A weight limit and a whole load of stuff to pack for the journey

I am sitting here under a tree that reminds me of the towering mugumo tree we used to walk past when going to visit my granny’s sister. She was a most amazing woman who  cooked  amazingly sumptious ndumas.

The tree is silently swaying to the music of the gentle breeze but shouting to anyone who can listen, I AM here! I made it, it didn’t look like I would amount to much, it didn’t look like I could be of any use to anyone because of the challenges I faced as a young tree. As a fully grown adult, my trunk may not be long and supple, but crooked, bent out of shape. My branches may not be the most glorious around.

Mama, don’t ever let anyone write off your child. Keep walking. Life may surprise you. I have a testimony in me. She chose me. She who is sitting here, speaking to the world; the message in her heart resounding in mine, Mama.

Clueless to the conversation that the tree I am seating underneath is having with the universe, I watch my elder son all dressed up in his tennis gear making his way to a tennis lesson at the local sports club. This is a young man who, at three years, couldn’t even utter the word “daddy.” This caused immense agony to the father. It broke my heart, too. But as a mother, I kept going up the mountain of speech impediment, one word at a time. The Kilimanjaro mantra, “Pole Pole,” became my own.

A child whom specialists told us was uncoordinated is here, by faith in God and self-belief. He is now playing tennis tournaments in South Africa. His everyday prayer is, God help me to play tournaments all over the world. We the Musaus are an international family. The earth is our inheritance and the world our destination.

My challenge to Mothers out there is one. Let us stand with our children. Our voices of hope and encouragement should be the loudest they hear every day in a world intoxicated with so much negativity. Cheer them on no matter how small or slow the achievement seems. It is these small currencies of encouragement that will amount to a most rewarding achievement.

My son’s fine tennis clothes remind me of this morning’s  battle of the dances that was taking place in my bedroom. In between the sukuti dance from the shores of Lake Victoria and the haka drill of the New Zealand rugby team, I, Petronilla MM, was having my very own dance-off.

Clearly, packing is not my thing, yet my date with the mountain is growing nigh. With clothes strewn all over the bedroom floor, I have to try on my hiking gear, one item at a time. Lo and behold, my hiking trousers actually fit me! You know, when the blue jeans or the little hot black dress that you have been trying to fit into for a long time finally fits. There is no better feeling in the world. That was me, running to the bathroom scale. To my utter delight and joy, I have shed a whole Kilimanjaro of weight, a whopping 17 kilograms. My joy is, however, shortlived as the task of packing is still ahead of me.

Donkey or man? The porters up Kilimanjaro have strict weight limit of 15kg. I am really a girl in trouble. I normally pack more things than I really need. How I wish my sister, who is not only travel savvy but extremely good with the packing, was here. I wallow in my present predicament, pondering what to do with the bag weight limit.

At this moment, I fondly remember my granny, Cucu Muthoni. When I was young, she would take me along with her as she and the ladies in the village went to fetch firewood in Mt Kenya forest near our village.  I even had my own little rope and sack to protect my back. After the women finished chopping the wood, they would arrange them in bundles and hoist them onto their backs. African Mamas in action. I would wail that my granny was giving me too light a load.

Even then, I wanted to carry the weight of the world on my back. But my granny wouldn’t budge because she knew that not too far off I would wail again that the load was too heavy. As we trod slowly home up the steep hill that felt like a mountain to my little feet, l looked back at Mt Kenya, standing in all her majestic glory under the sun, waving goodbye. Silently, with a small smile of victory, I said to myself that one day I will be on that mountain.

Back to the task at hand, solo mission. I still have to  put everything in the duffel bag and back pack. I surely hope that there will be no repeat of my childhood wailing experience on Mt. Kilimanjaro. Thank God for the porters. Mama, as you climb your mountain, what is needed for you to carry may be too much but life has placed porters all around you. Do not shy away from asking for help.

I am really not liking this. All I can think is, why me? Why now?  But I have to get on with it, say yes to the packing.

Mama, you are possible. See you on the other side of packed bags.

The writer is a speaker, author and Africanised leadership strategist. [email protected]. @petronillamm