Beatrice Ofwona
12 April 2008
column
Nairobi — A visitor made an entry. With the tiniest of feet, the most delicate of fingers, the smallest of ears, the palest of skins, the knottiest of fists and the most trusting in demeanour, he cataclysmically appeared in our lives.
And as I wheeled him from the baby's showroom to his mother's bedside, I could only marvel at the miracle that is life.
Running a tentative finger down his soft skin, I was lost for words. A little tweak spasmed his face in what I knew to be a smile for his aunt, but everyone else claimed it was a normal involuntary twitch. In such moments was the wisdom to accept varying verdicts on various issues with the barest of irritation.
We watched as he slept through our hellos, oblivious of the special joy he had brought into our lives, unaware of the shift in prioritisation he had evoked.
It was indeed a wonder that such a tiny bundle could cause the cash registers in our minds to come to a grinding halt and await fresh instructions.
Suddenly all the acquisitions that had seemed like must-haves could not hold ground next to this little helpless form; small in size, but big in implication.
In our minds was a promise to deliver the world as his soon-to-be nurturer, now exhausted from the ordeal but already metamorphosing into a new role that the creator had so cleverly crafted as he worked the future into the present and which had finally come to pass and patiently acknowledged our cooing.
In our thoughts and for the briefest of moments was the flicker of fear that somehow motherhood would rob us of a sibling. Yet in that shiver from the unknown was the implanted knowledge that a reincarnation of sorts was in the making, one that would bring people gone yonder back into circulation.
Siblings sometimes bear an uncanny resemblance to their parents and in no time is this clearer than in moments such as this when we can look into pools of eyes that remind us of people gone before us. We then get into a cosmic understanding of genes and DNA; that in changing times, changing roles, we acquire selves that are bottomless in knowledge and wisdom.
That now in life-changing circumstances, we become more like our parents, even sounding like them. The eyes that are the mirrors of the soul now lie restless in the turmoil of planning and promising, yet ever joyful in the knowledge of having converted a group of cells into a life form.
We might experience an out-of-body experience as we take stock of ourselves and our emerging roles in the understanding that there remains a big difference between whom we want to be and whom we are called to be and that the calling we usually answer to is that which was made long before we were, because we have to answer to nature's call.
Children are gifts for they bring restoration and renewal to broken hearts, broken dreams, broken spirits and give life to once-wasted years. They bring direction to lives that drifting apart and add purpose to our existence; but only for so long.
And so they become the visitors that join our already glued-up family units as we adjust our settings to accommodate them. And although they come fragile and delicate, their transition to other forms is ensured by a world that seeks to stretch their foetal stubbornness with a sharp slap and, later, reality.
Suddenly it is time for growth for the little occupant in the crib. All pretences of oblivion are now interrupted as the visitor is handed his share of mistakes, misgivings, mistrusts and misfortunes.
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