Golden Crested Crane

GRANDMOTHER STORIES

- Kimberly Long Cockroft

I WAKE BEFORE the sun. In the garden, my grandmother Shosho is already hard at work. I rush to finish weeding before breakfast and accidentally yank a bean plant. In my hurry to collect the eggs, two slip from my hands.

“Muthoni,” Shosho scolds. “We are Kimani women. We move with grace like the golden crested crane. We do not zip around like weaverbirds, too busy to enjoy life. We do not slump and wait for something bad to happen, like the buzzard. We are not sneaky like the owl.”

Shosho pours porridge into two dishes. She watches me scoop the mush into my mouth, but I am eating too fast and spill some on my dress.

“Slow down,” Shosho says. I do not feel graceful, like the golden crested crane. I feel fluttery inside, like a weaverbird.

Today is market day, and I, Muthoni Grace Kimani, will shop alone for the first time.

Shosho tells me a list. “You must get me a pineapple. Smell it to see if it is ripe. Do not pay more than five shillings. Also get a sack of cornmeal and sugar for chai tea.”

She hands me twenty shillings, and I crumple the money into my pocket. “Fold it nicely, Muthoni,” says Shosho. “And stand up straight.” A Kimani woman does not slump like a buzzard.

Shosho says, “Muthoni, if you have money left, you may spend it on something special for yourself.” I know just what I will look for: something to help me become graceful, like a Kimani woman, like a golden crested crane.

On the way to the market, Mzee calls to me. He sits beneath the acacia tree, too old to walk. He tells stories all day, even if no one listens. “Muthoni Grace Kimani,” he says, taking his time with each of my names. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”