The good ol’ days
Posted on: June 5, 2013
One night I spent over an hour poring over old Facebook photos. I laughed and shook my head at the silliness I used to get up to.
I reminisced.
Remembered good times spent with friends, some now casual acquaintances, others nearly strangers and others still the good ol’ friends I made years ago.
Ah, the good ol’ days.
What happened to the good ol’ days?
Why do we look back on the past, the happy past, and cherish it so much more than we did at that actual moment?
Do we not recognize happiness in the present?
Does happiness seem more apparent when looked back upon?
Why don’t we cherish happiness presently?
Why does happiness seem to be a faraway construct, etched in the past as the ‘good ol’ days’ or in the future as something we intend to feel once we have fulfilled a certain need or desire?
Be happy. Now.
What’s keeping you away from making the happiness choice?
I seem to have lost it
Posted on: February 26, 2013
Recently, someone asked me what my passion was. I was about to say writing, then stopped before the words escaped my mouth. I felt I wasn’t as passionate about writing anymore. I thought I would not be at all genuine by saying that but would only be doing so for the sake of conversation. So I risked appearing boring and unfulfilled and said that I was yet to find my real passion.
I scarcely touched my phone on my journey home that evening, something very uncharacteristic of me, I might add. I stared out the window the whole way, not seeing the familiar trees, buildings and places but thinking, worrying that I didn’t have a passion, which made for a rather sad existence. I’m turning 25 soon. I should have found that by now, right? What is it about turning 25 that makes that need to have everything figured out so urgent? I worried that I had very few things figured out. I got off the matatu and walked the short distance home, deep in thought, replaying various conversations I’d had that day regarding life, in my head. I’d had interviews for two of my articles with individuals not much older than myself who oozed passion for what they did. These left me challenged to find my own passion yet rather sad about the stark realization that I lacked this fountain of seemingly everlasting zeal for life.
Enter a chicken sandwich and two episodes of Suits and all these important life questions were neatly folded and stacked in a far corner of my mind. I never cease to be amazed about how easily distracted I am. Food and hours of mindless TV are the epitome of distraction in my books.
Image from http://authorashleysanders.blogspot.com/
These thoughts were revisited about a week later, interestingly after yet another interview. My interviewee that day was a lesson in humility, calmness, fulfilment and other great qualities I hope Future Me will possess. A very accomplished man, yet painstakingly humble, gracious, and generally unrushed by that hustle and bustle synonymous with our Nairobi. How does he do that peaceful monk thing? I kept asking myself, but I digress. The man spoke wisdom of the ages. Well-thought out sentences laden with great wisdom about life and living. No wasted words. It was one of the most illuminating interviews I’ve done to date.
It also turned out to be one of the shortest interviews I’ve done to date. I kept going over my notebook to see if I had missed any questions I intended to ask. We had covered everything in less than hour, with 10 minutes to spare, in an interview that usually took me close to two hours at times. I was enjoying myself, in the moment, hanging on his every word. Taking it all in, more for myself than for the story I was going to write. Then it dawned on me, the reason (rather, some of the reasons) I do this writing thing.
It’s these rare inspiring conversations, life lessons and experiences I get to live through, vicariously nonetheless. The frequent chance to evaluate myself triggered by these encounters, the excitement of meeting new people and making new connections. The incomparable honour of telling someone’s story.
I do have a passion after all. I had just stopped feeding it. Nurturing it. I expected it to always be there no matter what. I needed to remind myself every so often why I write. I had stopped seeking to learn as much as I could about the craft.
I’d like to tell you that I regained my zest for writing, that I’m back on track, and can’t wait for the magic that will happen once I put finger to keyboard and eye to white screen, but that would be a falsehood. I am getting there nevertheless. I’m taking steps to get that fire burning once more. More of fanning the dying embers of a fire that once was, at this point.
I’m trying to learn new things about writing, seeking to mentor others younger than me who may be interested in writing, finding new ways of writing, breaking away from the mundaneness of routine, et cetera. These are just a few examples I found after reading and researching on ‘how to regain lost passion.’ I never thought this would be a Google search I’d find myself doing one day. I suppose I thought my passion would always be there, but evidently that isn’t the case.
Now I feel like a pseudo Thought Catalog. This is what happens when you turn 25. 
What are you passionate about? How do you keep your fire burning?
Ah, the joys of Instagram
Posted on: December 20, 2012
Nairobi City Centre 7.30 p.m.
I hurriedly cross Kimathi Street from Corner House then walk till I’m directly opposite The Stanley. I glance around before fishing out my phone from deep within my large bag, while pretending to be impatiently waiting for a late other. I look up at the highest point of the hotel and get a little disappointed. The lights are not on as I had expected. I stare at the building for a few seconds before I start walking back in the direction I came from. I bump into a girl I knew from uni. Was it Maureen? Doreen? Can’t remember. “Hiiii!!” I greet enthusiastically, before we hug, exchange pleasantries, work details, numbers and promises to call or visit one another. I glance to my right at The Stanley once again. To my delight, the lights are on, shining ever so brightly. I hurry back to where I was standing short while ago and take out my phone again…
Unfortunately, this is not an excerpt from a diary I kept during my CIA days. I have no CIA days. 
This was me trying to take a photo of the Christmas lights outside The Sarova Stanley. I was unsuccessful. I intend to try again. You will never take me alive!! NEVER!
Ok, that was uncalled for.
This is a post about a few interesting observations I have made since I started using Instagram, an online photo-sharing and social networking service that enables its users to take a picture, apply a digital filter to it, and share it on a variety of social networking services, including its own (Wikipedia), a few months ago, which is where that picture would probably have ended up.
- You start noticing that almost anything makes a potentially a good Instagram photo. ALMOST. No, your big toe should by no means be instagrammed.
- You suddenly have a new found appreciation for oddly shaped clouds and cloud formations, sunrises and sunsets, plants (especially flowers), buildings and cityscapes (oh these are a big hit on Instagram), food (I don’t think we need to discuss this one. If it doesn’t end up on Insagram, it probably wasn’t a good meal) et cetera.
- Mundane, every day objects have a lot of Instagram potential. By all means, snap that coffee mug on your office desk.
- You develop this morbid fear of posting bad photos. Instagrammers are unforgiving when it comes to that. No one will <3 your pic. Maybe just Get1000FallowersNow (It actually is ‘fallowers’). You’re better off posting bad photos on Facebook. Or Twitter.
- Sometimes you will be caught in an awkward position as you try to take photos in public. People will think you’re a spy and associate you with the CIA (I need to stop making these random CIA references before I find myself on a watch list). Or worse, think you’re a terrorist. Maybe not, though you will get some weird stares as you try to take a photo of an awesome-looking building from a matatu window while parked in traffic.
- Family and friends who don’t know of Instagram will wonder why you feel the need to take photos of random objects and food. After you explain how Instagram works to them, they still won’t get it. Though they will be very helpful during your instagramming endeavours, sometimes ask you to take photos of them, the food they make and at times non-instagrammable objects, which you will politely decline.
- You’ll get a little excited every time seasoned photographers like @Truthslinger, @stevekitots and @LeonMuli, among others, like your Instagram photos.
- You’ll go through your Instagram feed once in a while and wonder if you could quit your day job, become a photographer and travel the world. You will decide against it.
- You’ll discover that unlike on Facebook, liking someone’s photo from three months ago on Instagram is actually not that creepy or stalker-like, though it would be best if this happened just after you follow the said individual.
- You’ll become more appreciative of beauty and photography in general, and also learn a coupla cool tricks that will, with time enhance your photo-taking skills (if you’re keen enough, that is).
Contrary to popular belief, this doesn’t happen as often as you would think…
I have to applaud Kenya365 and everyone who’s been participating in the weekly photography challenges they put forward. It’s admirable, the way that Kenyans have taken to telling and documenting the Kenyan story through photography.
p.s. Interestingly, this post comes at a time when Instagram’s new Terms Of Service had caused an uproar on the interwebs, with people questioning whether or not the social network/photo sharing site intends to sell users photos to other parties without their consent. Personally, I would be thrilled to see the photo of that milkshake with the glow-in-the-dark straw I took a few days ago in an ad. I may embark on my photography career if that happens. Also, here’s my esteemed Instagram feed. 
What interesting observations have you made about Instagram?
Words
Posted on: August 1, 2012
- In: Poetry
- 12 Comments
The words I thought
were all I needed
for the most suitable
of expressions
seem to fail me lately.
How are you?
Good, I say,
leaving out
much needed detail.
I worry a lot about the future,
and I think I’m growing shorter.
I may be mistaken
but I think my hair has grown
three inches longer.
And that’s not even 1/3
of my current state of being.
What do you think of him?
Oh, he’s seems nice.
Yet, he’s a great conversationalist
though he stares a lot,
and talks with his mouth full,
is what I meant to say.
Yet good, nice, fine, OK
are the only words
I seem to come up with
to describe
what neither a thousand words
nor pictures
could do justice.
This little poem?
I think it’s OK.
I fear I’m losing my ability to write; the same way one loses an ability they don’t use. I’m afraid I’m out of practice. Several people have asked me, “Hey Edna, when is the next riveting blog entry filled with your delightful writing coming up? It has been a really long while. We just cannot wait!” To which I say, “Fear not loyal followers! Your noble concerns shall be addressed before you can say ‘web log’. For I have an entry in the offing. Your loyalty compels me…”
Ok, I lie. They just ask, “What happened to your blog?” Also, I don’t talk like that and most people don’t even call me Edna. About my ability to write, I fear it’s slipping away. In helpless little squirts. I have not been writing as much as I should. See, I am a writer by profession, so I’ve just been doing the bare minimum. Writing for my job. Never writing for myself, which is criminal for a writer, might I add.
So is this an attempt to validate my aptitude for writing? To have you tell me that I can write and that I should keep writing? Maybe. Probably. Tell me I can write dammit!
Au contraire, this is actually a post to tell the world why I love writing. I will refrain from complaining about the craft. I think we writers tend to complain about writing, writer’s block, and other unpleasant things we have encountered in the course of our writing one too many times
Why do I love to write?
1. Ease of self-expression. I find there are a lot of things I have the boldness to say on paper that I may probably never say. Also, some things sound better written, than said (hence, Unsaid But Written ). Maybe it’s a personality thing that I, being introverted for the most part, find easier to do. Speaking of which, I still owe you a post on one of my favourite subjects – temperaments. But I digress; writing knows no bounds when it comes to self-expression for me. There are probably very few emotions that I cannot express in writing.
2. A chance to speak to the world. Most of us want to be published and read. Widely read if we’re lucky. I want to be known for my writing. I want to influence, motivate, provoke thought, and inspire emotion. I want to make you laugh! I may never get to travel the whole world and meet millions of its citizens but I’d like to reach the world through my writing. Another thing, I’m not much of a public speaker, though it’s a skill I’m trying to learn, so writing gives me this chance to speak to many, without necessarily physically addressing them.
3. A love for words. Words are just wonderful! Some roll off your tongue with such ease and elegance. Some are music to the ears! Some have a taste, smell or particular look or feel to them. I love these little critters we call words. I love learning the correct pronunciation and spelling of each. I love the way they join to form beautiful phrases and sentences. I love how they give meaning to communication. The words I love at the moment include schadenfreude, chutzpah, and pizzazz. Words are just delightful! I’ve been using that word – delightful- a lot in recent times.
4. Narcissistic tendencies with delusions of grandeur. I cannot begin to explain to you how big of narcissists writers are! I think every writer has to admit to being a little self-absorbed. Yes, you journal-keeping, blog-post writing, note-scribbling writer you! Part of me lives in my own little world where my life is being filmed, documented and watched by an imaginary audience that laughs (like in comedies) when I do or say funny things, says “Ooohhh.” or cries with me when I’m sad and rejoices with me when I’m happy. They’ve actually been watching the show that is my life since I was a child (like in the movie ‘The Truman Show’). As a child I, at times, addressed this audience. *Crickets* Erm…I think I’ve said too much.
Moving along swiftly… I feel this is the same drive that usually makes you want to document your thoughts/life in a journal, blog or autobiography. A lot of times, your writing is about you. Your writing is coloured and shaped by how YOU see the world. It’s rather difficult to write from another’s point of view, so mostly, I’ll write about what I am most familiar with – ME. Hey, look at ME writing about why I love to write!
5. Paid to do it. Writing is earning me a living, among other interesting opportunities that cannot be monetarily quantified. I have learnt a lot of new things, and had the privilege of meeting a number of interesting individuals who have both challenged and inspired me. This is actually one of the best things about writing for me. Learning, meeting people and seeing places, which I hope to do a lot more of, God willing. Not to mention the pride that comes in calling oneself a ‘writer’. *Ahem* Refer to reason number four.
Do you love to write? Tell me the ways.
Let’s go to prison – Part 3
Posted on: March 26, 2012
- In: Life
- 7 Comments
It is with great shame (well, not really. Maybe just a moderate amount of shame ) that I present the third and final instalment of the ‘Let’s go to prison’ series that I did at the end of last year. Ideally, this should have been posted here shortly after the first two but due to many, honestly, avoidable circumstances that prevailed upon me, it wasn’t. Should you wish to refresh your memory, here’s Part 1 and Part 2. Better late than never, right? Enjoy.
Within no time, I was busy sandpapering the walls with a large group that included prisoners and wardens, after which we commenced painting. I really enjoyed painting. Peter Marangi would have wept with pride had he seen me.
I have to admit that all this time I was hoping for a photo opportunity with an inmate. Or some sort of interaction where I’d casually ask, “So, what are you in for?” Then when he responded with whatever crime he was in for, I’d nod nonchalantly and say, “Cool, cool.” I know, I know. Pretty lame. I did, however, get both of my wishes a few hours later when someone mentioned how hungry they were. We all must’ve been. We had been working for some time, in the hot sun, sandpapering the outer walls of the hall. *Morris, one of the inmates, happened to be standing nearby and we jokingly asked him what they had prepared for us for lunch. “Msije mkadanganyika. Chakula cha huku hamwezani nacho. (Don’t be fooled. You cannot handle the food here),” he said, loosely referring to the warden’s earlier ‘buffet’ statement. At this point we all got curious about their meals. It was the usual ugali and sukumawiki (kales) with a few pieces of meat, among other meals like githeri. I wondered how bad the food actually was. Soon enough the moment I’d been waiting for came. I asked what he was in for.
*Morris is from Tanzania. He is in for drug trafficking. He was arrested in Kenya en route from Brazil, for heroin possession. He explained to us how theywould swallow 13 gram sachets of heroin, to later pass them out in their stool before selling them. “Eeeeeww!!” Those were my thoughts on that. *Morris is serving a nine year sentence. He’s already done eight years in the Kamiti Maximum Security Prison, and currently has a year to go in the medium security prison. He gets out in December 2012.
He told us that he had every intention of going back into the drug business. By this time, a small group had formed around him to hear his story. He went on seemingly oblivious of this. He was not at all willing to get back into employment, he explained, a tinge of arrogance in his voice. We were all saddened by this. We tried to convince him that there were other vocations he could pursue and that he didn’t have to go back to a life of crime. Someone told him about Jesus. I could tell that he regarded us a bunch of silly youngsters who knew nothing about life. He intends to go international. Maybe head to China, where he said that some laws are lax or something to that effect. At this point I had completely drifted off and was busy trying to get a photo next to him without seeming too obvious.
Trying not to seem too obvious...
Seeing this, everyone suddenly wanted a photo with him. Copy cats! :p He didn’t seem to mind so we clicked away. I was a bit embarrassed by our behaviour but hey, how many chances do you get a photo opportunity with an inmate? There I go again.
A short while later we were done painting and it was time to kick back and be entertained by the inmates and some of the wardens, who were all rather talented. I was impressed, especially by the acrobats and dancers.
Unfortunately, I could not stay till the very end as I had planned to attend #WamathaiOct. As I left, accompanied by a few members of our group, one of whom was dropping me at the matatu stage (it is quite a distance away from the prison), I noticed at the far end of the prison compound where the cells were located, a few inmates who were locked up trying their best to catch a glimpse of the on-going performances their comrades were enjoying. The warden escorting us out told us that they were mentally disturbed and usually not allowed to mix with the rest of the inmates. I felt sad for them.
The elderly Asian inmate I had noticed earlier on walked past us. I asked the warden what he was in for. Multiple bank robberies. This was his third time here. “A good number of the inmates are repeat offenders and keep coming back for the same crimes,” the warden informed us. So much for rehabilitation.
I was free to leave. I could go wherever I pleased. I had freedom of movement! Do we take this freedom for granted? I thought about all this as I left. I could not imagine how great that first step of freedom felt for an inmate who had served a five or 10-year (or longer) sentence. The air must seem fresher; the birds must sing louder; the grass has to be greener for them. Freedom tastes good! I suppose.
“Come again.” I was told severally as I made my way out. I smiled and nodded while thanking the wardens for their hospitality. I’m not sure I’d like to go back.
The ‘radical’ pancake recipe
Posted on: January 5, 2012
- In: Food
- 14 Comments
“I heard your pancakes were seen on Twitter,” says mother.
“What Twitter? How?” says father, who has little, if any, understanding of what happens on social media.
I go ahead to explain Twitter and how people update what’s current, what they’re doing or what’s happening in their world. Father shakes his head, bemused, at the fact that anyone would want to share with the world what they were currently eating or cooking for that matter. I’m on my way to the kitchen to make their evening tea. “Why don’t you also put that on Twitter?” says father, somewhat sarcastically. I laugh quietly to myself (what is now referred to as LQTM) as I walk away.
This conversation took place a day after I had made and tweeted about the said pancakes using the hashtag #radicalpancakerecipe. Radical, because I thought it was pretty cool and unique to make pancakes with raisins (being a dried fruit enthusiast), before I googled ‘raisin pancakes’ and found out that they actually existed. It’s been done before ladies and gentlemen! Bummer! :-/
Anyhow, I followed the usual pancake recipe, with a few modifications. These made me about 18 pancakes.
Ingredients
2 ½ cups of self-raising flour
2 ½ cups of milk
1 egg
Half a packet of raisins
2 tablespoons of butter or margarine
1 teaspoon of salt
4 tablespoons of sugar
1 lemon
Method
Nothing extraordinary. Just your usual pancake recipe.
Mix the flour, salt and sugar in a large bow. For some types of flour, sifting is necessary. I didn’t need to sift the type I used. Make a hole in the middle if this mixture and pour in the milk, raisins, lemon rind (skin), egg and margarine (which incidentally needs to be melted in advance. I never did this). Mix all these until smooth. If you happen to have one of those electric mixers, even better. Nifty little gadgets, these. Effortlessly giving you that perfectly smooth and fluffy mixture.
The preliminary stages: self-raising flour, sugar and salt
Just before I mixed in the raisins and lemon rind
After this heat a lightly oiled frying pan. Avoid high heat. Medium high heat is recommended for this. I tried pouring and spreading the pancake mix on the pan using a large spoon, but I found that this makes them rather shapeless. For that nice round (well, not perfectly) shape most of us like in pancakes, try pouring a small amount of the mix into the pan then evenly spreading it round the pan by tilting the pan around till the mixture fills it, then shaping out the edges with a spoon. This worked for me. Ensure the pancake browns well on both sides, but not too much that it gets crispy.
Some people like to cook their pancakes in butter or margarine. I’ve tried margarine but found that it made them acquire a slightly salty taste. I use cooking oil. Use as little as possible. You don’t want your pancakes oily.
You’ll find that the raisins sink into the pancake mix, so you might have to scoop deep into your mix to ensure that you get some raisins on every pancake. Alternatively, add the raisins manually after pouring the mix onto the pan. Ensure that the side with the raisins (because they tend to fall on one side) browns properly. Also ensure that the raisins are evenly distributed, not too many or too little on one pancake.
Try to distribute the raisins evenly.
When your pancakes are ready, sprinkle some fresh lemon juice on them. You could also try honey or syrup, whatever your fancy. Enjoy them with a glass of cold milk, juice or tea, again, whatever tickles you fancy.
The tasty results!
P.S. I actually refer to my parents as mother and father….in recent times. I find it makes things rather interesting and weirdly formal.
Unsaid But Written wishes you a tasty 2012!
