As one inclined to the arts, i am facinated by a good turn of phrase and a story well told. Its a crying shame that the only contact i have these days with my hobby is wading through ninety minutes of some overated film (courtesy of class readings). Somewhere between the unimpressive plot and mediocre acting, however i find a gem to keep.
Is it just me or have movie makers have started using poetry as important turning points or even defining moments for their stories? Take blindside, it did not impress, but the part i liked was the poetry. I admire anyone with the patience and talent to weld a quill like this man does!
The Charge of the Light Brigade
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
...hmn, a good description of the reason i respect the men and women in uniform.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Collective Amnesia
Chapel is not one of my favourite things here I have to admit. Yesterday's chapel time however rates among the most interesting ones. However, my interest had nothing to do with the biblical content in song or speech. Nope, my mind came to a screeching halt when the speaker mentioned that he grew up in a farm. A white owned farm. Oh, the rest of the very interesting testimony was sadly lost to me.
I guess for someone who loves stories, heard or written, the snippets I heard about his growing up years were enough to whet my appetite. One that will not be satisfied. Not while I am neck deep in linear logic papers my profs so kindly dole out besides about 1000pages to be read per week. Why its a pleasure.
The reference to the brutality of the colonialist on their labour force is consistent with the stories that my father has told me. As far as I can tell, the speaker and my father are either contemporaries or close to it. The incident about a mauling by dogs was in my opinion the tip of the iceberg as far as the stories he has to tell about his experiences are concerned.
Although others like Ngugi wa Thion'go have written about this period, the bitterness of colonial rule that paints all settlers black is evident. That I cannot stand. The political twist in the narratives, though part of the period, do not interest me. I want to hear personal experiences of Africans and the settlers in that period of time, good or bad in relation to each other.
Why the interest? The phenomenon I call collective amnesia. I did history for eight years of my schooling. Some of the deepest treatment of history were in high school and in college. The teaching about the colonial period had to do with two things; politics and religion. I don't care who formed KADU, KANU, or the trade union movement. The only thing I heard about missionaries was how they “told us to bow and pray and when we opened our eyes, our land was gone.” Sorry but, so what?
Apparently, when Kenyatta took power, he said two things. To the settlers; stay and shut up or get out. To the rest of us; let us forget the past and move on together. And forget we did. The history I learnt was stripped of humanity. All we ever learnt about is dry boring political manoeuvring and posturing that is no different from what we read in the papers today
While at the time re-examining the things that had happened may have been painful and even counter productive, it is interesting that we have buried history and are determined to forget it. Instead of historical knowledge on the colonial times, I have been fed caricatures that may hang on some evidence but I have had no freedom to decide what I think. For example, were all settlers bad by virtue of the fact that they were colonizers/missionaries and the black good by virtue of being the oppressed?
Here is the bad news. As hard as we try to bury a sordid colonial past, for whatever reason, it will come back and bite us at various quarters. The post election violence was just a symptom and I fear not the end. I think its time we stopped ignoring the elephant in the room. So what if there are skeletons? And there are. Ignoring them will not make them disappear.
I think its time we talked.
Now if only I had the time to mosey up the stairs and ask the Daktari to talk away...
I guess for someone who loves stories, heard or written, the snippets I heard about his growing up years were enough to whet my appetite. One that will not be satisfied. Not while I am neck deep in linear logic papers my profs so kindly dole out besides about 1000pages to be read per week. Why its a pleasure.
The reference to the brutality of the colonialist on their labour force is consistent with the stories that my father has told me. As far as I can tell, the speaker and my father are either contemporaries or close to it. The incident about a mauling by dogs was in my opinion the tip of the iceberg as far as the stories he has to tell about his experiences are concerned.
Although others like Ngugi wa Thion'go have written about this period, the bitterness of colonial rule that paints all settlers black is evident. That I cannot stand. The political twist in the narratives, though part of the period, do not interest me. I want to hear personal experiences of Africans and the settlers in that period of time, good or bad in relation to each other.
Why the interest? The phenomenon I call collective amnesia. I did history for eight years of my schooling. Some of the deepest treatment of history were in high school and in college. The teaching about the colonial period had to do with two things; politics and religion. I don't care who formed KADU, KANU, or the trade union movement. The only thing I heard about missionaries was how they “told us to bow and pray and when we opened our eyes, our land was gone.” Sorry but, so what?
Apparently, when Kenyatta took power, he said two things. To the settlers; stay and shut up or get out. To the rest of us; let us forget the past and move on together. And forget we did. The history I learnt was stripped of humanity. All we ever learnt about is dry boring political manoeuvring and posturing that is no different from what we read in the papers today
While at the time re-examining the things that had happened may have been painful and even counter productive, it is interesting that we have buried history and are determined to forget it. Instead of historical knowledge on the colonial times, I have been fed caricatures that may hang on some evidence but I have had no freedom to decide what I think. For example, were all settlers bad by virtue of the fact that they were colonizers/missionaries and the black good by virtue of being the oppressed?
Here is the bad news. As hard as we try to bury a sordid colonial past, for whatever reason, it will come back and bite us at various quarters. The post election violence was just a symptom and I fear not the end. I think its time we stopped ignoring the elephant in the room. So what if there are skeletons? And there are. Ignoring them will not make them disappear.
I think its time we talked.
Now if only I had the time to mosey up the stairs and ask the Daktari to talk away...
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
History
As far back as i can remember, stories have attracted and captured me. I remember cold dark nights sitting a smoke filled kitchen listening to the sound of my grandfather's raspy voice as he told stories about his past. No matter how much my eyes smarted and ran, i would never leave the room. Although my kikuyu was poor(and has never recovered), i didnt need to understand every word. The passion,tone, intonation and the gestures in his voice always filled in the gaps. I still remember looking at his shiny bald head and wondering just how many stories he holds in there. My father, his son, is also a storyteller. Like my grandfather, he has vivid memories of past events. Although he tells them in fluent English, they are coloured by a traditional past. Unlike my grandfather, my dad has to be prompted through a series of questions. Am sure that has to do with the prominent television set in our living room that keeps us in a midless state of "entertainment".
As i think about the stories i have heard from my father and grandfather, it surprises me that someone would think that Africans have no history. Although these "savages" roamed around naked with no seeming sense of rational organisation as some have said, it is the observer that looked but did not see. In these stories i have found a goldmine of history. My family history. Now anyone who hears me speak(read butchering) my venacular, would be surprised that i have a sense of history at all. After all, i am a "mkosa mila" (one without culture) having had a lot of western influence. I have found that this history tells me where my family has been and how i got here.It gives me an identity. However, it does not make me want to go back to the past. Rather, i learn from it and move forward to embrase the future. I cannot speak kikuyu with fluency and have never lived in a village, so? I still remain a child of my father and therefore a part of my clan and hence kikuyu.
My appreciation for family history has opened my eyes to the loss of history. While the west had the quill and ink bottle, we had story, proverbs, songs and other mnemonic aids. The introduction of literacy has slowly but surely choked these though culture change. I do not think that the past was ideal but i mourn the loss of history. I listen to my father's tales of growing up in colonial kenya and i think how many are dying with their memories; history. The US project Storycorps captures my desire for this country. Oral history from the older generation (indian,african and european) is being lost and i would like to salvage it. How? I dont know. All i know is that the old men in the village can only tell stories and i want to give them a quill.
As i think about the stories i have heard from my father and grandfather, it surprises me that someone would think that Africans have no history. Although these "savages" roamed around naked with no seeming sense of rational organisation as some have said, it is the observer that looked but did not see. In these stories i have found a goldmine of history. My family history. Now anyone who hears me speak(read butchering) my venacular, would be surprised that i have a sense of history at all. After all, i am a "mkosa mila" (one without culture) having had a lot of western influence. I have found that this history tells me where my family has been and how i got here.It gives me an identity. However, it does not make me want to go back to the past. Rather, i learn from it and move forward to embrase the future. I cannot speak kikuyu with fluency and have never lived in a village, so? I still remain a child of my father and therefore a part of my clan and hence kikuyu.
My appreciation for family history has opened my eyes to the loss of history. While the west had the quill and ink bottle, we had story, proverbs, songs and other mnemonic aids. The introduction of literacy has slowly but surely choked these though culture change. I do not think that the past was ideal but i mourn the loss of history. I listen to my father's tales of growing up in colonial kenya and i think how many are dying with their memories; history. The US project Storycorps captures my desire for this country. Oral history from the older generation (indian,african and european) is being lost and i would like to salvage it. How? I dont know. All i know is that the old men in the village can only tell stories and i want to give them a quill.
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