The very first time I heard someone scream laughing must have been very weird for me. I love my mom, and not only in a daughter-mother relationship only, but also in an ‘older-best-friend-who-always-has-money-to-spare-and-can-whoop-my-ass-but-will-also-murder-you-if-you-cross-me’ type of way. It is funny how I have always felt like people I relate with do not always understand me. There is frustration that comes with not being understood and wanting to be understood. A frustration that can drive you insane if you do not let go of the need to feel understood and appreciated, and even sometimes valued. I have painfully learned to dissociate, to let people not understand me and let it not define my day, my choices or my life. This is the hardest lesson I have learnt all year: to let go, completely.

I always thought I was a copy of my mom. I think my mom and I very similar, especially when I rock my little afro. My neighbor thought I was my mom when I was watering the flowers one evening. I think she should see an ophthalmologist, but my mother is as beautiful and as youthful, so I would not really blame her eyesight. However, the one thing I thought I got from my dad was the ability to tell a good story. The devil is always in the details. But as I sit on my comfy little sofa in my cozy little house in Nairobi, I cannot help but wonder whether I did get a bit from my mom too.

My sister and I grew up together. While she was the quiet, composed, smart, knowledgeable, smart, beautiful, smart, helpful, authoritative, decisive, smart … did I mention smart? I was the complete opposite. I would describe myself as an all-over type of person, indecisive, cheeky, annoying, witty … yeah, that is pretty much it. I have always been an average type of girl. I have never seen anything wrong with being average, in fact, I pretty much liked it. I hated responsibility as a child and all I wanted to do was play. I loved it because my sister took the spotlight (I really did not have any though) and the attention from me and I had the freedom to climb the trees, play in the rain and draw cartoons. She was a good enough daughter for the both of us. *Wink*. Have I ever mentioned my love for cartoons? I drew them, was obsessed with them and at one point, even wanted to be them when I was about five. Why, you ask? They do not die. Like I said, average kid.

My concentration span as a child was probably thirty minutes. I do not think much has changed though, I can sit and complete tasks all day. However, in the middle of it, I will have the occasional mental breaks and completely change tabs. Fun fact, although most people think that multitasking covers more, it actually does not; your attention is divided, which lowers the quality of your work.

I worshipped the ground my sister walked on. She has always been very brilliant is always my voice of reason. She is a natural born leader and every time she would come into my class to borrow a book from her little sister during break, the noise would hush down and my oblivious sister would walk in, get the book and head out; occassioally helping my friends and I solve a math problem. I have never been good at math, which explains why I am the lawyer and she is the freaking geologist. I even got the occasional “si ukue serious kama sistako”. Ah! My mom had a very famous quote that she would use every time I could not concentrate on my homework; “wewe ni bollie tu iko kwa kichwa” and I would smile because she was absolutely right. Why football was that important to me back then, I have no idea. However, my sister was an Arsenal fan and so was I. In fact, I dubbed myself ‘Andrey Arshavin’ and even though I am a tennis girl right now, I would still cheer Arsenal any day.

Growing up with, our primary school was big on books. We grew up reading Pacesetters and graduated to full-blown novels in high school. Now we read Constitutions and Treaties but whatever. If there was anything I thought I could beat my sister at, was writing. Don’t be fooled though, my sister was the best of the best and her pieces were displayed on noticeboards on numerous occasions. I could sometimes match that score and occasionally beat it. It was never a competition, but I always loved telling stories because to this day, stories are the most entertaining way to shift realities, even for just a moment. Think about it, you could watch a movie with a friend and you would both perceive the scenes in the same way and the characters alike. However, there is no one in the world who perceives characters in novels in the same way, or attaches emotions to scenes in the same way or even imagines or remembers the plots in the same manner. Each individual perceives the text of the book in their own unique way! How exciting is that?

But in the end, stories are about one person saying to another: This is the way it feels to me. Can you understand what I’m saying? Does it feel this way to you?

Kazuo Ishiguro in his Nobel Prize (2017) acceptance speech

The more I read, the more I learnt how to create an entirely new world from nothing, to imagine a scenario in my head and depict the scene as raw as I imagined it. I got better at telling stories, but wat I forgot was the role my mother had played in it. Holiday assignments included writing up to ten compositions over the period we were on break from school. Parents had to check the assignment, read it and spend some time with the pupil discussing the same. My mom was so good at it, and I think that she taught herself too. She would question, encourage and correct tenses, grammar and spelling. She would encourage taking time to envision the masterpiece before actually creating it. I came to discover that this is how I played tennis too. The trick for me was to visualize where I wanted the ball to land, and how I wanted it to land. Whether it was a soft ball or a hard one, the trick was to see the picture before I painted it.

When reading, we do not fall in love with the characters’ appearance. We fall in love with their words, their thoughts and their hearts. We fall in love with their souls.

My family thinks I am particularly funny. I don’t think I am, I am as boring as they come. I always thought my father was a good story teller, and he is. However, both my parents have a personal touch to the stories they tell; whether it is in the cheeky way my papa puts it, or in the recreation of the story from ma’s perspective, they both have a lot to give. Of course, my father’s stories follow a good meal (ma’s mukimo is the best I tell you), while my mom’s stories are told whenever she is in a good mood. Honestly, ma’s stories evolved as I grew older, and we both enjoy a good laugh once in a while. The first time I screamed as I laughed was when my sister and I gossiped about something we both witnessed, and while I was horrified at the sound that came out of my mouth, I was genuinely happy that I was breathless. God knows how much I miss conversations that have me on the floor from something my mom said, or my sister’s exaggeration or mimic of the voices or sounds made. It is wholesome.

I genuinely do not think that I will ever meet anyone that would make me laugh this hard and were it not for the fact that these two are taken, I would think that I have met my soulmates. Who said you only have one in a lifetime? Regardless, if there are people that can successfully hit the reset button after my day has gone completely terrible, it is my girls.