starters checked in and my confidence was suddenly boosted. At most we were about 20 recreational runners with about 100 elite runners stealing the show. Like an addict on high octane dope, that suddenly crashes leaving one high and dry my confidence was shredded by Paul Tergat, the then world premier marathoner who came up to me and said hi. He rhetorically asked me,’ata wewe utamaliza?’ ‘Kwani I looked how?’I asked myself. Did I look like a sweeper or cop or a spectator ? I had my running number well emblazoned on my chest. Why the question? I never bothered to answer him. At 7am the starting whistle went off and off we hit the macadamised trail. We joined Moi Avenue , all the way to University Way before joining Uhuru Highway. At the former International Casino I overtook the 6 Caucasians who were running in pack. I increased the pace to overtake some more laggards. After joining Waiyaki Way, we did the gentle incline to ABC Place then detoured to James Gichuru road through Lavington Green to the junction of Ngong Road. As one is about to join Ngong road, there is a steep decline then a sharp hill that was christened ‘The Heartbreak Hill’. So sharp is the hill that one literally touches the chin with the knees. It’s a rude reminder of how brutal marathon running is. It saps your last ounce of energy while literally breaking your mental power. Its a killer hill that mercilessly massacres your soul, mind and body. For the first time I crawled and puffed my way up in fits and stops. Somehow I reached the pinnacle and the conqueror’s smile was evident on my face. Things went furiously south from there. I thought we were to take a left turn and begin our run towards town. Woe unto me! The arrow pointed right towards Lenana School and Racecource. Had the organizers had a last minute change of the finishing point from KICC to the Racecourse? I comforted myself. But my short lived happiness was reduced to smithereens when I saw the elite group and not so elite running the opposite direction. A quick metal calculation told me that there was a u-turn ahead. Never has a turning been so far in my life. I ran for minutes on end without the turn being visible. I almost gave up. What is this I got myself into? Finally just when the road passes Lenana school entrance I saw the turn off. What a relief? In 25km, I had taken 2:25 hours. My body was still responding well but dehydration was getting the better of me. I had no idea that in marathon one can sneak into a kiosk and take a quick Chapo bite or gulp a soda or glucose to carbo load. Innocently I relied on water that was provided at strategic points by the organizers. The stretch from Dagoretti Corner to the City Mortuary saw my energy dip dangerously. I felt dizzy, blisters started forming inside the shoe while I felt like a drunkard high on some cheap potent booze. My hitherto heavy sweating had stopped and my mouth had a briny taste of blood. At City Mortuary, we took to Mbagathi Way. All along, the 6 wazungus were gradually and ominously closing on me. At Highrise decline they caught up with me. They made a move to pass me which I vigorously resisted. I upped the pace and enlarged the distance once more. But at Mbagathi Roundabout, my wheels came off. I stopped and with it came numbing pain all over my body. I couldn’t point out which part of my anatomy was aching. I arched doubly ready to quit. In that moment of stillness of motion,my dizzy head refused to coordinate with my legs. My Wazungu friends passed me but one of them asked me,’Are yo ok?, Almost there man.. keep up yo doing well.. come on’
I tried to run but my body was in pain and my soul was hurting. The encouraging words were ringing in my head. Like distant echoes from afar they resonated agreeably with my broken body and dismantled soul. I chose to walk the remainder of the journey. At Nyayo Stadium, we were directed towards Mombasa road. This sapped my soul and body dry. I reflected deeply what was the glory of finishing a marathon then die. Does anyone listen to his eulogy?Certainly not for one is long dead. As others die of illness bravely borne or an accident ,was I going to die of an avoidable cause and a laughable one at that?.. what is the point of dying while running a marathon yet you were not even competing for money? The finish line was too near to give up..an inner voice prodded me. At Belle Vue I met the Wazungus headed back to town having made a U- Turn at Firestone. My hope of ever beating anyone in my debut marathon went up in smoke. But from a distance behind I saw another straggler. The tiny dot slowly grew in size and at South C Bridge towards town the last of the last overtook me. I was officially the last person. The vehicular traffic was now in full flow. One had to compete for space with vehicles and pedestrians as I ‘run-stop’ in fits. The other straggler was none other than Caroli Omondi my classmate at Parklands Campus who like me was on the receiving end of this brutal self inflicted misadventure .I kept in touch with him until Parliament building where I lost sight of him. I took the last turn to the finish line at Inter Con Hotel. As I passed Garden Square I met the former Director of Stanchart Hannington Awori who egged me on to the finish line. Four hours 47 minutes the clock stopped as I returned to KICC At KICC, the organizers had dismantled the dais and gone home. No one was there to receive this tough and rugged street runner who had chewed 26miles ..a heroic feat by any standard. There were few cops around. Present too were the staff of the event organizers who momentarily stopped to watch a spectacle of this withered man who had tried to commit suicide using such a tedious and futile method. A look at my dishevelled body and one of them jeeringly said, “kwani watu hawana Kazi ya kufanya?” loosely translated as people are very idle. Indeed i must have been one idle bloke to think of running a marathon. I swore never to run a marathon in my lifetime. It was futile and dangerous engagement only fit for fools full of foolish bravado. I learnt to run but the hard way. As aptly said, by the time the fool learns his game, the players have dispersed. Never say never, the bug that was planted then has gone on to germinate big time. I have since run more than 20 full marathons a couple of ultra marathons the longest being 65km. Am planning to do 100km in one day before retiring in the land yonder. THE BLACK RIVER ESCAPADE “Can you join me for an excursion to the land of black”, came in a request thinly veiled as one whereas it was a command. “Anytime baibe”, came the obedient voice from the other end of her well chiseled tiny iPhone. “Pick me at the gas station by noon, because I have a meeting at 1pm”, he now politely requested.
“ Let me give the Dudu a bathe then I come for you” she replied. Ted B as he was affectionately known was a hunk of a man. He stood slightly below 6 feet with well built body that once looked well taken care of but now was a bit off tangent. The only thing that told of his athletic past were the many medals that hung loosely in his harrowed vault. His girth had definitely increased an inch or two while his receding hairline was a clear manifestation that the five decades racked had an impact on his once dashing looks. His clean shaven pate gave him deep sense of authority. The two lines on his forehead made him look deeply in thought though he effortlessly broke into a bright grin at the slightest. A well travelled man both locally and internationally, he recently had developed serious business network with the government honchos while his job contract was coming to an end. Deep within himself, he knew that chances of his job renewal were luminous. At 12 noon the damsel had not called. It was unlike her. Amme was the sort of lass every man would lick his lips to have. Short, but well rounded and learned, having done a post graduate degree and a diploma. She had this starry eyed gaze that pierced your heart. She could easily see what was in your heart. Amme was working for a local blue chip company and had before the Covid ravage earned herself a huge pay rise that saw her salary hit six digit with equally fat attendant allowances. She had registered in a local gym where she worked out consistently for that model body size... not huge pig like torso, neither the thin lasses that skim out part of your skin with their jutting front pelvic bone during a steamy Samaritan session. “You ain’t here girl, whatssup?”, he sheepishly inquired. “Sorry baibe, my Dudu could not kick in, I had to get a neighbour to jump- start for me, then I had to head to the car wash for a thorough touch up”. She said in a coolish intonation. Ladies have a way of smothering out simmering tensions. “So when do I expect you here to pick me?”. He asked. “I will be there at 1pm sharp”. She replied. “How do I hack it?, Am supposed to be in the meeting then”, He put forth the statement. “Can I go at the rendezvous and you join me there when done?” He inquired. “Okey, it’s a deal”. She affirmed Ted B made his way to the appointed meeting point. Having been streetwise since his childhood days he did not find it amiss to jump into an Uber and head to the destination. If it was before the advent of Uber, he would have comfortably hopped into a matatu and proceeded like he wasn’t a VIP he was. At the rendezvous,Ted B got down quickly into the business of the day. He was meeting fellow directors in a perceived project on a newly bought plot in a bustling suburb of Nairobi. The area had of late become the haven for entrepreneurs and industrialists hence the demand for low cost housing had shot through the roof in a bid to partake of these manna. Ted B had formed a partnership with other like minded business moguls for a piece of this real estate cake. He arrived on time, but had to wait for the other directors to arrive. One arrived in a turbo-charged Subaru Forester that is well pimped. Known for his boisterous mannerisms, the tall balding man
also known as KK, slowly walked into the plot. A quick round of greetings and he disappeared into the plot to check on the general nature of the infrastructure of the recently acquired building. As he was doing his round the other directors checked in in quick succession. One drove in in a marquee black limo christened V8 that had heavily tinted windows but covered in a thin layer of fine dust that characterizes the area. He is an industrialist whose products fiercely compete with an established multinational. A go- getter who talks loud and can be tad naughty. Ironically he is a church elder in a local church despite his known dalliance with the devil’s drink. Overall he is a pleasant character too when he means to be. The other chain of three directors came in in a motley of nondescript Japanese models that can hardly make heads turn. The contractor to do the intended work was also at the site. Maps were brought out as minute details of the project were laid out. Questions flowed in quick fire style akin a blitz in a battle frontline. The budget was laid out while the contractor was given green light to proceed with the job. The local neighbourhood came out to witness the unfolding spectacle in awe and admiration, but mostly to ogle at the huge monsters of fuel guzzlers in display. “Where are you?” Ted B asked Amme who hadn’t showed up. “Am entering Black River”. “Where exactly?” Ted B asked with a tinge of urgency and annoyance. In his mind he was wondering why and how it would take a person over one hour to do mere 30km trip. “I think I am lost” Amme called to say The route was again graphically explained, with ideal land marks well laid out for ease of identification. Ted B sat back in anticipation.. every humming of a car or vehicle brought a sound of expectation. His concentration in the meeting was now at zero level. The directors called off the fruitful merging once all the agendas had been exhausted. But then again Amme had not found her way to the meeting point. ‘Am completely lost now” she said softly in a nonchalant voice. Ted B explained the route again for umpteenth time while seething in insurmountable hill of anger. She had taken a right turn instead of a left turn. “Holy shit, weren’t you listening when I explained to you numerous times?” Ted B blew his top. How does one get lost so casually and proceed to be so unapologetic about the transgression? He hiked a lift from one of the directors, having cancelled the intended surprise date. At the junction to the main road, he spotted a black Dudu doing the right turn albeit late. “Kindly do a u turn .. the meeting is done. We are headed to Sapphire Spot for a lunch bite and you are welcome” Ted B disembarked from the red hatchback and sneaked in into the black Dudu. The added weight seemingly jarred the shocks of the well maintained Dudu. “Will you drive?” Came out a request.. no apologies just a dry request which sounded more of a mockery. The request was instantly declined. They drove in silence to the designated lunch spot.
Each drowning in their thoughts while the simmering anger was well and truly palpable… perhaps it was a nil-by-mouth being served in humungous doses. Finally at the rendezvous and the group opted to take ready choma as they placed an order for chicken fry for escorting choma later. Drinks flowed easy and smooth. The palpable tension that had built up effortlessly thawed under the sustained onslaught of wine and hard drinks. The discussions that had been muted and suppressed gradually became louder with each drink. Two hours later some of the team members clearly looked tipsy courtesy of one too many that had been partaken. Being seated next to each other generally imports the need and urge for a sustained conversation. Indeed it came to be. The earlier tension having vamoosed made the dialogue easy. Ted B reminded Amme of their first meeting….both broke into long guttural and teary laughter.. LIVE TODAY At the age of three, I admired those in nursery school because they wore uniform and I didn’t. I longed to get to nursery school and feel how they felt. I would occasionally wait at our gate to see them pass by. I coveted them. When I got to nursery, the excitement fizzled out and I began admiring those in class one because they wrote with a pencil yet I wrote with a piece of charcoal. In class one, the excitement did not last, I was busy admiring those in class four because they wrote with ink-pens yet I wrote with a faint pencil that was mostly blunt. While in class four, the excitement vanished and I began admiring the boys in class seven and eight because a bulk of them had deep voices while I spoke like quelea quelea. Class eight came and passed, I hardly felt the air of being a candidate, I still remember one cold and misty afternoon, when I stuck my big eyes through a chicken wire that fenced round a girl’s high school compound near our home, I was drooling at high school girls walking up to their classes, because they had clean shoes and socks and I had dusty heels and toes; I longed to be in a secondary school – some day While in form one, bullying quickly smoked out the fun I had looked forward to, I had sleepless nights fantasizing about the day I would be in form four, the boys in form four were relaxed and secure, and while we in form one unblocked filthy drainage tunnels as a routine every Saturday morning, the form fours were assigned light tasks of wiping window panes. While in form four, I felt the emptiness of being in secondary school, I longed to be in college where no bells rang, where there were no routine meals, and where students were not required to wear uniform. While in college, the desire to outgrow the system and just be out there, undermined the fun of being a college student, I wanted to join the working class, I wanted to settle down and place myself somewhere in the world out there,
I missed the joy of living in the place I was, because of the unknown joy of the place I desired to be next, and such is the deep rooted psychological crisis of mankind, except for the few to whom God has revealed through his holy word, that Godliness with contentment is great gain… (1 Tim 6:6) ONE NATION KENYA Yesterday I walked across my work place to a nearby market, a (past-middle aged) shoe shiner who spoke Gîkûyû requested to dust my shoes, he added that it would (woiye) afford him a cup of tea and a piece of bread. He got me persuaded and we got quickly started. Just as he began, a Navy-bluish Land Rover Discovery 2 parked right next to the shoe shine stand. The driver, who appeared to be the owner had been on the phone as he parked, he then moved out still speaking on the phone, and crossed over in a hurry, he spoke Dholuo. About three minutes later, two parking attendants passed by with the clamps, and they spoke Luhya, They spotted the car with the parking unpaid, and they started clamping but from the other side where we could not see them from where we sat. A young man who spoke with a heavy Kamba accent came running to the shoe shiner “Muzee!, he called out, “sema wakwito” mzee responded albeit casually. “si uu muyamaa amepaki tu zaiii? He asked, pointing at the Land Rover. “Ee na ni kamaa ameingia supaa pointing at the nearby Tuskys” the shoe shiner replied. “Unayua wanafunga yuu hayalipa parking” he pointed at the clamp fellows who by then were trying to fit the clamp on the rear tyre. “Ngai! wee, ebu tuchange” mzee added, as he stood up checking all his pockets, he asked me for the payment (in the middle of the service), they then called another young man called ‘Vaitee’ who was selling second-hand clothes, they gathered Ksh. 300 and paid the parking attendant and the clamping guys left. By the time I left the place, the car owner had not come back, I suspected he had gone to Java for a business meeting. Perhaps none of these guys, Muzee, Wakwito, and Vaitee will be able to read this. While I was not too surprised about this action, it really looked very different from what I see on walls and in comments, especially in the current times, perhaps that’s why it is worth my time to write this story. As humans, our factory setting is to love and to be compassionate, that’s why everyone runs crazy when an unattended child attempts to cross a busy highway, anyone can lose their life trying to save the baby, it never matters whose baby it is, or which language the baby is learning, It’s always about saving the life, literally! I say that’s the unadulterated reflex that God put in all of us. It is unnatural and it takes a lot of energy and emotional burden to hate. Dear Lord, if I ever drift away from your original design, always restore me back to factory settings, and then restart me! CAN I GIVE YOU AWAY? I have had the privilege of dropping our pre-unit daughter to school most of this year. During the second half of this term, their class planned a visit to a children's home, and she kept asking many questions about it, \"What is it like?\", \"Who lives there?\", \"What are the children like?\", \"What do they have?\", \"What do they lack?\"....
In one of my horrible attempts to respond to her questions, I said to her, \"You should carry some gifts for them, food, clothes, toys. And you should give to them what you value most, because some of those children do not have have a mum or a dad\". She paused a bit, as if to reflect deeply on my counsel, then with a guilt-laden mien, a weak voice and teary eyes, and with her small arms wrapped around my neck, she whispered to me ... \"Can I give you away?\"… OUR NEXT PRESIDENT Our next head of state should be a cross-breed. He should possess a variety of skills and temperaments. If possible, our next president should be a concoction of sorts. He should have a piece of Dr. Julius Kipngetich. He should be able look at a dumpsite, close his eyes, smile a bit and imagine beauty in its place. He should not be scared by the Kenya he finds, he should see the end picture from the beginning and buy all of us in to it. He should have a piece of John Michuki. When he is convinced that a cause is worthwhile, he should not be distracted by history or culture from doing it, he should not wait for the systems to work, he should cause them to work, work, work, until change happens. He should have a piece of Lee Kuan Yew. When people (even one) suffer during his tenure for whatever reason, he should be able to own up, hide in a closet, and cry like a wet baby. He should have a piece Wangari Maathai. He should see beyond his tenure. The quality of life of the Kenyan people who will live in this country in 2070 should cause him a weekly insomnia… He should have a piece of Mwai Kibaki. He should be able to take in heat, without changing colour. For most of the day, he should be illegible. He should have a piece of Dr. Patrick Njoroge. He should abhor materialism, and embrace simplicity. He should feel substantive as a king, without walking around with the gown that goes with the title. He should have a piece of Raila Odinga. He should never give up, he should possess a rare momentum. Even when dark clouds gather to bring rain, he should see sunshine, and rally the whole nation behind his view. He should have a piece of Abduba Dida, he should start with a dream and be able to ride on it, even when a different reality keeps hitting, he should never loose grip of the dream… DIGGING INTO MY VOTING HISTORY Digging into my (own) voting history, I observed some interesting trends. If the contestants are all bad choices in my assessment, I prefer to abstain from voting. I don’t believe in voting for the sake of redeeming a constitutional right. That constitutional right is too weak, it only allows you to pick from those who vie, it does not allow you to decide on who should vie. What a powerless right!
I don’t vote into public office people who are below 30 years of age. There is a rare genre of wisdom that comes with age, that genre does not come with being bright in school, being flamboyant, being vocal, or being a firebrand! Some sections of Meru have done very well in voting MP’s in their 20’s. I would easily reject such an aspirant on account of being too inexperienced. Experience is undeniably a function of time. I am not easily impressed by wealth or ‘woiyeed’ by poverty. Stories of how poor you once were, or how fast you made your money may sound great, but they are so unrelated to leading people. Leadership should not be confused with motivational speaking. I am not moved by a candidate's association with the church or religion in general, at least not anymore. I am a wiser voter. The thing about being God-fearing is that you will never need to flaunt it, it speaks for itself more firmly and for longer, and it bears much more tangible fruit than a spoken word. These are the trends I have observed so far about myself, if I get more, I will let you know. I am still digging! THE TALE OF FAT KIKUYU MAN A community that received a slim bride, took a communal challenge to feed her. During the marriage ceremony, the pressure was on the particular family that received the slim bride, to bring her to a body size that could support her to till the farm and the feed her children. Especially among the Agikuyu, slim was equal to ugly and chubby was equal to beautiful. Fortunately, it was possible to transform an ugly bride to a beautiful wife by just feeding her, and feeding her simply meant providing her with a sufficient farm to till, feed herself and her children! If she remained slim throughout her life, then she was ugly by design and for life! A married man did not rely on any particular wife to feed him, there were many wives to do so. The youngest wive was the most regular in the food deliveries, and the most meticulous in the presentation of the food. Sometimes the man received much more food than he needed, it was a way for the wives to show gratitude for being allocated a farm to till and bring up their children. The head of the home used that extra food to placate his younger children and sometimes the grandchildren to ensure they remained around him for familiarity and mentoring. For the wives, feeding the children was instinctive, but feeding the husband was largely transactional. A husband was more likely (than the wives) to grow fat, because he only allocated the farm (and sometimes work) to the wives to work it but he did not (himself) work at the farm. His work was to walk around the farm to see how the farm was being worked across the seasons. On a typical day, he reached all the corners of the farm, to supervise the farm activities being done by the wives, and by mid-day he would be back at the shed to rest and later receive the food into his resting hut.
It was a buffet presented in different bowls, he ate the best and left the rest for the children. If the husband became fat, the wives received praises and if the wives became fat, the husband was honored by the whole village for maintaining his wives very well. In those days, one of the most praiseworthy goals for partners in marriage, was to ensure that the other partner became and remained fat! THE WEDDING VOWS STALLED Some years ago I had a meeting with my co-director at the fall the year, it was time to thank God for his immeasurable Grace in keeping us alive and in good health, but also the time to make projections amid uncertainties of the coming year. The moment came for looking back at the business books of the year that was, hours before it gave way to the New Year, I opened my excel exhibits and she opened hers, but she immediately got a call and excused herself… Being a meeting for two, I could not move on and so I opted to wait. It was an open restaurant but not very busy, on my left side was a large TV screen on the wall where a wedding show was featuring – It takes a few moments for a fat person to turn around, but I did! The wedding was at the vows stage, I heard the presiding minister say these words, with the groom saying after him, at this time the bride, a fair lady of above average beauty, was looking up with wet eyes, blinking at least a 100 times per second. The presiding minister started off with the vows; I Jakuf (groom repeated)… do take this vow before God and before this congregation (groom repeated)… that I will love Rahaf (groom repeated)… and I will not have another (groom repeated)… real or imagined… then the transmission suddenly stopped before the groom repeated! The minister and the groom were frozen in the position that the minister had just said “Real or Imagined”…. A few hours later, in the late afternoon hours, on our way back to the city, I spotted a very expensive car that joined the super highway ahead of us. I liked it from a distance and accelerated a little more to catch up and behold the motor! For a couple of minutes, we drove at par on the super highway. I peeped in sheepishly and saw the car on the other side had (expensive) leather upholstery for seats, yet mine had a fluffy fabric for the seats, it’s center console was made of stainless steel, yet mine was made of a low-grammage colorless plastic, the car on the other side had an automatic climate control button on the driver’s arm rest, yet mine had a noisy fan activated through a knob beneath the steering wheel, the car had an In-control touch infotainment system with what looked like an 8- inch touch screen, yet mine had an ‘after-thought’ car stereo whose protrusion always constrained my left knee. The car on the other side had a panoramic sun-roof, yet mine had a rusty ceiling. The car on the other side had a 360-degree camera system, I noted mine had a stubborn rear mirror, dangling above my forehead like a bat. A few moments later, the car on other side zoomed past mine and disappeared into the turns of the super highway. For a moment, I saw and felt the way a squirrel would see and feel after having a short meeting with an eagle. As I drove on, my mind wandered and I pictured myself in the other car, I imagined touching the infotainment system with my ring finger, I imagined leaning tightly on the leather upholstery with my fat body, I imagined pressing the climate control switch with my thumb, I imagined steering the motor on a cruise! As I restrained my mind from the thrill that came with this imagination, I understood why the TV in the morning - had stalled!
HOISTING THE FALLEN FLAG After a huge drop in the performance of our primary school in the early nineties, the school decided to introduce Saturday sessions for the higher classes. On the first Saturday, no teacher showed up so we opted to play. In their games, some boys who were playing around the flag post, unhooked the flag rope and it dropped to the ground. All of us were concerned because this was going to be solid evidence that we were playing and not studying, it was also going to occasion a communal beating come Monday morning. We all gathered around the flag post. Two girls Zipe and Loise, were already crying at the imagination of the communal beating that would come on Monday. One of the bigger boys called Eli, asked “is there anyone who can climb up the flag post?” the question went unanswered. On my part, i looked at the flag post, how thin and tall it was, I knew there was no way we would get the flag rope fixed. I thought to myself that whomever climbed would be risking a tragic fall. We stayed there, looking up the post and feeling helpless. In the thick of our panic and frustration, one boy called Kelilo, said “if you all promise to receive me if I fall, I will climb this post and fix that rope”, nobody could believe him, it was both a timely relief but a deep fear for the unknown. “This is what you will do” he continued. “You will form a small circle around the post and put your arms in a receiving position, the higher I climb, the wider you make the circle, If I fall, receive me so that I am not injured, stay put until we get this done, do you agree?” he quizzed. We all made a circle in solidarity and Kelilo commenced the climb with unprecedented courage. Half way up the flag post, girls began excusing themselves to the toilet. The queue of users outside the girls’ toilet was thicker, longer and more vibrant that the circle of friends around the flag post. Those still waiting to receive Kelilo had freed their hands from the “receiving position”, most of us were pocketing and speaking to each other in whispers. A girl we had nicknamed Boina asked, “Who would receive Kelilo falling from that height?” pointing at Kelilo who, from where we stood, was now the size of a bat. In a moment, the flag post began to bend, every move Kelilo made, the post responded by bending further down, if he turned his head, it was bending, if he bent his knee, it was bending, if he talked, it was bending!. He was holding desperately on to a thin pipe, moving ahead was just as dangerous as moving back. At this point, all of us left, there was nobody anymore to receive the ‘falling Kelilo’. Nobody wanted to eye-witness the tragedy. Like everyone else, I also fought my conscience and went home, I knew that the news headlines would find me wherever I would be, because from where i had left him, Kelilo was going to bring real big news to the village! “This is what the LORD says: \"Cursed are those who put their trust in mere humans, who rely on human strength and turn their hearts away from the LORD” Jeremiah 17:5. I AM NOT BRIGHT Twelve years ago, I lived in a neighborhood where there were two boys. They were twins and they liked playing together. Visually the two boys were identical, but it was possible to tell them apart based on the way they spoke, one was calm and methodical, while the other one was more unstructured but assertive. One boy was called Jerry, while the other one was called Bright. Perhaps because of my wobbly attention to detail, many times I would interchange their names. I was however, more likely to call Jerry, Bright than call Bright, Jerry, perhaps due to the ever-present risk of slipping out a Jelly in the place of Jerry, which would certainly not Jell with Jerry.
So, one day I returned early from work, I bumped on one of the boys, he was busy beheading a dung beetle, the other boy was a little further away trying to pull down a bird’s nest off a wilted shrub. I tip-toed behind him till I came very close and shouted ‘Hey Bright’, the boy turned around as he rose up and said to me, “sorry, I am not Bright” which brought me to the realization that the boy I was speaking to was actually Jerry! But it was that statement that stuck in my mind for many more years later, away from the literal meaning that the boy wished to convey to me, I realized that if I ever wanted to be happy in this life, I would have to stay around or work with people who naturally wore this attitude ‘I am not bright’. 'I am not bright' is more naturally a cultivated attitude, than it is a verbal proclamation. Have you met people who listen, people who respect everyone regardless of their status, people who so easily say ‘I am sorry’ or ‘I need help’? It all begins with the attitude ‘I am not bright’ – and if you live or work in a place where you meet the opposite type, then you are lucky if you are not already depressed! And you need to weigh my thought, see whether it makes sense to you because I am obviously, not bright!!
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