade; some avocado on a groceries shop and all may get out of hand if the ‘item of trade’ is a young woman laced with ounces of beauty. They love everything sumptuous. such a woman will have to put up with two things, the uncalled for body pressing in the most treasured parts and the sickening sight of chocolate ads in the name of teeth, how they smell mfff! I wonder why they always bring their mouths closer to your nose in conversations.
After few confrontations by the touts I manage to free myself but they are philanthropic enough to lend me mouthfuls of insults as my entourage. The trails of insults kept following me as if they sensed I had insult receptors at my kisogo that they could attach themselves on. At some instant I felt my stomach churn in rage and I was tempted to turn back and glue their lips with one ushi mawash. It’s been long since I did practical martial art lessons. I plan to die with all of me in one piece, having myself castrated in Kamiti maximum prison for killing a mannerless tout is a thought that should never materialize. It would even be worse to be hanged for the same. I want to die of obesity someday. I said obesity and nothing slim. Not even malaria should come between me and that dream. Nyaka atho ka achwe githuon. Donge?
The 15 minute walk left me exhausted but I was just in time to catch a D bound mathree. I got in and secured a seat closer to the window. Just then a woman got in. what a creature! She had it all, a beauty that could not be hidden even by the thick dust that laced her feet. What would such a beautiful lady be doing in rounda? Her eyes were floating on melted vanilla flavored ice cream and for once I thought if she ever cried, her tears would be wild honey. Some people sit and sleep on gold and still mine it in other people’s minefields for meager pay. I bet she can live on her tears alone. I do not know much about fashion but I would tell you that her full dress fitted her perfectly. She was divine. Yes so divine and the calmness that ensued in the matatu after her entry was the silent whispers of her serenity. Wait a minute does she want to sit next to me? Yeah your guess was right!
For the first two minutes I kept silent wondering if I was too brief with my answer when she said hi to me. And the hand why did I let go of it so quick? Such are the hands that every normal man would wish to hold on long enough to emit sweat. Yes sticky sweat of seduction. But I did otherwise something wasn’t just right. I turn to face her only to find her holding a bible, reading something in the book of Ecclesiastes. such a beauty in a matatu reading a bible- the book of Ecclesiastes to be precise is not my definition of mere passenger, Maybe an angel hiding in the beauty of porcelain skin and contrasting dusty feet. Somebody teach me how you tell an angel ‘your beautiful’ without making it sound like a cliché that it has already become to her. Maybe I will find the strength to tell her that next time we meet. She better be reading the Songs of Solomon then, I wouldn’t hesitate to make her my Song. Yeah you heard me right my Song at all costs.