SUNRISE IN KENYA

I am grateful for this glorious, special morning. The gods must have believed I deserved to be woken up to watch the sunrise from this cliff high above the small villages dotting the horizon like the stars exposed just a few hours ago across the Kenyan sky. The roosters did their duty as nature’s snooze alarm nudged me to rise and embrace the dawn.

As I meandered down the old stone steps to the path, I could hear the distant voices of children singing, their melodic vibrations in tune with the wind blowing through my long hair not held back by my hoodie. The chair I found on the gazebo, low to the ground, feels like a perch, providing an eagle’s eye view of the green expanse before me. The plateau in the immediate forefront feels like a moat surrounding the hilltop gazebo from where I sit. Beyond that is the valley, where my friend lies with his soon-to-be-wife and their newborn baby. I’m here to celebrate their engagement as one of a handful of his chosen family. His family and her family will join as one tomorrow amidst a ceremony I’m sure to remember and recall many times over if this sunrise is any indication. The last layer, a mountain range, rises to an elevation nearly equivalent to my own, creating a distinct horizon line, the edge of Mother Earth’s vulva opening as she gives birth to a new day.

The birds are chirping, and the roosters are still crowing as I sit on the edge of this stone foundation. The tall billowy grasses before me, which forced their way through the thick sod planted long ago, sway in a random sequence, apart and separate, yet all together as they embrace the new sun and their mother’s breath as she blows her blessing for the new day.

My body warms up as the sun rises to the point the layers I’m shrouded in fall away. A pile of wood shaped like one would use for a massive bonfire stands proudly before me, as if against the sun’s pending force. I wonder if it’s a Kenyan sweat lodge, some other ceremonial shelter, or just a pile of sticks. A well-worn flag clings to a tall stick stuck into the ground like a crucifix as it blows in the wind. It’s purple cotton, faded like a vintage Famolare sticker saved for decades as a reminder of how a pair of shoes can make a woman feel as she deals with daily life.

The children’s voices grow more numerous. Many kilometers away, the group on the left of the plateau seems to be singing, while others, scattered across the horizon, collectively chatter. The sun is now fully born, alive, and breathtaking. His magnanimous presence fills the sky with a yellow light that filters through the handful of trees around me. I’m pretty sure those green avocados securely attached to the tree like an umbilical cord are glad for this new dawn and the unfolding of heat expected today.

Nature is my favorite music. The textures of the melodies and layers of the rhythm, combined with the lyrics sung by the children and animals, work their way into a sound one cannot forget upon the return to what is…the other side of life.