SHAILAPUTRI, NIGHT ONE.
Westlands, Nairobi.
December 8, 2021.
Deepika and the girls got in formation behind the curtain, tense.
If this is what will get me away from poverty, then so be it, thought Deepika.
"Don't worry. It's just like home," she said to a nervous girl, who nodded in agreement.
Revellers walked into a poorly lit room and after ordering their poisons, the show began.
"See, security is present. They won't touch us," added Deepika, making the nervous girl more relaxed.
Ten girls, with Deepika in the middle, got into formation as they began their Mujra dance, famously sensual and enticing to the revellers.
As the dance continued, a reveller placed a flower on one girl. Another placed a flower around Deepika.
Security was on standby to ensure no other cheeky revellers got more ideas.
More flowers were placed on the girls' necks, and showered with money, with Deepika having the most flowers.
The girls increased the gyrating tempo, sending the revellers wild and the atmosphere reeking of sexual anticipation.
The girls were showered with money, and as the girls continued, the flowers on their necks increased, with Deepika having the highest number.
After the show, the revellers made bids for Deepika and the other girls with higher numbers of flowers on their necks and money sealed the deal.
Slowly, the girls branched away; each of them had a partner to satisfy. A wealthy individual paid for Deepika.
I am going back to Mumbai a millionaire… thought Deepika as she disappeared with her client into a backroom.
***
SHAILAPUTRI,
Five Years Ago…
Mumbai, India.
I was feeling heavily sleepy and tired when I finally arrived in Mumbai.
Navratri had started, and everyone had gone crazy over celebrating Maa Durga, the goddess whose nine avatars represented the divine feminine energy.
Each of the nine days of Navratri celebrated different avatars, so on the day I arrived in Mumbai, Shailaputri had officially begun.
The one colour people came across everywhere was orange.
As I looked around, I could see there were places where folks had begun their celebratory performances. I liked how they all got into formation and danced their nights away, knowing for a moment they had a time where they could focus on the present moment, which was filled with fireworks and precious memories of rhythm.
Orange was a colour I had grown up seeing occasionally, though my colour was red, something I discovered when I began taking astrology seriously.
I lived in a country which didn't understand you when La Croix Mystique appeared on your palms, and you understood everyone around you by looking at either the shape of their thumbs or the lines on their palms which they never knew about since every week, they gathered in big buildings where they contributed tithes and offerings 'in the name of Jesus' so that the pastor continues to live a tax-free and extravagant lifestyle, telling the blind followers how Jesus Christ will bless you if you continue to bless him with more contributions of tithes and offerings.
I never saw such kind of contributions in India, to be honest.
Many folks in India never did it like us Africans, making it look like religion, something you got imposed upon since birth, was something you needed to have by force if you were supposed to be accepted anywhere, or treated with any value.
One thing which appealed to me a great deal, when I saw the celebration of Shailaputri, was that Hindus didn't just accept their traditions, they celebrated them, especially the organic, multileveled, and sometimes pluralistic nature of their traditions.
I liked seeing the Garba dances if you ask me.
These dances did a great job celebrating fertility, honouring womanhood, and paying respect to any of an array of mother goddesses. In Gujarat the dances customarily marked a woman's first menstrual cycle and, later, her marriage. Many times, even if men participated in the Garba dances, it was mostly women who did the dances during the festival.
I saw them all; families coming together in ten days of reflection, rhythm and cultural revival of the importance of blood, especially feminine.
I will tell you the truth I don't think I ever told anyone from my family.
I never felt at home in my own home.
In my whole life, I never felt safe near my blood.
I never felt safe near two people in my whole life.
One of them turned out to be the most wanted criminal in East Africa since the days of Murder Shiro, and how breast cancer played a big part in revealing her expiry date to the police.
I remember how Julius Makini, who became known as Julius Iscariot as days of ignorance went by, yelled at me with the vitriol in his voice coming from his liquor.
***
"YOU DARE CALL ME IGNORANT?!" he yelled, standing straight in my face.
Looking directly at his face, all I was waiting for was for him to lay a hand on me, for him to regret it for the rest of his life.
"AFTER ALL I HAVE DONE FOR YOU, YOU DARE CALL ME IGNORANT, YOU SHITTY EXAMPLE OF A SON?!"
It was strange how he called me a shitty son yet he never stood up to his responsibility the moment his ex-girlfriend got pregnant with his son.
Hypocrisy was a label which shone brightly among toxic family members like him.
Surprisingly, I couldn't help remembering how my late mother had the same vitriol in her when she yelled almost the same kind of insults in my face, after inflicting a few bruises on the hands I used to defend myself.
This was the sign transgenerational trauma was going to manifest in my family, especially because I never did what Julius said I should do.
Conform To The Norms Of Society.
Ever since Julius said that to me, I have considered that to be the most ignorant and downright stupid statement I have ever been told.
Blood, to me, became a lot thinner than water, especially after bruises were inflicted on me by the same people who smiled on my face, trying to show me their appreciation, love, and how 'they were there for me'.
That toxic hypocrisy was something I saw with Julius Makini before I made the decision which I believe haunted him his whole life.
The same Julius Makini who shouted insults at my face, as I smelled his vitriol through his liquor, was the same Julius Makini who saw me walking on the road one day, stopped his BMW 320i near me, carried me over to a restaurant nearby, and started talking to me as if he was my friend, saying how proud he is of the work I have been doing for myself, like the Diploma I was able to study for online.
My intuition told me to hold my tongue, and I didn't understand why, but as I ate that night, deep down I never stopped having the same feeling I always had when he was in the house yelling at me, the same feeling when he's lying on the couch with his dog, higher than the Kilimanjaro after smoking both tobacco and marijuana and the same feeling when he kept starting arguments with me, trying to force me to pay the electricity bill months after Kenya Power cut off the lights.
I never felt safe near my mother and my brother.
I had my plan to disown them both, but as fate would have it, my mother died in her second surgery for her upper spine tumour.
For half a decade, I lived alone in her four-bedroomed bungalow, until the sixth year, when Julius Makini came to live in that house, bringing with him more problems and more reason to walk away from him.
I never felt safe near them both, and that was why, in my own life, I disowned Julius Makini and my younger sister too. I had no reason for carrying them around, and being born of the same parents proved no reason why.
***
"... As of the moment you've found this letter, you permanently cease to be my siblings (YOU NEVER WERE, ANYWAY), and should you attempt to look for me, spy on me or get in contact with me, you both will be served with a legal restraining order and if you both do get arrogant about that restraining order and not obey it, you both WILL face legal consequences.
This is an official warning to you both.
You are also the same person who not only labelled me names like "a shitty son" (as if you know anything about sons, since you're too scared to raise any, something your ex can easily prove), but also used manipulative tactics like trying to make me feel bad about myself and my accomplishments, through opinions which have only come from you alone, and no one else. You also have sent me threats of physical assault over the phone, and have spied on me online (something you did in 2020 during COVID-19).
Actions which clearly show I WILL NEVER FEEL SAFE AROUND YOU..."
***
"How come everyone's wearing orange?" I asked, still confused.
Manish looked at me for a brief moment before closing the truck door, saying, "You see, the first day of Navratri, which is what you've encountered upon your arrival, is called Shailaputri. Shailaputri means 'daughter of the mountains', and is the first manifestation of the Goddess Durga, and she rides on a bull and carries a trident and a lotus in her hands."
"What does Shailaputri represent?"
"Nature, and purity," replied Manish, as we walked down the unbelievably clogged street.
If I ever thought Nairobi had streets filled with hawkers and traffic jams, I truly knew nothing about Mumbai, considering now that the first day of Navratri was filled with hawkers selling orange accessories, and everyone dressed in orange, carrying something orange, or just having something orange in colour.
They say every decision comes with a price, and if you ask me, the price I had to pay for cutting ties with toxic siblings was a lonely life in a country I not only didn't understand but at first didn't feel at home either.
I don't know why, but until the day I migrated from Kenya, I never felt at home anywhere.
The home I walked away from was nothing but a building to me because I saw how Kenyans had become slaves to material wealth and possessions, seeking glorification 'in the name of Jesus' whenever they needed votes or prayers from men of God who lived tax-free 'in the name of Jesus'.
For a strange reason, however, India started becoming strangely interesting, especially considering that I arrived in Mumbai around the time people were preparing for Navratri night celebrations at the beginning of October.
Most of the Indian people who helped me were even darker than I was, to be honest, and they embraced me as if I were an Indian myself.
Especially Manish Sukhwinder, whose name, I came to realize, meant thought/wisdom (Manish), and pleasant/happy (Sukhwinder).
Manish Sukhwinder was the person who introduced me to truck driving in Mumbai, something which wasn't so different from the Kenyan version; only in this case, the most popular trucks weren't Isuzu. They were TATA dump trucks which were filled with unbelievable tons of sand, mostly for construction sites.
"You're my turnboy until you have enough to get your own truck," said Manish, opening the door.
As he showed me my bunk, he said, "You know, you aren't the first Kenyan to come to India, however, you are the first one to do it while disowning his siblings."
"Indians can't disown their people when they get toxic?"
"The moment you do, you'll even be killed out here, Makini," said Manish, looking straight into my face. "Ever heard of caste discrimination or honour killings?"
"No," I replied.
"Unfortunately, here in India, skin colour matters to a multitude of people," replied Manish. "Especially if it concerns love and marriage."
"So, unlike in Africa, it's the girl's family who does more for the marriage?"
"That's right, Makini," said Manish. "It's the girl's family even paying dowry here. Which is why a great deal of times, caste discrimination, and even honour killings take place."
"You sound like you've experienced it, Manish," I replied.
He stayed silent for a moment as if what he experienced was something which had a great impact on his life.
"In my case," he replied, "I was the one who got disowned by my family. It never happened to me, thankfully, however, I know some people who took inevitable bows because of honour killings," replied Manish. "So be careful who you fall in love with here."
Manish's warning was something which would have been brushed off by a multitude of Kenyan youth if it was dished out to anyone in Nairobi, but something about his warning made me realize, as we both looked on at the many orange decorations outside, that there was a great deal to learn from in India than I thought.
***
All it took was a slow, tired shut of the eyes...an embrace of the burning events within my conscience...and the moment I opened them...
I was not the same anymore.
I was something special...and it burned within me... waiting to be misunderstood at first by the world I was meant to inspire...only to be recognized when the inevitable is waiting to remind us of our temporary stay... and once again we must dissolve to greater heights and leave all we were once comfortable and familiar with behind, for shadows now exist within every moment of joy we cherish...