Bihar a land where Gandhi started Champaran Satyagraha in support of indigo farmers, has history of producing roaring politician Jaiprakash Narayan who lead the mid 1970s opposition against prime minister Indira Gandhi, also called JP movement, is now bound with caste politics and where health ministers ask what's the death score in infant mortality. Our politicians, the bureaucrats and we as the society had only been pretence towards the cruelty our countrymen goes through. It is heart wrenching to see how our government's policies had been collapsing and have not reached out to those in need, these policies being made for. One sunny day I was heading towards the grocery store to get some food items although it's completely locked down in my state, some essential facilities are open for people. when standing in the line for social distancing, I saw a middle aged man wearing a mask stepping outside a ramshackle house in a weird way. I found it suspicious to believe someone would ever walk out of their house like this. Few minutes passed by, and I saw two women rushing out, that same house shouting and screaming. They were robbed while taking their midday sleep. The occurrence gave me flashbacks when my laptop and mobile phone got stolen from my room. That incident was more strange than shocking to me, that robbery made me think how courageous that man was to rob her house in the time when everybody is in their house because of lockdown, or he was more hungry to pilfer things because he needs it. It was raining the other day, so I went to the balcony to see outside. While glancing over my locality I saw a man sitting in a rickshaw shivering, I was first not sure whether or not to step out of my house but that feeble man's situation made me take steps towards him. I took a bowl full of rice and dal along with me. While going near him I realised that he is the same man who robbed that house midday, that frightened me but with doubt in my head and fear in my heart I anyhow reached him and offered him the bowl. He hesitated at first then accepted it, after he finished his bowl I tried to establish some talk and we talked about various things going around because of coronavirus and lockdown, I couldn't resist myself but asked him about that day of robbery. Firstly he equivocated but then confessed and started crying. He said his name is Radhe and he was just a regular rickshaw driver in around our area but because of lockdown he lost his job and his supply to food and shelter is not certain, he has no money and have no job so left with only option to rob, rob to feed both him and his childrens. We both had tears in our eyes after listening to his problems. Weeks passed by, but I was not able to take that incident out of my head every time I had my meal. I could not help but to think about him and so many more exactly like him, even worse. I could not have just relaxed inside my house and watched people like him suffer, after all their well-being is our responsibility. So I talked to my parents about those things happening and decided to help them in any way possible, either by providing them with food or giving them blankets and temporary shelter in our garage, we did it with complete passion. But I couldn't find Radhe, as he was already weak I feared if he died. Then one day I saw him sitting around the corner in his rickshaw smoking weed, I went to him to ask if he ate anything. He ate almost nothing since three days and has been starving from hunger, so I invited him to my place and gave him food and then we started talking about what he is going to do next and what his future plan about his childrens. He had no positive answer but worry in his eyes. So I proffered his meal along with his childers at my place until he gets his job back. I could sense the relief in his eyes, for him that was everything but for me it was just a help who needs it, so now he can focus on his family and arrange some source of income. We know this pandemic has made our economy crawl on knees but let's not forget these unnamed people around us keeping our city clean or roadside vendors or even daily wage labour, let's be more human toward them and let us restore their believe in humanity because as Mahatma Gandhi said "The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others"

Dear Diary, Thousand apologies for standing you up last night. I was short on kerosene for my primitive lamp 'ntandîkîra'*. I wanted to improvise with a smouldering piece of wood but was afraid to set you ablaze. I remembered the last when hot embers fell on you and a few pages turned to ashes. You still reek of smoke and soot like an incinerator. Away from that, yesterday I pioneered a robbery using my wits and stealth. My elder brother, whom I share our rickety bed with, was the accomplice. It all began when my father came home humming melodiously. The way his tune shifted from diminuendo to crescendo proved utter euphoria. The brown envelope in his hand showed that he was a bearer of good tidings. “Mama Kawira!” he shouted. “Gather the kids. The coffee payslip is here.” The seven of us ran to the compound like a litter of puppies. We had harvested 1000 KGs of coffee berries last season. According to my dad, the latter had made us Sh.65000 richer. We embraced him cordially and made our requests known. “I want a new sweater.” “I need new khakis dad.” “My tunic is torn.” “Why don't I buy you wheat flour to make chapatis* for dinner instead,” my father said. Chapati. A delicacy that came once in a blue moon. The village's most coveted meal. We all agreed without demur. Even our stomachs warmed up a little. My taste buds could not stand the promise of such explosion of flavour. Our mother barked at us and we resumed our chores. We all kept our best behaviour to avoid our prize being revoked. We even ransacked the farm for eucalyptus firewood. The softwood was known to burn moderately; ideal for frying chapatis. When dusk drew nigh, I was sent to borrow a pan from Mwalimu* Kibogi. He was among the chosen few who possessed that cooking tool. He taught Mathematics at ‘O' level. On the road, the children gave me envious stare when I shared the 'good news'. No sooner had my mother started cooking than my idea bulb lit up. Ideology motivated by mischief and greed. Our kitchen is poorly lit by a lamp only illuminating the cooking area. The sufuria where the chapatis were being put was shadowed by sacks of yams hence slightly invisible. I whispered the plan to my brother and we executed the thievery. My brother pretended to go to the toilet and stood outside adjacent to the kitchen wall. There was a crack where I slid him each chapati I managed to steal. At chapati number five, my mother arose suspicion and we had to retreat. “Is there Satan in the house,” she exclaimed. “I swear these chapatis keep on dwindling.” I gave my brother the cue and he sneaked our loot to our bed in the main house. After the sumptuous supper, everyone went to sleep. We could finally unwrap our 'munchies' and enjoy. “You are a genius,” said my brother finishing off his share. “We'll even sneak in the ndengu stew next time,” I added. We all chuckled but our bellies hurt from the overfill. Slumber soon creeped in as energy to the brain had been diverted to deal with the digestion. “Kawira! Come here you little brat!” my mother called me to our room in the following morning. “ What is this?” she was pointing at the crumbs of chapatis all over the blankets. I had been caught with my pants down. I thought Gitonga had swept the bed as agreed. Stupid lad. I swore to skin him alive. But not after my mother had rained uncountable strokes on my bottom. I still marked the heist a success since I had never eaten so many chapatis in one sitting. I learnt the lesson that a good thief should know how to hide their tracks. *Ntandîkîra- A bantu word for a simple kerosene lamp. *chapati- is an unleavened flatbread originating from the Indian subcontinent. Chapatis are made of whole-wheat flour mixed into dough with water, oil and optional salt. *Mwalimu- Swahili for teacher.

They say that our experiences is the mirror of our knowledge. We all have stories to tell, stories that make us feel proud, stories that reveal our bad past and how we managed to change it. We can experience every kind of stories we hear, and the knowledge we spread is pretty much affected by all those experiences we have had in our lives. We learn, we make mistakes, we help others and we even destroy others. But we also forget. We forget some experiences we have had, some worlds we have lived in, some passions we have felt. Those are our unwritten stories. The stories we never wrote down to remember and recount them... or the stories we once decided to erase. The day I started writing was a great day for me, it was the beggining of my unique story. A story that helped me create a great bond with something few people recognise. Writing helps me stare at myself like a usual mirror does, but this mirror doesn't reveal my face, but my inner self- even some of the hidden thoughts and emotions of mine that nor me nor anyone else recognises. In the old days, I only used to look at mirrors just to check if my hair looks good or if my clothes are a good pair. Now, things are more complicated. I can now look at myself and recognise all those actions in the past that piece by piece created the present me. Although it sounds nice, there are times when I feel this "power" being an unecessery burden. It reveals memories of the past, memories that were nicely closed up in deepest shadows of my memory. And then, when i open those chests, I remember tales of mine I left unwritten. Tales and stories. Some of which I avoided to absorb their lesson, and some which I never wished to think about again. Nonetheless, after all this time, I feel a special sympathy for those stories. And I'm not referring only to my own forgotten stories. But to all those stories each of us has locked inside a forgotten chest of his memory, while they could be in the edge of their mouth as recounting them to others. Those stories, and every single experience in our life, has its own unique gifts to offer. But since we decided to forget them, they are all gone and missing. However, even though I consider some memories forgotten and lost inside my mind's shadows, there are moments were I speak out words forged by knowledge and experiences that I never remember my self wielding. Isn't that wonderful? Isn't that unique? Those memories are hidden inside us, and even though we have placed them aside and forgot them, they are always there to spare their wisdom when needed. Sometimes, we might think that we are just recounting to people our life's great story or a unique experience of ours, but this great story will always be accompanied by other suplamentary stories that slipped away from our attention, but they continue offering us their wisdom and the knowledge to forge our own experiences and lessons in life. Yet, we don't remember those stories, but only the great ones. There are times I can imagine myself unlocking some forgotten chests in my memory to reveal their content, but it is usually rotten and half-left. "You came back too late", I remind myself in these situations, so that one day I will be able to apreciate every single of my memories and keep them in my memory. I'll make the decision to travel in time, and visit an old castle which is now nothing but ruins. It was probably raided by an army and people wrote stories for this war, or maybe it was just forgetten and Death took it by his side as if it is an old man. I walk inside, I can imagine the people walking here and there to complete their daily tasks. I see some elves and sorcerers! Maybe it was a castle of another world. "Excuse me there boy, where do I park my dragon?", I heard an old man saying. "In the dragon stable, sir", the boy replied. In the market there was this sorcerer buying his potions, while the knight sharpened his sword to fight the next monster. The princess would be the prize. So many tales in just a few moments. Those small moments were the ones to forge this great castle piece by piece, and without them there would be no great battle to be written in books. Yet, those small moments are all forgetten since the castle has been ruins. All you see now is ashes, cracked stones and... a light, a hope. The water in the creeks begins to glow thanks to the sun's rays that come through the broken windows. And then, you see some shadows, I swear they were dancing some wonderful, distinct dance, like those creatures in the castle centuries ago, as if they have never been forgotten.