Nerea

My dani, my dad's mama was called Nerea.

She was buried when I was about 5 years old. In a grave next to which most of her children now lay. In Ingotse village, Kakamega.

I have a picture of her on our altar , in our home in Detroit. It is a picture that has her, my kwaru, my baba, my mama, Sammy and Jesse. I was not yet born. I had carried what I could carry of my family when I came.

Most of my family is very far away.

My only real memory of her, Nerea, was when she and kwaru saw me licking Milo out the palm of my hands, from a can in the cupboard somewhere. We lived in Upperhill, Nairobi back then. Milo is like drinking chocolate, but has crunchier and bigger grains, that i loved to roll in my mouth as I slowly beckoned them to dissolve into me.

It must have looked delicious, because within minutes they had beckoned and I was swiftly scooping ample amounts of milo into their palms for them to lick too.

Save from the occasional live chickens sent from dala, from grandma, and possibly gunias of sweet potatoes, or peanuts, I can't remember anything else substantial about her.

But then this:





I can't stop playing it.

The song, unbeknownst to them, is named after my dani, and it talks about every child's potential to be anything, and everything, and urges Nerea, not to have an abortion, because, the baby daddy will take care of the baby.

Firstly,
Feminists,
Sit down.

I know.
And I agree.
Complexities lacking and inadequacies abound.
And i agree,
Not all plates are full. There is entrenched poverty and systematic repression of so many classes and ethnicities among the masses.

But for a minute,
Empathise,

With all the women who never get to have a baby daddy willing to support their babies.

Empathise,

With the women who are so distraught when they find out they are pregnant, they aren't in the best psychological space to make the best decision for them/their baby/their family....
The women who never have the capacity to see the possibilities within their future children, because their heavy burdened with the material challenges associated with pregnancy and child rearing.

I have a bias against abortions.
But it happens.
I would like for women to have the opportunity then, to really have as many options layed out for them in terms of pregnancy care and child support ...before we default to abortions.
Pro choice movements don't often really engage the choices that the various women have. Sometimes, abortion is a resort, not because a woman is definitively disinterested or unwilling to carry a baby to term, but because of very unfavorable and indequate accommodations in society for the mother-woman.

A beg,
They also had me with their wonderful video, harmonies and falsettos.
They also name dropped so many of my heroes, lupita, bambam, Maathai, Mboya, Nyerere, Makeba...

You know I also just love Sauti Sol. ( Amos and Josh were a perfect addition to this jam- can you hear Amos sang!!!!)

They are the dream.

Brothers going hard after their dreams, and then pumping so much of that Afrocentricity, motherland loving....mmmh!


Nerea,

As a mother, it is wonderful to be reminded, about Ominira's  unlimited possibilities for self actualization and success.



As a daughter, it is wonderful to be reminded too, that I am significant, and I am capable, of being someone of great value to my community. I can. Even when it feels like I am going nowhere. I can. I am. Wanted. Wantable. Loved. Loveable. Significant.

Isn't it wonderful, to hear your dad or your mum say, I will take care of you. I want you?

Isn't it wonderful to know you are wanted?

Mmmh.
But what of Dani then?

I don't know....
Maybe this is a mystical message from her...ay, there aren't too many Nereas out there....and that name choice was quite errr...specific..

Got me thinking of Dani though. Got me remembering that I have peoples who love on me somewhere back home, and I should not forget that.

Mother of mothers,

Did dani imagine, she would have a grandbaby like me? Growing alot apoth , alot boo, ododo and chickens in Detroit? Did she imagine that I would be galavanting majuu with a black American moran, digging earth and building village, hustling and bustling towards dreams and desires?

Thank you Sauti Sol, Amos and Josh.
erokamano Dani.

Massage my sole

I struggle to find the right kind of music to massage my sole. Right now, i can feel the tingling, at the root of my toes in my right foot, running down the heart of my foot, circling the ball, and then up through to the tip of my toes.
I need something soft, concordant, perferably rich with minor keys. I need something that will usher peace, tranquility and transcendence. I need to travel back in time, emotionally and psychologically, to the various places where i have found comfort, strength and most importantly purpose.
Things seem to come together and then they don't.
Proverbial carrot stick in front of an ass.
I see it.
But I am getting tired.
I wish I had more of the time to do what I would love to invest myself in. The stuff that's really really about me. Not just sustenance. I am talking talent, passion, communion.
John legend.
From the Album Evolver.
Massage my sole.
Massage my soul.

I need, I don't just want

I need to make music.
I need to partake in the process.
To bathe in discordant chords..
To get lost.

I listen to music.
And I am like,
I need to do that.
I need  to be in that work.

I don't want.

I need.

Music is so powerful.
So intense.

Texture.
Depth.

I can feel it in the soles of my feet.
And in the nape of my neck.

The vibrations.
The sensations.

I can feel everything.
In that moment.

I am enlightened.

Unburdened.

I need.I don't just want.

show me who you are, we are alone now...

This is my America

I am about to make a film.
A big ol badass revolutionary film.

But I am not a filmmaker.

I am a person who loves, lives for, spaces where people are vibing hard. Great conversations. Talking about hawt n spicy stuff. Spaces where ideologies are flipped on their heads. Where people break into sweat. Where teeth are ground and bared.

I am here to create such spaces.
I been here for that.

Detroit.

Building from the bottom in Detroit.

This is my America.

Where everyone around me is grappling with one of the most brutal evils of our time: the systematic disenfranchisement of working class folk by the institutions and means of capitalism.

This is my America.

Where I quiver to be walking down the streets of Grosse Pointe after dark with my husband, because  I now understand, and I can feel that we are not wanted there.

This is my America.

Where I am angry, disappointed and untrusting of the guild of whiteness. Where I am no longer shielded by the appeal of Africanah exoticism, and I am no longer inclined to wave my Kenyan passport, or smile at white auntys' fascination of my eloquence and civilized dimeanor.

This is my America.

Where poverty is masked by credit debt, big houses, big cars, endless work days and deep dissatisfaction.

life here ain’t no crystal stair.
It has tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.


This is my America.

Spirits bawl in these broke down homes,

Death.

Agony.

Why aren't we wailing?

Have you walked around these sides?

Detroit?

Stripping down

all that love made in our homes,

all that love-

great conversations caught in walls,

stories,

journeys.

cousins thrown out in the streets,

because of them financial piranhas and thieves,

because of a game we can never win.

because of chasing this here American Dream.


No glitz and glam hereabouts.

Not in this my America.


Ahh.

Aaaahhhhh.

He saw my name and greeted me,

Ba wo ni,  Àlàáfíà ni
And no kidding,

I heard
Atieno, Idhi nade
Uber driver, yesterday.
He had spoken to me in Yoruba, and I heard him speak in Dholuo.

What?

Picking me and Ominira from Grosse Pointe too.

What is this?

Abeg,

America.

Sé dáadáa ni.

I am packing for just one night

Below is a segment of transcript from a CBC radio show I was listening to yesterday [ my 25th Bday]:

 In 2006, the Heat wasn't supposed to get into the finals. Even though they had Shaquille O'Neal, they were overshadowed by many more powerful teams. But under Riley's insightful coaching, they made it to the championship.
The Heat were playing the Dallas Mavericks for the NBA title, and were ahead three games to two, and only had to win one more. But the last two games were scheduled to be played in Dallas, the Mavericks' home court.
Statistically, the team with home-court advantage wins three out of every four series in the playoffs.
And the Heat's handicap would be most intense in the seventh game. If they lost the sixth, winning the seventh game in an enemy stadium would be almost impossible.
But Riley felt certain his team could beat the Mavericks as long as they were convinced they could. He had to make his players believe they could win the championship in game six.
Because he didn't want them having to play that dangerous seventh game in the Maverick's house.
So... how did he motivate his players to win game six?
He simply told the team the whole story of their upcoming victory in a single line:
He told everyone to pack for just one night.
Not two. Just one small overnight bag.
That simple line telegraphed Riley's intention that there was not going to be a seventh game.
That his team wouldn't need a second change of clothes because they were coming home the night of the sixth game as NBA World Champions.
He told it. They felt it.And they did it.

I am packing for just one night too.
That is my resolution.
I have been working towards this resolution for a while now.

25 years old.
There has been a lot of life lived.
So much and yet at this instant, it feels like nothing.
All that is tangible is the here and now.
Bittersweet.

If I hit the jackpot, well and good.
If I don't, die trying.

No more room for can't.
Not when I am alive.

One bag.

This is it.

Am bringing you with me,
If you will.

Ashei.

Farming my way back home

It feels like I was bucked by a horse.
My thighs are sore and I have this terrible wobble.
I was farming into the night yesterday: tearing up clods of earth with my jembe, creating borders, mounds and pits to plant our seedlings.
I was frustrated that we are buying greens, when we can put these seeds into the earth and have our own. I went hard. A bit too hard maybe.

I was thinking,
Funny, my primary occupation,is farmer, just like my grandfather in Kakamega.
I am in America, and i work the soil, love the soil, pray pon the soil, like my grandfather is doing now, thousands of miles away.
And wow!
So much for that $50,000 a year college Degree...(you can take the woman out the land, but you can't take that land out the ...)
I was thinking about how therapeutic plowing earth, pinching soil, tugging at weeds, and designing this paradise is.
How natural it feels.
How it teleports me back home.
How I am suddenly in conversation with my mum, her mum, her mum's mum and the dynasty of women whose blood, love, memory and energy runs through my veins.
Ashei.

I don't know much about where I am going (professionally), but I know that farming is fundamental. {growing food is ) as essential as drinking water. It should be as common a practice.

At the moment, we have spinach, lettuce, collards, kales, cabbages in already. Theres tonnes of other seedlings germinating in the greenhouse, just waiting to be grounded.The workload is mounting, but the weather will not give!!!

It snowed today. Too cold for a grind. I was all ready to get the work in but, by now you know I don't play with Michigan cold. Hellurrrr!

I started farming proper, 3 years ago, at lilac community gardens, a parcel of land donated by Michigan State University to the city's food bank. I started because Baba Chiengbeng signed up for a plot of land, while we were still in college, but before he could get into it, had to go to Florida for a summer Yoruba program. I was initially reluctant about the whole idea, especially since the plot was a significantly long walk from our apartment, but somebody needed to water the crops.

He was an Agribusiness major so the farming came naturally. It took a minute for me, but you know, once you start tending to the garden you can't stop. You stumble into loving before you know it, and I was there every evening, after my work shifts, hauling water in jugs and buckets from rainwater barrels and sometimes even a borehole several meters away from the garden.

Only pitch darkness sent me home...

Farming (in America) was always, for me, an opportunity to grow the kinds of foods my mum would cook, that I couldn't purchase in the store, or most certainly not expect to find in the college cafeteria.  I grew as many heritage crops as I could find with a vengeance. I grew a forest of black eyed peas at lilac, together with tomatoes, some other greens and pumpkins (malenge). Black eyed peas leaves are a delicacy in Western Kenya. Nyummmmz. Pumpkin leaves are delicious too, as are sweet potato leaves, African Spider Plant aka Saga, Huckleberry leaf aka Managu, nettle, and a few others I discovered and planted in Detroit.

Food is so important.

It is so powerful and healing.

Especially when you are far from 'home' and far from family and loved ones.

And then when you get into the soil, and start growing...you can't stop. It's exciting. It's intensive work- but its great work. It's not oppressive-work. It's loving work.

Today, as I am feeling my way through life, I am glad, excited, and affirming of the fact that I am continuing the work of many of my parents and ancestors. I am glad that I am touching the earth and swinging my jembe, and kneeling on this hallowed ground.

I am connecting dots.

I am understanding many things and accepting many things.

I am not alone.

I am not powerless.

I walk with thousands, and thousands, and thousands....

When I bend down and pray upon the earth, I call so many who have done so before me.

And when I lay that seed in that earth I lay it with love and say thank you. Grow well. And I lay it gracefully, make sure that it is comfortable, warm, cozy, and has access to all it needs, all that I can give, and all that I can not.

I praise the sun.
I praise the darkness.

I praise those that teach that we are all one, human and animal and plant and earth.
I praise those who teach that time is bending, is fluid, is malleable.
I praise those who liberate minds and spirits.

I pray for consciousness.
I pray for peace.
I pray for harmony
I pray for an end to the bullshit and the madness.
Whether it call itself capitalism, nationalism, tribalism, racism, sexism, colorism, religion, fiat money, corporatism, white-savior complex, white supremacy, (name that evil), (name that evil)

I pray for all of this and fling my hoe back onto the earth and keep on working.

Do you know the badass who eats squirrel meat ?

Squirrels, in my business, are pests.

They cause a lot of mischief in our garden, nibbling at this and the other, or digging up some beets, gnawing off some shoots, and frustrating our labor.
Further, and even more vexing, is their persistent nesting in OUR ROOF. We have an old house, and this roof has seen way better days. The squirrels find their way in every winter, and cause a frackass, running in the crawl spaces above the living room and kitchen, and occasionally, we have heard them between walls.
Abeg.
Baba Achieng set traps. Drowned a few in the Detroit River, then decided, we need not buy any more meat with the high population of members in our immediate vicinity.
Abeg.
Eyes rolled but he persisted, arguing that we needn't be pretentious about slaughtering them, yet we do the same to all the other animals we eat.
Sure enough, He spent almost a whole afternoon skinning that unlucky muther and the darn ass thing was plopped into a bowl, my bowl, and it was suggested that I was to continue.
"Here's a recipe," he passed his phone to me.
Ok.
Trust, it was from louisiana, where a few weeks prior, when I was in New Orleans, somebody driving by called at us asking us whether we knew the guy who sells possum. Lawd.
I just doused the squirrel in vinegar.
(To disinfect it)
Plenty of sea salt.
(To disinfect it further)
And Baba sprinkled Cayenne.
Two days of marinating in the fridge, I volunteered to throw it in the oven, before it went bad.
Clobbered off its tail and head.
I dont know why those were still attached to this day.
Flung open the oven door, and threw that carcass on a baking sheet.

Maybe 2 hours later,
After I was sure that it was falling off the bone,
And all vermin germsies gone,
Pulled it out,
Chopped off some meat and munched.

Aisay, It wasnt all that good, but more likely coz of the excessive vinegaration than the squirell's own doing.
I couldn't dig in good coz it was all just yucky thinking of squirrel...

The internet said squirrel meat is pretty tasty when i checked.
Tasted more like liver. Liver isn't bad, to me, but I wasn't going to kill no squirrel for such a lean carcass that tasted like liver.

Baba got cold feet too.

Ate some. Threw out most of the leftovers.

We agreed we will wait till summer, bbq season, when so much meat is on the grill, across the street at his mums, and maybe throw one in at the end, and see what everyone thinks.

There too many of them here anyway.

"no natural predators" baba says, "reducing their population (by any means necessary) is..." as lion in Tinga Tinga tales says, "nature's way"

Dear Lupita

With a little over $1000 mostly gifted, host families I either searched out on couchsurfing, facebook, or was connected to by friends, I took a month long journey down south, hoping that I would return surefooted about my next career move.

I was with my one and a half-year old baby, Achieng, and we bused down sometimes 20hours straight city to city, firstly to Chicago, then to Dallas, Houston, and NEW ORLEANS.

Among so many other things, I was done with Detroit winter, the crippling and xenophobic nature of US immigration processes, post-undergrad stress disorder, stay at home mother stress disorder and miss my mum in Kenya stress disorder. Because my student visa was expired, I couldn't go back to Nairobi, but I still had to get away.

I missed the brunt of Michigan Wintergeddon, feasted on sunshine, the warmth and love of strangers-turned friends, and the vibrance of New Orleans living.
I told people all the way down south, you know what, I want to be Oprah. Why you here? Trying to figure out how I'mma be the next Oprah Winfrey.
I want to make a living talking to people about everything. About life. About Pain. About Pleasures. Politricks. Transcendence....

I want to be Maya Angelou. Why you here? Trying to figure out how I'mma be the next Maya Angelou.
I want to be Tracy Chapman.
I want to be Nina Simone.
I want to be Thandiswa Mazwai.
I want to be Simphiwe Dana.
I want to be India Arie.
I want to be Bill Maher.
I want to be Sauti Sol and Just a Band.
I want to be Wangari Maathai.
I want to be Steve Biko.
I want to be Boniface Mwangi.
I want to be Benazir Bhutto.

I want to be human.

I want to dabble in the beautiful things in life. Music. Color. Fiery Activism. Love. Magic.

I digress.
I wasn't fixin to write that whole list, but hey.
It is painfully difficult and paralyzing.

Folks who live up north all their lives are out of their mind. I know that for sure though.

I watched your speech, at the Massachusetts Conference for Women, this morning.

I surrender.

I am tired of living in aspiration.

I am not "giving up", or shutting down my desires.

I have written them, shouted them, worried them, wondered them, cried them, shared them, prayed them, and now I am throwing them in the wind.

Maybe I am where I need to be right now.

Maybe the timeline in my imagination is wrong.

Maybe, I already am all of those things, those people, those aspirations.

Maybe, I am ok.

Maybe, I need to be present in now.

Maybe, the magic is here now.

Here with all these uncertainties.

Here on this page.

Here in my hands.

Here on the land we farm.

Here among our friends.

Here in Detroit.

Maybe because of this deathly cold even.

I wanted to give you a hug.
Listening to you.

I thank you.

I hope we will get to meet and vibe someday.
Some place simple and homely,
Maybe even here in our lil ol ruggedy farmhouse.

I will be sure to get it cleaned up first though.



See LUPITA SPEECH here: https://youtu.be/_LKpTHa2VoU

"I come as one, but I stand with thousands"

I will take this a step at a time, because there is so much to share, so many experiences and thoughts, that I have been overwhelmed, and found it incredibly difficult to write.

But I will take it a word at a time, and a day at a time.

One word at a time.

Thank you, first of all, my dearest Zo. For all the happiness and the pain I cause you, for all the happiness and pain that you cause me, For all that you do that I don't see, For all that you are, For all that you are supporting me to be. I pray to the earth, to the heavens, the hells, that I am a better person to you, a better partner, a better love, a person who constantly affirms your being, and the worthinesss of your being.

Baby and I, over the past couple of weeks of travel, came upon some wonderful people  who have been so generous, who welcomed us, hugged us, fed us, provided safety, warmth and a myriad of advice about everything.

Roxanne in New Orleans, Elisha Hall and Sona Smith and their children Aya, Ameen and Ajani in Chicago, Moses Durolawo and his wife Margaret in Dallas, and Betty and Moses Achapa in Houston. I give thanks for the tangible and the intangible.

One word at a time.

I struggle, because there is just so much- too much- to say. So much it is crippling.  I find other things to do: wash dishes, wash the sink, pile books back into the shelves-even though baby about to scatter them about again... I find other things to do. Anything. Because I am afraid.I feel like the words just get loaded and stuck at my finger tips.

Tips are bloated, engorged with words.

One word at a time.

I have been surrounded by magic, transcendent power, and people, who have been holding me up, during this time, when I could not hold myself. When i have little consciousness of myself, in the physical and the metaphysical domain.

Lorenzo has been holding me up. He is holding me up.

Ominira holding me up.

Every morning, when she wakes up and climbs all over me, and presses her warm, soft chubby cheeks against mine. Pulling on my hands, rolling over, under, waking me up. Rise ma. Wake up ma.

Ominira took great care of me all through the trip.
Felt like she protected me.
She gave me plenty room to be.
She allowed me to walk, to see, to feel, to breathe.

Ominira who are you?
Ominira who are you?

Where are you from my baby?


One word at a time.

Priestess came around. Priestess. Seer. Powerful, wonderful, warm black sister Phy. Priestess brought healing to my husband and warmth to my home. Brother Onyx Ashanti, powerful, creative, warrior man, brought shango down on us- called us to our own, affirmed that we are at the cusp and we just need to be, to do what we know to do. Powerful, restorative conversations a few nights after we arrived from New orleans.


I stand with thousands.

I am calling on these thousands.

I can not be alone.

I can not do alone.


I am calling you.
I am calling the dead and the living.
You, reading this.
You, whose music I play when writing this.
You who nurtured me when I had limited consciousness.
You who loved me when I couldnt/ wouldnt love you.
You standing next to me.
You human being, who I am a part of, as we are all a part of each other.
You trees, rivers, birds, worms,
You earth.
You without whom I would not exist.
You whom I interact with as I exist.

I am calling you.
I need you.
Hear me.
See me.
Embrace me.
Walk with me.
Allow me to be.
Just to be.

Ashei.

"I come as one, but i stand with thousands"- Mama Maya Angelou

I am grieving tonight

I am grieving tonight,
10 years later,
I am grieving tonight,
In this place,

for the dead,
for their loved ones,
for their friends,
for this city here,
I am grieving tonight,

New Orleans,

Katrina,

When the levees broke,

When our peoples died.
When our fathers died.
When our mothers died.
When our sisters died.
When our brothers died.
When our children died.

Left homeless,
Diseased,
Dispersed unwittingly across the nation,
Leaving behind all hard earned wealth and creation,
Lineage,
Memories of struggles and celebration,

Absolute devastation.
Pain.

Desperation.

Waiting on rooftops and attics,
3 days or more
with no food,
no water or medication,


Humiliation by the guardians of the nation,
Who took forever to send a worthy delegation,
To help remediate a critical situation.

I am grieving tonight.
Restless,
Heavy,
Can't sleep good tonight.

New Orleans,

Katrina,

When the levees broke.

Drowning in sorrow,
Drowning in tears,
Spirits whisper in my ears,
I hear loud and clear,

Wailing.

It has been 10 years.

Rest in peace my dears.

Do beers pour on Bourbon,
as offerings for the dead,
bodies lost,
do you hear them,
in your head,
talking,
walking down the quarter,
drunken and raving in the morning like mad,
can't you see why the Mississippi is sad?
weary,
writhing,
winding across the sand,
people wailing, waiting desperate for a hand,
swallowed by tragedy,
by poverty,
by prejudice,
and indifference,
all around,
how can you stand,
by on Bourbon and revel like a clown,
while this city watches with a frown,
as your pour your beers on down,
without reverence,
without rememberance,
of the restless spirits that here abound.

I missed him yesterday, and I will miss him tomorrow

He is such a delicious man.
I miss him already.
I missed him yesterday and I missed him Monday morning, when he walked out the door.

He is in Athens, Georgia for the week.
Work.
Gogo, our cat is at Greg's.
The house is cold and empty now.

Save for the mice and squirrels in the rafters.
Scratching occasionally at the drywall,
Nibbling,
Dropping something,
Hobbling between cramped dark spaces.

A generous application of mothballs didn't deter them. And we learned, after the fact, that they are carcinogenic. Oops!

I was thinking about him,
The way I used to think about him when we first met.
When things were uncertain,
But magical,
When time spent together felt like eternity.

Dancing late at night after work,
In his bedroom,
In that raggedy house on Kensington.
We danced almost every night.
We danced to Gregory Isaacs, Beres Hammond, Freddie McGregor, Marley,
And we would melt into each other,

Tug at each other's bodies,
Whirl each other across the room,

Laughter,
Silence,

Magic.

I remember.
Everything.
The first time.
The second.
The third.

Rocking.
Knocking on the bed and the walls.

He is such a delicious man.
I miss him already.
I missed him yesterday and I missed him Monday morning, when he walked out the door.
And I know I will miss him tomorrow.

Leo ni Leo, Msema Kesho Ni Mwongo

Leo ni leo, Msema Kesho ni Mwongo.
Today is the day. he who says tomorrow is a liar.


I am thrusting myself into the unknown.
There is nothing else left to do.

A college degree is nothing.
I bemoaned it the other day.
Buried it.

4 years and almost $200,000 and for what?
Where will doors open for saying I got a degree in Political philosophy and constitutional demagogy?
What does that even mean anyway?
I was so naive. So gullible.


Firstly, I know now, all degrees are not equal. Even though they are often (over-)priced the same, or almost the same.
I also know, that unless you are doing very technical courses, or you can piggy back your way through college on scholarships, college is only as useful as the relationships and experiences on and around campus.
You are paying $50,000 per year to commune with white folk, black folk, latino folk, chinese folk, and if lucky, pick up a few critical thinking skills.
I am opposed to industrial education's monopoly over education.
I would encourage any young fella, including my own proginy to think critically about the societal nudges towards industrial education, all the way from kindergarten and preparatory schools to higher-ed.
There is too much out here that we miss out on.
By the time we realise it, we are in too much debt, we have taken whatever white collar or blue collar was available, and are slaving away through the rest of our adult lives.

There are so many ways of learning, and so many alternative models of very credible educations.
I am learning about these every day, as I connect with worlds of people and professions that were alien to me.

Acirema has a lot of hidden gems.Perhaps this was the perfect place to build momentum for a lifestyle that is non-mainstream.

I am building a nest here, but I know I can't only nest here.
But I am here now.
Life is happening here now.The voyage begins tomorrow.
Chicago.Dallas.Houston.New Orleans.Detroit.
I have been preparing for this voyage for 2 months, and probably my whole life.
My intention is sunshine, rejuvenation, and rest. I am opening myself to new connections, places and possibilities, as i prepare to lunge into the work that I am passionate about (outside of mainstream employment).
I need to get out into the world.
I needed to crack my back.

Get out of the house and feel some sun on my face.
Purge this stuffy,stagnant energy threatening to cripple even my imagination.
To breathe.
To stretch my arms out and walk down streets.
A reason to dress up cute.
A reason to feel good.

Sometimes, you have to leave.
I have been needing to leave.
For a minute.

Chicago?
Chicago?

Give me energy Chicago.
Give me love Chicago.
Give me energy Chicago.
Give me love Chicago.

Acirema.
America.

Feels so alien to me.
Here I come.
Ashei.
Let it be.

Lawd, I met a brother!

This is a great metaphor for the relationship I have had/continue to have with Lorenzo. Right off the bat, the relationship was intense, fiery and naked.

Keyword: naked*
giggles!

Lawd, I met a brother!

Children can drive you nuts!

Just saying,

Sometimes the whining is unbearable.

Sometimes the neediness is unbearable.

They just take take take from you.

I need a break too lil mama.

I need my body back too lil mama,

I need my own time too lil mama,

But she doesn't understand,

That she almost drives me nuts!

Sometimes!

And I get so frustrated,
Because it only makes me want my mummy.
But she is '000s of miles away.
Over a great evil sea and continent away.

I don't think I want to do this again.
Having children,
Coz children can drive you nuts!

Detroit is sticky

I don't want to get stuck.

Detroit is nice, most times, but not now, I need to get out.

I will go crazy if I don't.

Cooped up inside all day, because we too broke to pay, to prove to the state,

That I deserve to stay,

Green card process stalled indefinitely because we live below US poverty.

I am not allowed to work here. I am not allowed to make a dime.
 I cannot contribute, so how can we multiply ?

Income... meet requirements, and legalize my presence?

Its all about cash money here.

There is no love for the poor here.

But are we really poor here?

When we have homestead, grow food, and birds, and abundance of love here?

When we have framily all over the city and all over this nation supporting us here?

I don't know what to do, though, beyond what I have done, to seek out a suitable and willing sponsor. Its tricky when extended family is poor too. When the state requires us to  demonstrate an annual income of $30,000 as a family in order for me to be able to live in the light, but still won't give me a job, makes it impossible for me to work. Paradox.

Where are human rights in America?
Where are immigrants' rights in America?

Racists. Classists. Xenophobes!

But we are here.

But I am here.

I am here because of love and circumstance.

And if I am here, I deserve the right to live right.


It is my right to seek out employment or to make money through my own.

It is my right to move freely,

It is my right to belong.

But I cant.

Not legally yet.

Anyway.

Chicago, here I am

I have been to Chicago about 3 times before.

Downtown Chicago is wonderful. I am a big city girl. I thrive in the presence of people. I want to walk down streets filled with people...all sorts of people, that hustle. That Nairobi-like hustle.

If I can't have New York, I will take Chicago, gladly.

Down-town Detroit is good too. But not as good. Not as accessible on foot. Not bustling enough. Not too many colored folks running the show down there either.  Plus there is just too much bad press about Detroit, that holds people back from being in open space. People don't seem to just walk around downtown to walk. Everyone is going somewhere.

I enjoyed taking matatus downtown in Nairobi. No. 48 took only 20 minutes from our back door to the stage at Odeon, in the heart of the city,  except of course for rush hour. Two different matatu kanges' (ka-ngey-z, meaning psv conductors) were infatuated with me, and so they would wait on me when they saw me approach, clear out the best seats, and make sure I never paid my fare. I never thought I would be that girl getting favors from matatu kanges. I neither beckoned nor encouraged it, but I wasn't one to be rude or cold to conversation prompts with wananchi on the ride to town or back home...Besides, the brothers were young like me, and one was really cute.

I certainly hoped that I would never get on a mat chaperoned by any of my crushes while with my mum. Kanges' have the worst rep, only second to Mpigs (dishonorable members of parliament) back home...and I had been the head prefect of Alliance girls...goddess forbid I be known to be dating a kange. I did not need any more drama.

There is nothing that compares with matatus here. Nothing with that level of chaos, culture and convenience all at the same time. Public service vehicles, in East Lansing, Lansing, Chicago and New York are closely regulated and run on tight predefined schedules. Matatus and buses at home, in Nairobi are the complete opposite, but they have their perks too, since they are able to take liberties with their routes and pick up or drop off sometimes as close as your front door- instead of a designated stage.There must be abundant literature out there about how matatus have been central in the creation and the modulation of much of Nairobi's culture: the good, the bad and the ugly. Of particular interest to me is the appraisal of local hip hop and pop music, which I have come to appreciate so much more during my time in America and, on a darker note, the misogyny, violence and masochism, expected of an informal industry dominated by young, under-educated, under-employed men with a lot of pent-up sexual frustration, and perverse moral conditioning.

I would dare to compare matatus with public transport in Detroit, if only for a minute, but almost argue that Nairobi has it even better. Detroit's transit system is inadequate for the size of the city, is hopelessly unreliable in most lowerclass neighborhoods, and features some of the rudest black folk working you will ever meet this side of the Atlantic. So unfortunate for the city that delivered the automobile to the world to be one of the worst places to own ( highest auto-insurance costs in the nation) and use one.

Chicago though.

Chicago meant Oprah for the longest, and then Obama, and then...

I am not sure what Chicago has to offer me.

But Chicago feels good.

It feels very good.

I have connected with a number of sisters and brothers whom I will either live with or meet during my stay, who are invested in "healing" work and the work of rebuilding communities around collective spaces, sustainable urban agriculture, art and transcendence.

I connected with Elisha today, for instance, a brother whom I now know through my wonderful friend Crystal, a badass capoeira/marshall arts/yogi/ healer in Detroit. He has three children, the youngest being 13 months, only a few behind Omi, and is working on a housing collective project in Chi town, that will do some of the things we have been doing at our own homestead in Detroit- hosting and accommodating peoples interested in all aspects of earthship, social justice, communing and transcendence.

Jessi from Freedom Freedom Gardens had also generously opened up her own space to me, where she lives when she is teaching- apparently she is a professor- a couple times a week in Chicago, then she comes back to Detroit to build, to farm, and to commune just a couple of streets, a few blocks up the road from us.

So many friends and friends of friends reached out to accommodate me, I had to choose, and determined this by proximity of their homes to downtown Chicago. I don't drive yet, and would not want to be cooped up because of hefty transit costs.

I am going to Chicago.

I am going to absorb and to interact with the energies of the masses of people flowing by.

I am going to say, Chicago, here I am.

I am present.

I am going to look at Harpo towers and say, Oprah, I been seen you all these years on TV, and Now, here I am. I don't need to write you long distance letters. I am touching this space. I am worthy of this space.

I am going to take Omi to see Obama's house and tell her, nyathi, here it is, here you are, just like him. There is nothing to hold you back.

There is nothing to hold us back.

We are present.

We are ready.

From common cold to breast cancer

I was reading an article this afternoon, about how the stigma about women's menstruation, periods, is a cause of serious gynecological problems that many women experience further along in their life, in America.

As I was reading it, I remembered two things, the first being that I just had a dream last night, in which I was having my period, as I am now, ( I have a fullmoon cycle), and I jumped into a swimming pool at an evening party, and spread clots of blood in it. No one noticed, of course, until much later, when there was light. And no one could determine who had caused it, since it had been night time, but I knew, and I was ashamed, and disgusted, as I looked on at the streaks of blood running through the pool, shallow end to deep end.

I usually have very lucid dreams. In fact, Lorenzo really thinks I should try magic mushrooms, as a result, and tap into what could well be a natural gift- the ability to have tremendously vivid experiences in this alternate dimension we offhandedly call dreams.

The second thought crossed my mind, at precisely the moment i read the passage below, which talks about the significance of including men, and fathers into the conversation on menstruation.

"Malinski, who has also tried, with less success, to get men to sign up for a puberty workshop with their daughters, says that involving fathers in the conversation on menstruation is a key to erasing that unease. “Men being able to talk to their daughters about that would be incredibly empowering and normalizing.” -Lisa De Bode

I had told my dad that I had a persistent cold and needed to see a doctor. He obliged and soon we were at the Aga Khan hospital checking in, and I was in this pervy middle-aged man's office alone, while dad waited outside. The truth is I was not there because of a cold. I was there because of my excruciating menstrual cramps, and suspiciously long periods, and I needed to seek some professional assistance. Panadol couldn't do it any more.

The most absurd thing, besides the fact that I had to lie to my dad, about a very natural thing- periods- was that I left the doctors office with a diagnosis of breast lumps and urgent instructions to undergo further examinations and eventually even had surgery. Now....here i was, telling dad, I am going into the doc's for some sore throat/cold watchumacall-it...and I come out and have to tell him,
"Ok, eh, dad, so they found breast lumps and I might need surgery".

Dad didn't say anything, fortunately, but it was all on his face...how did things turn up from cold to possible breast cancer in minutes?????

Ahh...its all about that shame. That shame surrounding menstruation, periods, rolling, auntie flo, florider, and all the other names we have conjured to obscure the experience as much as possible from the rest of the XY population.

Now, as if matters couldn't have been worse, I was also feeling absolutely VIOLATED by that pervy doctor, who had a list of the lewdest questions to ask me when I told him that I was having irregular and painful periods, (digging incessantly into a sexual history that I didn't even have, and going only short of charging that I was lying). He was not content with me telling him that I was a virgin, and had some issues with my menstrual cycle. He was also trying to prod for some type of STI history....if I can recall correctly, and then out of the blue, he said, he needed to check me for breast lumps. I was reluctant, but he said it was protocol, and I was powerless.

Checking for breast lumps meant pressing and pinching fingers liberally over , under, into my breasts for what seemed ages.

I hated it.

I hated him.

He then said that he needed to do some type of swab in my vagina for God Knows What ...but for that procedure he would call a female nurse to be present.

It was still horrible.

This was my first really invasive medical procedure, and the doc had already acted suspiciously enough, and I only thought his old ass was being a pervert!

I just remember having to spread my legs further and further apart, and being urged to relax. Relax? How on earth could I relax?

Meanwhile, through all this, I had no agency, and no parental assist.

Dearest dad was outside in the waiting area, thinking all I had was a cold.

Mothers Need Help: Depressive episodes during child bearing and nurturing

This is to all my mothers out there, and the communities of people that go out of their way to help us, even when we are too shy/proud/worn out/ to ask for help. It is also a call to us, to be sensitive to mothers, and to be aware that they are very vulnerable, and need all the help that they can get. Birthing and raising a human being is supernatural work. It takes so much out of us, our bodies, and our energies, and we are sometimes left with too little energy/love/time/ for ourselves.