Friday Feature: Elaine Omwango
Elaine Omwango is a lawyer who has spent the last decade reading and writing speculative fiction. Her previous and forthcoming publications in Flame Tree Publishing, the African Writer, and Mystery Publishers explore Afro-modernity and Afro-futurism through the lens of familial, societal, and economic relationships. Born and raised in Nairobi, she is a lover of iced coffee, sunny days, and dancing. When not battling mystical creatures and journeying across mythical lands, she enjoys cooking, paints very badly, and occasionally dusts off her violin only to put it back in its case unplayed. Having managed to escape the courtroom, Elaine now works as a strategy and policy professional on projects that sit at the intersection of economics, politics, and social impact. She lives in Kenya with her family and hopes to write her next novel soon if she can stop reading other people’s novels instead.
These Shadows Live
Nawalu had set out to receive one hundred rejections at the start of the year and was going strong with ninety-eight.
In truth, the metric had been nothing more than a thinly-veiled excuse to put her paintings ‘out there’ as her best friend Dalamia insisted.
Though she hadn’t painted since her car accident five years ago, one hundred had seemed an impossible number, and yet the evidence in her inbox proved otherwise.
Maybe if it hadn’t been so long she might have been able to rely on the strength of her reputation, but Nairobi’s art scene was as mercurial as the city’s weather. Veterans either carried their craft well into old age or ceded ground to younger, hungrier novices.
Nawalu’s phone rang from the kitchen and she picked it up dazedly, staring unseeingly at the pile of dirty dishes from yesterday’s sleepover.
A twinge in her right thumb signalled that the rainy season was fast approaching. Her body did strange things like that these days.
“Did you send it through yet?” Dalamia asked in lieu of a greeting.
They’d been best friends since primary school and stayed in touch through monthly calls when Dalamia moved halfway across the world to Singapore for work. Last night’s girls’ night had been a sort of welcome back party after Dalamia had ditched her job and decided to move back to Kenya.
“Hello to you too,” Nawalu said, filling a glass with water and taking a long sip to ease a slight headache.
Three empty bottles of prosecco stared at her mercilessly from the windowsill.
“Nawalu,” Dalamia said in what could only be described as a whine.
Nawalu had stopped talking about art since the accident, but she’d been a little tipsy last night and may have rambled about her current piece. It was a water colour rendition of Samburu pastoralists journeying across the Chalbi Desert at dawn in search of water. Her day job as an ecologist had translated into immense travel over the years, but the Chalbi had interspersed her dreams (and several waking moments) for weeks after she’d returned to Nairobi. So she’d chosen to do what she always did when she couldn’t get an image out of her mind.
Nawalu glanced at the canvas which sat a few feet from her living room window. “I’m laying the finishing touches.”
“Nawalu.” That was very much a rebuke. “The deadline is today.”
“I know. I just need—”
Her computer dinged. “Oh, my god.”
“Oh, my god,” Dalamia said with glee. “Is it an acceptance?”
Nawalu’s stomach sank as soon as she read the first line of the email. Thank you for submitting your work to the Nairobi Art Monthly. Unfortunately, we are unable to accept your piece at this time. However, we encourage you to…
“I’m sorry,” Dalamia said softly.
Nawalu sank into her desk chair and watched her rejection folder climb to ninety-nine. “I think I need a break.”
“From painting?”
Nawalu sighed. “From everything.”
The challenge had been fun in the beginning, but between constant work travel and even more constant rejections, she was feeling drained and uninspired.
“Can I call you later?” she asked. “I’m going to take a walk.”
“Sure,” Dalamia said. “I’ll come by after work and we can hang out.”
Nawalu said, “Thanks,” even though she didn’t feel like hanging out. It had been ten years since she’d been able to spend time with her best friend and she really did want to make up for it.
“For what it’s worth, I think you should still submit the Chalbi Oasis,” Dalamia said. “It’s an amazing piece.”
“Thanks,” Nawalu said again and hung up not long after.
On autopilot, she stepped into her shoes, locked her front door, and started down the street with no particular destination in mind.
It was the last time she would see the Chalbi Oasis as it was.
*
The Nairobi National Museum was a proud three-story building that had been renovated five years ago to make room for newly discovered fossils, repatriated artefacts, and a wing dedicated to showcasing up-and-coming artists.
Nawalu hadn’t meant to end up there, but the path from her house was so well trodden that she was unsurprised by the outcome. The guard smiled in acknowledgement and waved her through.
The empty courtyard echoed with the fountain’s splashing of water.
A light breeze ruffled Nawalu’s shirt, carrying the scent of rain.
A sign in the lobby proclaimed: Turkana’s Paranthropus boisei on temporary display until 29 February. See it in the East Wing while you still can!
Having been on the expedition that uncovered the fossil remains, Nawalu scanned the rest of the posters for something new.
A temporary graffiti exhibit in the North Wing. New additions to the Wanga Crown Jewels. An immersive soapstone carving experience.
She was about to give up and wander the garden when she saw a faded poster about the Cradle of Mankind gallery
The Langat triplets return to the scene for the first time in a decade with a dramatic retelling of the evolution of mankind! Doors open at 5 pm. Free entry, donations welcome!
A quick glance at her watch revealed that Nawalu was only five minutes late, and with how far removed acting was from her medium of choice, this was exactly what she needed.
She briefly panicked about interrupting the show, but the gallery was so full that the doors had been left open and she managed to squeeze herself between the sound system at the back.
An old woman in a woollen jumper and thick glasses smiled at her.
“Do you mind if I lean on you a little bit?” she whispered loud enough to attract several reproachful glances. “My back isn’t what it used to be.”
Eager to dispel the attention they were attracting, Nawalu shrugged.
The woman’s shoulder was warm and she smelled pleasantly of cloves and mint. Her hair was shot through with silver strands, and though her skin was wrinkled, age had failed to dull its luminosity.
The play was entertaining, but Nawalu found herself unable to focus, especially after she received a calendar alert to submit the Chalbi Oasis before midnight.
The play ended, the old woman thanked her, and the gallery emptied.
Nawalu sank into one of the chairs and let out a heavy breath as the crew busied themselves with packing up. It was only eight o’clock, but she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and forget… everything.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
She reached for it and frowned when her fingers closed around something warm and smooth that most definitely didn’t feel like a phone.
She pulled a leather-bound book out of her coat pocket and examined it in the gallery’s fluorescent lighting.
Her phone vibrated again.
Dalamia letting her know something had come up at work and they should grab lunch tomorrow instead.
Nawalu hurriedly responded in the affirmative, then returned to examining the book.
It definitely wasn’t hers, a fact that was even more evident from the neat handwriting contained within.
On communing with the ancestors.
Surrender is the essential ingredient. One must become a receptacle, open to the wisdom granted from those who walked a similar path thousands of years ago, a thousand times over. The value of this cumulative insight is immeasurable, and suitable payment has historically been extracted in a form and manner distressing to the modern individual.
Nawalu flipped back to the first page, but there was no title, author, or contact information listed. Simply the words: From the desk of the Chosen.
Another chapter was titled: On the danger of divinity.
Ancient societies revered divinity above all else, oftentimes striving for it at the expense of that which humanity naturally clings to: love, joy, and belonging. However, this struggle represented not the desire to be a god (though that was sometimes the case), but the pursuit of excellence. One must be careful not to ascribe the same quality, or indeed exact the same demands, of one’s ancestors. They were, after all, the visible consequences of this eternal struggle.
And another chapter: On the danger of demands (and the wisdom of inquiries)
“We’re closing up now, ma’am.”
Nawalu started, then laughed a little when she realised it was just the security guard.
“Right, sorry. Thank you.”
She dropped some cash into the donation box and drove home where she set the notebook on the kitchen counter as she changed into pyjamas and got herself a glass of water. When she returned, the book had fallen open to an ink-splotched page.
On the necessity of embracing incertitude.
*
Nawalu didn’t so much wake up the next morning as drift out of a state of half-consciousness. After a long night, most of which she’d spent reading the leather-bound journal and agonising over the Chalbi Oasis, she needed coffee and a slow morning.
Upon reaching for milk in the fridge, she was bombarded with a neon red magnet proclaiming that she should ‘just do it!’ A gift from Dalamia’s travels.
Unbidden, Nawalu’s mind flashed back to the entry she’d spent an hour rereading yesterday.
On the necessity of embracing incertitude.
1. Close your eyes and slow your breathing. Divorce yourself from the hustle and bustle of the modern world.
2. Allow your mind to wander. Think of everything. Or think of nothing at all.
3. Feel the spark within you. Reach for it, coax it forward like a newborn lamb.
4. Embrace the expanse laid bare by singular focus. Your ancestry hovers just beneath the surface, the cumulative experience of all those who came before you.
5. Descend, and think no more of your troubles.
The more she’d read the entries, the more they’d seemed like a cross between meditation and self-reflection.
Perhaps the owner of the journal had found peace in these practices and sought to document them.
Nawalu let her eyes drift closed and allowed her mind to wander.
It went first to the Chalbi Oasis, predictably, but then it soared to the actual desert and the people she’d met there. The stark contrast between their nondescript clothing and colourful jewellery. Blues, greens, reds, purples, and all manner of colours except those natural to deserts.
Her chest tightened and some unnameable emotion welled in her. So strong was it that her stomach dropped and she staggered back.
The coffee maker beeped.
Suddenly hot, Nawalu yanked open the fridge and scooped all her condiments onto the kitchen counter. Mustard was such a beautiful yellow. How did they make it look so vibrant? It was nothing like the dull red of tomato sauce, several shades away from blood but still capable of virulent stains. Then there was the verdant green of guacamole, the creamy white of mayonnaise, and the cobalt tint of blueberries so close to ripening.
There was no such thing as too much.
She needed all of it.
She needed more.
“Oh my goodness.”
The words snapped Nawalu out of her daydream, and she vaguely had the sense of something dropping from her hands.
Dalamia stood in her sitting room, bags of food in hand and shock on her face.
Nawalu glanced behind her and gasped at the mess of condiments that covered her island kitchen.
“I uh—” She reached for a rag and nearly tripped over empty bottles of tomato sauce and mustard. “I was making coffee and got a little…”
“You mean that coffee sitting on the counter?” Dalamia asked.
Nawalu glanced at the untouched cup of coffee. “Yes, I— what are you doing here?”
“We had a lunch date, remember?” Dalamia set the bags of food on the coffee table and came to examine the kitchen island. “You weren’t answering your phone, and I thought you were in bed depressed, so I brought your favourite.”
Ghanaian cuisine.
A smile spread across Nawalu’s face. “I’m starving.”
“I’ll bet.” Dalamia glanced around apprehensively. “So, is this a new technique?”Nawalu cleared her throat. “Yeah, all the Gen Z artists are doing it.” She swallowed down her unease at the fact that she couldn’t remember the four hours between waking up and now. “Let me get some plates. I’ll clean this up later.”
*
Nawalu heaved a sigh of relief when Dalamia left. They’d formed a fast friendship in university ten years ago and Dalamia was one of the sweetest people Nawalu knew but she’d been unable to focus during lunch. Even the food, which had excited her at first, had turned sour when Dalamia inquired about her next project and whether she intended to submit a digital print of her kitchen counter.
Of course she didn’t.
It was just… a mess.
A beautiful mess.
Nawalu hesitated at the voice.
Go on, take a picture. Just one won’t hurt.
That had definitely come from outside her head.
But a picture certainly wouldn’t hurt.
She snapped a quick picture on her phone and got to work scrubbing down the kitchen. After that, she took a long shower and called a cab to the museum. This side of rush hour, there were barely any cars on the road and Nawalu found herself staring at the picture she’d taken. The colours were even more vibrant on her phone.
Best work in months, no offence.
Her eyes snapped to the driver, but he was focused on navigating the University Way roundabout. Not to mention the voice had been distinctly feminine and incredibly scratchy.
Nawalu patted her left breast where the notebook was warm beneath her coat.
We did a number on that one.
Nawalu glanced around nervously. “Can you turn on the radio?”
“Huh?” The driver took the second exit and continued along Uhuru Highway.
What do you think it will take to get her to send it in? Imagine seeing our work in art galleries all over the country.
“The window.” Nawalu fiddled urgently with the knob. “I can’t get it open.”
The remaining five minutes were the longest of her life, and Nawalu suspected the driver gave her a less than stellar rating after dropping her off. She strolled past the gates, heedless of the guard’s greeting and straight to the admissions office. She would hand over the journal to Lost and Found at once and go back to her normal life.
A cool breeze swept leaves across the courtyard.
“Hi Nawalu,” Imali said from behind the front desk as she wrote up a ticket. “Where are you off to today?”
Nawalu grasped the notebook inside her coat pocket. “I have something to…” Her voice broke.
Don’t do it, child.
Imali didn’t look up from the ticket where she’d already written Nawalu’s full name. “Sorry, what was that?”
We came to you for a reason.
Nawalu’s fingers tightened around the notebook.
“I—” Nawalu cleared her throat. “I really enjoyed yesterday’s show and thought I’d see it again. While they’re still in town.”
“I’ve seen it three times myself. They’re phenomenal.” Imali smiled and handed Nawalu her ticket. “They don’t start until six, though.”
It was only half past four.
Nawalu wandered the museum aimlessly until she found herself in the Political History exhibit. She recognised many of the portraits from her younger years when she’d visited the gallery on innumerable field trips. Mekatilili wa Menza with her polished spear and vibrant headdress. Field Marshal Kirima with her cow-hide coat and steely determination. Had such women ever felt fear? Doubt?
Weight settled in Nawalu’s chest.
Had they wanted to quit and kept going anyway?
How?
“Psst, over here.”
It was one of the voices she’d heard in the taxi.
Nawalu’s gaze snapped to a portrait in the corner. It must have been a new one because she didn’t recognise the woman depicted even after reading the name Cherop Koech beneath. A regal woman with long locs and thick eyebrows, she had lived and died in the 1800s and had revolutionised livestock farming amongst the Nandi.
Once more, Nawalu examined her face but couldn’t remember having learnt about her.
“Do you have it?”
Nawalu glanced around, but the gallery was empty. All students had long since returned to school, and it was too early for office workers to have gotten off work.
“Hello! I’m talking to you,” the voice said insistently.
Nawalu caught a flash of movement from the portrait and nearly collapsed from shock.
“Yes, you. Eyes over here.”
The woman’s lips had moved!
“I’m actually going mad.” Nawalu laughed. “Damn, I thought I had a few more paintings in me.”
“Silly girl, you’re not going mad,” Cherop said and Nawalu couldn’t help staring at her mouth as it moved. The portrait was actually talking. “Do you have it?”
“Have what?”
“Is she the one?”
Another one of the voices from the taxi.
Nawalu whipped around just in time to catch another flash of movement from a portrait across the room.
This time she recognised the woman depicted as Cierume, the legendary 19th-century warrior known for her use of a dancing stick in battle.
“Quiet while I find out,” Cherop said.
“It’s finally time,” the diviner and activist Ciokaraine M'Barungu said.
“Silence,” Prophetess Syokimau boomed.
A hush fell over the gallery.
Nawalu didn’t realise she was shaking until Cherop asked her to step closer to the portrait.
“I believe you have something that belonged to me.”
Nawalu withdrew the notebook from her coat before she knew what she was doing.
A chorus of relief washed over the portraits.
“No, it’s yours now,” Cherop said when Nawalu tried to give it back.
Anyway, it wasn’t like the woman could reach out from the portrait and take it.
Or could she?
Nawalu shivered.
“The power in that journal has been passed from woman to woman for over six hundred years. Now, it is yours to pass on.”
Nawalu glanced disbelievingly at the notebook in her hands.
“How?” was all she could think to ask.
Cherop smiled. “No clue. But I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Nawalu couldn’t help a frustrated sigh. Even when the universe conspired to prove her madness, there was no easy way out.
“How many women do you think have gone through life feeling sorry for themselves?” Cherop demanded. “Are you aiming to be a statistic?”
Nawalu thought back to the Chalbi Oasis, which she’d grudgingly submitted and was waiting to be rejected. What if the reviewers could sense her self-doubt through the image? Was that why the mess — abstract, she corrected — on her kitchen counter had felt so refreshing?
“I want to be more,” she said softly.
Cherop smiled. “Good.”
###
Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats.
