How have you been my good people. This page smells like a graveyard but things are about to change faster than a tornado. I owe each of you honey coated sugar plums.
Water Please!!!
Equinox casually saunters into my neighborhood on a fine Saturday morning wearing a bathing suit and those fake ray ban sunglasses I see advertised on Facebook, being the good person that I am, I offer it a seat and we immediately strike a not so good convo. The good oll’ K.P.L.C on the other hand feels rejected and a bit sidelined so it decides that it’s the most appropriate time to cut me from the power grid, so that means no A.C or any such thing that provides cooling. The two individuals engage in a superiority battle and it’s at that point when a stroke of genius comes calling; I discover that I have been having a tummy ache for the past week and decide to pay the doctor a visit.
The pilgrim journey to the hospital is one filled with three angry and ferociously blazing suns that leave no part of my body untouched by their hot unromantic rays. I unceremoniously appear at the hospitals reception stinking like a stagnant lake of perspiration that given the time and chance I would freely donate my body to medicine students as a cadaver save for my very expensive ‘camera’ dress bought in the deep seated and cube like stalls of Kongowea market and some two hundred shilling heels I bought at night pale Ngara during the pre-colonial period that have changed color from white to a shade of brown after one wash.
In to the doctors I go without farther ado. Doctor Kinuthia is a fine young man probably in his late twenties with a properly contoured chest, clean shaven, well-manicured nails and a baritone voice that has a slight influence of his mother tongue. Had he not attended medical school he would have used it to woe young girls somewhere in the heart of Kirinyaga County. His baritone voice is smooth and just as pleasant as a new boxer motorbike; enough to send you into emotional overdrive. He goes ahead to use his hand to perform some tummy squishing magic and am relieved when he rules out pregnancy( how could I be pregnant when the last time a specie from the opposition last talked to me decades ago. It’s good to be positive sometimes though.) He however sends me to the lab for tests to rule out any infections.
The lab hand I find is not as interesting as the doctor and I can’t wait to be over and done so I can go back to Doctor Kinuthia; my new found love. She requests for two things, my blood sample and that number two thing. I look at her dazed and wonder what could be wrong with her. Could she be conspiring with that nurse who looked angrily at me so as to defame me? Had she noticed my crush on doctor Kinuthia? Why had she not asked for a pee sample instead? Anywho, being a member of comrade power, I know better than to hold banners and placards to protest against the said instructions. So I stretch my arm and the precious red fluid is sucked into a one litre syringe and then grab the biohazard container for sample number two.
Distance and vectors become applicable when I strategically position myself several footsteps from the loo with the task at hand a bit uncomfortable and almost impossible. Why are these doctors so interested in my poop? Murderous thoughts run through my mind. I could kill someone with a zip lock bag and stuff their mouth with the bio hazard container and break out to freedom; just like that. Nothing attempts to come calling. So I continue sitting there, 10 minutes, twenty minutes, nothing. I have attempted all avenues of producing anything for the doctors’ diagnosis. So I continue sitting. The white washed walls tell a story I can’t really understand so I find comfort on the soundless telly placed somewhere on the high wall, complete with a metal cage and a padlock. Who is interested in stealing a 12 inch TV that has seen worse days than kizza Besigye?
So I continue sitting on that seat, that very seat and watch with a tear stained face as other patients come and go. The pharmacist keeps stealing glances at me with suspicion etched on his roundish face, probably thinking of the extent to which I doubt his manliness (which I was actually doubting) and the big black bag strapped on my shoulders didn’t make the matter any better. Everyone is cautious these days you know. At first I also stare at him with contempt, and then remember there is another person close to me who has also over sat in that waiting lounge and a wicked smile spreads across my constricting and contracting visage.
Everything goes blank when I finally feel that solid mass descending my large intestines; I get excited about it, invite me, myself and I to a celebratory party and forcefully inhale to give it momentum, fast landing. It gets to the rectum and I’m satisfied with the results. So I rush to the loo to download and obtain the long awaited, master of ceremony sample. Real happiness I have there for a while.
I complete my business, use lots of tissue and stuff some in my bag happily as a pledge of allegiance to the Kenyan ladies tissue grabbing association. Who doesn’t love free tissue anyway? I hear shuffling of feet and decided to hurry up and give room to the next patient whom I wish has the same problem. My gorgeous hands reach for the cisterns flash and nothing comes out; no water. I’m left between a rock and a hard place, how do I exit the loo? What will the next person on the queue think when they find my excreta that smells like 100 rotten diapers mixed with 44volts acid from a car battery? Believe me when I say Satan is no small boy.
May the mighty warriors of Israel who released the ten plagues on the Egyptians release their wrath on every infidel who conspired in terminating the water supply to the loo.
The Sutra of Innumerable Meaning
Source: The Sutra of Innumerable Meaning
SAY WHAT?
The women of Kituni village had lessos tied around their waists as some whipped the remaining tears from their eyes just in time to welcome the professional village mourners who steamed through the gates of Mzee Trenks homestead wailing at the top of their voices to mark their territory and register their presence. A throng of in-synch mourning rented the air as they competed on who could wail the loudest. Strange things people do for popularity I tell you.
Men on the other hand gathered in a small circle talking in soft hushed toned like blood from a headless chicken oozing in spurts with their heads bowed down as a sign of respect to the dead. Evil practices and traditions have taught them not to show any emotions and any man who dared do other wise was considered weak, so the best the could do was fold their arms and venture into a trance with a possibility of thinking who would visit the ancestors next. The elderly ones occupied the nuclear of the circle and the younger ones or new men like one George chenenje donned the circles periphery gleaning and cranning their necks with frequent coughs that earn them death stares. The struggle to be recognized as men seeming elusive.
A lot goes around the community during such an occasion and so the rest of the population has to be assigned some duties. The older boys for example had the duty to fetch firewood and water to be used throughout the ceremony. But most of them showed up to mark their presence, capture a savage and protect their territory for the dance session that would take place every other night till Mzee gets laid to rest. The young girls and new women on the other hand made themselves useful in the now open air kitchen trying to prepare meals for the crowd that would soon fill the homestead. They split firewood and sorted out beans as they chatted the time away, oblivious of the gravity of the matter.
The dance popularly known as disco matanga is one really interesting activity. Its more interesting than this clubs young’uns go these days. Its more pocket friendly so to say. No tickets, no VIP lounges, no makeup, no dressing up or applying any cologne. Just sweaty bodies scented with smoke from the kitchen and the bon fire dancing to the beats from a taut isukuti drum, Dr. Dre got nothing on this one. The grownups have no say during this time. The mothers are usually somewhere gossiping and rocking the younger kids to sleep and the men are gathered by their own fireplace discussing politics, burial arrangements and more politics as they sip on their local brew made from fermented maize meal.
It however does not come as a surprise to find some women in the banana plantation muffling their cries and speaking to the dead. Some like Annette Trenk could be in the kitchen looking for food in the wee hours of the night when they ought to be out breaking a leg or two at the open air rave. Others could have as well marked their presence at the ball and snaked out to the maize plantation to finish off from where they started; simply obeying Gods commandment to go into the world and subdue it, literally.
When you mingle with my people you will be forced to look and act like them but it still surprises me that one Jeff Watitwa has been a hard but to crack especially when it comes to this things he tags along from Nairobi e.g that thing he carries in his hands and keeps touching touching the screen, it is said that it is possessed to an extent where he talks through it to someone he calls Mama Naliaka. His wide framed glasses that look like ‘googos’ in the words of my standard six droupout grandmother have over the ages been a subject for discussion by many. The only thing that makes him part of us is that he enjoys the Bukusu circumsision ceremony and that he makes an effort of exercising his two left feet huko disco matanga.
And that my people is how we sent off Mzee Terrence ‘Trenk’ Mukinginyi. The great councilor who had the guts to challenge Mzee Jommo Kenyatta in his own palace. The man who tasted whisky from the presidents table while wearing some short khaki shorts and never looked back since then. The penchant for good things still lives on Grandpa
It started with the lights being on and escalated into a mini argument. Wait, let me rephrase that. I felt like brewing a strong concoction of trouble, am not a trouble maker just to make I clear but if you count the number of times I piss off my siblings then yes, am a trouble maker, a good one at that. Trying to compare my trouble making skills with any of them is like trying to compare the sexual appeal of Liam Hemsworth and Mr. Bean, insane, right? Drama had not followed me for a while and I was getting really bored with all that peace business – pun highly intended.
It was getting rather late, knock out time to be precise, so it went without saying that my malicious rendezvous ghad to be postponed to the next day. Feeling disappointed, I dragged my tired and lazy bones to the bedroom. My night vision has never been in tip top condition, so it was only natural and logical that I switch on the lights, do my business and tuck in for the much needed rest.
“Hurry up with the lights, will you? We were deep in slumber land before you decided to rudely disrupt our little haven.” She said with a rather irritated and commanding voice.
Then, voilà! A brilliant idea sprang up in my head. Why don’t I just annoy them with the lights? – this people hated lights in a nocturnal kind of way, so yes that was such a genius idea. Ooh, by them I mean my elder sister and nephew. We shared a bedroom and they had left for bed earlier than me. I’m always the last to sleep, this explains a lot considering I was born in the dead of the night.
I took my time to change into my jammies that consisted of an old T-shirt and sweat pants, nothing fancy. I then proceeded to annoyingly put one two three things in place making sure I spent the most time while at it. The baby had been sleeping for a while and my switching on the lights and the movement in the room had made him a bit restless. He started wriggling around and let out a few wimpy cries but that did not bother me, it in fact gave me the adrenaline rush I so badly desired. All along, I could feel her piercing eyes throwing daggers behind my back. That thought in itself gave my efforts a thumbs up. *insert an evil laugh*. I was in for annoyance and I had just fulfilled my heart wrenching desire. She looked at me with disgust, sighed and went back to sleep. One man down! I repeat, one man down. I gave myself a pat on the back, plopped in my bed triumphantly and went to sleep. Mission accomplished.
Soon, it was morning. The mood was pensive and a little bit stale despite the cool breeze from Mount Elgon and the rhythmic and melodic chirping of the early birds. She had woken up earlier and gone about her duties silently which was so unlike her. I watched her from the corners of my eyes and noticed she was avoiding contact with me. She was avoiding any form of verbal or physical contact. In an attempt to make a peace offering, I brushed shoulders with her once or twice on the corridor as we went about our chores and only earned death stares as a result so I gave up.
I went about my chores and in a bid to make myself appear extremely busy and useful, I settled on thorough cleaning. the number one go to place had to be our bedroom. The place was in bad shape and I assured myself that it would look like something out of a home makeover magazine once done to my preferred satisfaction. That was enough peace offering to last me a year, so I thought. Sweep, sweep, sweep the broom went as I sneezed in response to the rising dust that had since accumulated from I don’t know when. At least I was a peace doing something with all my heart, something that seldom happens. There were tons of things under those beds; shoes, clothes, combs, money name them. The place was much roomier than I thought. The innocent and harmless me pushed everything under the beds for sorting and organizing and maybe cleaning later on. I went about my work with a million songs in my head. The humming and coughing were so synchronized that I wished I was in some high end studio producing my ‘hit’ single. Then she walked in.
Her eyes spoke volumes of frustration and her hands clenched into a fist in a bid to hold her anger down and behave like the mature one. Her new shoes and some of her clothes were peacefully lying in the dusty crump that was beautifying the center of the room. The look on my face must have been neither comical and carefree or she was just being plain dramatic and paranoid. Either way, she snapped, got overwhelmed with emotions and burst out into a frenzy of words that consisted mostly of insults. I tried to raise my voice to match hers but I was just an exercise in futility. The only thing I could comfortably do was cry. I wanted to hold them down but the just couldn’t be controlled beyond their backs, so I let them flow. You may be wondering where my annoying skills had gone to, but I guess everyone has a soft spot and that was mine. I’m not much of a talker, more action oriented *wink*. Like that saying “actions speak louder than words” yeah, I’m cool just like that.
There was so much I wanted to say to her but couldn’t get through. She was good with words I tell you. Despite all that, I was relieved that she did not attempt to hit my gorgeous body with the weapons at her disposal (read shoes, broom and clothes). I don’t think I would have lived with that embarrassment.
The owner of the house, the one and only Masakha Trenk, son of Terrence ‘Trenk’ Mukinginyi got wind of the ongoing activities in his house. I had never seen him filled with rage my entire life. Talk of pleasant painful surprises. He came panting like a wounded lion and the mother of all wars took place. Calling it world war three is an understatement punishable by law. Kiboko kilitembea wacha tu
#WCW
WE WILL MISS YOU. (R.I.P)
Linda had a huge smile plastered across her face as she transcended the hills and valleys of her mother land; the place she was born and sworn to protect. The news that she had been accepted to military school excited her beyond measure and she could not keep the bubbly feeling to herself. News travelled like bush fire and the whole village knew she, a woman, was about to report to camp. So much was said about military academy, the good and the bad, but for her, it was more, something so much more than the pros and cons of being a soldier. Guns and ammunition had always fascinated her and this golden opportunity meant that her dream to protect and fight for her country by hook or crook was about to come to life. Yet another item was struck out of her bucket list. She wanted to do something for human kind, something she would be remembered for, by her family and clans men at least.
Times in the wilderness and foreign lands were not easy. The jungle didn’t care what time of the month it was, whether she took a shower or not or if her nails were manicured. There was simply no special treatment, the key was survival; survival for the fittest as Charles Darwin puts it. She had to survive like her male counterparts. She had to camouflage and morph into something different from who she was. The ambush routines particularly took a toll on her but she knew she had to be fit and alert emotionally, spiritually and physically for her countrymen at all times. Times like those led her into missing her family; she longed to see them, hold them close and be a mother, wife, sister or aunty to them. Linda pushed away the thoughts of giving up, got accustomed to the jungle and its harsh conditions made her skin tough. She becomes a warrior.
The alarm goes off. She jumps off her sleeping bag, puts on her combat gear, firmly straps her helmet to her head, loads her 13kg rifle and straps more armor onto herself. She is a woman who doesn’t take chance, so she fills her pockets with grenades too. She then steps out into the battle field ready to take down whoever was trying to cause chaos to her motherland. Her country cannot be razed down, at least not under her watch. Every time she went to the war front, she knew she might not come back alive. She knew the odds of getting out alive were pretty slim but she did it anyway. It’s a military thing that she swore an oath to; she swore to do her duties to God and her country and to help other people at all times. She prayed that she gets back home to her family and countrymen but if she came back in a body bag, she would have done her best before God and man.
Linda sees rising dust, a lot of it and the only thing in her mind are bullets; bullets flying all around her. There is a part of her that is convinced that that could be it. So she mumbles a short prayer to God on behalf of the other soldiers and herself. She prays for her sick mother she left behind, she prays for her children and her husband, she also prays for her siblings. She asks God to comfort them so they do not grieve much over her demise, that they should live knowing she died a hero. She also prays for the country men she swore to protect.
Boom! Boom! Bullets strike close to her heart. Her eyes become cloudy, images get blurred and she sees a bright light. The light draws closer and closer. She knows it’s her time to be called home by God, so she smiles. She smiles because she accomplished her mission. Her work on earth is done. Even though she dint win, she knows the other soldiers took them down. She folds her left hand into a fist, places it on the right side of her chest and pulls her gun closer. The last image she sees are sergeants Mathew and Alex giving her first aid, her smile broadens even more knowing she died a hero to them even if the country might not get to hear her name or notice her absence.
She had sworn to come back home alive.
welcome into my 2016
My name is Brenda, Brenda Sitawa. That average girl next door who is juggling between living and existing. The good news about me is that I want to tell you my stories. I want to tell you my not so perfect stories, stories marred by a bazillion emotions and activities that transcend all aspects of life.
I will tell you when life was Paradise, when all I wanted I got. When we went on vacations, walked on the Sandy beaches, dined in the best restaurants available and basked in the sun. I will also tell you a story how I lived a life opposite from that, days I lived almost like a hoodlum, tossed here a there without a specific thing or place to call my own.
I will tell you how my days are always like.
I will tell you my dreams, ambitions, wants and needs. I will also let you in on my joys, win, losses and triumphs
I will tell you how I met a boy who captured my heart and later razed it down to ashes.
I will also tell you how possessive I get over the things and people that I love
I will also tell you a story how I got a breast Cancer scare and literally pranced up and down the hospital corridors when I was told it was fibroadenosis, something far from it. I will also tell you how I want God more than anything I’ve ever wanted.
I will also tell you how I survive the murky waters of life, how I’ve always felt different and my struggle to fit in and be like the rest of them even though the only time I get satisfaction is when I let my guard down, let the little kid in new out of the box, sing off tune in the shower and walk barefoot in the sand or grass.
I will tell you this and many more.
I hope you stick around to read my tales from far and beyond
Signed: Yours Truly
❤❤❤❤❤
“I’m thankful to those who have deceived me, loved me, hated me, made me laugh, made me tear myself apart between geographies and conscience between reason and fantasy. Thankful to boys who stepped on my heart and ex lovers who made my exorcism of them persist in a whirlwind of records, books, movies and sharp lines. Thankful to friends who held my hand and those who broke my back. To men who saw the worst in me and strangers who saw the best in me without speaking. You’ve been my inspiration and everything you did, knowingly or unknowingly, requited or unrequited has been ingrained into my writing. You are my special credits”
THANK YOU.❤❤
ooh well
A slightly creased but clean pair of shorts, a clean shirt, well-polished black Bata shoes ( in my days those were designer shoes mammeen) and a pair of knee high socks were this boy’s trade mark. He was always neat, spick and span. He was the kind of boy who showered and did laundry daily as opposed to his counterparts who partook of the ritual on a weekly or worse still a monthly basis. Being in a boarding school is tricky my friend. He had this poise that spoke so much about him even though he was just fourteen years old. He was an A student and his interactions and discussions with other high ranking pupils and teachers reinforced that fact. He was the kind of pupil who read supplementary science and other encyclopedias while the rest of us especially me did not understand what the hell webbed feet were so we avoided the book all the same. A prestigious national school was his ultimate destination and nothing was going to neither dampen his spirits nor put him down. His entire day was spent deep in books unlike other boys his age who were out in the field playing “lifundo” yaani a ball made out of plastic bags or paper bags for those of us yet to catch the western cold. He spoke with authority and his word was close to final. He was my definition of perfect. He kept crossing my mind at times when I should have been deeply engrossed in my studies or enjoying my sleep in the middle of a science class. In layman’s language, he was my crush.
Puberty had just set in and a lot mysterious things were happening to our small bodies. It was interesting to see how skirts started shrinking on the sides and baby avocado like things grow at the front of the girl’s blouses. Girls who wore bras or boob-tops would get glances from the male fraternity and were envied by other girl’s big time. Boys on the other had developed rough casts in the name of faces and to hear a slightly deep and groggy voice was a plus for them. God works in mysterious ways I tell you. My small ‘man’ had already undergone most of this metamorphosis and I would sneak glances at him just to get my little heart the spark it so badly desired. He sat two desks behind me and I watched as he flirted with other girls oblivious of my presence in the big room full of funny looking wooden desks. I longed for a day he would brush himself on me as he conversed with the girl who sat next to me, he would have to apologize and that would be a conversation starter as absurd as it may seem. It was evident that he was after her so it meant that I had to try harder to grab and retain his attention. That fact doused my heart in ice cold water even more.
Years passed and we were in high school about to start our final exams. He had been accepted to a national school and I had been relegated to a high ranking provincial school which meant that our acquaintance had been cut short nonetheless. As true custodians to our traditions, sending the good old success cards to wish our friends and loved ones best wishes in their exams was a must. I had racked my brain over whom to send a card to since sending or receiving a card from the male spectrum of society was a plus. Viola! He re-emerged from the corners of my mind. But there was a problem. I was not sure whether he remembered who I was or if he would be kind enough to give me a call after bravely jotting down my phone number on the card (there was no better way, at least at that time). I was determined to get to him no matter the cost and effort it required. It took an oversized investment of courage and Isaac Newton kind of thinking to put the ink on paper and mail the card.
Sitting far away from civilization in my village home, I had totally forgotten about him. Then that call came through, he introduced himself and laughed with sarcasm over my stupidity and impending lack of digital migration techniques. For a minute I was ashamed, embarrassed and did not know what to say. I was dumbfounded and tongue tied to say the least. I didn’t know whether to be annoyed at his remarks or just play along. Anyway, whatever I did worked in my favor. We hooked up on several occasions. We became great friends. He was the best I had. For a moment, I was in my little heaven on earth. I was on a rollercoaster powered by a whirl wind of emotional overdrive. The kind where you forget your mind and throw your brains in the dumpster
On that fateful day, I made a trip to the big bad city to work on some summer camp things. I had not seen him in a while so it was only fair that we hook up and enjoy the spur of the moment while it lasted. It was a Friday anyway so we had to let loose. We went to a diner had a meal and enjoyed some music along with some drinks with me staying true to my Fanta orange lane. I can’t be tripping you know. Minutes morphed into hours and It was getting rather late for me to walk alone to the east side of town. Being not so conversant to the town, I let him take the lead. He suggested his place; I followed him like a lamb even though my heart was not at peace. I had never been so close to a man my entire life. It was strange that the entire universe was blocked and only the two of us existed.
We got to the room, took a shower and changed into night clothes. There was only one bed so it meant that we had to share. Sharing is caring, right? All this while, a thousand thoughts are going on in my head. Will morning come to pass? What will he do to me? Will he harm me? Lucky for me, he was tired from pitch practice earlier on and had dozed off as soon as his head hit the bed. My heart stopped its rapid pounding and found peace. At least I could catch some sleep. I dint know what to do with him had he been awake. As the night grew old, he moved closer and closer. I was scared to even breathe.
Then I heard him speak;
“Wake up I want to leave…”
“But why” I said, afraid of being left in an unknown location
“I can’t stand it here. The pressure is way too much”
I was not ready to let him go but he meant it. I had to give in.
Things moved on smoothly until he became silent and quite. We rarely talked. Conversations became interrogations and the spark was lost. Not knowing what to do, I probed him on and on but he was still unresponsive. I had done my best to make things work. God and man were my witnesses but the “die” had been cast and he was not looking back.
Dear unborn
Dear unborn,
I daily watch as you expand my tummy into a circus ball. It might interest you to know that people have been touching and some going to the extent of kissing my belly. I hope you are not in any way offended by that. I have felt your heartbeat on numerous occasions and every time they melt my heart with joy and pride. I’m carrying life inside of me, which is more than enough reason to celebrate. I can feel your kicks too; they are painful but I’m happy you are alive and kicking, literally. Last night you kicked so hard it scared daddy off his tough skin. He says you’ll probably play hockey like him, I don’t know how true that is but whether you play the violin, cello, paint or sing as long as you do it to the best of your ability am fine with it.
You love chocolates and chicken; I know you will be as sweet with an eye for the finer things in life. I can’t begin to tell you how I’ve been counting days as I await the day I will hold you in my arms and gaze into your sparkling white googly eyes; at least part of my jig-saw would be complete. I long to see your chubby face, silky soft skin and that toothless grin. These past few weeks, you have become a constant factor in my dreams. I keep seeing your cuddly image and your smile is the most beautiful and adorable thing I have seen in a long time. I have not gone for an ultrasound though. I want you to be the best surprise life has to offer me. However, deep inside I want you to be a girl so I can dress you like a princess and we would have all those random girl moments to the ice-cream parlor or the shopping mall but I would also want you to be a boy so you would take care of your siblings and the rest of the family after we are long gone.
Your rent free stay in the luxurious compartment with spa like conditions will be disrupted after the ninth month. Drama will start unfolding. You will receive your first spanking on your little behind from the nurses who will hold you upside down. Mine will come later with a cooking stick and red Bata slippers. You will notice the crowd smiling and laughing as you cry. We live in a crazy place but don’t worry you will learn about it when you become of age and have kids of your own.
Bringing you up won’t be easy but I promise to do my very best to give you a good life. I promise to give you the best money and love can offer. I shall take you to the best schools. That is the best inheritance I can leave you with besides, education is power and no one can steal it from you. School aside; I vow not to make life boring, so we shall have detours to the park, walk barefoot, bask in the sun, have our faces painted and take millions of photos to preserve our sacred moments. I shall build our own small paradise in this big bad world. Grab our best memories and store them in a jar. Guard them jealously because you will need them when you feel at your lowest. I know we would have low moments and our relationship may seem strained but never forget that I will always love you.
My child, life doesn’t have a manual. I will only guide you in the direction my parents (your grandparents) taught me. I will help you to a given extend, their after you will have to stand on your own and find a bearing. There is no “right” way of living but one thing am sure of is that you will always meet people of different caliber. Some will discourage you, others will encourage you, others will hate you and some will equally love you. No matter the situation learn to distinguish the good from the bad. I know you will be able to counter your fears and tribulations so I won’t worry much.
Dear one, every day as I go to sleep, I ask God to gives you the strength and the perfect co-ordinates in your journey through life. I might not be around to see you grow into a fully-fledged adult but know that I will always watch over you.
Yours, Mummy.
thatgirlsitawa 