I LOVE SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

A sunny Sunday afternoon in the garden

There is something magical about Sunday afternoons

Something that makes us mellow and less prune to tantrums.

Ignore Facebook, ignore Twitter, you can answer your whatsapp messages later.

Just stop working already...

Be relaxed.  Let that warm champagne bubbling feeling of silent bliss spread through you, turning your insides golden, like those cheeky sun beams that peep through the white lace curtains temporarily painting the house a beautiful lazy yellow haze. 

Can you hear the sun calling?

It’s beckoning you to come outside and play. Don’t you remember how it used to call you when you were a child, when you and the sun were such close friends. Remember morning sunlight was the only thing that could scare the monsters away…

Don't hesitate...

Don’t hesitate when the sun calls, I know you are not 8 years old anymore, but please trust me on this one. Leave your phone on your desk. Carry your current novel and go. Make sure it’s a novel packed with stories from other realms. It should be filled with names you can’t pronounce. Even when you say them quietly in your head, you should still hear the imaginary sounds of stuttering and pausing as you connect the phonics like a five year old learning to read again. This story should have lands that unapologetically defy the laws of physics. It should feel like  silent defiance to that science teacher. The one that said you daydream too much. 

“SURPRISE! I am an adult now Teacher. Despite your reservations, I made it. In fact I did better in the sciences than I did in the arts. But guess what Einstein liked to day dream too! But most importantly…It’s MY Sunday afternoon and I shall spend it imagining....”

On Sunday afternoon, it’s okay to be still. The bible tells us so. You know this, because you have heard this verse quoted many times before but you are not sure exactly where.

Today is the day for your creator and you to officially catch up on life matters. You’ve just spent the morning putting on a decent dress so the ladies in church won’t gossip about you, but you know such ladies they can’t help themselves, 

“Still single, can you imagine? Let us pray for her soul. ”

Let them pray the demons away, Lord knows you've tried.

You had to use your energy reserves to fight off fellow worshipers with your elbow and handbag, so that you could atleast have that wobbly plastic white chair by the side of the entrance, only to give it up 15 minutes into catholic mass when an elderly man with a cane and a bad limp stumbled in. He stared you down, waiting for you give him the chair. Reluctantly but humbly, you tiptoed to the side of the church and scanned the premises for another vacant space to seat. After mass you drove home, pondering to yourself the meaning of the second reading, but you promptly give up trying to figure out how to apply it to your life, when you found yourself aimlessly wondering through the baby clothes section of the small supermarket, where you stopped on your way home to buy a few household items. Now after the morning’s struggle to be close to God, this afternoon has to be a little easier.

All your anxiety driven thoughts can wait, chase them away like the neighborhood mongrels, tell them to come back later at 10.00pm when you are about to retire to bed. By then you’ll have some leftovers for them to fight over and feed on, giving them the strength to nag you, slowly nibbling away at your confidence and self-esteem through the night, and then most importantly through the week as well.  

Outside in the garden on this special afternoon, use your eyes to look at all that is around you, and your ears to witness the sounds encompassing you. Allow yourself to focus on being present, to hear the birds chirping, the leaves rustling, the goat at the bottom of the hill bleating, the children next door cackling, the house girls gossiping, the teenage lovers quarreling…. 

You can just exist

You can just exist. You can watch your chest move up and down. You can stop taking your ability to breathe foregranted. You can marvel at how your body keeps itself going, despite you failing to appreciate it.  Can you hear your heart beating? Quiet yourself down so that you can hear the subtle “THUMP” it uses to announce it’s presence to your body. I always imagine the heart as the lion of the savannah of my body, and the ‘THUMB’ is it’s roar reminding every organ who is really in charge of this life. The brain can die while the heart is told to beat by a man made machine, but when the heart goes, everything goes with it. How many beats per a second can you hear? Count them. Stop and be comfortable. Be unbothered by the need to please others. Instead, right now, please yourself.

Send those guilt ridden feelings on a charted flight to Monday. Don’t make the mistake of mishandling them otherwise they will betray you, they will use your body to expose your worst secrets, so send them gently on their way and agree to a meeting place.  A meeting place like your paper swamped desk at work, it's the one with the dust covered yellow post-it notes all over your cubicle walls.

Today is about God and you. Aunty Solitude can be a daunting and scary relative who’s visits you have been conditioned to dread, but just imagine, on Sunday afternoon she is the one who arrives with a suitcase full of your favorite treats. .

I remember when we were young, after church, we’d spend the afternoon at a swimming pool while my mother napped peacefully on a mukeka in her favorite fetal position, her A line plaited skirt pulled and tucked under her legs.  Using her colouful lesu as a light blanket and one of our sweaters as a  pillow, she would find a nice welcoming area under the shade of a tree or one of the metal  umbrellas. We’d splash around pretending to be dolphins, Super Heroes or Olympic champions, until the cold from the water forced our bodies to shiver and our teeth to loudly and uncontrollably chatter…then we would slowly remove ourselves from the pool and lie on the warm concrete square slabs waiting for the sun to warm us up again, after which we’d dash back into the light blue pristine sparkling water to begin the circle of activity all over again.

Occasionally, as if on cue,  my mother would sit up from her slumber, and look around to ensure that no one was drowning (those swimming lessons are worth every shilling), but also so she could count us  to make sure no one had wondered off. When there is so much greenery around, it’s very tempting for children to slip away and hunt for fairies, because according to the laws of story books this is the perfect environment for them. Especially if you knew that fairies could make wishes come true. I am sure we all had a list of wishes somewhere. Yes you once wrote them down on colorful Mickey Mouse paper with a blue crayon because you couldn’t find the yellow one. The yellow one is always missing. This was the time when being able to draw the letter Z in the right direction was a serious accomplishment.

On a rare Sunday afternoon, when my father wasn’t working you’d find him with us in the kitchen making kabalagala, (banana pancakes). The melt –in- your-mouth-full–of-sweetness kind of pancakes. Munching and swallowing kabalagala still warm and fresh from the fryer, our hands covered in flour, we’d often wonder, “What is Dad’s secret?” “How come mummy’s are not as soft as his?” Never mind that we’d just spent an hour and half kneading the mixture over and over until he was satisfied.  We thought it was magic.  We forgot, he brought a logical scientific approach to everything. That he had calculated the precise measurements of ‘how long’ and ‘how much’ for each ingredient to create the perfect round pancake each time.

On a sunday afternoon, walking barefoot through the garden for no reason at all, suddenly seems like a fabulous idea. When does an adult have the time to do such things? Who cares what the nosey neighbor will say? Today is about God and you, and on a serious note, your long lost friend the sun just called you out to play.

Your  old friend

This grass and your feet used to be so familiar, or have you forgotten? Don’t you recall running barefoot upon it when you were 6 years old dreaming up new adventures with siblings or playmates? Sticks became swords. Basins became shields, bicycles became horses and trees became fortresses. Let’s pretend that mum never saw you climb up a tree in dress. Shhh.. Let’s just pretend.

The local church with it temporary silver tin roofs and donated brown red earthy bricks, is still carrying out praise and worship at 3pm. Their young enthusiastic pastor received his calling to build a church just seven years ago, when he woke up after an alcohol and drug filled night in a large ditch full of rubbish and sewage in Bwaise. He could not fathom how he got there, but he is very sure that God spoke to him. Anyway, who are you to judge? It’s Sunday afternoon, it’s supposed to be magical.  

Can you hear that sound from far away? The local church choir is sending soothing old-school hymns across the many fences along the hill, up to fill the air around you. These are the kind of songs that can heal the broken-hearted and the defeated. The type of songs that restore and renew your faith like that first time you heard psalm 23, or the song ‘Amazing Grace.’

The singing helps you to privately carry on with your Sunday praise, you find yourself bobbing your head and humming to the music, as you wonder through the garden, allowing your feet to become familiar with your old friend, the grass. 

If you have been struggling to take a nap, this is the opportune time to take it.  In your dreams, your soul reminds you of it's bountiful capabilities.  Have you forgotten, you are not of this earth? You are merely visiting. You are an immigrant passing through on a life time holiday package experience. No visa required…. or maybe your physical body is your visa and passport to life, all rolled into one…..who knows?

You can drift in and out of a Sunday afternoon nap undisturbed on the foldable beach chair that was bought from the side road hawkers. The purchase was made out of boredom induced by the back-to-school traffic . Or you could tentively steal away Omukulu’s rocking chair that was a gift from the last Kwanjula. Pick up your book and disappear into another world for the next three hours.  You are safe, no one will come looking for you.

Just pick one and get comfortable..

Not a problem.

No thoughts coming through.

Just space.

Empty space.

 

After all, it’s one of those magical Sunday afternoons designed to make sure you enjoy being.

****Inspired by all the things that go on in my head and 'Big Magic' by Elizabeth Gilbert****