God, Bikram and Chocolate

It's no secret...I love to eat. And how could anyone not? I mean, who could resist perfectly made pasta on a wonderful bed of tomatoey sauce and veg. A good ugali, sukuma wiki and eggs is nothing to be snuffed at. Oh...and the wonderful delights of chocolate...and I mean GOOD chocolate not the kind eroded with lots of milk and copius amounts of sugar. This I fear could go on forever (must focus).

Let me start from the beginning...of 2011 that is. I had been quite happy cohabiting with my big brother for most of the last decade until he recently discovered the wonderful comforts of true love and decided to get married. That ended my cozy existence and I, at the tender age of 27 was thrust into the unforgiving world of apartment hunting, paying rent and bills (in full!) and being responsible for self. I would have gladly gone back to my mother's house until she boldly announced that my old bedroom is now an extension of her closet and the fact that I had to stay in Baltimore and fininsh my grad degree didn't help either.

After weeks of hunting, I finally found a box-sized studio apartment in a lovely historic downtown neighborhood that I could afford . Apart from the fact that this place has no closet space to speak of  it is actually quite cute and cozy, big enough for my chubster ass, my books, bakers rack and squsihy. We are for the most part, happy.

After weeks of exploring my neighborhood I got quickly accustomed to frequenting tiny bistros that are always willing to cater to poor college students on a budget. I may have many financial limitations but I eat like a king and that unfortunately is where my problems start. Last week, as I  was sitting on the patio of my fav french bistro devouring the last mouthfuls of a wonderful chocolate souffle I noticed something pretty weird. One was that my pudge was getting noticeably bigger, the other was that everyone who went past me was totally svelte, good looking and in their work out gear. Most were totting yoga mats and the rest were in full throttle getting the benefits of a nice afternoon run. I on the other hand was looking at the menu considering what dessert I was going to take home. I settled on a nice fruit tart (isn't it semi-healthy?) and shamefully carried my prize home as throngs of workout freaks whizzed past me in heir tiny biker shorts and overpriced sneakers.

As fate my have it, a couple of days later I got an email reminding me of some bikram yoga classes I had paid for and never attended. Deciding that the universe was trying to tell me something I woke up early the next day, grabbed my yoga mat, a water bottle and extra towels. I was ready for bikram.Now for those that don't know, Bikram yoga classes run exactly 90 minutes and consist of a set series of 26 postures and 2 breathing exercises. That's sounds great...the only problem is that the room is heated to 105°F (≈ 40.6°C) with a humidity of 40%. What can I say...the brochure put it in a much nicer way.

So there I was, draped in my mismatched yoga outfit, with my oversize tummy peeking out at the bottom in a room full of match-stick like  blondes and their minute shorts. The instructor walks in and starts immediately...Sheila...where's Sheila? Scared...I raise my hand. Everyone's eyes quickly settle on me at the back of the room. "Thank you for coming to bikram. I understand that this is your first class. I recommend that you start slowly... by watching others to learn the postures. Please remember to hydrate often and take breaks when needed. I only ask that you do not leave the room as this disrupts others in their practice." I nodded. In the back of my mind I'm thinking...Don't leave the room?  It's a 100 degrees in here! There is a high probability that I could die. I could just imagine the number of jokes that would erupt at my funeral.My family never passes up such opportunities. Panic sets in and I start praying. "Dear God, please help me get through this. I don't want do die in a hot sweaty room full of people I don't know.All I wanted to do was to get some exercise and be somewhat healthy." Damn you social ecological theory!

So the class begins and there I am at the back of the class sweating buckets trying to keep up. Bikram is intense and it doesn't help that you are wet most of the time...sweat trickles down every crack and crevice. The heat is relentless and unforgiving. Half way through I was near death...praying for the end to come. The only thing I could hear is don't close your eyes or you'll pass out. So the words don't pass out kept ringing in my head. I kept going and salvation finally came. I have never run out of a class so fast and have never appreciated a cool breeze as much as I did on that day. It was like one of those movie scenes when everything clicks and all you hear is a cool soundtrack piece like this one. Despite the near death experience,the adrenaline rush was so freaking awesome I went back the next day and the one after that.Some people think that I'm an utterly stupid and insane masochist but I've never felt better.

I was reading through my older blog posts a couple of days back and I was thinking about how much I've changed as a person and a writer. When I was 21 life was all about excess, the pursuit of sex and love in many variations. It's funny how my life is now about different ideas and forms of expression. I'm celibate (by choice) and I'm learning to find adventure and peace in the oddest of places. I also find myself looking for God in everything. I pray a lot and I try to read the Bible everyday. I have a weird love for poetry and it turns out some of the best poetic verses are in the bible. Who knew?

I have no idea what the purpose of this post is...maybe it's just a snapshot, a reminder for when I look at this page 10 years from now. But I hope that whoever reads this gets the oomph to try something new or finds the desire to revisit something they once loved but lost along the way ...no matter what the repercussions.

Namaste.

Not Kenyan Enough?

Happy New Year to all! It's been a while since I've been here...suffered through a patch of writer's block but it feels good to be back. I'm stuck working at home catching up on the golden globes movie list in my warm jammies since the east coast is dealing with some icy weather.

I read a lot of blogs written by Kenyans who are back at home and some in the diaspora and I've discovered some of the coolest writers...it makes me proud to be both a writer and dare I say...a Kenyan. This past winter has been a bit chillier than most especially to the folk who live in the diaspora and went back home for a visit. Turns out the minute you head for a visit back home during the months of November -January you are a deemed summer bunny and thus dismissed by the folk back home as dumb, pretentious and pseudo Kenyan. People have been made fun of, weaves laughed at, jobs snared at,accents deconstructed and once robust personalities crushed.

I have to admit...some folk out there are douche bags and sadly cannot change ... regardless of what continent they reside.But I have to say, there is always a story ... here is mine:

I was born some twenty-seven years ago in Pumwani Hospital...an unplanned pregnancy but still a welcome birth. My mum was a secretary in the government and my dad a faithful KANU party supporter, a patriot who faithfully donned green, black and red ties garnished with a jogoo pin most of his life. My mum is from Western Kenya and my dad the coast so I spent many school holidays criss-crossing the country visiting aunts, uncles, cousins and great-grandparents. I was a happy chubster and I had a great childhood.

I went to primary school on river road and witnessed most of the saba-saba riots firsthand, I felt the burn of teargas when I eight, I stood in awe when I saw my first solar eclipse in 1996, I experienced the birth of the multi-party movement, I lost friends in the bomb blast, I had my first drink at a local in Kahawa Sukari, my first kiss in a mat, lost my virginity while caressed by a cool Mombasa breeze and had many life-changing moments on Kenyan soil.

I moved to the US about a decade ago when I turned eighteen. By that time my dad had been gone for five years and my mother had barely survived getting me through high school. I remember when we had the "talk"  and she explained that I couldn't stay at home anymore; not if I wanted to go to college and make something of myself..there just wasn't enough money to go around. She wanted the best for me and the reality was she could not afford the best in Kenya so I had to leave.

Six moths later, I found myself on another continent, one where I've never felt welcome, starting out my undergrad career. I've worked many odd jobs to support myself and get an education, I've grown up faster than I would have liked to...I've been robbed, I have stared into the barrel of a SWAT gun and even ducked bullets. I have been battered and bruised but I have also triumphed; I've fallen in love and out of love, forged lifelong friendships and I'm finally  in a career that I am absolutely in passionate about.

Through all of this I have dreamt of home. I've had dreams of visiting my grandparents in Gichagi, putting flowers on my father's grave,diving into the Indian Ocean and even having a drink with friends at Bob's. I'll be visiting home soon for the first time in a decade...it's weird because I feel kinda homeless now...turns out I'm not American enough to be called an American but I'm also not Kenyan enough to be called a true Kenyan. I know that  it shouldn't matter what anyone else thinks...but it still bugs me. In the end I guess what matters is that I'll be coming home...papa I'm coming home.

Battles

These past couple of months have been really hectic. I feel like I've been moving in a thousand different directions and getting nowhere. It's weird how one day I had everything figured out and the next day everything fell to pieces. I've been through the worst these past couple of weeks and yet as I sit here on a cold Sunday morning I'm reminded of the sheer beauty of life, its simplicity and its promise.

This past Friday I got to hang out with one of my friends on her birthday. It was a typical Friday night, dinner and drinks thereafter. It felt great to just let loose and let everything go. I made new friends and enjoyed great conversations; though the moments were short-lived I will remember them for many years to come. It was like I was breathing for the first time. A weight had been lifted...in the middle of a club at 1.30am surrounded by complete strangers, I was having my aha moment. I realized that whatever battles I have to go through, however deep the scars, eventually the clouds will lift and the sun will shine again.

I've spent these past couple of months in conflict  dueling with people in my professional and my personal life  fighting just to stay afloat and to stay true to myself. I am exhausted. The battle swords and axes are down. The armor is off. I refuse to fight any longer.

I think I'm finally growing up and slowly figuring out what really matters to me. I'm moving in a totally different direction. I'm scared but I think it's worth the shot.

The road not taken: Robert Frost (1915)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.