I’m not sure many readers of this blog are familiar with the late Bob Hope. Bob, whose real name was Leslie Townes Hope, was an enduring entertainer, actor and comedian who entertained millions for 80 years.
Round about his fifties or sixties, someone asked him if he planned to retire. His response was vintage Bob Hope:
“Retire? I’ve got jokes I will tell on the way to the cemetery.”
And I believe he did. When he did retire well past his 90s, it was not for lack of content; his body had simply gone full distance. Even at 100, he had jokes. He quipped:
“I’m so old they’ve canceled my blood type.”
He died in July 2003, a couple of months after his 100th birthday.
As you are aware – but I’m not sure it’s good news – today we are at 60/60. I still have many stories to tell and many lessons to share but I’ve run out of road.
The idea of doing this series occurred to me as I read friends’ 60th birthday wishes on Facebook. The phrase “Sixty out of Sixty” flashed across my mind and I thought: that’s it. I will share sixty lessons that life has taught in the courses of my sixty years.
At the time I did not know what the sixty lessons were. I didn’t even know what the first one was. But I knew they were in there somewhere. If I dug, and kept digging I’d find them, one at a time.
My plan was to complete the series by the time I turned 61. I missed the mark by a long shot. Only 34 were done by my next birthday.
As I entered my 62nd year, my life began to unravel. My younger daughter developed health issues and what followed was a very trying and exhausting three months. She eventually recovered but as I prepared to return to normal life, my dad passed on. A month after we buried dad my son had to go in for open heart surgery. As he recovered from the surgery, my mother began to ail and passed on not long afterwards. I never thought I’d recover sufficiently to resume writing. But God’s Grace found me and I began to write again.
In the end it took me two years longer than originally planned. But it’s done and done very well in my opinion.
Like Bob Hope, I don’t think my well will ever run dry. This series ends but not because I’ve run out of content, ideas or lessons to share. It’s the title that has run out. As I go to plot my return, I leave you with the following thought:
If you believe you have it in you, start digging. And don’t wait until you have specialized equipment. If all you have to dig with is a stick, start digging. And once you start digging, never stop digging. There’s always something move interesting, something more valuable, something more fulfilling waiting to be revealed.
Thanks for coming along with me; it’s been fun.
Note: This is Lesson Number 60 of 60. To access my previous lessons, please log into http://www.fredgeke.blogor visit my Facebook Page: 60/60: Lessons from Sixty Years.
In 1978, at the age of 19, the late Michael Jackson starred in his first feature film, The Wiz in which he played the part of the Scarecrow. The costume, hair and face make-up for his role were elaborate and took time to put together. And of course they weren’t pretty. For example he had a popcorn tub for a top-hat and a peanut butter cup wrapper was stuck on his nose.
Fearing that Michael would be offended by what he had to have on in order to represent his role, Tony Walton, the film’s production designer, apologized for what they had to take the popular singer through and said:
“I hope you are not upset by the aspects of your costume.”
He was not prepared for Michael’s response:
“Not all! I’m particularly grateful that you gave me something to wrap my nose in. My father is always mocking me and my brothers call me ‘Big Nose’ all the time. They even say to me: ‘Ugly! ugly! Big Nose’”.
If you have been wondering why Michael was obsessed with his nose all his life now you know. And personally, I can relate.
In 1970, when I was in class five, a classmate said something to me that completely changed how I saw myself for many years. I may be wrong, but I believe it came from a girl called Kwamboka Kaburi.
I can’t recall any conversation being in progress, or indeed any mutual interaction taking place. We both happened to be in the classroom with two or three others when she turned to me and said:
“You have a big nose.”
Those are the words she spoke, only they were said in our mother tongue. I cannot recall sensing any malice, spite or ridicule in her tone of voice. She said them matter-of-factly, as one would speak out an incontestable truth. As for me, all I heard was:
“You are ugly.”
And for decades, that’s how I saw myself. Those five words – well in my language they were three or four – became the mirror that told me what I looked like. Like a slow working corrosive agent, they progressively ate into my self-esteem. And the destructive process would have continued but for another turn of events in my life.
I have no idea where my mother got information that two sisters had gotten into a fight over me. The sisters in question were friends – as were their parents and siblings – and I was not in a relationship with either of them. But according to my mother’s informant, a fight did indeed take place and I was the subject of the acrimony.
The next time my mother saw me, she sat me down and told me about the reported fight that happened hundreds of kilometers away, between two girls she did not know. She advised me to be careful with my life and then said words that would turn my life around.
“Don’t put yourself in such situations,” she told me. “You are a handsome man; girls can fight over you.”
As you already know, I come from Kisii. Those are not the words mothers say to their sons. For my mother to call me handsome, it was something that had to be said at that time. And that’s when my healing began. Words had taken me down, words had lifted me up.
Life has taught me that you cannot stop people from saying things to you or about you. And it’s especially likely if there’s good in your life. What I however don’t do is allow people’s words to ring a bell in my life. Later, they may apologize for the things said, and the apology may be accepted. They however cannot unring the bell their words rang. Once a bell has been rung, it cannot be unrung.
In my case, my mother’s words happened to ring another bell in my heart whose beautiful sound erased the horror film soundtrack of many years prior. But unfortunately, not everyone gets the opportunity to hear a counter-ring. That’s why it’s critical not to allow that bell to ring in the first place.
Note: This is Lesson Number 59 of 60. To access my previous lessons, please log into http://www.fredgeke.blogor visit my Facebook Page: 60/60: Lessons from Sixty Years.
Those who have read my book, Best Foot Forward, are familiar with my struggle with rejection and low self esteem issues. It was a battle I would eventually win, but not before it robbed me of many joys and possibilities.
I can’t say my father hated me or outrightly rejected me. He simply had no affection towards me when I was growing up. He did for me only what he had to do, and also voiced to my mother his reservations about my capacity to succeed in life. He only made the most basic investment in my life. And all this happened even as I topped my classes in primary school.
My older brothers did not hide their disdain for me either. I still remember the day my eldest brother looked at me in the eye and said:
“I want you to know that I despise you.”
To this day, I have never found out what caused this disconnect towards me by my father and brothers. Thankfully, the end was better than the beginning. By the time my brother passed on a little over twenty years ago, he held me in the highest regard as indeed did my father until his passing two years ago. This notwithstanding, I loved and honored my father throughout. That’s what my mother – bless her heart – taught and encouraged me to do.
Interestingly, this apparent rejection was only half the story of my life at the time. But unfortunately, it is the half that I chose to embrace and allow to impact my life.
Until her death a little over a year ago, my mother and I shared a very special bond. She loved and believed in me even when no one else did. We shared a lifelong bond that was not far from what I imagine twins share. Then there was my maternal grandmother, Tabitha. Whether it was because of my uncanny resemblance to her eldest son, uncle Elkanah, I cannot tell. But I was her favorite grandchild by a country mile. She would sit me down and talk, and talk some more, about life. I was only a child. But that did not stop her from telling me how life was to be lived. The things she warned me about were years away, but I cherished her counsel and never forgot it.
At the end of each visit, grandma Tabitha would take some money, place it in a handkerchief and then knot it tightly. She’d then place it safely in my pocket after which she’d hand me the coin that would be my bus fare. I cannot remember her ever calling me by my own name. When addressing me, she’d call me Elkanah and occasionally the generic Mogaka. Whenever she called me Mogaka, I always knew what was coming next: a reprimand for a mistake or a reminder of something I should have done but hadn’t.
Then there was uncle Elkanah himself. He doted on me and treated me like his own son. If he came across something he thought I should have, he’d buy it and keep it until the next time he saw me. There was never a time I visited him and he didn’t have something nice to give me: an expensive pen or other gift.
Finally, there was my mother’s younger sister, Aunt Elshebah. She always gave me the same princely treatment. Whenever I visited, she’d separate me from everyone else, take me to her bedroom where she’d serve me stuff that was either more or different from what everyone else was served. Once I was done eating she’d give me a special task, a task I never saw her trust anyone else with. My uncle Harrison only wore specially tailored boxers made of soft, green cotton material popularly known as Jinja. Aunt Elshebah would have me iron my uncle’s boxers and afterwards commend me for the good work. I started doing this when I was around 12. The last time I ironed my uncle’s boxers I was 19.
As I look back today, I see things differently. True, I had good reasons to feel rejected. I was indeed rejected, or at least sidelined. It may not have been that obvious to everyone, but to me mine was a back-burner existence back then.
What was obvious though – and plain for everyone to see – was the excessive attention and overwhelming affection I received from my maternal grandmother and her offspring. That alone was enough to build my esteem to overflowing. It was more than enough to help me see my worth and make me a confident young man. Looking at the picture above that I took with uncle Elkanah, I can’t help but notice how strikingly handsome I was. Yet at that time everything about myself was negative. I could not look at myself in the mirror without feeling unattractive and roundly deficient.
When life presents us with pain and joy in equal measure, our tendency is to accept the pain as the enduring reality while treating the joy as a transient experience. When we receive eight commendations and two pieces of criticism, we tend to look at the criticism as the overall assessment of our capacity; of who we truly are. Our natural instinct is to be more aware of what we are not rather than what we are; what we don’t have rather than what we have.
My 63 years notwithstanding, I thank God for the good looking man I see in the mirror every morning. There are many things I don’t know, and I do now and then make some foolish mistakes. That does not stop me from acknowledging that I am in many ways a very wise man. I have failed to accomplish many things in my life, things which – with a little more focus, commitment and discipline I should have accomplished. That however does stop me from acknowledging that my life has largely been productive and has deeply impacted those of others.
To his credit, Dad was father enough to not only admit that he’d misjudged my capabilities, but to also – together with Mum – charge me with the responsibility of making sure that they were buried with honor when their time came.
The night Dad passed on, I recall lying in bed trembling violently. As much as I tried, I could not stop trembling. All I could hear were my parents words to me fifteen years earlier:
“We have no one to bury us but you.”
In those words was the fear of responsibility. That’s why I could not stop trembling. But in the same words was the honour and faith of my parents. The next morning I cast away the fear and put on the honour and faith of my parents. I asked God for wisdom and He provided it.
I did not let my parents down. I very likely exceeded their expectations by far.
The same words or experiences can add to our lives as easily as they can take away from us. It is our responsibility to open the right doors for the words and experiences we encounter in life. The experiences you are blaming for your condition today are the very ones someone else is crediting for their success.
Note: This is Lesson Number 58 of 60. To access my previous lessons, please log into http://www.fredgeke.blogor visit my Facebook Page: 60/60: Lessons from Sixty Years.
One of the things I hope to accomplish this year is pay my alma mater, St Paul’s Gekano, a visit. I’ve not been back there since I collected my O-Level results in February, 1978.
Until 1974, one of the school’s “traditions” was to go on strike every July. It was a rite of passage of sorts for the Form Two class. The planning of the strikes – at least for the one of 1974 – was a poorly kept secret. The organizers openly talked about their plans. The only thing they did not mention was the appointed date.
I recall one of the 1974 organizers taking me by the hand and leading me to the area near the flagpole. Pointing to a spot on the ground, he said to me:
“This is where I will smash a pressure lamp.”
The school had no electricity; we used pressure lamps to light our classrooms during evening preps. In all, we had four pressure lamps, one for each classroom. Destroying one of them would be a very daring thing to do.
During evening preps a few days later, there was a loud commotion in the Form Two classroom. Shortly afterwards, we saw shadowy figures running towards the headmaster’s house. The strike was underway.
About fifteen minutes into the siege of the headmaster’s house, we saw his Volkswagen Beetle speed out of the compound. That meant only one thing; he was going to call the police.
We all gathered in small groups at the school roundabout trying to figure out what to do next.
It was dark and visibility was limited to just a few metres. Someone thought he saw movement from the direction of the school gate and gave a shout. We instinctively scattered in different directions, running.
I’m not sure many knew where they were headed. I certainly did not; I just tagging along. As we put distance between ourselves and the school, a Form Four student by the name Ntereba for some reason asked me to follow him. A classmate called Ogwang’i heard the invitation and also joined us. Ntereba led us along a path that went through a maize patch. After a brief walk, we arrived at the door of an isolated grass thatched hut.
He knocked on the door a few times before a sleepy voice asked:
“Who is it?”
I still remember verbatim Ntereba’s answer:
“It’s me, James Driver.”
The lone occupant of the hut opened the door and let us in. Even though it was almost 10 pm, in true Gusii tradition, he made a fire for us to warm ourselves. He went out and came back with an armful of green maize which we proceeded to roast and eat as we went over the events of that evening.
When time to sleep came, our host invited Ntereba to share his bed. For Ogwang’i and myself, he rolled out a cowhide on the floor. He had no extra blanket to give us, so we stretched out on the cowhide and tried to sleep. I was wearing a hand-down Nairobi School blazer my elder brother had given me. I took it off and used it to cover my head and shoulders.
In time the fire in the middle of the room burnt itself out and a bitter cold set in. As the night wore on it became colder and colder.
I did not sleep much that night. Every so often I would wake up shivering only to find that Ogwang’i had either snatched my blazer or was tagging at it. I would snatch it back, cover myself and go back to sleep only to be woken by another attempt to snatch the blazer.
Exasperated, I angrily reminded him that it was my blazer and he needed to keep his hands off it. He apologized but as soon as he fell asleep the tag of war resumed. I spent the entire night retrieving and losing my blazer.
As Ogwang’i and I tussled over the blazer, one question kept going through my mind:
“Why can’t he understand that this tiny blazer is mine and leave it alone?”
Many decades later, I know why. He was asleep. Like the drowning man we talked about a few weeks ago, a cold, sleeping individual will instinctively keep reaching out for something to cover themselves. And they don’t care what it is, or whose it is.
And today I’m alive to the fact that many people walking about are essentially asleep as far as life’s realities are concerned. What is plain to everyone else is invisible to them. What’s common sense to everyone else is a hidden mystery to them.
You can see that your parents are in dire need; their health and general welfare need urgent intervention and input. You can see that the roof of their house is caving in on them. In the meantime your siblings strain their eyes to try and make out what you are describing but they can’t see a thing. Everything looks okay to them. And if indeed something needs to be done, they don’t see how that concerns them. They are fast asleep.
It took me long to grasp and accept it: but the fact is, some people will never see what you see, will never feel what you feel, will never be moved by what moves you. Blow the loudest trumpet, call down lightning but they’ll keep snoring away. And it will remain so unless they happen to miraculously wake up, which is unlikely. If you wait for that to happen, you will lose your parents.
Many responsible people make the mistake of thinking that if they also ignore the situation until it blows up, that may open the eyes of the sleeper. The responsible spouse, tired of carrying the financial burden of the family, decides that they will not pay school fees for the children any more. If the children stay at home for a length of time, they reason, their spouse will see the gravity of the situation and for once pay the fees.
What they don’t realize is that the sleeper sees nothing, feels nothing. They are immune to shame. The closest they will come to showing concern will be to ask you why the children are at home. And for the first time in your life you will find yourself wrestling with the thought of killing someone.
In the end you – the one that’s awake – will for the sake of the children eat humble pie and pay the school debt.
It may sound unfair, but if God has given you the grace to see, to feel, to be moved, allow Him give to you the grace to do what needs to be done. If God has given you the grace to be concerned, trust Him to give you the wherewithal to intervene.
As you read this, there are two possibilities: one, you are already thinking of a specific sleep-walker about whom you have been wondering: “Why can’t they see…? Why can’t they feel…? Why are they unmoved…? The blanks are yours to fill in.
The second possibility is that you are the sleepwalker that will immediately come to the mind of someone reading this piece. If by any chance this sleepwalking is deliberate, wake up for the sake of your children, for the sake of your parents…
If however you are the only one who’s awake in your household or family, tough as it is, it’s only you who can save the situation. That’s why God has given you eyes that see, and a heart that cares. For the sake of your parents, for the sake of your children, don’t elect to grab a blanket and join the sleepers. Whatever you do, don’t train your heart to be indifferent. One person that cares can preserve a family.
Note: This is Lesson Number 57 of 60. To access my previous lessons, please log into http://www.fredgeke.blogor visit my Facebook Page: 60/60: Lessons from Sixty Years.
My family traces its roots to a place called Nchera’nka, near Nyamira town. In the course of time my great-grandfather, Ombonga Ochari, migrated to our present ancestral home in Nyakeore village. In the latter half of the 60s, my mother’s half of the polygamous Geke family moved to our current Isoge home.
Isoge is one of several government resettlement schemes that brought together people from different parts of the greater Gusiiland. With so many people coming from different places, it was inevitable that you’d end up with neighbors bearing the same name. For example, we had several neighbours called Nyakundi. With many people bearing the same name, it quickly became necessary to add appendages to these names to create distinction between individuals. The most convenient appendage was the plot number. So we had Nyakundi Namba Mbili, Nyakundi Namba Nane, and Nyakundi Namba Ishirini na Moja. One Nyakundi’s land happened to be located where three roads intersected. Since it was the last drop-off point for the occasional vehicle, it was considered a bus station or stand. That Nyakundi became Nyakundi Siteni. Nyakundi Namba Nane would later become Nyakundi Senior because after retirement, he took every opportunity to remind one and all that he was once a senior teacher. Nyakundi Mosigari, the father of academically gifted sons – among them, Justice Reuben Nyakundi – got his appendage from his long, faithful service as the caretaker of the farmers society offices. The Nyakundis who had no appendage to their names went by both their names. Thomas Nyakundi was always referred to by his two names.
Then there were the Makoris. Although scattered in a much wider area than the Nyakundis, they lived in close enough proximity to require distinction. Since plot numbers could not work in their case, a different method was applied. One Makori, like my dad, had a big belly so he became Makori Tumbo. Another was a maize trader so he became Makori Mahindi. The third of the lot, the youthful among the lot, became Makori Gichana. The fourth one picked his own appendage. Deeming himself the real deal, he named himself Makori Kamili. One Makori had a less flattering distinction. His association with illicit brew made him Makori Onkubokia. Onkubokia is the Ekegusii name for chang’aa.
When we weren’t trying to figure out who was who within the shared names, we were getting used to names we had never heard of before. Not only had I never heard of some names, but to this day I don’t know anyone else going by some of those names. Mzee Saka came with a name I never heard anywhere else until a young man turned up at Arsenal football club with a similar name. Then there was the tall Mzee Nyambeo, a gentle man who hardly said a word to the best of my recollection. To this day, I’m personally yet to meet or hear of another family going by the name Nyambeo. Then there was Mirondia, Abaga, Oyioka, Motwang’a and several others with very rare names. I might add that most of our neighbors have probably never heard of any other family going by the name Geke.
Life is a bit like our experience with names as described above. For some of us, the skills, abilities and personality attributes we possess are widely distributed in society. We are teachers, but we are a drop in a large ocean. We are good writers but we are one of many. We are pastors but so are hundreds of others. We are maize farmers but so are millions of others.
When we are one of many, there is the temptation to take who we are lightly and starve our calling of investment. No matter how many others bear the same “name” as ourselves, it’s possible – and indeed necessary – to give a distinctive stamp to our version of that gift, trait, personality or position that many others lay claim to.
The average person’s tendency is to enhance similarities between their gift and that of others who share the same endowment. You can sing, but you try to sing like another singer whom you look up to. You are a “funny-man” but you retell jokes that people have already heard and laughed about.
I don’t know of many people who want to hear again what they have already heard several times; who want to invest in going to places that they have already visited many times. Like the Nyakundis and the Makoris above, you do need to give distinction to your name. Don’t get intimidated by the fact that many other people possess the same gift as you do. What you have been given may be the very same thing that others have received. However, what you give to what you have received is what makes the difference. And nobody else can make available to their gift what can only come from you.
There are thousands of great writers in this nation and beyond. But trust me, you will never find one who writes the way I do in form, skill or language. It’s the same craft, the same language and grammar but my scent on it makes it distinct. You may find many that write way better than I do. But if you enjoy my style of writing, you can only get it from me. I have perfected my own way of creating interesting stories out of bland events; events that others hardly notice.
While there is nothing wrong with aspiring to be the best, truth is, no matter how good you become at anything, there will always be someone better than you. However, no one can be better at being you. Nobody can be better at “doing” you. Your aim should be to be “you,” to keep improving “you”, to continue perfecting “you” in your gifts and purpose. It’s possible to create your own distinct and safe space in any overcrowded environment.
Note: This is Lesson Number 56 of 60. To access my previous posts, please log into http://www.fredgeke.blogor visit my Facebook Page: 60/60: Lessons from Sixty Years.
Some of my village folks who follow this blog may remember Mwalimu Samuel Koske, one of our primary school teachers.
Mr Koske hailed from the neighbouring Kipsigis community. Initially, I believe he used to operate from a place called Nyaronde on the Gusii side. He and his family lived in the grass thatched brick huts that would later become the first home of Mwalimu Ateka who acquired the farm upon which they stood. It’s after this that Mr Koske relocated to his home in Chepalungu.
Several things come to mind whenever I think of Mr Koske. His handwriting! With a pen or a piece of chalk, he wrote beautifully. But most conspicuously, Mr Koske never bought a pair of leather shoes in his life. He preferred cheap plastic shoes know locally as moiyeki (the one that cooks). And of course he never wasted money on unnecessary things like socks. I’m not sure about this one, but I think he always wore the same coat to school every day.
In those days, whenever a teacher entered a classroom, pupils would rise to their feet and remain standing until asked to sit down. Mr Koske hardly ever said “You may sit down.” He would say: “Tabote” or something like that, which I assume was the Kipsigis word for “sit down”. And to express surprise he would say “Oh-eh”. My memories of him are very fond.
Those peculiarities aside, Mwalimu Koske was a great teacher and a wonderful human being. To the best of my recollection, everyone loved him. But like many good people, sometimes he would try too hard.
Like on the day he decided to liven up the teachers’ tea break by providing eggs from his home. The eggs were duly boiled and tea served. Each teacher reached for an egg, cracked it on the table top and began to peel off the shell.
The first one across the line was met with the awful, pungent smell that only a spoiled egg can emit. Very quickly, the experience was replicated around the table.
I happened to be in the staffroom as this was unfolding. I recall each teacher pausing after picking up the second egg and calling luck on it before cracking it. Luck didn’t come. As each disappointment was repeated, all Mwalimu Koske would say was: “Oh-eh”.
The good natured teacher wanted to bless his colleagues and the only thing at his disposal was a dozen or so eggs. Okay, there was that little matter of the hen having been sitting on them, but it was early days; they were probably Ok. Well, they weren’t. They may have been a long way from hatching chicks, but definitely on time to hatch a good dose of foul smell and embarrassment.
A kind and generous heart is not always a good friend of reason and good judgment. And sometimes, we don’t even have to have that kind of heart; we just need to be caught up in the moment that demands generosity. The desire to show kindness, to intervene and help out can sometimes be so compelling that we commit ourselves to do things we KNOW we are not able to deliver.
Have you ever listened to an appeal for assistance and before you knew it you had made a commitment that you absolutely have no way of seeing through? Have you ever sat in a family meeting where everyone was making generous financial commitments and you decided it was not right to say nothing and went on to pitch a figure way more than your rent arrears? I have seen many of these happen, and I have been guilty of not a few myself.
As I have grown older, I’ve learnt to reconcile my desire to assist or participate, with my actual ability to deliver on my commitment. If there’s something I can do, I will definitely do it. And if there’s nothing I can do, I’m comforted by the fact that the desire and the willingness were there. But sometimes we simply have nothing to give or as we Abagusii say: “…mbinto bikobora” (Literally, “… it’s just that things are hard to find”.
By all means be there for others. By all means participate in social interventions. But if you have nothing to give, be comforted that you had it in your heart to do something but you were hamstrung.
Generosity is probably the noblest of human virtues. But you can only be generous with what you have. True generosity is not a conscience massager. It is a heartfelt desire to share with others. For the generous, the desire is always there, wanting to be fulfilled. It does not first confirm that there’s something to give before presenting itself. But unfortunately, we have to live with the reality that sometimes “things are not found”.
Don’t make pledges that you will spend months hiding from. Don’t give away Chama money and risk having angry women arriving at your home at dawn threatening to strip naked and remain so until their money is repaid.
Very often, all we have is ourselves. We just have to find a way of giving ourselves to others.
Note: This is Lesson Number 55 of 60. To access my previous posts, please log into http://www.fredgeke.blogor my Facebook Page: 60/60: Lessons from Sixty Years.
60/60: LESSONS FROM 60 YEARS 