I have no master and I don’t live my life on my knees either.
I can’t hold on to the past because my mother’s mother taught me better. You’re meant to let go, heal from it and carry on. Others have bled for it and I can’t change that. Unshackling me, from a life that I wasn’t meant to understand or endure. I can’t imagine how bad things could have been if they never stood up and made noise. Life would be tougher. A lot harsher. Intensely bleak. Heart-breaking hard to hope for a better tomorrow.
I have no name since I can’t pick one that suits me. I was destined for more but I just need to figure out the way. Trying to trace back my roots and find out where it all started but it’s still tricky. Family names slowly disappear into the wind decade by decade so does the history behind them. It makes it harder to pay homage to them
I’ve been fighting a little bit with the name given to me because it travelled over the waters. Ls and Rs don’t easily roll off everyone’s’ tongues and they switch places like twins. However, it was all out of love and came from a happy place.
A name can tell me if your father was removed, disowned and discarded by his family. I’ll know Ben’s family had sightseers that could see into the future and tell desperate souls what they needed to hear. Wangui’s people used to brew chang’aa and they like alcohol a little too much especially when the community comes together to choma a mbuzi.
A name distinguished a family gifted in telling apart herbs that could soothe tummy aches, treat burns and so much more. Forewarning you if the apple of your eye was atumia a chiero ndune. Being superstitious and always opening your ears a little wider whenever guka talks then you reverse slowly out of that situationship.
I have roots. We all do.
The village madman lives across the river and his father used to talk to his shadow on his way home from the pub. That nice church girl screaming wife material lives next to him. She’s the reason that Cucu’s house is filled with soap & Blueband because ‘no’ has no place on your lips.
Why are you still referring to yourself as a slave?
Sometimes it doesn’t seem like luck is on your side getting named after an animal or an inanimate object. It’s ironic when you resemble a hippo yet your mum loves kittens.
Once upon a time, names were forced down our throats because ours were too hard to pronounce. Foreign. African. Primitive. Strange & unusual. As time goes on, it’s easy to forget that ancestors passed them down for a reason. That by naming you after them, it’s a continuation of life since you’ll do the same and keep their spirit alive. However, none of them was called Lisa, Sally or Lucy.
So why are you still referring to yourself as a slave?
Swimming with the tide is easier than rocking the boat. Unless I disown everything and start a fresh hoping to find whatever is missing from my life.
Are you still a slave?
Torn between where I came from & where I’m going. I have no name.