Written by Linda Musita
I thought it prudent to write you an epistle to help you pass time in your mother’s womb. That way, you will keep yourself busy before that trimester when you get to kick and throw punches at the walls that house you. The second and most divine purpose of this epistle is to give you some Intel on your appointed mother.
It would not be appropriate to give you her name at this particular moment. at some point in time, the forces of nature will require to speak. I want your first word to be’ Mama’ not ‘Her Name’. In the meantime, I will give her an alias: Fraulein. I selfishly choose Fraulein because my pickers and stealers enjoy scribbling it.
Seriously, though. Fraulein is located in Misunderstood Africa. She was popped out at 0500 Hours on an early date of a month specifically christened , June. She developed her bones on wimbi and omena porridge, mashed plantain and a little bit of Cere-lack. When she turned six, Fraulein was sent to a joint called Skool. She was stuck there for 18 calendar years. Those years did not really pay off because now, Fraulein is torn between being an Advocate of the Low Courts of a Republic in Misunderstood Africa and being an extraordinary ink slinger. I reckon she can do both but my predicament is that the lines
of communication between my kind and her kind are permanently disconnected. The Deity knows best why he severed those ‘crucial’ lines. My point here is, she will never know what I reckon.
Fraulein is a curious person. Fortunately, hers is not the curiosity that kills. Her curious pangs lead her to books and plenty more books. When she eventually takes a break from her books, she tip toes to her radio and snoops within it for music that fits. Common folk refuse to read the kind of literature that Fraulein thrives on. They shun her music with their snobbish noses placed at a hilarious angle. Oink! Oink! May the Deity forgive them for they know not what they miss.
It is good that she plans to subject you to good stories and almost heavenly music. She has purchased a copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales just for your benefit. You will also have to oblige your bambino ears to Bhangra and Classical tunes. I am a bit concerned about the Bhangra. I would rather she replaced that mix with ‘Kapuka This Kapuka That Rrrremixx’. Then again, like I mentioned earlier, there is an eternal error in connection between my kind and her kind. Pity!
She speaks her almost blasphemous mind. Folk mistake this for forward, shameless rudeness. You understand, humans despise nude truth. They prefer hiding behind counterfeit good manners and unnecessarily proper walk, talk and dress. Fraulein and her unapologetic friends are a bit too much for folk to swallow. Thank the masses for a controversial animal known as a Constitution. This animal offers Fraulein and her cronies a censored form of freedom of expression.
Fraulein has a clumsy streak. She trip on her trousers, drops your Oma’s crockery, scalds her slender fingers on hot pans and jumbles up alphabetical letters in her head. Very amusing, I think.
This child of the Deity has the appetite of ten teenage boys! I lie not! Heaven and Earth alike wonder where all that stuffing goes. She never gets to be Sweet Cupid chubby. Scientists claim that she has a Sonic the Hedgehog- Road Runner fast metabolism. I am chronically wary of scientific reasoning. Fraulein is a fabulous image of the Deity…. nothing to do with scientific propaganda.
Eish! The Glorious keep poking my back, warning me not to divulge more information.
Just when I was about to sneak in some Morse code on your Papa! I am known to be quite the gossiper after a few paragraphs. There are fears that I will deny you the opportunity to discover the rest of Fraulein for yourself. So, I will stop but before I ultimately halt, I assure you that you are getting a top notch mother. Treat her nice, avoid the colic tantrums.
Beloved Guardian Cherub,
I did get your letter. I totally and completely enjoyed reading it. You are quite the bel esprit and I flatter you not! Sadly, the letter has now bored me out of my undeveloped skull (Nothing personal. It’s just that I have read it too many times).
Anyway, life here is seriously mundane. I do enjoy the Jacuzzi feel of the amnio-something fluid and the feeding system is absolute genius but ng’o, no excitement up in here! I can already imagine your brow twisted in a knit because you think that I did not master my lessons in Not Complaining but maybe if I give you a dossier on the typical day in Wombsville, you will understand.
Wombsville is a dark town. I wake up at midday. By that time my umbilical breakfast has fermented properly and my tender intestines suck away thankfully. After, I do cartwheels and butterfly laps across the amnio-something pool. Exercise was never bad for a citizen. Then I sit and stare at Nothing Hill. My umbilical milk comes in at six in the evening. The nap kicks in after the honey less milk. I rouse at midnight for my dinner then it’s back to slumber. Yes, Guardian Cherub, the hours here are that odd.
Truthfully, when I begged you to move me up on the list of earth bound popettes, I pictured a glamorous life. So far, it sucks to the root! There is no one to talk to, no popee damsel bottoms to poke, no poper lad groins to donkey kick, no holy angels to punk, zero opportunities to pinch St. Peter’s feet when he snores off at the sacred Pearly Gates, no pelting of grapes at the Arch Angel’s poker face (Whatever is he so horribly serious about?!), no Mr. Lion’s paws to pedicure, no milk with honey to make me stagger and worst of all, there is no snuggling in the Deity’s supreme presence.
I am dejected and homesick. It feels exactly how Sir Jonah said it felt in Moby Dick’s tummy (Though I could be better off because there is not a whiff of rotting fish carcasses around here.)
Remember you always told me that good things await. So farthest not so better! Furthermore, I have a disturbing feeling that once I pop, I will have a darn hard time trying to adapt to those cursed earthly surroundings. I know you wrote me that pickers and stealers friendly Fraulein will be super good to me. But is she not as human as the rest of them? Who is to say that she won’t tire of me and in the guise of protecting me, sail me away in a reed basket like the stammerer’s mother did with the stammerer?
I am scared to life and the boredom in Wombs Ville makes matters pitiful. This state could possibly lead me to Wangare Mwendaness. Help me beloved Cherub.This epistle is an SOS. Nimefungua roho yangu. Saidia Oh Saidia!
Regards to the Deity and the Glorious.
© Linda Musita 2010
This story has been entered into the Humour-in-an-Envelope December 2010 Contest. To vote for it, please fill in your comments in the comments section and indicate a number between 1 and 10, with 1 being weak and 10 being excellent. The points will be tallied on Sunday 19th December 2010 after 4pm, and the winner announced on Monday 20th December 2010. The first winner gets KES 1000 in airtime, second winner KES 500 in airtime, and the third winner gets KES 200 in airtime.