Shamba: Why I Write

My father calls four times a week, cheering me on from across the Atlantic as I write my way through an American MFA program. He’s on the other end of a video call, pleading. Write. He’s looking at me with his head tilted out of focus, my screen blurring the deep creases on his hollow cheeks, dimming the brightness in his brown eyes, and fuzzing the bushy brows that lead up to a forehead drooped against his folded right hand. I see silent stories etched in deep wrinkles on my father’s face.

He says he can show me what to write about as he moves his hand from his head and presses it against the grey mudwall behind him, rising up from a three-legged wooden stool. He keeps his hand clenched around his phone as he glides from the kitchen, to the living room, and out onto the verandah. He pauses by the door and glances down at his phone – I’m still here – then he makes his way down to the shamba. I shift my position inside my bed, tossing in sweaty discomfort and mewling my frustration at the enervating South Florida heat, waiting. My father, in seeking to keep me up to date with the progress of our land, switches from the front camera to the back, and then clears his throat and asks, his voice rising with every word, “Chemu, can you see?” 

I can’t see – what I’m looking at is a nebulous mix of black and brown. I squint harder, blinking at my cracked screen until I make out black blurry stick figures planted above a shadowy brown mass; the network in Ndalat is poor, and I refuse to tell him that, so I imagine. The early sun shines under vast velvet clouds, rays coming down on the shamba in hues of golden red and orange. In that soft light, my mother, bent over like a hook, plows her hoe at a narrow trench. As she turns the soil and breaks its surface, an acacia tree sways and watches at a distance. Beyond the thorntree, my sister waves hello, or was that goodbye? Beside her, my brother introduces his new-born daughter to the family: Limitrophy. But that can’t be her name. I heard it at school, from the group of white people that surround me there. 

My father switches to his front camera, his brows puckered, waiting for a response. I take a deep breath and clear my throat, my voice raised far beyond its natural pitch, “I see it, Baba.”

Inside the hut he sinks back into his stool, a grunt, contentment. He holds out his phone, stretches out his hand at an angle he thinks works best. I rest my elbow on my pillow, propping my head up with my hand, we can’t get comfortable. 

I long to fold myself, slip into the screen and join my family. I see them on the shamba, watching me from that shadowy brown mass, urging me on. My mother nods to my father and me, half-smiling. She stands to take a break, to straighten her spine, and to feel the gentle wind. She wipes her brows with the back of her hands before bending back down to the shamba that wears her out. Behind the acacia tree, my sister beckons, come, she calls, come and meet her, the newest member of the family: Limitrophy, my niece. Soon my world will resume, but for now I hold onto my father. I’m with him in our shamba, in that place that propels me forward. I imagine the limit as a space for expression, a place that inspires and acknowledges and honors differences.

From across the ocean, I can feel my father, so I write.

Daphne Kiplagat is a Kenyan-international MFA candidate at Florida Atlantic University, specializing in fiction and non-fiction. You can find her short story here: https://www.alienliterarymagazine.com/daphne-kiplagat. 

Today I Fed the Birds

 

I am seated outside on a lawn chair, basking in the mid-morning sun. This is my favorite thing to do, especially since it’s been raining non-stop for a few weeks now. Duke, the German shepherd, is napping under my chair; Benson, the black lab, is stretched out on the lawn, sunbathing. With the ‘short rains’ season, it’s usually so cold throughout the day. So, the sun feels good on my skin. I have carried several things with me to move along this studying agenda; it has been three years since I had to study for school, so I need a refresher. 

 

A Christopher Hill book, printed pages from Baker’s Anthology, a few loose scripts on 17th-century texts, creative writing workshop submissions, a manuscript I’m working on, my leather-bound notebook, a blue highlighter, a pen, a bowl of freshly diced watermelon, and a glass of water. They are placed strategically on the table so that I know what to reach out for when needed. There’s a stack of misprinted printing papers on the book shelf that I write on habitually; it’s the easiest to grab when I get an idea for a story. I enjoy writing manuscripts, developing the framework.  I find it easier to scribble ideas in my handwriting, string them into sentences, compile them into paragraphs, and when I finally type them in, I fill meat in the bones, and voila, the story.

 

My legs are outstretched on the adjacent seat, luxuriating in the sun. The table is against a tree that is providing some shade. Reading history is always fascinating. I’m enjoying the 17th-century English prose class because it’s a subjective way to learn about history, since the texts are the opinions and experiences of influential people during the English revolution. The writing workshops are hilarious and engaging. I honestly wish it were under different circumstances, and we were able to meet in-person. Nevertheless, we are hacking this digital learning experience. No one could have predicted that online classes would be a global norm in 2020, especially over teleconference. But it happened, and here we are. Tunasonga tukisonga, Swahili for ‘We move, regardless.’

 

Life in the Arts is a new field for me. I have always been in the health and environment discipline  I’m learning the hows as we move along. Halfway through the workshop submissions, I pause and look around. Two birds are drinking water from the dog’s water bowl. I adjust my glasses and look closely, a male red-cheeked Cordon and an orange Weaver bird. I watch them for a while; they take turns stooping to drink water, balancing on the rim of the bowl, then fly off to the flowers on the fence. My brother, Kigen, is a bird-watching enthusiast, so he set up a bird station. The bird feeder and the water trough are hanging on the eaves of the roof. I wonder why the birds are not using them.

 

Being a rainy season, typically the second planting season of the year, the flowers are in full bloom. Different colors, types, shapes, and sizes. A buffet for the birds. There’s a tiny forest (a woodlot, if you may) bordering the fence, leading to a river at the bottom of the ridge. This woodlot is home to hundreds of bird species that flock around, mostly early in the morning. I pause and listen; the chirping, the occasional fluttering of wings, some warbling in the trees- beautiful, tranquil, and melodic. 

 

I try to trace the two birds, but they have blended in with the rest. I see about eight Whydah birds on the power lines. They are known as Chepkosiit in Kalenjin, my tribal language.  I can’t tell which particular species they are. But with the long tail and grey feathers, they are all males. An eagle flies low, obviously on a mission to snatch a neighbor’s chicks. I also spot a red-billed fire finch somewhere on the hedge. Kigen has taught me a thing or two about birds. I go over to check the feeder and trough. There are no more pellets, and the water trough is clogged- so freshwater isn’t moving from the bottle to the channel. They are perched pretty high, so I climb the grill to remove them. I scrub and rinse them clean, then sun-dry them for a while as I play with Duke. The water pump next to the tap whirrs in five-minute intervals. An airplane whizzes past, distinct across the clear blue sky.

 

With both troughs refilled with clean water and bird pellets to the brim, I take them back to the eaves and hook them up carefully. All this while Duke has been following me around. He doesn’t want to be left out on anything. He watches as I climb down the grill, making sure both feet touch the ground safely, instincts of a guard dog. Then he skips off to chase some tiny bluebirds that are walking under the hedge. I walk back to the table in the shed, feeling good about feeding the birds. The watermelon is crisp and refreshing. I draft some pen on paper illustrations for a poem I’m writing. Sketch, sketch, erase, sketch. Nice! Now it’s time for me to get back to reading. Or maybe I should watch the birds for a few more minutes.

Gloria J is first year MFA candidate at FAU. Her works focus on pre-colonial Africa, lifestyle, health and environment. She’s also a book lover,  photojournalist and illustrator. She loves to try new recipes, bird-watch and bask in the mid-morning sun.