Once Upon a Time

In the beginning…

In the beginning…

The Christians had built a supernatural being, an evil beast. Someone who was the cause of their bad behavior. They had hired a religious therapist to listen to all their prayers as they spoke to God. Some Mary, others through his son, the Holy spirit, and some were, in fact, using science and witchcraft to guide their new world order. Unlike the golden ages where people struggled for power and food, the whole world, was infact in agreement that the world was round. I’m yet, but I do agree to some degree a spherical mass of body ruled by people and inhabitants of the heart.

(This post was edited by Grammarily for a  penny for my thoughts , a cleaner, of course longer version on Patreon. There is a picture, too, but is a penny you should,  Ahsante kwa kazi ) 

Others, were sure of the eternal death of the world. They could not go back to Venus but move forward to Mars. Crawlers and bots were scavenging the dead planet, assumed to be dormant. She was sleeping. She was beautiful. She was full of carbon and so are we. It was a one-way trip. Took many earth years. A selection had already been done. I was too old, my bone would break, but if I could live long enough, I could witness the days of the apocalyptic-Where some human would leave us. The pure ones will be chosen and leave earth.  They will write back, hopefully. The inhabitants of the earth would pay for it. Humans had the resources, for hope, there is so many things to do.   Life could be a boring venture for others. Others, life could be brutal then they all die. We all die.

Humankind believed in so many things; it was a world full of dreams. If you could agree on something with someone else, you could lead a very easy life. A common language, common culture, common country, common design, common belief, common vision.  I would like to share a vision with you. I would like to visualize a similar world, not the real one but one out of our sheer imaginations, where everyone was living their lives when some Christians came by. The Catholics.

"White people." They would often curse, "I wonder why you like them?"

What was wrong with them, I had always wondered. The ones I met were as cute as the ones adults   watched on Tv. Soap opera was my mother’s favorite-The bold and the beautiful. They named us according to what they believed in. I was named after the Ivy League, a school of the elites. Juliet was named after Romeo and Juliet and now she was dead. Such a beautiful short love story.

The Catholics were here too, ONLY ONE CHRISTADELPHIAN. They gave us permission to lay the dead, yet They were very late. We had travelled from Western to Nyanza for our sister’s burial and they had dared come late. They changed into their customary clothes on site while we watched. We had changed ours before dusk. They sat right Infront of us, between us and the hearse. Every I wanted to tell them something, I would stop at the coffin, look at how Julie was still smiling, she was sleeping. It felt like it was her, only that she was not in there. She had left the host. The glass between stopped any smell of the dead. Maybe she didn’t smell at all. Soon she was going to rot to bones and maggots, but somehow, I felt she was somewhere. Somewhere we rested when our bodies failed on us, for the flesh is so weak. Everyone had a way to accept death. Humans had more ways of accepting life. I have both. I take life with the same big spoon as I take death. I had looked, listened  and learnt what I felt I should from my peers and mostly adults.

Adult, such a strange lot.

We often watched their creative cartoons, animation and fiction, but they watched adult movies when away. They were consistently rated 18 and over. I could watch any VCR rated G or PG if mom-approved. She would send me for water when undesirable scenes came around or find alternative colourful books for me to read. The words always grew in count as I got older.  We were much like them, they all were as small as me at one point in their life, and if I could live long enough, I would be just like them.

“Ivy, I will just be a big girl like you one day.” The little one confirmed our similarities on our world.

This meant, I too would one day die. Death was balanced by birth. I had tested my theory, children understood what death was. The churches tried. The Christians  had a much logical reason. The same logic that I had applied to the Genesis story of creation to mankind. In fact, the little one knew much of the science behind childbirth and how one grew into a human being. She was certain like I had been certain that one day I would be as big as anyone else and die too. No one knew when one would exactly be born, but some knew when they would die. All I had to do is wait. Great oaks from little acorns grew and nothing lasts forever, all we have is now.

Genetics was our first compulsory Science in Biology in Highschool for the National School, Lugulu Girls, which was not in Nairobi. I had wanted to attend a national school, but not far from home. I wanted to meet all the people from Kenya but at the comfort of my home. No one would visit if I went too far. It was closer to Uganda and Sudan than Nairobi. Lugulu was perfect. My body was adapted to the environment and the people too. Some of my classmates were from my previous school. The rest were girls from all over. Some from Nairobi, a few from Mombasa.

I preferred working in Nairobi, but now, I like watching Nairobi. The city and the Hub. The Gotham. Whom Christians had again stormed the Society. All my friends are Christians, a few Muslim. Still, I had to be either for my survival in the religious circle in Nairobi. I had to swear my faith. It draws the lines to most social activities. Humans are social beings. My spiritual friends are social beings. From the Babel, yet another controversial book that is most boring to read, The midnight children. A book that I find out only after a few chapters that it was banned from India and all Muslim states. I want to know why it was banned. Well from a writer’s point of view to avoid my book being banned experience, but to understand why this mans sentiments were so religious bad, we are no longer allowed to read it. Daktari has to know the poisons of the society.

I liked Muslims. They don't drink. It is a law for them as it is 'do not kill', a law for Christians. Their clothes were favorable to the climate and they were more carefree people. The bad one were the only ones I had met on the TV. Even when everyone had assumed that I would  be abducted by the bad guys from Northern Nigeria, Shakur knew my whereabouts  and my father was very grateful. Mvua is just as kind. It was something they read from childhood. Their Koran.

I was going to study it as I studied the Bible but I’m not willing to learn Arab. I want to learn Kiswahili. Swahili is a mixture of Arab and coastal Bantus. I cannot starve amongst the bantus, I will find a way to ask for water if I was thirsty, and needed somewhere to sleep.

 My white friend, Auntie Kaye, brought us more original stories of the Gospel. More lately, people are preaching their own Gospels. I find myself far astray from the Garden of Eden if not reading a book whose true meaning was lost in translation. Let us all imagine the book is a hidden revelation of the future rather than the past, the cycle of life.

A gift from Kaye Yuen

Papa got a Cambridge Bible containing the old  and new testaments, translated out of the original tongues and with the former translation diligently compared and revised by his majesty's special command, King James, appointed to be read in churches( it read on) CUM PRIVILEGIO. On the other side of the first pages, it had a Timetable to be followed. It was printed in Great Britain under a royal letter patent at the Cambridge university press, the Queen's printer. The Bible itself still is as new inside her two cabinets. I'm yet to see a more exciting way to package a book.

You could finish the Bible in a year. Christians had just started reading. Those that could not had to learn how to read. The book contained secrets of God. With it too, lies.

“and the serpent said unto the woman, You shall not surely die." My father read the first lie in his book. We read with him sometimes. Mom too, but she had her own Copy. Mama got a KJV 2000 Edition, The Holy Bible, By Dr Robert A Couric. I later inherited it since she had two and mine were not really many bibles but Journals. It made me feel close to the family. I too, shared in a secret. Hers was not in a box but a zipped to keep pages from dirtying.

My books were very different. They were many and better, they had pictures, and each was different. Every I grew up, though, the words became more than the beautiful pictures I had liked very much. Stories I knew from the soul. Any Blue and Red, Christian Delphian book was mine; my little one could share, but I had all the rights to read them. I shared some with my friends and visitors.

"Sharing is caring." I recited. Generosity was far a strange concept in the real world. Sometimes sharing could get me into trouble. I was behaving like the Jehovah witnesses with the Gospel. I respected their zest into the spreading the word, and I studied the from a marketer’s point of view. Unlike back at home where we gathered at a ranch for our Bible study, they had a Kingdom hall and there was something just very strange in the way they prayed. They chanted less than the Catholics and more peaceful than the spiritualists and prophets. I had always insisted that as much as I read the Bible, we were not Christians.

Mama got many kitchen utensils, art materials, and letters from Untie Kaye. She didn't read much, but she attended all readings diligently. She would be a woman of God and a good woman too. I am trying to remember what Papa got, but cannot remember much. As he is, he was always reading his Bible, taking notes, and constantly trying to engage us in his Bible Discussion. His Bible, unlike any other Bible, had maps. If he could finish as fast enough as he did with his magazines, then I would be able to read it.

Take it to school sometimes.

I was always afraid that Papa would never finish his; he re-reads through it, and every time, he makes a new note. Notes and notes. He is a Christadelphian. Their origin, as they could read through, was from Colossians…Dear Brethren… they are not Christians despite reading the Bible as Christians did. They did not even have a church; we all went to the ranch for our free bible retreats. I still go to Fana B for Bible retreats. We are fewer nowadays, but Adams, from South America, assured me that they were many of them. They were non in Israel, but I had a friend from Israel.  He is Palestine in Israel and was in my mind when I thought of seeking my house.

They are the brethren that Christ had left behind. They were the first source of information about Jesus. Those that met Jesus. They lived like Jesus. For starters, Jesus was just like I and you. Jesus was human. He was the son of God, the greatest of them all. In my books, they referred him to Yahweh. In Mama's book and Father's too. When somehow the world was not as it was now, it was dissolute and formless. More like how it was being destroyed in Revelation. When all beings (gods, demons, and humans) had decided and agreed, as ruled by the Beast, to punish their sins. The book ended with staunch rules on its copyright infringement on anyone’s soul. Some claimed that Satan was already ruling the world and we were suffering and dying already. Pest and diseases were there as far as humankind have existed. Humans blamed Satan for their sins. If we were at that age where lucifer rules, then the righteous would still make it. The bad ones die. Some Christians believed the good ones die. God took them from the filthy worlds. My people believed on personal will.

 It is a good thought; supernatural beings were an ambiguous imagination to be responsible for our sins. I believed in Jesus more than Power Puff Girls, but I once tried to fly. You all know I did. I almost did. I still believe I can simply by sheer grace, that I would survive my downfall. The Gospel was more tolerable. It all depended on perspective.

At least the Bereans read a similar book. The Bible. We received pictures as gifts, too, from  Auntie Kaye. Pictures of her family, the church, and they would exchange with the ones mommy took. I was sure her husband was Japanese but not Chinese, and every Sunday, sometimes a week, we would travel to Fana B ranch for our story times. After Our Bible study, she would tell me all about them, better than Chat gpt. I remembered all their faces, their stories and what color they wore too.

Auntie Kaye had a lot of stories, but she was always leaving soon. She couldn't stay in Africa as much as she wanted to. She had grandkids in Vancouver.  They were were as old as I was and Couldn’t imagine my own grandmother going away for that long. Our weather was not favorable to her and our food  too. Her’s were expensive. Things got really expensive when she was not around. I promised her that I would marry one of his grandsons. They were very different. I liked the one with blue eyes and dark hair. The other was cute, too, but he looked very young, and their sister was much taller with a ponytail. Untie Jene (not Jinni) always held her hair in a ponytail too. She behaved liked Barbie. We always wanted her to marry someone from our church. We wanted a permanent mzungu at home. Mine told me stories and behaved like Santa. She was better than Christmas. I must have loved Auntie Kaye; my mom named me after her. She is from Canada. She is white and not as black as us but my parents’ sister. She was not a jinni but a human being of our genes; I had tried to convince my classmates, Kenyans from all over Kenya, that she actually existed. My name was not  from a fictious story  or a movie as some of my classmates had claimed but a real human.

Everyone I told about Auntie Kaye had insisted that she was my parents' imaginary sister from Canada. They were related by faith in Jesus. My parents real siblings were not fond of that; a jinni had come from Canada and declare a family member of theirs, her sister and live like one. My  father and mother had, in fact, gone too far to give me not a religious name but a name after her friend, a white friend,

"an imaginary sister." Some said, instead of a cultural name. Ivy was the elites dream, Kaye an imaginary sister that was not even a Christian, and Nakhumicha was a good trial but not any better than my father’s name. Ivy Kaye Musebe was perfect for me. The last name identified me to my father. I liked being identified with my father. GENETICALLY, I was just like him, but a girl. I had his personality and identity and commanded the same respect he did in the society. I was being cheeky. Victorine managed to settle the naming beef with my father and it was settled that I be named after her. I wanted a more indigenous name, something solid.

Atoto Atori sounded like a better name. It was agreed that I would be a human record of their clan. Child of the clan. Atori Clan. Honestly, I simply sound like a child full of stories. I am a child full of stories, but I will never tell you about the Bible. I have not read the Bible thoroughly to make a conclusion. If I were a Cambridge Scholar, I would have avoided the translation of the Bible altogether on Campus. Arts would be my thing. Music is my drug and an exotic taste of circle of scientists and religious people. Experience has always been my best teacher.

I would find a Muslim friend and live with her for a while. Sly introduced me to Mvua. They are both pretty. They are proof of what Jack, the therapist, suggested. (This is the last I will mention about Jack; he has ceased socializing with me because I tell you about him yet, he is a very private man. I won't be telling him about you too, because I like talking to Jack. He listens to me.)

 He said,

"For me, it is a false dichotomy; people can't be analyzed as collections of traits. Inner and outer beauty are linked. Not so complicated. A mannequin with an empty head is not erotic or beautiful; desire is a combination of physical and psychological attraction. There can be more of one than the other, but there has to be unity. Outer beauty is often a reflection of inner qualities."

 

I called Mvua, anxious. Something had happened. I had gone to Bible school and met Adam in Bible school, and Papa has a digital record of the moments. Nelson, the naughty boy, had asked for my hand in marriage, and Nabwile had been the witness. I had prayed for a husband and the proposal was somehow what I had expected mine to be. I was feeling like Lot. God was giving me two options and I did not understand why , I shouldn’t choose abandance.  If it was a test, I was going to fail. I have always wanted to think about marriage when I am thirty. I am nine and twenty. Men married in their thirties. Some married very young girls, but mostly, lately, men married their agemates. Still at my age, marriage sounds like a man adopting me. The thirty years old I had dated had broken up with me and married thirty-year-olds. Mature women. Men matured in their thirties. My girlfriends are more mature;

Sharon was a pretty banker besides being a telecommunication engineer somewhere in Zanzibar.

Julie is a doctor; she just moved into her new home and giggles on phone.

 Edel was in Australia driving her first car- She feels more comfortable taking her citizenship and touring Australia. Barbie will soon join her.

I like the outfits from Laureen's Clothe lines and was always looking marvellous.

We had done a theatre show with Adeti and my boyfriend and his plus one had attended.

Beaulah was done with school; she was no longer a baby that need my constant attention.

Nafuna has adorable girls; she also looks after the family's health.

Mvua listens like a therapist but is supposed to be an architect. She works from home and has a charming son she named after Egypt. Sylvia now has two of them, a boy and a girl.

Anita married an artist, and they both are always creating something with a son whose name translated to happiness. She was crocheting very nice dresses.

Connex was into property and Law and Faith too. Deborah had more clients for her thrift.

Nabwile was in Ministry in the village, unbothered and unmarried, somewhere in Bungoma, reviewing Tourism in Western. When untie Kaye visited, they always camped at Nabwiles home Ranch.  I always visit when I get bored. I haven't this year, though because I choose to stay at home for personal growth. I hope she calls soon.

Well, I'm just as scared to go to Bible school. I might meet that boy, Nelson. He wants to marry me. I have yet to tell Papa. I haven't found words to say to him. I may be unable to describe him as he may prefer someone else or no one. Marrying from the Christadelphian church means marrying someone close enough to my dad. Someone friendly with my dad. Someone who chats with my dad. Nelson doesn't even speak with me. He may be very shy, or we might never have a chat at all. Imagine a marriage without conversations. That was what marriage was about to be for me. Being able to constantly socialize with someone of the opposite sex until both of you got bored and had kids. You must be satisfied with me if I intend to. I'm still determining kids. I can't handle myself, and some of you call me a big baby, so I am unsure how to manage a similar human, in a younger version.

I feel very different now. I have always been a child, then I became ivy, and soon Atoto Atori. I was changing. I was going to forge change from each simulation and do something  from the ordinary. In the third year of the twentieth century, I wanted not to move. I wanted to retire, to stop everything, hold still, find peace and come home, far from the genesis where I grew up, at the slopes of Mount Elgon where once upon a time lived a clan.

The Atori clan.

Where Juliet and I found ourselves living with a family from the Abakhayo clan, the last of her people, a very close family with a seer, a child that saw things, a child full of stories. I had a very long story to tell on her burial, but it made no sense.

I had already told her what I had wanted. I wanted to meet her, meet her son. Meet her new family. My sister had ran away with a man who she loved and for the first time, I was going to see her. She was still a girl. I had always known her without her hair and bald head was not a surprise but now she lay dead and I hated the red lipstick the mortuary people smudged on her lips. It was flaky. It reminded me of how dead my sister was. Indeed, we all die. Uncle David had died. Rampard had died. Kukhu Julia had died and now Juliet. She was resting, living was a complete pain for her. I watched her son watch her closely enough too. Juliet was no more and we travelled a few of us to lay her in Homabay. I have thought about it, getting married in homabay.

It was far from home. To get to Homabay by 7am, we had to travel from 6pm the previous day prior her funeral.