My New Life
It's been a while since I last wrote, but here I am, starting anew. When I learned that my Dad and Christofina were coming, I was filled with a mix of excitement and nerves. Knowing my hand was still in bad shape, I prayed fervently that my dad would arrive in time to see me.
I've endured some tough days, feeling tied up and constantly rushing to the restroom. Unsure of what I aimed to achieve, when my dad finally embraced me, tears welled in my eyes, overwhelmed by the state of my hand. I believed it was beyond repair until my dad shared a simple yet effective remedy: doing push-ups on my knuckles, focusing on improving my thumb.
On Tuesday, we ventured out for a late breakfast at a café in Aim Mall. As we strolled around, I savored fish with sauce, opting for just two out of the four chapattis offered. A refreshing Beetroot Carrot Watermelon juice quenched my thirst, preceded by a small bottle of water. Despite the tartar sauce running out, I relished the spicy olive sauce accompanying the fish.
After our meal, Dad enjoyed a cappuccino with milk, and we decided to explore the Art Cultural Centre. Amidst statues of headzabis and a vibrant decorative tree, chess pieces and animal magnets caught our eye. Colorful stringy beads, handcrafted baskets, and patterned notebooks added to the eclectic display. Though masks and drums intrigued me, the sight of statues resembling real people yet lifeless stirred unsettling memories, reminding me of past struggles.
Christofina's compliment on my physique brought a smile, but as we gazed down outside the Cultural Centre Heritage, the sight of statues bound in a boat triggered distressing recollections of my own entanglements. Suppressing tears, I confided in my dad, who reminded me of the consequences of disobedience, a lesson etched in memory for years to come.
Inside the art center, I encountered small figures of warriors seemingly poised for battle, their presence intriguing. A particular painting caught my eye—a masked man depicted in white, adorned with splashes of black, purple, pink, red, and various shades of blue and yellow. The intricate blend of colors made it truly captivating.
As we left, Dad's white car needing repairs, we strolled through town and returned to the garage to check on its progress. There, an Indian Portuguese man engaged Dad in conversation, boasting his ability to count in Japanese, a skill relevant in karate practice. In a curtain shop nearby, we met a lady married to the man, who shared her mixed racial heritage of African and Arabic descent. She kindly treated us to strawberry yogurt drinks, despite their sugary content—a gesture appreciated by all, especially Christofina.
Exchanging contact details with the gracious lady, we continued our journey, Dad's fatigue evident as we made our way to the cinema. En route, a pit stop for relief preceded a shopping excursion where Dad purchased sausages and beef samosas. Opting for convenience, we hailed a taxi to Nijiro for our cinematic outing.
Upon arrival, we browsed through shops, Dad selecting a movie stick for downloading films onto. Settling into a nearby café, we ordered our meals—Dad choosing chicken with rice, Christofina opting for chicken soup, and myself indulging in chicken with Komba spicy sauce, accompanied by naan bread and butter.
After the satisfying meal, I refreshed myself with a juice blend of pineapple, mango, and watermelon, hoping it contained no added sugar. The allure of sweet popcorn proved irresistible, despite potential sugar content, as darkness fell.
Dad, resourceful as ever, arranged for Bob Geor to download movies while seeking out bike drivers for our return journey to Kilala Arusha—a lengthy ride indeed. With Christofina beside me on the bike, we braved the chilly breeze, eventually reaching home safely.
Exhausted from the day's adventures, I retired to bed, grateful for the enriching experiences shared with loved ones.
While I was in town with Christofina and Dad, we met Patrick. He shared some advice: if you do bad things to others, they will do bad things to you, or God will punish you. I found his words interesting, though I can't remember him very well—it must have been a long time ago.
A man was selling vehicles for a living to make money, but before that, he was not very successful. He had to start somewhere in order to make a living. Over time, he sold 25 million dollars’ worth of vehicles to his customers, and that’s how he became successful.
I have had a numb hand for some time now. I need to keep using that black hand squeezer to straighten my thumb and do push-ups on my knuckles. Here is where I will start, so here I go.
On Thursday, January 25th, I found myself outside, engaged in a project involving wool, bottle tops, and the assistance of local bushmen. As I meticulously wrapped steel wire with vibrant colors, the bushmen's lively radio tunes added to the cheerful atmosphere. Encouraged by their enthusiasm, Paranjo joined in, mirroring JP's actions. Grateful for their help, I acknowledged their contribution before turning my attention to other matters.
It's been a while since I last wrote, but here I am, starting anew. When I learned that my Dad and Christofina were coming, I was filled with a mix of excitement and nerves. Knowing my hand was still in bad shape, I prayed fervently that my dad would arrive in time to see me.
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