My cousin kisses me and I like it. Now before your moral antenna goes up and you start playing God; judging me and declaring Saitan! ,get this straight. It has happened a few times, most of these times he gets me unawares. I could be doing the dishes, say minutes after midnight, and I just got to the bad part; the sufurias. Now anyone who is conversant with dish-washing knows that sufuria-scrubbing is not exactly the most glorious of affairs. It makes any girl feel like Cinderella before the magic wand. It makes any boy feel like a girl who is Cinderella before the magic wand.Why do sufurias have to be so dirty?…Sufurias should be the whores of all utensils.Yes I just went there,but, that is a story for another day. So I will be bent over the sink scrubbing a stubborn ugali patch off a ‘ made of Valerian Steel’ sufuria while wondering why everyone dies in Game of Thrones. Sometimes I could be mumbling to myself in Kisii…well it wouldn’t sound just as apt in English so I usually opt for the original version like “Gaki yeee” or “obe mama” which I promise you sounds more posh in my real voice than read. Suddenly my cousin will come from behind and wrap himself around my shoulders, bringing my stray thoughts and sore arms to an unintended but welcome halt. Then he would go ahead to plant a firm well-fed I-have-a-life kiss on my cheek before wishing me goodnight…I wouldn’t call it a peck because peck is what Judas did to Jesus. We all know how that went down. Second reason is a peck is too light for what my cousin does, one moment it’s there the next it’s not. My cousin’s peck is the lingering type, the type that stays around for some time after the giver has left and in my world, that’s a goddamn kiss. His kiss is usually so firm I suspect it hits the gym in the land of where all good kisses come from. A kiss so warm it kindles a fire in my heart, a fire that makes me forgive the sufurias for being sufurias.It makes me accept them for who they are, so afterwards I treat them right, scrub them right and even massage them with the Vaseline of sufurias.You would not understand if I told you.
My dad does not kiss me for shit.
Allow me give you a brief biography of my father. If fathers were trees, mine would be the baobab.Strong.Towering.Not easily moved. Apart from the rare flickers of anger ,I cannot remember the day I saw bare naked emotion on my dad’s face. By emotion I am referring to those deep-seated moving feelings that make girls go awwwwww and men like a Deputy President cry in public. Sometimes I wonder what drew my mama to him because I doubt that man can evoke something as strong as love with him just being him.I mean, with all due respect, he might have had a tutor of sorts while wooing her, a wingman with will-power larger than life. Either that or my mama fell for his “inner beauty”*rolls eyes*(Those two should never know I have a blog or you’ll read me from the other side).
However, time has attested different of my papa. It has proven that just because he does not show it does not mean he does not feel it.Deep down he’s the softest man I know. The loveliest of all.
One of my most memorable daddy-daughter moments-and I am not making this up-is when he wrote “my dear daughter” in my class eight success card.It was huge, his handwriting was huge, and the feeling I got reading those words was most huge. Still is.I have the card to this day. Another time he came close was during my 18th birthday which was such a big deal everyone present gave a speech.Oh!Those delightful minutes of hearty mushy things being said about me…Being the traditional man that he is, my daddy gave the last speech. The Englishmen call it crowning. He started from the day I was born*sigh*, and went on and on until that particular 18th year.
Long story short, my dad said the most touching three words that day: “We love you”….Woi,and to think I considered mass production solely for the Chinese. My dad multi-friend zoned me just like that. “We love you”…he said it like he was a choir. Like I was too much a person it had to take mass love to satisfy me.You could feel the harambee spirit in those words. That ujamaa thing subtly going on,Nyerere and Kenyatta pulling the strings behind there, his vocal chords in this context. If bothered for an explanation he would have said he was speaking for the rest of the family. I knew that. I also knew that he owned those words for himself. Because he lives those words in my life every single day. My dad has been the wind beneath my wings through everything I have gone through from day one of birth. He always showed up on my visiting days and parents day and all the other invented days of my schooling. He dropped me at the beginning of every term and picked me at the end of it.He does the same for my siblings and so far they are turning out incredible. Just like yours truly here.Hehe.We have our disparities once in a while but one thing I know, I love that old man to bits.
Yesterday night he called and asked about my first day on field (I am on industrial attachment).We talked about Chris Kirubi, Kenya’s self-proclaimed billionaire and owner of that “field” where I’m attaching for a while. We marveled at Chris’ wealth and decided that when we grow up we want to be rich like him. Yet my dad is the richest man I know. He might not kiss me on the cheeks or leave me random notes in the house saying “love you mwaaah” but I know he does. Deeply so.My cousin’s kisses are real, my dad’s are practical. He does not use a lot of tongue, just enough heart. For that I celebrate him. Happy Father’s Day to my dad and all fathers out there who are living up to it.You’ve got the balls!