The First Time

I was around twelve years old the first time I did it, and actually I never even knew it was a thing before I found out what masturbation was. It was the school holidays and I was on my way to the local football pitch where I would meet my friends whom I had not seen during the school term. When I got there, I found them huddled around Jack. Jack was a much older guy who had moved to neighborhood that year. I can’t remember how or why but we all suddenly looked up to him and came to love him in the way young boys love a fun uncle. He was short, stocky and had a real rough and jagged look about him, but whenever there was trouble or a football game, Jack would come running for us.

I always remember the time some high school kids tried to take our ball and chase us from the pitch, then just hovered around us like sharks waiting for the first sign of resistance or blood. I was terrified. One of them was staring directly at me, not even blinking, and I could feel the heat on the side of my face where I was sure he was going to bash my head in. Then out of nowhere, like something out of the movies, Jack came bursting onto the field yelling and cursing like a pirate. They tried to run but he grabbed one of them by the collar, almost started beating on the kid, but we made him stop. He went with us to the bully’s house and eventually we got our ball back. I think that’s why it took me so long to let my imagination go growing up. It’s hard to not believe in fairy tales when you’ve met a real life superhero.

Anyway, this day in the field is when I found out about masturbation, surrounded by my friends and Jack huddled in the field. He was more than just a protector; Jack was like our guru – when he felt chatty he’d tell us all about girls and sex. It seemed like there was nothing he didn’t know, and he was, for some of us, the only voice offering guidance to our raging hormones when parents just told us to shut up and go to school.

“You’ve never jerked off?” He said to me, giving me this crazy puzzled look along with the rest of my friends. I shook my head, I was the only one apparently. “Look,” He laughed, then continued. “When you get home, just tug on it like this-” he made a mock gesture with his hand. “Then keep going until it feels good.” I didn’t go rushing home, although I wanted to. I had no idea there was an alternative to sex. I knew sex, mostly heard about it. My mind and body knew it before I could – women had something that I wanted. The rest was a simple connecting of the dots (and genitals.) But by myself? I had to get home. I had to try this out. That night I had the house to myself and locked myself in the bathroom. I looked at my penis, a familiar but quiet acquaintance, and he sat there looking bored and unmoved. I thought about what Jack said and his gesture, then tried it, held myself in the hand gently like I was handling fragile goods, then began tugging.

There was nothing at first, and I started to feel disappointed then worried something might be wrong with me. That’s all your teenage and adolescent years really are, aren’t they – constant worries and insecurities. I tried harder, then faster, then before I knew it a door snapped open inside of me. I started to grow in my hand, but the feeling was too much and I had to stop. I caught my breath, I wondered what the hell that was, I even felt a little scared to keep going, but the floodgates had been opened. I started again, but this time much more sure of myself. For some reason, well obvious reasons, thoughts came to my head: girls, girls, girls. Amanda and her pretty face, that time mom was sleeping and I saw a woman’s breast on late night television, kisses, kisses, kisses. Then it happened, that surge, that release, that crescendo before the complete and magnificent shut down of all your senses. I came, but I didn’t know what coming was. Nothing actually came really, it was still just my pecker looking ready for a march and me breathing a little hard. I tried to go again, because what feels good once must feel great a second time, but it hurt and I couldn’t.

The next day Jack was in the park with the rest of our group. As I came up he looked at me with waiting eyes and a bit of a crooked smile.
“Well?” He asked.
“Well what?” I said, looking away and feeling ashamed even though I couldn’t understand why. But Jack only laughed and put me in a playful headlock.
“He’s a man now boys!” They all laughed, some even clapped, and I couldn’t help but kind of smile. Then I didn’t feel so ashamed any more.

Only She Can Tell

After six long years of waiting for a bundle of joy, Alicia finally learnt that she had conceived. After many disappointing hospital visits, the joy, excitement, anxiety and fear could not be withheld. Disclosing to Joe her husband seemed to be the priority. She imagined he would be over the moon for the timely gift after so long. Joy incomprehensible and support was too sweet for the couple from friends and family. “Finally the bond of our union would be strengthened” they thought.

Pregnancy can be both very exciting and challenging time for a woman and Alicia soon realized this. There seemed to be a lot going on; mood swings, food cravings, and anxiety about the changes to come and what to expect. She had so much going on that she thought  amount of waiting could have prepared her for this. One moment she had such a craving that she looked through the kitchen for sugarcane in the middle of the night, the next minute she would be all crazy and depressed and break down crying. To top it up, the morning sickness was horrible and at the slightest provocation. Hormones took control of her mind and body — making her weepy, extremely excited, disproportionately angry, deliriously happy, and stressed out all within a short period of time. This would drive Joe insane as he did not know how to handle her! What kept him from losing his mind was the fact that he knew it would soon be over!

When the time for delivery came Alicia was there for a whole day, in labor and  in excruciating pain. She felt like she would die.  The midwife was there supporting her and telling her to push with the next contraction. She whispered to Alicia that it would soon be over, she just needed to be strong to push some more. She did push, it didn’t feel right but eventually she did it. When she finally collapsed in a heap with exhaustion, Little Maria was born, yelling her lungs out!

After the ordeal, Alicia was quite happy bringing a life into the world. She felt a calmness and warmth she had never felt before. She knew that this was worth all body changes that came along. It was a miracle and blessing for her, to hold her daughter as she slept peacefully. Nothing in seemed more exciting and she had no doubt that nothing else would compete with her little Maria.

Blog courtesy of Grace Wanjiru

Light at the end of the Tunnel

My name is Fatima* and I am from Guinea. I always dreamed of the life I could have had, if only my father did not die when I was a baby. My mother loved my father so much and was devastated when he died in a car accident. But she was not a widow for long. In line with our tribal customs, she was forced to marry my father’s brother, a greedy and abusive man. As my new stepfather, he physically abused us regularly. He beat my mother openly, punching her in the face in front of all of her young, scared children. My siblings and I were not spared from his unrestrained violence either. He often made me lie down on the floor and then would start beating me with his belt. He made our lives miserable.

All the more because of this terrible experience, I hoped to marry a man that I loved, just as my mother had when she married my father. But these hopes were dashed when, as a teenager, my stepfather forced me to marry a friend of his named Cheikh.* I was only 17, and this man was 42. I had not even completed high school. I was devastated and cried throughout the entire marriage ceremony.

This very real nightmare only got worse after my marriage to Cheikh. He was violent and beat me several times a week—using his fists, belts, and even small tree branches. I still have scars on my body and I cannot walk without pain to this very day. He raped me constantly, starting on my wedding night, when he held my face down and forced himself onto me.

Cheikh believed that it was shameful that I was not “circumcised.” In our tribe, almost all of the women undergo female genital mutilation. However, because my father was against the practice, and out of respect for his wishes, no one had forced me to go through it. When Cheikh asked me to undergo the procedure after marriage, I refused. Little did I know that he was planning to force it on me.

In 2004, Cheikh drove me to his village for a “vacation,” during which I stayed with his family members. A few days into our visit, his family told me that we were going to visit some family friends in the village. When I entered the door of the “family friends,” I was horrified to see several naked girls on the floor who were being cut. When I realized that this was a trap, I cried out and struggled to leave the house, but it was too late. My clothes were torn off, and three women pinned me to the ground while two others used a dirty knife to mutilate me. The pain was excruciating, and I struggled and screamed throughout the procedure.

I couldn’t walk normally, and I experienced recurring bleeding for several weeks after the procedure. When I returned to Cheikh, it was even more painful than before when he resumed raping me. He also continued beating me with as much fervor as before.

After unsuccessfully trying to run away from Cheikh on two different occasions, I finally got my chance to flee when my aunt and mother made secret arrangements for me to leave Guinea. After I arrived in the United States in 2006, I learned about the Tahirih Justice Center. Tahirih partnered with the great attorneys that worked on my asylum case, Kyle Cohen and Sara Zogg, from the law firm of Howrey, LLP. Due to their hard work on my behalf, I was granted asylum by an immigration judge in 2007, just a couple of days before Thanksgiving. I still don’t know how to thank my attorneys and everyone at the Tahirih Justice Center for all of their support throughout this difficult process. They are all truly my heroes.

Blog courtesy of Mashua, Voice for the Voiceless.

#WeAreOne

To wake up is a luxury that the 21st of September afforded those of us who can call it the past. It could have been anyone inside the mall; a movie, shopping, hook up with friends, a long awaited date, a family outing… the list is endless. It was the most unexpected thing to have happened in an otherwise serene place; but it happened. In a matter of minutes, where happiness and laughter was, cries of despair and death reigned mingled with terrifying gun shots. Blood and lifeless bodies all over the floor, a siege like never seen before. Soon our Facebook, Twitter, Radio, TV, and international media were all focused on the tragedy that befell us, with bated breath we waited.

With every photo of the dead, injured and rescued we grew anxious. As the news reports came flooding in, the horror clouds gathered and stagnated above our country. They gathered and grew darker with each passing second. A single ray penetrated through; a ray of hope. In a matter of hours, our grief became our strength, we broke from the trance and took an agonizing step towards helping our own. The brave and gallant police forces, brave civilians, the red cross all rushed to show that we are gallant when backed against the wall than our attackers thought we were.

The ray widened, the harrowing images took a back seat as Kenyans became more and more proactive; from spreading messages of hope and urging everyone to pray for our dear motherland to heeding the President’s call for action. We poured out in numbers, sending donations of money and food to the affected. Our paramedics rescued and ushered people on shopping carts, our doctors worked round the clock despite their fear and creeping fatigue to save lives, and our forces combined to face the attackers face to face. People donated water and food to the journalists covering the news, the forces standing guard around the building and the Red Cross officials waiting for rescued hostages round the clock.

Yet still, torrents more poured to the streets the following day to give blood, in an unprecedented blood drive for the victims. People had to be turned away literally but this did not dampen their spirits. They gave and gave some more the following day and the next. We donated money to more than 60 Million, through small and big contributions. We flooded social media, call in shows on TV and Radio with messages of unity and togetherness. With those acts of kindness, we lifted the dark clouds over our country and only a thin layer of uncertainty was left hanging over. Until… it was finally over.

However, should it all be over? We should be ready to help fellow Kenyans during times of crisis. With the same energy, care, and commitment we should respond as we did that dark weekend. No life is less than the other, we are all connected. We are leaves of the same tree; we spring from different branches, different leafstalks all at different levels of the tree trunk but all the leaves are connected, we shares our roots. Let us not forget how we stood together but remember how to stand together in good times and in bad, like we did and have done. Our levels not withstanding, let us be one in thought, word and deed because We Are One.

Changing Faces, Changing Phases

He always believed that he would make it in life, from driving my toy car made of wires, to flying my paper plane. Life was supposed to give me those two and everything in between. Anything that came with the perks of good living, I wanted. My mother told me to read hard, and I passed all my spelling and number counting exams in lower primary, it would be a smooth ride. I don’t know when the tide changed that got me so blank in exams in latter years. So working hard was supposed to be hard, and hard work was proving stingy with its dividends. So I dropped out before going too far, that is time and money wasted, none of which I had in abundance.

I have always marveled at how many people can be manipulated by a simple story, much like the one you are reading now. I was also a victim of a story, of drop outs that made it despite many odds. I believed I had enlisted in a roster of few people and luck would follow me. That club I found was for a few elite few who had silver spoons and always saw the silver lining. Couple that with a silvern tongue and you have a weighted purse full of silvers. Sadly, that was not my club either. I soon realized that my role in life is to invoke such persons my way and rob them of their excesses.

It hit me that I could not live off robbing what I considered excess. What would happen when the excess was not equal to my needs? I would die hungry and humiliated for having lived like a Hyena waiting for a corpse to drop dead. So I decided to take a chance with a suit and tie. I must have had a dozen doors slammed in my face, but my resolve was more than the sympathetic eyes coming my way. I had to content with the fate of having given up on life early. I should probably have tried my hand at more than just what freshman year in high school offered.

It has been a long time since those days, and I think I would have been better off if I had someone to show me the light. The biting of bedbugs and the half blanket were a far cry from what I had envisioned when I was a small boy. I guess different phases of life give us different faces.

Going Under

My head felt dizzy, and the numbers in front of me looked hazy. They were eluding me, and I used my pen to try pin them down. It was funny, they seemed to be afraid of the mighty pen. The might of the pen, I thought. Then I saw a bunch of letter gathered around and have a kamkunji and I felt threatened. The letter “Y” stood and covered the rest of the letters from the mighty pen. Challenge accepted, martyr selected. The pen descended on it and a black blot covered where Y was. The nib blotted Y and it bled out to oblivion. The rest of the letters gathered round and mourned the loss of their martyr. It was dumb really, you do not stand up to the pen, you just don’t. Just to prove a point, the pen delved into a massacre of the mourning crowd.

The paper was snatched away from me, and a familiar face started mumbling in the distance. I felt like he was being obnoxious, the kind whose words have a pungent smell. Like it was sentences made of the dead letters that the pen had just massacred and all those before it. He had a funny face, and a big mouth. Probably that’s why the words were being thrust outside by his tongue as his teeth sat back, lazy in the cushion that was his inner mouth cavity. I wonder how many spoonfuls of food it would take to fill his mouth completely. A slap later and I was standing against the floor or was I lying on the floor?

I shrugged and struggled to stand, staggering to the exit amid cheers of my adoring fans. These classmates of mine, ever so proud of me when I walked out of class. It wasn’t a big deal really, it was just a matter of collecting yourself and walking out the door into the light. Of course, some help from the slap-happy loud mouth helped once in a while, but who was asking for details? I am walking to the light, away from the darkness.

Speaking of a light, I feel like I should light a herb to clear out the fog in my eyes because of the slap. I felt the urge to remove my herb bag because of the sudden rush of blood to the head. My foggy eyes felt phenomenally heavy, but fog clears with an after burst of the herb smoke. We have been through this road before. So I walked into the light and into the darkness and looked for a corner. The smoke was coming in fumes and hazy and formed a cloud and I found myself walking among clouds. I saw myself float and pick up the clouds and take some of them to form a pillow and I lay there on the warm clouds and the streaming flow of moving clouds.

The biting cold woke me, and I realized I was naked and on the street. I had no shoes, and people moving around me did not look twice even. I felt the cold bite down on me once more, and realized it was actually rodents biting at my bare flesh. I ran down the street and I saw two blaring lights and a lot of noise. I saw everything clearly; the false bravado and the false pride… was it too late?

His Protector

I look back to when I was a young boy,growing up in our estate, my father’s only boy, my mamas baby boy, spoilt with every sort of toy but boy was I not ready for what was coming…

I sat in front of the TV watching a puppy play with it’s chew toy when mummy stormed in sobbing and crying with blood dripping on her shawl, from her forehead through her brow, and daddy as if on cue walked in clad in a wife beater look and a bag on his hand which he threw our as he shoved mommy out the door.

Confused I sat there, too much to bear, at such a tender age to stare at the explosive glare of a family tarnished by an ungodly affair. I stared blankly at the ceiling cuddled up in a corner un my bedroom, days after she left, knowing that it was just him and I left,worried that in his drunken stupor that he would repeat that painful deed.

His loneliness had veiled his eyes not to see that am just a child,a boy child whose innocence needed to be protected by him but it turned out that the protector now turned molester would pester me foe his rights that were missing when his wife left, not considering my rights as a boy child now turned boy toy, a once coy boy now violated.

Abruptly the door bursts open and I scream at the top of my voice as he grabs me and subdues me and I plead with him daddy please…please don’t touch me there….one day am going to tell ion you I swear.

Tears roll down my cheeks as the memory fades, now am in my bedroom all grown, married and with a new born,a Baby boy,precious he is to my eyes,so innocent and in need of protection,such perfection summed up in a tiny being,regardless of my past imperfections that left me with an infection and a scarred perception of a father figure.

As I sit at the edge of my bed,a photo of my boy in my right hand and a gun in my left,all the while am wondering how my child will grow up knowing me,a flawed father,infected and rejected by his own conscience,worried that his son would grow up to be rejected because of the failures of his own father.

The gun, now in my head, praying that one day he would understand that I did this for him. As I gently squeeze the trigger the cry of my baby stopped me and I looked at the photo in my hand at the searching eyes of my boy and they searched deep into my soul and I swear I heard my baby mourn that he needed his father now, than ever, to protect his innocence and to give him what my father gave me and I breakdown and cry and I storm out dropping the gun behind me heading towards the carriage where he lay and I lift him up and embrace him and I whisper in his ear” I am sorry that I almost repeated the same mistake my father made, I almost gave up on you,but today…I will be your protector to protect your innocence and to help you become better a man than I ever would be,this I promise you.

The Flipside

Sometimes, I feel like I am a spectator drifting out at sea. The current underneath me determine my direction and movement, my body follows. Things happen right in front of my eyes; I just watch. I can’t say anything to change it, I lose my voice. I can raise my hand against it, I lose my strength and stand against it? I will lose my foothold on the ledge of the drifting piece of wood that keeps me afloat. So what do I do? I sit and watch, pray and hope and wish… wish someone at shore will see me drifting, and offer help to get me to the shore. When I get there, I hope they see their mistakes through my eyes and change them, for I know that I will pay for their mistakes dearly after they are long gone.

Once in a while, the sun shines through the clouds and shows me just how fortunate I am to be me. Ambitious, talented, optimistic, and young. Life flows through my veins and strength in my bones; nothing can stop me. I feel like every breath I take in is divine, full of a fresh coating of optimism and a wisp of courage to be daring. The clouds surrounding the rays remind me just how many struggles I have endured to get to where I am, just like the small rays passing through the clouds and shining on my face. Worth nothing to you, but it is my small mercy to keep me going forth, beyond the green fields and into the lush green forest where I can be wild and free, and live in the green foliage happy and content.

Someday I will rule the world, not world domination. I will occupy my space, I will be a master of my trade and I will be standing in the hall of fame. I will have it all, with a family to boot. The world will be at my feet, and I will love it. I will gladly say I started from the bottom to get there. I will be calling the shots around here, there and everywhere. My hard work will have paid off and I will sit on my comfy chair and savour the fruits of my labour. I will pat myself on the back and encourage myself as I always have; to do more and better and raze anyone who gets in my way. I will continue burning the midnight oil, and I will not stop until my brow is heavy with sweat, and the last click of the door I hear is the door to my safe. I will sleep content at night knowing I worked hard, and it paid off.

How scenic my sunset days will be. I will have done it all, and I will sit at my swinging chair and count my blessings over the years. I will look back at my journey and smile, I was once drifting at sea until my optimism and hard work got me out of the sea and on to the shore. I made my own path and it got me to where I will be. In all my musings I will realize that my whole quest did not involve getting more people like me from the sea, just myself. All this time, I changed from the aggrieved to the aggressor. I lived at shore and did all the things I frowned upon in my early years, as those at sea watched me. I see myself in them, because they are me and I am them.

As young people we ought to break the cycle; we know what ails us and what hinders our development. We should work at changing the status quo; greed and selfish interests only serve a single purpose and a single person; nobody. Moving development forward means serving the interests of a greater good and serving a greater good is leaving the world a better place than we found it.

Redemption by water and fire

I was finally fitting in, no one in this group thought I was a sickly boy with asthma anymore. It had gotten less and less as I grew older and now I could finally swim with the rest of my school. I no longer had to hide my asthma, I took my medication in public and I was pleased with the results. The school swim team was happy to have me, and I was happy to be taking part in something in my eighteen years of existence.

I once watched a movie that had a caption “You can’t handle the truth”, and I have lived by that mantra ever since. For the longest time, I thought I had been sentenced to death but the reality was a far worse sentence. The knowledge that I was going to be a sickly boy till I eventually died made me feel targeted. My mother who had since passed on when I barely spoke my first word had left me with three things that I treasured most; a letter, a crucifix around my neck and a black and white photo of a young family supposedly my dad, her and me. We looked happy, then again you can never tell what we have from a photo.

I had been passed on from a relative to the next, who feared feeding me, bathing me or even letting me share anything with the rest of them. My cousins had all caught on to it; they avoided having to breathe the same air as me for more than ten seconds if they could. All this confusion inside a three year old boy’s head, with no explanation. I consequently did everything for myself and at night while people shared bedtime stories; I held onto the wooden crucifix and cried to sleep.

When I could take no more, one day I simply walked to school and never came back. The biting cold nights I spent outside on the streets with nameless drunks were only rivaled by my coughing and the feeling of an exploding chest. I wondered why this asthma that I had was such a curse, then again I did not know what was up with me. I held on to the crucifix and hoped that someday, I would be cured of my disease. I jumped into a river once and hoped to die but somehow, my feet and arms could not accept to resign so easily. I panted on the shore and held at my crucifix again looking at the water that spat me out, dazed.

I walked around aimlessly by day and slept in a church in the next town until I had the dream. I saw my mother in white robes and she caressed my cheek. She was not afraid of me and she gave me her jacket. I woke up to the smiling face of a nun, who insisted I join them at the convent. Years later, I was the boy with many mothers and one father and lived in a church. I was given medication and told I had a rare disease called HIV and that the medication would make it all better. Two years later, I was finally in good shape and in the swim team.

I lined up at the edge of the swimming pool with the rest of the team and held my crucifix. I dove into the water head first at the sound of the whistle and felt the water plaster the crucifix on the right side of my chest. I felt reborn.

Necessary Evil

I reclined on my seat after giving my prescription to the young man. I wondered how it felt to be on the on the other side of the table and explaining to a complete stranger my deepest darkest fear. It is amazing what a simple well-crafted words can change; mention doctor patient privilege and the risk of a law suit and people feel free. Not that I was about to violate this privilege, it just amused me that those conditions were enough for people to reveal demons they were afraid to dream about. That young man was depressed that his girlfriend of many years was leaving him for a richer guy. His solution, suicide but my advice was antidepressants and talking it over and moving on whichever the outcome.

They came to me as names on a list through my secretary but I felt a connection with each of them after the first session. The faces, voices, laughter, cries, frustrations all made them human and relatable. Some aspect of their lives illuminated my life in strange ways, it was almost like they helped me escape some common pitfalls. I loved my job because I loved stories. I always toyed with the idea of writing a book, fiction with real inspiration about my sessions. I smiled as I entertained the thought of people seeking autographs instead of therapy sessions. My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of my phone. I smiled when I saw the caller ID.

Adam was a good friend of mine, but like most of the people in my phonebook he was once a name in my weekly schedule. He was a busy guy; he used flights as frequently as I took the bus. He was a businessman and an entrepreneur, he could be said to have the life. I found that such people had been challenged at the home front. He had been married and had been unhappy, gotten separated and now stayed with his mistress. With three kids to show for it, he was satisfied. Problem was, his mistress wanted one also to have a claim to his fortune. Therein lay the problem; nothing had come from their numerous efforts.

I had asked him to hook me up with his ex-wife and children as a friend, I wanted to satisfy my curiosity. This call was confirming just that, he was hosting an evening dinner at his place and had remembered I had once requested that. I told him I would pass by on my way home. When I was at the party, I was delighted to see that he was in speaking terms with his wife for the kids. She was beautiful and motherly, I wondered how it did not work out. When I had a moment with her, I told her of her husband’s dilemma. She smiled and told me that she had children, they did not.

Puzzled, I asked what she meant other than rivalry. She laughed and said that the children were hers, not her’s and Adam’s. She had never told him about it, but she wanted the children and was tired of asking. Suddenly, I felt sad for Adam who was at the barbeque with his two sons grilling the meat.