I moved out of my father's house physically two decades ago. I say physically, because I'd mentally shifted five years prior to my actual exodus.
Over those five years, I put myself through writing school in the UK, via correspondence and bought household items. I did all this with wages from casual labour.
At the time of my departure from home, I was selling second-hand clothes while chasing my writing dream.
That same exodus month, I sent a proposal for a weekly column to a local newspaper. They accepted.
Sensing there was a breakthrough in the offing - Josaya moved, and Jehovah moved - I folded up my business to go after this blessed baby.
Newspaper logistics took six months. (Some men give up on their dreams during "logistics". Story for another Wednesday).
I slept on my six-by-six mattress, on the floor of my single room in "Far East" (Kayole).
During logistics, I lost everything a man can lose. Weight. Friends. You name it. But I swore I would not return to Jericho Estate.
Some "friends" swore I'd be stretchered to the nearest ICU in my six-by-six mattress, transfused with food and water, before being repatriated to the 'hood.
Those weren't empty words, but curses.
I may not have returned to the 'hood, but I feel men who have made this tactical retreat. What's sad is, the severest judgment these soldiers get are from baby boys, some who've refused to snip umbilical cords.
Sometimes family members turn against their own who has returned, making him feel unworthy and unwanted.
Men who return home ought to be celebrated, not crucified. They're victors, not victims. Life happened. Maisha haikuwashinda . At least these brothers stepped outside the box. At least they dared to venture outside the same old same old hamlets, 'hoods and habits.
During Covid-19 pandemic, there are men who h returned to the boondocks. Some returned with frazzled families in tow. Others are alone, because their marriages unravelled.
Others returned empty-handed, heavy-hearted and teary-eyed because life clobbered them black and blue.
In whatever condition you returned, my prayer is, you remain psyched about leaving and thriving again. I pray that, through faith's telescopic lenses, you will see a more glorious future than your present transitory existence.
Sometimes, life arm-twists us and, in desperation, we react to situations. Now that I'm grown, I look at things through faith's blinkers. Because? My whole life has been a walk of faith.
What I’m trying to say is; work the system. Work at your gift. Work at bettering your gift. Don’t despise that humble (new) beginning. Work your fingers to the bone.
It may take a while, and loads of trials and errors … and terrors. But, in due time, if you diligently working it, it will pay off.
