poetry

Poetry

Letter to an old friend: Wanjiku wa Comba

/

Wanjiku Wa Comba, My childhood friend and playmate, Do you still remember those days we played in the rain; Despite our parents’ efforts to keep us indoors? Do you remember us sliding on those muddy giant anthills? Do you remember…? That day we were taken ill with fever. Because we could not have enough of the hailstones, Our mvua ya mawe… Wanjiku Wa Comba, My childhood confidant, Do you still remember? How inseparable we were, How everyone kept wondering; Why we would never leave each other’s side? Yes Wanjiku, you the only one I told of the happenings at home. I knew my secret was safe with you, Unlike Kamau, Liz, Otieno and Chebet; Who would laugh out loud and tell the whole world what conspired. I miss these childhood moments, It feels like yesterday at times.   Not to forget teenage, Yeah, Young, wild and “free” I know you know what I mean, Our mothers putting us under scrutiny, A close eye like hawks, Always checking out for signs of morning sickness, Because they said times had changed, And the fear of the unknown…   Yes, and those very lengthy talks About why we should not be seen about toying with the village “boys” Yes Wanjiku, how we tried to hide our small boobs. And how it embarrassed us to see them pop up our dresses For the whole world to see!   And the glory we brought our village, For having produced the best girls to attend high school, And later the prestigious tertiary education albeit That the few men had managed to get never made any good use of it. But showing off in the local clubs.   So Wanjiku, After all these years of toiling, Working against all odds, I am happy to inform you, That it paid, I now own my kiosk Yes, I always wanted to be an entrepreneur, I am making a few dollars a day and I am happy, What did you make of your life? #written July 2014

Poetry

Dawn

/

Dream, Yes,allow yourself to dream, Live, Allow yourself to live your dreams.  Act, Allow yourself to act on your dreams. ? Life can be miserable,  But the hope of tomorrow, Let it be,the drive that you seek. Hope, Hope that tomorrow still counts,  Pray, Pray that when dawn breaks you still have a purpose to live for For even in the darkest of nights,  Dawn still breaks.  Tomorrow will still come

Poetry

For a poor soul

/

For him hustling is his duty,his daily breadto keep him movinghe is only surviving, he brushes shoulders with those of his typedown rive road early in the morningat hasteto scramble for the remnants of a jobyet its still uncertain he would get ithe might end up on an empty stomach again and as he walks back home in the eveninghead bent low as if in prayerhe is bolted to reality by cries of mwizi!mwizi!he takes to his heelsfor his life,he would do anythingalas! he had been pinpointed unknowinglyhe is at the mercy of the mobif the police do not make it in timehe will be gone in the next few minutes!

Poetry

Hope

/

 I dreamt of a better day,  That was yesterday,  So, when it dawned today,  I wished to see a change,  The bloom of the jacaranda trees,  The greening of grass once withered,  A trail, that would lead me to my loved one.  I dreamt of a better day,  And when dawn broke, I found myself in the same quagmire,  Waiting for something not to be seen,  As if all hope had vanished into nothingness.   See, The one thing I forgot,  Could have made all the difference,  That I could plan a thousand times, Wish even in the forever after,  But his plans are amen!   So, I stopped worrying about what tomorrow held, Focused on what I could handle, Let him have his way,  For it was the best. And now, it has made all the difference in my life  

Poetry

Who Will Help Me

/

In my drunken state Right from Wa cucu’s den I bumped right into a crusade Of the dear brethren They had been camping for a week The message being to bring more back to the sheepfold.   In my drunken state Shouting here and there with reckless abandon, Not sure am ready to give anyone any peace, Confused about these messages of a prince of peace A reconciler Yet I have been looking for something to satisfy my soul. Something apart from my dear bottle. This is only misery to me.   In my drunken state I wonder if I stand a chance A chance to know something more, Find a deeper meaning, And in this state I decide to join my dear ‘brethren’.   ‘Dear brethren We are gathered here For our lost brothers and sisters And I walk deep into the crowd, Mumbling something I do not understand But the dear brethren walk away from me Avoiding me like plague As if I am some kind of spirit Who carries along the multiplier effect?   Ironical teachings Is this really what Jesus came down to teach?  

Poetry

I speak for Emma’s demons 

/

It might not have been like that,  An escape from Egypt.  But I wanted to go.  A shoulder to lean on.  A dry river to well with my tears, My home like Sobibor  What I thought, my fortress.   Another Sodom and Gomorrah.    Innocent as I was,  I naively ran into your arms.  Because for you,  Love you exuded,  A shoulder to lean on,  An ear to listen to my teenage drama.  That my Mama never talked about.    But I was wrong.   He tore into my flesh,  I struggled for my dignity,  He pushed and pushed,  As he broke into a sweat.  He tore into my flesh.   My innocence he took away,  My dignity I still cry for it,   My dreams,  Like a whirlwind.  He took away with his bestiality,  Then he left me for dead,  After taking my dignity, virginity and dreams,  And the headlines read.  “Girl raped and left for dead.”  But then , A seed of his madness, he had sowed,  I cried for my future and for my fatherless baby.  And when I look at her.   It still reminds me of that fateful evening.    But sometimes…..  And as lovely as society is.  All fingers of blame were pointed at me,  He vanished without a trace,  No. Society spent a lot of time blaming me,  That they just let him escape.,  Even the long arms of law.  I hope it haunts you wherever you are,   I hope that when you look at your daughters,  You feel that insecurity! 

Poetry

Its Never Business

/

Skip the formalities, get to the real questions,  As if she even had a choice,  Maybe, maybe not,  Time would eventually tell Didn’t they all echo that? So… What’s your take on development, youth participation, gender equity?  Is it even real? Do we have to go through this? Any other question? For I assume those were no questions,  Just another interview,  On another channel, It would come to pass anyway,  Isn’t that right? And the economic, social freedom we sought,  Behind those malicious intentions hid,  And the better tomorrow they sought,  Another day they had to work.  They said its earned And not freely given, Welcome to the kingdom yee slaves. 

Poetry

Mama Africa

/

  Mama Africa, I want to drink from your springs and well, I want to suckle from your full breasts, That are nourished with milk and honey, I want to grow under your watch, As you tell me tales of my great grandfathers, Dating back to generations.   I want you to tell me stories, Of how the maumau fought for freedom in Kenya, Why they would imprison Nelson Mandela for 27 years if not for selfish gain.   How you endured this ill-timed colonialism, And why in the name of our forefathers we would cease calling the rains under the Mugumo trees; And down our snowcapped mountains and started listening to the weather man.   Mama Africa, Teach me your ways, Please help this generation understand, That our forefathers lived of age because they ate of the wild, Boiling and roasting their kill. Let them know that their so-called modern ways are killing them with cancers and incomprehensible diseases.   Mama Africa, Teach me to embrace me for who I am Teach me to love my lovely skin color, Let me know that beauty is not just without but within, I know you wonder why I would trade my beautiful dark color for colors such as white, Isn’t the mzungu dying of skin cancers for lack of melanin?   Remind us that even before the mzungu came, We only wore little patches of skin here and there, Our breasts out to bask in the glory of the morning sun, As butterflies graced our days and colored our brown world then.   Mama Africa, Teach me to embrace my own challenges to stand firm and fight, Teach us that we are the solutions, That we can depend on ourselves and not on foreign aid, Teach us independence like way before colonialism, Independence to form government in kayas and manyattas, Independence of thoughts and own my own vision. Teach me that I must not necessarily subscribe to anything, That I have the will and power, And that the mzungu way is not necessarily right. Mama Africa, Hear the cry of a free willed spirit.  

Poetry

Of The Things They Did

/

This is a far out cry, Echoing through the mountains and valleys,  Of a people long held in captivity,  Of debt and misery,  Of the things generation to generation will tumble upon. This is a far out cry, To a leadership long gone with the winds,  Of selfishness and the betrayal of a people,  Of embezzlement of public funds for self gain,  As they build mansions and fly high

Poetry

Son of Wambugu

/

Son of Wambugu, Marry me if you can, I ain’t got a lot of time,  I promise I will bear you children.   I promise I will bear you children,  That our homestead maybe filled with laughter that echoes up the mountains and through the valleys,  That our kindred may bear us a generation,  Marry me son of Wambugu.    Marry me son of Wambugu, Show the world you are capable,  Prove yourself wrong,  By loving unconditionally,  Let grace and faith be ours.   Let grace and faith be ours, A lifetime of faith and belief,  For we shall inherit the world.   For we shall inherit the world,  If only you could marry me, Please don’t slide into nothingness,  Allow yourself to be loved,  Allow yourself happiness, For all that you can have, If only, a little faith and walking the talk.

Scroll to Top