Pass me the Hammer

"Pass me the hammer," Ndugu's deep voice commanded, breaking the silence in the carpentry workshop.

I looked at the hammer, lying just three feet away from the door I was working on. Without a word, I picked it up, glancing at Ndugu briefly, silently signaling my intention to throw it to him. In the next moment, the hammer soared through the air, landing perfectly on the floor beside him.

"Where are your manners?" Ndugu asked, a hint of disapproval in his voice as he watched the hammer bounce effortlessly. He didn't even bother to reach for it, despite my confidence in my aim.

"I thought..." I stammered, the clanking sound of the hammer reverberating through the workshop. Ndugu's face carried a distinct air of disappointment, as always.

Without a word, I walked over to the hammer, picked it up, and handed it to him. His voice carried a subtle condescension as he spoke, "When your elders assign you a task, do it as if it's your own. What if that hammer had hit me?"

"I had calculated everything," I thought, “if you wanted to catch it, you would”; not bothering to turn and face Ndugu.

"I'm talking to you," he commanded, his tone firm.

Taking a deep breath to calm my frayed nerves, I admitted, "I'm sorry for throwing the hammer. I should have handed it over."

Ndugu continued in his condescending tone, "You should have done a lot of things."

I bit back my words; after all, Ndugu was my teacher, and I'd only been here for two weeks. Already, his constant disapproval was getting on my nerves. He spoke with this tone all day and night, seemingly unaware of how hurtful his words could be to his apprentice – that's me. I couldn't help but wonder what I was doing here with this man.

Returning to my task of fixing doorknobs and applying varnish to a door, I grabbed a handful of screws from their box and began to work. In the short time I'd been working with Ndugu, he'd grown accustomed to my silent demeanor. He likely thought I was shy and incapable of standing up for myself. I wondered if that was true, but what was there to push back against? Should I respond to his condescension with equal disrespect? How would I learn carpentry if he saw me as a know-it-all who actually knew nothing?

Ndugu's voice broke my contemplation. "Let me tell you something, Baraza," he imparted, a hint of wisdom lacing his words. "Life is a long journey, and respect is the key that opens doors when you reach your destination."

I switched on the electric drill and continued working, as he had always stressed the importance of diligence. "Shut that thing off when I'm talking to you," he ordered, the annoyance evident in his voice.

Pausing briefly, I gazed at his face, searching for the source of his irritation. I had no desire to engage with him at that moment; it was the second time he'd interrupted my work without reason. We were merely six feet apart, and he could have easily retrieved the hammer himself, just as he had asked for water earlier.

"We need to establish some ground rules," Ndugu shouted as the electric drill hummed to a halt. "I agree," I replied, ready to hear what he had in mind.

"Never throw anything to me," he emphasized, his tone stern. "Do you throw things to your father when he asks?"

My father was a different man, and he didn't raise his voice to others; he believed a man's voice should be heard, even when spoken in a whisper. I had learned that from him, but everyone had their own approach.

"I don't throw things," I admitted, shaking my head in agreement.

Ndugu questioned, "Then why throw them to me?"

"It's just a hammer, and we're in a workshop. Do coaches on the field complain when a player kicks the ball to them?" I thought bitterly.

"Just as in carpentry, respect is crucial. You respect the wood, and it respects you back," Ndugu explained.

"I apologize," I repeated, trying to smooth things over. "I thought I could simply toss it." I couldn't help but notice his own careless handling of screws and wood glue. We often tossed things around the workshop, but his behavior that morning had been unusual. Rita must've done something to upset him, clouding his judgment.

Ndugu continued, "You have the potential to excel, Baraza. You could become the finest carpenter in Hulinde, with a workshop larger than mine, but you have an arrogance about you."

Maybe he was right, or maybe not. "Respect can take you to places you never expected," he stressed, sharing a lesson that was evidently important to him.

"Few people understand this," he continued, lifting a finger for emphasis. "When you wake up in the morning, greet everyone. When you have your own workshop, greet your employees and inquire about their problems. That's how you understand their issues and make them part of your community."

Intrigued, I loosened my grip on the drill. "Imagine how it would feel if one of your employees threw something at you just because you're friendly with them."

The thought made sense, and I would likely be irritated in such a situation, just as I had observed with my father. He wanted a rope from the cart once, and when my brother attempted to toss it to him, the stern look on my father's face forced my brother to walk over and hand it to him.

"Tell me, Baraza, have you ever been in love? Is there a woman who's on your mind?" Ndugu asked, shifting the topic.

I nodded, memories of my first love flooding my mind. We used to stroll along the riverbank, throwing stones at birds as they perched to hunt fish. Her slender face and thin lips had a profound effect on me; I revolved my world around her. Whatever she wanted, I was eager to provide.

"Now imagine this woman, a vision of beauty with eyes like stars and a heart as vast as the universe, never acknowledging your presence in the morning as you wake beside her. How would that make you feel?"

"Devastated," I admitted, imagining the pain if Mila ever treated me that way. The mere thought of not hearing from her felt like a fire burning in my mind.

"As a man, respect is what you have. It's never easy out here; it's a race, even if others claim otherwise. A man is always competing with his desires against those dearest to him, and we don't always win that race," Ndugu explained.

I struggled to grasp the concept. "Is that woman still with you?" he inquired.

I shook my head, admitting, "She left."

"Did she respect you while you were together?" Ndugu probed. "Were her eyes filled with joy when she saw you? Did she eagerly share her day and her worries with you?"

Mila and I had talked endlessly during our riverside strolls, discussing nature and its beauty. We talked about trees, rivers, fish, and everything we encountered.

"She talked a lot, and her smile was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," I recalled, a small smile playing on my lips.

"Did she smile at you even when you denied her requests?" Ndugu asked, his question making me pause.

"Good question," I thought as Ndugu's words hung in the air, his lesson on respect still fresh in my mind. Before I could answer him, the workshop's door swung open, and a customer stepped inside.

She was dressed in a striking blue attire adorned with white flowers, drawing my attention with her elegant style. The dress highlighted her figure, and a hint of cleavage traced a straight line, possibly accentuated by her ample curves or a well-fitted bra. My eyes involuntarily noted these details, a testament to my observational skills honed over time.

Ndugu, always the expert in handling customers, turned to face her with a welcoming smile. He had repeatedly emphasized the importance of customer relations, and it was his role to engage with newcomers. All I did was listen and learn, absorbing the unspoken nuances of this craft.

But as my eyes fell back to the customer, my thoughts involuntarily drifted to Mila. What had she done, anyway? She used to have a list of desires, but her reactions now remained as faint memories, like dust particles drifting in the air. I pondered what our conversations had truly consisted of, aside from our shared observations of nature. Nature was our common language, but surely, our exchanges must’ve run deeper. Yet, with three years passed since her departure, my recollections had grown hazy.

"Baraza!" Ndugu's voice cut through my reverie.

I straightened up, refocusing on the present. "Show her the tables we crafted last week," he instructed.

Leaving my current carpentry task untouched, I dusted myself off and headed toward the store. To my surprise, no one followed my steps, and I turned to find the customer standing beside Ndugu, her expression a mix of indecision and excitement.

"Let's go," I suggested to her, my tone welcoming, "there are several options to choose from." I gestured at the tables outside, indicating that carrying them inside the workshop would be a daunting task. We had crafted ten tables the previous week, and seven had found eager buyers in just a matter of days. Judging by the gleam of enthusiasm in her eyes, it seemed she had spotted a sample and wished to claim one for herself.