Peace 2026- O Ma! Letters from Ngaara cia Kiambu to Bjerkebaek!

 To the dear Hillsides and trees of Bjerrkebaek,

It doesn't matter how dark it is, we are coming as light. It matters not how bright it is, we are coming as sure as light is coming, to a land that knows all extremes. We are singing to life in such a life at such a time.., You were always so full of connecting compassion and joy. 

Brilliant son. I must hold this candle up before it burns and melts like others, waxing away our memories. I know this can happen in that little town. You tell me we have no means, but should that stop our life? No. 

Mothers are made of gentle power! You are proud that I can farm unto joy! Fathers. Our roots last, moving is life. Matata or no matata, we are.

Son, this is how you saw me. In this moving drawn card on lined page and coloured ... you thanked me pencil in writing at the back for not having terminated you before birth. It was a message I never expected from a little boy.

 Mother Lioness and her pawsteps....Mother's Day card from you at 7 Years old

Sign photo of candle of the Light of a Mother given to Cathy by her Mother. She is a journey mate like Lisbeth and Sigrid.

 Ngaara cia Kiambu ni njega? iiii ni njega no ni ciathirire. Guuku no huko iraria miiri ya igwa ciakwa...

Son: I want to listen to your song of Bjerkebaek from Kiambu ...

How this land is never covered by snow but in the heat of the Equator, it can be cold at high points. That is life. Here just like there, names make little sense to us also in our mother tongues. How life sings! I am taking care son, of the pumpkin un-uprooted as Okot p'bitek hums me; 'do not uproot the pumpkin from the homestead' he insisted. Let us visit one another then like tendrils.

I loved how these thoughts of the year 2026 kept my peace in place for they were very like my Mother who rests in the wide field alone with hands clasping her Rose and Monica, we love you. Your grandmother is and was just great. Just a moment. She was organic and always listening to my heart before telling a story. Ah, what a rhythm, that is where her premonitions came from in the silence of the soul. A mystic. And to her a cheer without fear what a tendril!