How fast time flies…

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Nelson Mandela

Courtesy: Pinterest/feeldriven.com

It’s been a year since my beloved father, may Allah have mercy on him, left for the other world. I remember the disenchantment and restlessness with life that engulfed me then  and my resolve to align my goals with my purpose in this world, the worship of my creator. A year down the line though, and I am at a cross roads.

Against all that is systematic and methodical about my life, I have personally taken out the carpet from underneath me- without a back up plan. Against all that I have ever known my life to be, organized, well thought out, and boring. But for once, I’m not thinking 10 steps into my future. I’m content to take off this time and reflect on the direction in which I want to take my life. To renew my intentions, purpose and relationship with my Lord and to take a deep breath and appreciate all the favours that have been bestowed upon me.

This year, I have learnt a very important lesson regarding human nature. I have seen the ugly side of it and I’ve come out alive. And I never knew I had it in me. How too well aware I am now that the world I lived in was too idealistic, too perfect. Change is hard, but necessary. I had been fortunate enough to work with some of the most amazing people in the world who let me be as long as I delivered. By that, I certainly don’t mean that I strolled in whenever I wanted or that I spoke to people whichever way I wanted.  It means that I was allowed to be uniquely myself, just as you are uniquely you – I was trusted and honoured to do whatever needed to get done. That nothing concerning my identity was mocked at and my opinions and concerns were respected and acted upon. I now understand the paradox to the coin that is human nature. Principled yet fleeting, kind yet selfish, beautiful yet ugly. I saw the other side to the beauty and I have changed, good change, well I hope inshaallah.

As my illusions shattered left and right, I am immensely blessed to still have had the presence of mind to know that my one constant would never change. And how fervently I prayed to Him that I never change to accommodate that other side. That I never get bitter or cynical, no matter the incitement. That I commit to believe in the inherent goodness of everyone else I meet and forget these experiences. That this is the exception. That there is maror and dandelions but there is also stevia, blossoms, lavender, violets, roses.

I have learnt not to follow the world as it will never be satisfied, at my psychological, emotional and physical expense. I have learnt that I will speak up at injustice but most importantly I have learnt that I need to be careful of what I allow into my life. That I am also fragile and need to actively ensure that all that is negative, be it disrespect, intolerance or arrogance have no place in my life. This is the essence to my leaving. I have resolved to retire and attempt to heal, God willing, my weary soul. To recharge my positive vibes and warm my icy heart. To empathize as easily as I did before and to once again aspire to facilitate the improvement of mankind, a critical goal to my happiness. To do good not because of others’ sake but because my Lord loves the good doers. Most importantly, to praise, thank and worship my Creator in this life.

So a year later, I have not forgotten, but time slowly but surely dulls the edges of my grief. As my life rolls over, no matter the pauses I desperately attempt to throw at that wheel, to remember that most beautiful face, and that most fleeting sweet smell, I stoically accept, but beautifully mark you, with patience, that change is hard, and change is good. But there is hope, there always will be. What doesn’t change? My endeavour to make the remembrance and worship of The Greatest, The Inspirer of Faith and The Source of Peace, my ultimate goal. So help me Lord.

The Kingdom of Alternative Facts

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It is a truth universally acknowledged  that a one-wived Cushitic man of moderate means is in need of swift divestment. So well fixed is it in the minds of others, no matter his views, that his monies are considered the rightful property of every Bushy*, Trumpy* and Blaire*.  We will call this land, the Kingdom of Alternative Facts. Let’s start with Trumpy*, a hitherto wilting wallflower, who one day decided that her current job wasn’t cutting it anymore and brazenly withdrew into her employer’s bedroom, opened his suitcase and stole his savings. The manner of this break-in is to be admired- she casually waylaid a key that everyone previously thought was lost and which served as the means to this break-in and entering business. And it is thus my dearest readers, that the story begins with a bang. From then on, how to put this delicately, it was as we say it in Kiswahili, a life of kiguu na njia (by foot) and game of pata potea (find and lose) with the cops. And my hopes of a good story came to a screeching halt. My disappointment at Trumpy’s simple dash from the house upon obtaining these monies knows no bounds.  Surely not in this century. And most surely not after Edward Snowden’s revelations. In this day and age, one would be forgiven if they chose to shower with their clothes on as we slowly discover that we have no place to hide anymore. Back to Trumpy*, her plot ended most unsatisfyingly when she put her phone on, with a different number, as if it mattered, and she was tracked to her hiding spot. She graciously volunteered to show the cops where she had buried these monies. It was in her backyard, sigh.

On to Blaire*, an agent extraordinaire acting for some Italians who have chosen to invest in this wonderful country. She decided not to return the deposit of an apartment. And then …shudder, it ends there people. I’m angry. I’m disheartened at such blatant disrespect for plot! I mean, sure we might have thrown our morals to the dogs, but not our creativity too! What were all those compositions that we laboured in primary and high school for?! So yes, it was more of a ‘I have taken it and what are you gonna do about it’ kind of story. She also invited us to go to court. Sigh, defiance and prison, I have been most reliably informed, do not go well together.

And then we have Bushy*, a secretary par excellence, who today chose to charge my mother for a doctor’s appointment that she should not have been charged for, because mum was alone and speaks Kiswahili and for some reason she could not understand my mum’s Kiswahili? She also, after my irate phone call, dared to wonder why my mum chose not to ‘simply’ explain to her that she was not supposed to. She made a point of speaking perfect Kiswahili in my phone call. Sigh, what is wrong with people and bad plot? I’m devastated at such blatant disregard for art. Where is Kanye when we need him?  As the Garre are fond of saying, if you choose to eat a pig, pick the fattest one please. No, fatter will just not do. Please, for art’s sake?

And after I have lamented at the inadequacy of these stories, I turn around and ask, what happened to this world? It seemed like I woke up one day and discovered that the set of rules and code of conduct that humanity has for centuries held aloft as a beacon of our goodness was overturned and a completely different species took over. When did it become okay for us to blatantly steal from each other? And I don’t even mean strangers, these are people that you break bread with or regularly do business with or those whom you’ve entrusted your children with. No seriously, what happened? What is wrong with us? We admire liars and thieves and envy their lifestyles. We grab property that we have not worked for. When did this become normal? What is wrong with us that this became the norm? Why do we reward the unjust and revere the sweetly-tounged murderers? Why do we elect the worst of our societies and then complain when they lie and steal from us? Perhaps, it is time to look within ourselves. We are the problem. We have lost the moral authority to judge and complain because we lost the plot twist a long time ago.

we-shall-overcome

Courtesy:Lindsey/Pinterest

Martin Luther King Jr once quipped, injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. I don’t know about you, but the chicken have come to roost in my household. And you know why? Because I stood by and helplessly watched when Bashar Al-Assad and Netanyahu killed innocent women and children in my world. And I kept quiet when my brothers and sisters were collectively punished for the sins of a warped few. And I stood by and resignedly watched when a relative talked derogatively regarding a fellow human being. And I stood silent when a woman’s place and value was questioned in this world. And are still forced to go through FGM. And whose opinions were regularly bypassed for a man’s. I stood by and watched them do this, until they came for me and there was no one left to stand up for me. So now I know better than to stand by and watch when the unjust comes for my neighbour. Inshaallah, I will be ready to fight it with my hands, and with my tongue, and with my heart. Why? Because, my neighbour is me.

My day will come too…

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When was the last time you thought of your passage from this world? Do you ever imagine it could be you or is it an abstract scenario where you envision someone else passing, a stranger perhaps or a relative or friend whose life would very rarely intertwine with yours? Someone you’d be sad about losing or have been sad about losing and you’d remember, again in an abstract way, of the certainty of your own passing, for a minute! before getting lost in the rush personified by this world? I would certainly try to empathize with anyone who’d lost a loved one but I can’t say I have ever really understood how they felt. Or how their lives changed from their loss. And how they struggled to control their emotions whenever people would mention their loved ones or how they succeeded in putting a lock to the grief that threatened to erupt at the most inopportune of times as they attempted to move on with their lives. Yes, I can’t say I really understood, until my beloved father recently left this world and went to meet The Eternal Lord. And then I came to my senses regarding my mortality and the impermanence of this world. The saddest bit about it is that He does remind us a lot about this certainty but for some reason we choose to ignore or forget about it. “And this worldly life is not but diversion and amusement. And indeed, the home of the Hereafter, that is the eternal life, if only they knew.” (Quran 29:64) Really, how often do we reflect on this?

cooden-beach

Atop The Seven Sisters, East Sussex, U.K. (2016)

When you think of yourself and your place in this world, do you ever marvel at your insignificance  in the whole scheme of things? That you are one soul on this earth, which is only one planet in the solar system amidst thousands of inter alia yet discoverable smaller planets, asteroids and meteoroids? Just one slave among a million others at present or who came before and after you, steadfast in their worship of The Accounter? That you are in need of Him when He does not need you, Exalted be He? That being that tiny person, Allah The Sacred and The Mighty, remembers you amongst the billions of your kind, when you do not remember Him and yet you only have one Lord?

The Swahili people have a famous saying, mwenzako akinyolewa, wewe tia lako maji (When your companion’s head is being shaved, wet yours). It’s a reminder that one should strive to always prepare themselves- thus when a loved one dies, I should know that I’m next in line and act accordingly. But do I? Indeed, what have I to show for my time here? When my Lord questions me on the Day of Reckoning, what words and actions will I have to save myself? If I were to die today, or the next hour, what have I got on my plate to show my Creator?

A few months later, just as I did when those strangers, friends and relatives passed away, life moves on for everyone else… except me. I don’t know if I will ever forget the stunning unwrinkled face of my late father, may Allah have mercy on him, the fleeting warmth of his forehead and the stillness of his corpse. I don’t know if I will ever forget the sweet fragrance of his shrouded self and sharp taste of his musk when I last kissed his dear face. Indeed, I pray that I will never forget as it is a sign that my day will yet come. And when I depart, I fervently hope that I depart this world a good soul.  I hope my legacy is that I helped people; that I improved upon what fell on my lap and I stood firm for truth and justice; that I never begged for anything and relied on my Lord for everything; that I was honest in my dealings with people; that my intentions, words and actions were pure; and, that I was a positive influence to those around me. And I hope that my loved ones would take comfort in that when I leave this most temporary abode, just as I take immense comfort in the kindness, generosity, teachings and deeds of my father, may Allah have mercy on him and reward him immensely.

I also found comforting the text of a poem that I discovered ensconced in one of my late father’s books:

When I die

When I die,

when my coffin

is being taken out,

you must never think

I am missing this world.

Don’t shed any tears,

don’t lament or

feel sorry

I’m not falling

into a monster’s abyss.

When you see

my corpse is being carried,

don’t cry for my leaving

I’m not leaving,
I’m arriving at eternal love.

When you leave me

in the grave,

don’t say goodbye.

Remember a grave is

only a curtain

for the paradise behind.

You’ll only see me

descending into a grave.

Now watch me rise

how can there be an end

when the sun sets or

the moon goes down.

It looks like the end

it seems like a sunset,

but in reality it is a dawn

when the grave locks you up

that is when your soul is freed.

Have you ever seen

a seed fallen to earth

not rise with a new life?

Why should you doubt the rise

of a seed named human?

Have you ever seen

a bucket lowered into a well

coming back empty?

Why lament for a soul

when it can come back

like Joseph from the well.

When for the last time

you close your mouth,

your words and soul

will belong to the world of

no place no time.

Jalaluddin Muhammad Rumi (1207-1273) in An-naseehah, 15 Shawwal 1428

My Lord, The Everlasting One, The Glorious, The Guide to Repentance and The Responder to Prayer, I pray that you forgive me and make me mindful of your presence, the certainty of my death and of the Day of Reckoning. I pray that you make me steadfast upon the right path, that you make me kind, and just and generous. My Lord, I pray that you make me firm in doing good in this world, not expecting any good from anyone but because you are The Doer of Good, and you love the good doers. My Lord, The Gatherer, The Restorer and The Resurrector, I pray for a reunion with my father and all my loved ones in a place far much better than this world where souls find peace, I pray for al-firdaus al’ala. My Lord, you are The Sustainer, The Ever Living One and The Bestower of Honour, I pray that you bestow your honour on me and my father, my mother and my siblings and their families, and our friends and their families, and the entire Muslim ummah, in this world and the Hereafter. Ameen.

Nothing like home my dears, there’s nothing like home

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It is often said that one must travel in order to grow. That all those new experiences, challenges and insights to a different way of life matures you like nothing else does. Now if like me, the most fun times of your life are spent in bed huddled with a good book and a blanket, tea and popcorn, preferably by the window on a rainy day, the farthest thing from one’s mind is leaving such a spot. Again if like me, you thought you could cheat your way into this growing through the breath-taking novels that we sometimes immerse ourselves in, you could be given a pass. And again if like me, you need an entire paragraph to state that you’re a severe introvert, join the club.

rainy day

Courtesy: Pinterest (rainydays, 2016)

Oh…what memories…err if I ever had a bed right next to that window that is. Nevertheless, you get the picture. Home for me embodied those scenes and I would pass at any invitations that involved travelling, people, noise, smiling(shudder!), people and…yes people. That was before I got the opportunity to travel for school. Whilst everyone (minus the haters) was excited for me, the only excitement I looked forward to was living on my own in a room that would be solely my own and having to account myself and my time to no one for an entire year, thoughts that any Cushitic girl from a large family can relate to. So off I went with plans to spend uninterrupted time holed up in my own room for a year, oh what fun! And I did. While friends and colleagues spent their time travelling around and exploring new places, I explored mine on the benches of cafes with a mug of hot chocolate at hand, and the comfort of my bed, discovering new literature.

Sadly, the world doesn’t quite work like that and I had responsibilities to meet, relatives to see, classes to attend, readings to make…and my reluctant journey began. I met amazing souls who were some of the kindest and most generous I had encountered, and I met bigots who insulted me and wished me away. I went to places where people would trail after me to compliment me on my beauty and style and I had those who derided and pitied my existence as a black woman and a visibly Muslim woman. I met some who marvelled at my wit and intelligence and those who would not give me a minute upon sight or upon hearing of my origins. I met those who stared at me in wonder and those who stared in hate. I discovered that a step outside my room automatically qualified me as a polarising figure in society and an expert in all matters Islam.  I lived. In a world so unfamiliar to me. I loved my solitude and the independence and freedom it afforded me but I would count the days…I would constantly count the days I had left to return to these beloved shores. I do not think that I could ever long for home and pine for what is familiar to me more than I did in that year.

But therein lay my lessons. I had once spent four years in a boarding school, a common experience back home so I never thought a year was anything to blink at. But what I have learnt in that year! You see my dears, I understood what is meant by this travelling and growing business. They didn’t mean places, well it was nice to look at sights inaccessible back home, but it is in the meeting of all these unfamiliar people that lies the growing which inevitably changes your perspective on life. I was tested on what it meant to stick to one’s principles and how much it takes out of you. I learnt that I was stubborn and that I was proud of my culture and religion in a sea of faces that were the farthest things from it. In an ocean of difference, I rejoiced at my indifference of my difference. I exulted at my visibility as a servant of Allah in the face of indignities and snide barbs thrown at me. And I appreciated my cushiticness as a daughter, sister and friend in all that I was taught on kindness, overabundant generosity, and reciprocity. I rejoiced at my hayaa, encouraged by my Creator, not the hayaa propagated as a putdown by misogynists, but that which humbles one to appreciate the blessings given by The Supremely Exalted, and that which embarrasses one from actions and words displeasing to the sight of The Most High, in the face of intense provocation. And none of this my novels could ever teach me.

I must admit that it is nice to never have blackouts and to know that the train will be on time (a blessing and curse if you know what I mean) and that the roads have no potholes and the zebra crossing lines are regular and visible. But none of this can ever compensate for the amazing life that I live as a black Muslim Cushitic woman in Africa. It just so happens that I needed to travel in order to appreciate this, oh well.

Back story to this blog…

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Starting this blog was a typical Cushitic experience-what do you need it for? (Memories) So why don’t you write a journal instead? (Umm, you read my one and only journal and told EVERYONE about its contents which was a tad embarrassing and traumatised me from ever getting another!) Why do you have to say that you’re a Cushite? (Because I’m very proud to be one, speaking of, why don’t we talk about this enough?) It’s your turn to go to the kitchen, mummy and aboba are calling, xyz also needs to be done and you’re busy thinking about blogs? (Yes, I can serve them and still write a blog post…ahem, a few eternities later…) Well, I guess you can do your thing if you want to BUT if you hit it big we definitely have a stake. (rolls eyes, it’s not that kind of a blog)

So what about the Anyway Girl? An ode to my grandmother, for whom I’m named. She would only speak our mother tongue to me and I’d be in Pluto every 3rd sentence. I would still get the jist of our conversations, but my grandmother was a perfectionist and would correct every 2nd sentence. What was I to do but valiantly pick up savage corrections from an ongoing conversation with a brave “Anyway”. Alas, the special status bestowed on me, being the only grandchild bearing her name, was replaced with an extraordinary one – “the anyway girl.” From then on, I was only referred to directly or indirectly, in my presence or absence, for as long as my grandmother was around or involved in conversation about me as “the anyway girl.” Honestly, I deserved the name. The fact that I got away with anywaying my very traditional grandmother, who only sought to improve me, with no consequence whatsoever, is astounding. That was grandma. Spoke not a word of English but quickly latched on to my English response to beat me at my own game. Every singular phone call and visit since then cemented my identity, with relish, as the anyway girl. I have come leaps & bounds and can carry on a fluent conversation with the best of them now. And sadly, while she isn’t here to see this and remind everyone else of how far I’ve come – I am honoured to carry on her legacy, with pleasure, the anyway girl.

You will have to forgive me for the abrupt but periodic photos of endless large bodies of water in this blog. I can’t help myself. They take me to a place subsumed with solitude and reflection, resplendent with a stunning beauty only nature satisfies, you know like that of the longest river in Kenya, the Tana, whose waters feed into another beauty, the Indian Ocean. Or as I like to call it all, meditation central.

Tana river

Courtesy: fatheroflions.org (George Adamson, 2016)

And what have Cushitic girls got to do with it? So Cushite, from the root Kush, does not refer to any drug nor is it a misspelling of the son of Ham. The Kush empire is actually an amazing ancient kingdom that arose on the conflux of the Blue Nile, White Nile and River Atbara and which spread to encompass the territories of the modern day states of Sudan and Egypt. It was founded by King Kashta, also known as the Kushite (from whom we got our name) and in its heyday ruled over the Nile Valley; oversaw the construction of the pyramids (yup!); standardized iron trading with the Greeks vide the Red Sea; and, introduced a meroitic script whose accompanying language has not been entirely deciphered by historians to date (now why am I not surprised?).

The Kingdom of Kush

Courtesy: blackhistorymonth.org.uk, 2016

Ultimately, rebellion within the empire weakened it and made it easy pickings for its rivals to conquer which led to its dissolution by the turn of the seventh century AD. (Sigh, and with it, the evaporation of any remote claims to royalty.)

So this blog is not about geography or history (fascinating subjects nonetheless), or if it is, it’s only in the context of where I come from, where I’d love to go to (Bora Bora for anyone who cares) and where I’d love to live (beside an endless large body of water of course!), but it’s also about how my culture, an integral part of my life, influences how I live and my view of this world. A reminder that no matter how extremely Cushitic I think my life is, there is someone else, for sure, with a more extreme version of my story, which is always a relief! I have met no ordinary Cushitic girls. I say this sincerely. Some have entertained me, others have frustrated me and the rest left me clutching my imaginary pearls in shock. All have undoubtedly been memorable. But it’s not just about Cushitic culture, this is also about my faith, Islam, another constant in my life. And my skin colour thatIonlydiscoveredwhenIwentabroad, Ahem. And my love of cats. Yes, really.

So by now you must be confused on what exactly this is about. Welcome to my ship, a hodgepodge of messy, unstable, Cushite and all the ways I try to keep us afloat. An inquiry into this imperfect but unique reality synonymous with a modern day Cushitic daughter of the historic Kush empire. Ahem. So ladies and ladies, Ahoy! Join us aboard!