Stories and Morals

As a kid, my favorite subject in school was ‘Moral Science.’ A story followed by some commandments…it was literally making sense to ask what is the moral of the story? Teachers would read it to us and tell us to analyze and write a ‘short summary-type moral code/s’ from the story. I was impressed with the subject so much I started looking for morals in every stories I read. Making comments, analyzing, bringing out morals and examining character’s moral standard became my hobby.

This morning as I woke up fairly early, and Kundan has been complaining about the noises I make, and the songs I sing in the shower, I tried not doing that but quietly check on my story list that I have postponed reading because of time constraint. This was my moral substitute. The ‘Moral science stories’ were simple, everyday life like this one. Anyway, Wanjiru, in the story ‘Few Minutes of Glory’ is neither Biblically moral nor worldly Good. Read this months ago, recommended by my professor friend, Dr. Seleey.


Her name is Wanjiru, but she like her Christian name Beatrice, it sounded more pure and beautiful. But she was not pure. As the civil war broke and the invaders were slowly moving out of Kenya, Kenyans were still figuring out how to rebuild the country. She was a Mary Magdalene, to be fair to her. Some suited booted Jesus came in her life, told her to give freedom, full cup of life, money, wedding and salvation. She believed. She gave herself for the first time in a hotel room in his comfortable arm, she cried. She ran away with him from a poor home, and probably her family were happy. But when she woke up next morning Jesus has left the building, nowhere to be found.


She then, moved from city to city, from bars to bars, from Tiunku, to Nagairiga, Rironi, wobbling around to find love, gifts of flowers, beer, a more closer and long lasting look than just a turning of head of those wealthy customers, when the bar attender call her name ‘Beatrice’ . People would turn around to see the bearer of the beautiful name and were disappointed immediately. Nobody flirted with her, nobody wanted to get into her, and nobody wanted to spend the few minutes of glory with her. She was the customers’ last resort if all other girls were booked and taken, or if some poor customer was too drunk, he would have no choice to come to her. A prostitute who was disappointed with customers, disgusted with fake smiles of other girls in the bar, their ugly wigs and uplifted chest areas, provoking clothes, their powdery skins, and more wigs wigs wigs ….blond, brunette, china women…. She could not understand why customer would die for Nyaguthhi, who was bored, impatient, disrespectful and insulting to customers.  I personally think Beatrice didn’t know about ‘Dirty Talking’, but that is not the moral of the story here.


Back to the story; Beatrice tried, she was original, smooth, black skin, big healthy body, and lots of love to give. In fact lots of hunger for love of someone who would truly appreciate her original self. But nobody ever noticed her. But one day a guy came, and thereafter started being a regular customer of the bar, who was handsome, young, often mocked in the bars by other wealthy people, nevertheless would come and spend the nights Beatrice. He thought he was ‘good’ in conversation with other men in the bar and ‘good’ with her. Seeing and pitying him little, she became accustomed to him, his stories of success. She would listen to his exaggerated success stories, his boasting of wealth and manhood and what not. She confided in him. She thought for a while that this is the man who she can tell her story, and one night resting on his chest she started telling her ‘Life Story’, and how she ended up there. As she was honest, not exaggerating, not boasting, not trying to impress, she was upright telling him her survival stories, her poor family, her sick mother, her longing from home, her desire of love, her faith in God, her desire to have a home someday… yes without make up, without bargains, she was telling him her story. She was open, shamelessly naked, and crying on his chest, only to look up to his face after finishing that he was sound asleep already, no idea when. She thought he was so deeply saddened, and sympathetic that he wasn't even interrupting her to ask questions, because in pure listening, unintelligent listening, there are no questions asked.
  

Well the story does not end there, but my time is running out here. Pay day is waiting and I am really excited and looking forward to see ‘goat lambs jumping sideways’ at work today.