INTRODUCTION | STORY OF MY LIFE

I adore my silence. That one amazingly long hour of pure peace when I can just sit down and stare into open space without the slightest disturbance from the universe simply does it for me. I think better when am silent, I eat better when am silent, I write better in an environment of drop-dead silence, I sleep better when there’s silence and most recently as I came to find out, or as my better half believes, I make love better when am silent. No kidding. Silence is like the unsung hero behind every man’s success today. TALES OF THE SILENT aims at transferring those tales told to oneself in silence to paper and paper. But let the truth be told though, there was no particular inclination of inspiration that influenced the blog title above. It just struck me and I thought it was catchy so here we are. Allow me to digress a bit;

 

We were all adorable little progenies sometime back, before we became the adults we are today. And as we were learning to speak, it’s almost a guarantee that we all started with the words “Mama” and/or “Baba”. But the story is told of a young man who, on learning to talk for the very first time, uttered the words “Pen” and “Paper” instead of the old fashioned words we’ve become so forcefully accustomed to. Legend has it that that very young man would grow older to cement his place among the country’s greatest literary hulks of his time. Fact or fiction? Believe what strokes your heart softest, just a little heads up, am not that young man.

 

See, the difference between that young man and this one is, unlike him who discovered his true purpose at an early age, my path was never clear to me by that age. I had to quite literally go through the mud to find out for myself I couldn’t let go of that pen. Before I made up my mind that writing was something I wanted to drag down my grave with me when my time finally arose, I had pretty much dreamt about every career out there in the streets like any typical young’un my age. Doctor, Lawyer, Teacher, Soccer star…name it. Heck, I even wanted to become Nameless for a minute back there. I couldn’t quite figure out why someone would decide to name their child “Nameless” but all I knew was that he was damn good at whatever it was he did for a living and I wanted to be just like him. Don’t get it twisted though, I still hit the studio once or twice in a while just to get the feel of it. At least for old times’ sake.

 

I’ve graduated from writing my articles manually, on pieces of paper plucked from my miserable exercise books, to now blogging. I started from the bottom, and depending on your line of thought, am still at the bottom. Just a few paces further. I would be lying to myself if I said I did it all by myself without a little push in the right direction. I recall back then, when most mums were busy dragging their kids mall to mall (Masiro chums read, market to market) trying to find them that perfect Christmas outfit, our drama-filled no-nonsense but still amazing mum had a totally different plan in store for us. My big brother, Austin Arnold, and I. She would hand us essays to write and we would work our tiny butts, er…brains, off each trying to beat the other. Don’t ask me who always beat who, I would whop his ass in one and he’d serve me his sweet cold payback in the next. He calls it Karma. That’s how it always was. None ever beat the other twice in a row. Those were the days, man. When whoever beat the other would reign supreme in the house, controlling everything in sight including the remote. Every loser’s nightmare, watching your adversary flip through your favorite channels with an evil grin planted all over his face, not that he’s watching anything in particular, just to torment you. Despite watching ‘Club 1’ together on normal occasions, those were the days the winner would give the flimsiest of excuses just not to switch to it, instead opting for downright boring programs like ‘Dunda Za Kikwetu’. Back then, perhaps mum only thought she was helping us attain better grades in class but as it stands now, I pose a totally different view about that. Austin blogs at ZEAL CHRONICLES and am just starting my journey here at TALES OF THE SILENT. Can I get a Hallelujah already?! God bless that Mama. And just in case I haven’t mentioned it by now, Austin happens to double up as my mentor as far as this whole writing business goes. If he wasn’t writing, I pretty much doubt I would be holding my pen right now. Don’t let it get over your head, brother.

 

I also owe my miniature mastery of linguistics to my three part-time primary English teachers; Madam Nancy and Mrs. Ogutu of Rang’ala Boys Primary who introduced me to the language in my diapers and made sure I never tripped and fell alone without being there to pick me up and encourage me. Though the class always thought you awarded me too much in your papers, to date I always convince myself I deserved every single mark you awarded. Thank you, Ma’. There’s also Brother Paul of Father Scheffer’s Primary in Asumbi who, at a time I was still getting teens in my English essays, awarded me the highest mark I’ve ever achieved in any essay to this date after I had spent most of the previous night ‘cramming’ his “I woke up at the crack of dawn that fateful morning and ran to the frog’s kingdom” type expressions. Damn, I miss those expressions.

 

I’d never forgive myself if I failed to mention my St. Mary’s School Yala teachers, Mrs. Margaret Adhiambo Auma and Ms. Christine Deteiya whose lessons were always a pleasure not to miss. Oh, dear Mrs. Auma, those lessons you’d just walk into class, write ‘INTENSIVE READING’ on the board and take your sit without saying a word. Expecting us to read our novels and short stories. Some dozzed off, you did too funnily enough, many did not attend, but I stayed loyal to my guts. I read and read till I could narrate the events step by step with my books closed.

 

And Ms. Deteiya, how I miss your remarkable motherly nature and how you would pronounce “So that” as “So ndhati” but make it sound so okay. How you only knew the name of one student, Samson Juma, out of the entire class and referred to all the others, myself included, simply as “Wewe!” Do you remember me topping your language class once with a 57/80 mark and you whipped my minute bottoms asking why I left all those blank pages and answered some questions irrelevantly? You didn’t give a rat’s hoot about the fact that I had just topped 3 out of 5 streams in the entire Form 3 block. No, you thought I could do better. Despite forgetting my name frequently, you knew I could do better. Thanks for pushing me Ma’am, you’re forever treasured. None of these teachers may be able to read my blog posts today but if you meet them around sometime, pass my regards to them. I adore them. I love them.

 

My journey through this land of linguistic bigwigs hasn’t been one sprayed with roses either. I have a pretty shaken up background and a C.V that has seen it all, but that’s a story for another day. Let a nigga settle first.

 

Fast forward, I’m pretty excited about this whole new concept of writing that I begin today. Let’s talk entertainment, let’s talk relationships, let’s talk lifestyle, let’s talk sport and Arsenal’s not-so-bleak future. Let’s debate, let’s engage, let’s agree to disagree. This day, the 30^th of May 2014, I welcome all you amazing people of all races, gender, age, accents and colour to the inception of my blog. From the pits of my heart, I take this chance to thank y’all who’ve been there with me all the way and continue to put their faith in me. The journey has never, and will never be smooth. But I soldier on. Just grab my hands and hold on tight, whisper “I gat you” softly into my ears and all shall be well. Together, we’re the future of tomorrow. It’s about our damn time. Let’s do this!

 

CHEERS, GREAT WEEKEND!