SALUBRIOUS

…SALUBRIOUS…

Salubrious! A word I had never used before, but I finally found its use. My mind excreted excitement when I finally found a thing worth its use. See, as a writer, I have a closet that not only contains my dark skeletons, but also shelves words waiting to be served on special occasions.

See, It’s a day after Christmas. The village is slowly losing its appeal. The chickens are no longer running on sighting humans. The goats do not bloat too. The humans are too full to slaughter any more livestock. The town folk are slowly starting to get bored by the slow country life. The town folk phones have finally dried after being unsuccessfully forced to suckle on solar charged batteries.

The town folk kids have learnt a few vernacular words from their older village cousins, words they will repeat to their parents in the car on their way back to the city. The dad, being a man, will laugh first and think second, while the mom will get shocked and start a long lecture on why the kids should never hang around those cousins. Words they will later learn were insults and thanks to their reckless blubber, the ride home will be tense as the mom is mad at the dad, and the dad is mad at the kids.

Anyway, I am at Giakanja. Somewhere in the backyard of KibakiMwai. The sun is setting, but in slow motion. Its big orange head with uneven spikes looking like my baby brother’s unkempt long hair. It is resting on the tip of the Aberdare’s, and reflecting my long thin shadow in the shallow brooks whose waters are massaging my feet. I am tempted to rent a small plot nearby. The tranquility in the air is enough to convince me that this is better than the city. Yet I know I wouldn’t survive anywhere other than the city. I mean, all those Christmasses that I came to the village, and all those times I wanted to stay, but nothing would make me!

I bask in the glory of the village charm. The background is full of beautiful noises, yet dead silent to me. Silent;

there were no matatus hooting, or bodabodas cruising.
There were no traders haggling or clowns juggling.

There were no metal gates squeaking or wooden doors banging. There were no phones buzzing or random yellers yelling.

There was just silence amidst the beautiful noises.
The blue jay chirping,
a cow mooing,
a goat bleating or a child wailing.
There were sounds of firewood churning and pots boiling, sounds of tender bare feet running
and hoarse aged men snoring.

And then there was a sound of a cow heaving and sounds of its milk leaving its tits in splits and hitting the plastic container in a rhythm.
I followed the sound. I wanted to watch it being milked. I don’t know why, but I wanted to be in that moment. Watch the rhythm of the hands, the breathing of the cow, the swinging of the tail, the chewing of the cud, the string of the milk from the tit, the hitting of the container, the filling of the container, the forming of the foam, the smell of raw milk, the……the……wait.

I got a mental block when I saw her bent under the udder. I saw her and without knowing, I said ‘Salubrious!’
I must have startled her. She hesitated, locked her eyes to into mine, as I softly repeated, Salubrious.
She was a Gem. Just lip locked.
She ignored me, and continued milking. She must be a true daughter of the soil. And she must have thought of me as one of those once a year village invaders who thought milk came from supermarkets.

I quickly searched my mind for the kikuyu word for Salubrious. Nothing registered. I wanted to walk away. Walk away with one word unwrapped from my shelf but wasted. Walk away to the city until next Christmas. Or, as I thought fast and hard, stay back in the village. That way I will learn the Kikuyu word for Salubrious, and chasten her with it. Then build her a hut, and accompany her in the evenings to milk. I would make a flute out of the bamboo and as she worked on the cow’s udder, I would play her a tune to rhyme.

Then she stood, I was still standing, deciding between the village and the city. Her beauty was dazzling under the crawling darkness. The sparkle in her eyes told of a thousand stars that had deposited their shine in her for custody. Hers was a bubbly finesse, sturdy and firm in stature. Why was I not moving? Why was I not thinking? Why was I blocking her path? Why was she coming to me? Placing her feet one after the other, like a model on a thin catwalk. Every time she moved, her foot split the leso to the knee, exposing the writing on the hem: ‘Nyumba yenye furaha haikosi riziki!’ It was like she was saying that to me.
I knew I must say something, or else I forever hold my peace.

‘Mwendwa, wee WIMÚRÚNGARÚ, wee WIMARIRÚ’

And that’s how I said salubrious in Kikuyu, and that’s how I am remaining in the village for now.

enda hapo tumus uchukue mguu ya mbuzi on me. Best choma in central

[ATTACH=full]162132[/ATTACH]

TL;DR.