The sun is back to the equator and its blooming everywhere. By virtue of CBC technicalities I’m tempted to bring my third grader here to witness pollination in its zenith. I think it’s also time for that, ‘as busy as a bee,’ simile definition.
Wait a minute, did I just say bees. Shhh don’t tell them I mentioned them or they might remember their wrath. You see these honey making mega factories and I have some unfinished business. At the mention of honey, my salivary glands are already in full swing even though this unfinished business is not honey related.
It’s a quiet Saturday morning, the only audible voice being the sound of boiling Gītheri sound. I’m all alone in the kitchen trying to put the firewood together so that the fire doesn’t go out. The rest have gone to the farm, but Gakware found a way to weasel her charm to ‘dear mama’ and was left in charge of the kitchen. Suddenly my nephews are knocking on the door and I’m grinning from ear to ear. The loneliness was starting to kill me, not forgetting the smoke from the fire.
Since boys will always be boys, they spontaneously grab Mūtūndu twigs from the fire and put it in their mouths mimicking a smoker. They’ve done this severally and seem to have mastered it. I try to resist the bad influence and the temptation is too much even for me. I grab mine too and inhale, not what I expected though. My lungs feel like they want to come out and I,m coughing like a gold miner in the shafts of Mponeng. My desire for self preservation makes me rush out for air and I gasp as the breath of fresh air brings my collapsing lungs back to life. Its feels like I’ve been reborn and I inhale and exhale in rapid succession revelling in the feeling of ‘when I’m back on my feet again.’
Now that I’m okay, the boys still to their mischief suggest we go to grandma’s place. Now grandma’s place means several things; it means mūkimo, porridge and hilarious tales. If I was unable to resist the first temptation, who I’m I to resist this one. Mr Gītheri is left to take care of himself, after all he’s of age. I add enough firewood and water to keep it cooking until further notice. We are off to granny’s. The path to granny’s place is quite beautiful. The Jacaranda trees are blooming, the bees are buzzing from one flower to the next. The fallen flowers have made a beautiful purplish carpet that makes a young girl feel like Cinderela. Only before prince charming arrives a stone hits the hive on one of the Jacaranda trees, Before the stone hits the ground, one bee is on my neck then suddenly the whole hive descends on us. Its screams, shouts, howls and whatever other noise that escapes our voice boxes. We are sprinting like Omanyala, only there’s no gold medal and there isn’t even a finish line. It’s the sprint for dear life. We are already in granny’s compound but she is nowhere to be seen. Come on granny, ‘Where at thou when we need you most.’ The bees are on top of us, beside us and even below us. The stings are like nothing I’ve ever experienced. In our childhood stupidity, we enter into a drum but the bees fill the drum still mad at us. We scamper out and run back the same way we came.
By good luck the villagers who heard our wails arrive with blankets. We are whisked into a neighbor’s house and tobacco and ash are mixed and rubbed on our naked bodies. This seems to relax the stings a lil’ bit and we feel like we might make it through the day. However, we are still rushed to the nearby Kiganjo dispensary for, ‘when symptoms persist consult a doctor.’ Even after all those bees jabs, we still have to face the real jab.
So you see, bees and I will never ever be friends. Sometimes though I still ask myself whether I should hate the bees or the boys.

Still the chronicler.

Chronicles with adventures.

Published by Nyar Kaheti

Born and raised on the picturesque slopes of Mt Kenya, Nyar Kaheti is your girl next door vibe kind of girl. She enjoys reading, writing, hiking, and listening to country music among other things.

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