Echoes of my dying foot steps,
And fond memories of a love cherished:
Shall, at cock crow, die.
Perhaps it will be a gesture of relief,
From a dreadful battle for freedom and dispossesion.
I will together bundle my nothings,
And accompany darkness to nowhere--
Never to return!
Friday 24 October 2014
Thirsty at Heart.
Politics
of love are worse than of power. There are no tribal alignments. There
is no divide and rule. There is no military conquest. No. Meriting
relies more or less on wits, perseverance and fate. Not might. So my
cause was hard to bear. An uphill task. See?
For her I had purchased a bouquet of roses. Expensive though! But she deserved it. It deserved her too.
Getting into a woman's heart, especially the rare gems that befit the 'miss universe' title is no easy. They are resistant to any magipower of seduction. It ain't as easy as ejaculating or drinking. Whatever! I was determined to have her; even if I was to fleece myself to death. A good farm is worth any form of investment-- if returns are fathomable. She meant the world to me.
However, delivering the gift was a mind-gnawing nightmare. I had to execute it myself. Maybe I could be elated by her smile. Maybe I could feel her warm hand, if fate permits a handshake. But I didn't know how and when. '' It's to be on a special day'', my friend Safara had suggested. '' And in a swaggerific way eh! In a palatial city hotel, at a high table-- dirtied by all kinds of delicacies on earth.'' It seemed a task doomed to fail; should Samba be a zealous materialist.
The world is swollen with women; but deficient in ladies-- wife materials. Samba belonged to the latter. She exhibited angelic traits that made her undoubtedly the first and greatest beneficiary of God's original clay, sweat and skill during creation. I only felt alive by glancing at her. I craved for her. Perhaps she was created for me. I thought.
I sought for her. A ripe berry should be quickly harvested when ripe lest it be punctured by birds. Moreover, a tree is fast cut down once it comes of age; otherwise someone else may cut it. However, my approaches attracted her not. Oh, God they were crude! She never felt and acknowledged my presence. She abhored 'shit' from a third class, and title-less survivor and victim of Kenyanism. Ati she had no time! For heaven's sake, I wondered why she was violating the doctrine which abates discrimination of whatever kind. She was a staunch christian believer. Though I failed to decipher in what.
Samba was a hard nut to crack. My amateurish tactics in seduction could have made me infatuate to death with fantasis were it not for Safara. Although he helped alot to achieve nothing, I acquired some tips worth boasting of.
Safara was a nasty guy. Unpredictable and unreliable like the meteorological department. He could soil your soup before you could gulp it. And he could easily redeem you from a hangman's noose when least expected. Therefore, I best avoided him during times of merry, but sought for him during times of worry. Now I needed him badly like water to a desert dweller. He was a staunch believer in the 'tit for tat' doctrine, but he stunned me when he just volunteered to help. Wonders! Perhaps it was for blessings from above.
He was a professor of sexology and seduction at the University of Life. Though it baffled me upon discovering that he was women-phobic. He had never had a woman in his wretched life. Damn!
''I'm an expert Pal! I could own all women on earth. King Solomon would be no match for me.'' He argued. '' And I'd be unfair to dummies like you...''. He sweat and breathed thunderously. Thence he would hit the bottle, watch porn and smoke heavily like a chimney.
He had tried hard to change my mannerisms. Perhaps I tasted how being a gentleman is. I changed my wardrope and downed the forest of hair on my head; full of wild creatures! Before buying the roses.
The Valentine day was past tense. Samba's birthday was a nightmare to know. These, according to Safara, were the ideal days in a woman's life. Hence worth proposing. Parties and other merry occassions were rare like a chicken's urine. Unlike funerals. But it is horrible to propose or angage at a funeral, amidst tears. Death haunts love. See? Good. Getting her proved impossible. I nearly faltered, fated and quit. But quiters never win.
Via inquiries, I learned with disgust that Samba's birthday, also the Valentine day, had long past. She had celebrated and forgotten. I had to wait; despite the gnawing impatience.
It took centuries. Things happened. They threatened my faith and dedication to the cause. Achieving it seemed bleak and impossible like realizing the 'Vision 2030' in Kenya.
However, I wasn't alone in dire need of Samba. The race to a woman's heart has many competitors. Snails and horses. So we were. One of my rivals bought me off. I devoured the fool's dough and intensified my quest. Though underground. But harder now. Someone was craving for what I was supposed to eat. He discovered me instead, before I could get far. The dude had hired many spies. He cornered me, with his gang's aid, and gave me a thorough beating. I nearly died. But Samba was worth dying for anyway. As posited by the following poem:
... Once in a while you'll chance upon angels--
Their hearts so cool like fresh milk.
So men slay each other over them,
You'll have to choose love or death.
If you choose love, my son:
Mess not with an angel;
You'll be courting disaster!
But if you choose death,
Then be a martyr of a love worthwhile...
Nonetheless, I sympathized with him upon discovering that Samba had humiliated him publicly. Another rival invited me for a duel. I thrashed him. He opted out for me. Another nut busied himself with bad-mouthing my name and lynching my character. Another one, Fuso, perhaps tougher than all, promised me death. The mug is blind. He had spotted us shaking hands in a not-so-bad-way and mistook us to be romancing. Anyway, these were merely a frog's noise; they can't bar an elephant from drinking water. They were bee stings which cannot scare a honey-comber from harvesting honey.
The day of reckoning came at last. I dressed to kill. Whatever that means! '' It makes your image dazzle'', Safara said. I smuggled myself into Samba's apartment, trailed by Safara. Uninvited. Fancy that! Cool. We partied; stuffed our tummies full and irrigated our throats. It was Christmas in February! I handed my treasured gift to her when the moment came. But oh, sweet Jesus! I almost puked on her expensive, short, new, red, Chinese, woolen dress. She took my gift with distaste, reserving undue disgust due to many eyes present. There were plenty of flowers, and other presents. Most of them outdid mine in quality. They were choking the little space available. So she put mine into a dustbin nearby and forgot. The devil in me incited me to strangle her; but I refused. I loved her.
I was the saddest man on the continent. Furious, unforgiving and inconsolable like a seasoned presidential aspirant robbed of victory by a mildly intelligent political greenhorn: in fairly corrupt General Elections. I was thinking of visiting a witch doctor when she called a few days later. How she got my number, only heaven knows. My heart warmed up. I almost died of excitement when she proposed for a meeting. ''All is well. Finally you've got her,'' I whispered to my heart.
I was bored by the meeting. I hated it. I regretted consenting to meet that tormenting angel. I wish I knew. We argued. We bargained. We disagreed to agree.
'' Look, I'm just like married. You won't have me'', Samba posited.
'' Show me the papers then, and the ring'', I retorted.
'' Just understand Pal''.
''Not that easily dear. I can't go against the dictates of my heart''.
Losing wasn't my option. Perhaps not her. That she is taken made me to flinch not. After all, everything good on Earth is taken. You only have to fight for your share. Something I was devoted to.
'' I may not appeal to your taste'', I said after ages of silence. '' But I'm the right man for you...''
''But I've one already...''
''He is a fake!'' I cried. Just crown me a mpango wa siri then...''
'' NO Pal! '' Silence. Thundering hearts. ''I know how you feel. It's hard... I don't know what to do.''
''I suppose you know it better. I've told you already.'' I implored. ''Things aren't as easy as you think.'' She said, almost in a whisper. I wondered where the hell we're headed to. I was damn bored and angry. I rose up to disappear. Then she motioned me to wait.
'' Well. Be patient.'' I wished it could have been a sentence to hell. Patience my foot! I was born or rather denied it when God was issuing out virtues. I had abundant impatience!
'' Don't wane Pal, I beseech you. Let's be friends first before pondering on what ails you.'' She implored. She tickled my heart.
What else was I to say?
(c)Wafula P'Khisa.
For her I had purchased a bouquet of roses. Expensive though! But she deserved it. It deserved her too.
Getting into a woman's heart, especially the rare gems that befit the 'miss universe' title is no easy. They are resistant to any magipower of seduction. It ain't as easy as ejaculating or drinking. Whatever! I was determined to have her; even if I was to fleece myself to death. A good farm is worth any form of investment-- if returns are fathomable. She meant the world to me.
However, delivering the gift was a mind-gnawing nightmare. I had to execute it myself. Maybe I could be elated by her smile. Maybe I could feel her warm hand, if fate permits a handshake. But I didn't know how and when. '' It's to be on a special day'', my friend Safara had suggested. '' And in a swaggerific way eh! In a palatial city hotel, at a high table-- dirtied by all kinds of delicacies on earth.'' It seemed a task doomed to fail; should Samba be a zealous materialist.
The world is swollen with women; but deficient in ladies-- wife materials. Samba belonged to the latter. She exhibited angelic traits that made her undoubtedly the first and greatest beneficiary of God's original clay, sweat and skill during creation. I only felt alive by glancing at her. I craved for her. Perhaps she was created for me. I thought.
I sought for her. A ripe berry should be quickly harvested when ripe lest it be punctured by birds. Moreover, a tree is fast cut down once it comes of age; otherwise someone else may cut it. However, my approaches attracted her not. Oh, God they were crude! She never felt and acknowledged my presence. She abhored 'shit' from a third class, and title-less survivor and victim of Kenyanism. Ati she had no time! For heaven's sake, I wondered why she was violating the doctrine which abates discrimination of whatever kind. She was a staunch christian believer. Though I failed to decipher in what.
Samba was a hard nut to crack. My amateurish tactics in seduction could have made me infatuate to death with fantasis were it not for Safara. Although he helped alot to achieve nothing, I acquired some tips worth boasting of.
Safara was a nasty guy. Unpredictable and unreliable like the meteorological department. He could soil your soup before you could gulp it. And he could easily redeem you from a hangman's noose when least expected. Therefore, I best avoided him during times of merry, but sought for him during times of worry. Now I needed him badly like water to a desert dweller. He was a staunch believer in the 'tit for tat' doctrine, but he stunned me when he just volunteered to help. Wonders! Perhaps it was for blessings from above.
He was a professor of sexology and seduction at the University of Life. Though it baffled me upon discovering that he was women-phobic. He had never had a woman in his wretched life. Damn!
''I'm an expert Pal! I could own all women on earth. King Solomon would be no match for me.'' He argued. '' And I'd be unfair to dummies like you...''. He sweat and breathed thunderously. Thence he would hit the bottle, watch porn and smoke heavily like a chimney.
He had tried hard to change my mannerisms. Perhaps I tasted how being a gentleman is. I changed my wardrope and downed the forest of hair on my head; full of wild creatures! Before buying the roses.
The Valentine day was past tense. Samba's birthday was a nightmare to know. These, according to Safara, were the ideal days in a woman's life. Hence worth proposing. Parties and other merry occassions were rare like a chicken's urine. Unlike funerals. But it is horrible to propose or angage at a funeral, amidst tears. Death haunts love. See? Good. Getting her proved impossible. I nearly faltered, fated and quit. But quiters never win.
Via inquiries, I learned with disgust that Samba's birthday, also the Valentine day, had long past. She had celebrated and forgotten. I had to wait; despite the gnawing impatience.
It took centuries. Things happened. They threatened my faith and dedication to the cause. Achieving it seemed bleak and impossible like realizing the 'Vision 2030' in Kenya.
However, I wasn't alone in dire need of Samba. The race to a woman's heart has many competitors. Snails and horses. So we were. One of my rivals bought me off. I devoured the fool's dough and intensified my quest. Though underground. But harder now. Someone was craving for what I was supposed to eat. He discovered me instead, before I could get far. The dude had hired many spies. He cornered me, with his gang's aid, and gave me a thorough beating. I nearly died. But Samba was worth dying for anyway. As posited by the following poem:
... Once in a while you'll chance upon angels--
Their hearts so cool like fresh milk.
So men slay each other over them,
You'll have to choose love or death.
If you choose love, my son:
Mess not with an angel;
You'll be courting disaster!
But if you choose death,
Then be a martyr of a love worthwhile...
Nonetheless, I sympathized with him upon discovering that Samba had humiliated him publicly. Another rival invited me for a duel. I thrashed him. He opted out for me. Another nut busied himself with bad-mouthing my name and lynching my character. Another one, Fuso, perhaps tougher than all, promised me death. The mug is blind. He had spotted us shaking hands in a not-so-bad-way and mistook us to be romancing. Anyway, these were merely a frog's noise; they can't bar an elephant from drinking water. They were bee stings which cannot scare a honey-comber from harvesting honey.
The day of reckoning came at last. I dressed to kill. Whatever that means! '' It makes your image dazzle'', Safara said. I smuggled myself into Samba's apartment, trailed by Safara. Uninvited. Fancy that! Cool. We partied; stuffed our tummies full and irrigated our throats. It was Christmas in February! I handed my treasured gift to her when the moment came. But oh, sweet Jesus! I almost puked on her expensive, short, new, red, Chinese, woolen dress. She took my gift with distaste, reserving undue disgust due to many eyes present. There were plenty of flowers, and other presents. Most of them outdid mine in quality. They were choking the little space available. So she put mine into a dustbin nearby and forgot. The devil in me incited me to strangle her; but I refused. I loved her.
I was the saddest man on the continent. Furious, unforgiving and inconsolable like a seasoned presidential aspirant robbed of victory by a mildly intelligent political greenhorn: in fairly corrupt General Elections. I was thinking of visiting a witch doctor when she called a few days later. How she got my number, only heaven knows. My heart warmed up. I almost died of excitement when she proposed for a meeting. ''All is well. Finally you've got her,'' I whispered to my heart.
I was bored by the meeting. I hated it. I regretted consenting to meet that tormenting angel. I wish I knew. We argued. We bargained. We disagreed to agree.
'' Look, I'm just like married. You won't have me'', Samba posited.
'' Show me the papers then, and the ring'', I retorted.
'' Just understand Pal''.
''Not that easily dear. I can't go against the dictates of my heart''.
Losing wasn't my option. Perhaps not her. That she is taken made me to flinch not. After all, everything good on Earth is taken. You only have to fight for your share. Something I was devoted to.
'' I may not appeal to your taste'', I said after ages of silence. '' But I'm the right man for you...''
''But I've one already...''
''He is a fake!'' I cried. Just crown me a mpango wa siri then...''
'' NO Pal! '' Silence. Thundering hearts. ''I know how you feel. It's hard... I don't know what to do.''
''I suppose you know it better. I've told you already.'' I implored. ''Things aren't as easy as you think.'' She said, almost in a whisper. I wondered where the hell we're headed to. I was damn bored and angry. I rose up to disappear. Then she motioned me to wait.
'' Well. Be patient.'' I wished it could have been a sentence to hell. Patience my foot! I was born or rather denied it when God was issuing out virtues. I had abundant impatience!
'' Don't wane Pal, I beseech you. Let's be friends first before pondering on what ails you.'' She implored. She tickled my heart.
What else was I to say?
(c)Wafula P'Khisa.
Haunting Memoirs 2.
2009.
It was young. We too were young; pregnant with expectations. And
Mukuyuni was the best place to reason, experiment and showcase our
innate endowments. It was awesome. We loved it.
The school had just, recently, woken up from an ageless academic slumber. A comrade, Musiambo secured a ticket to university on a regular basis. Then Kalamu, another ambitious fellar had followed suit. It demystified the common belief that gnawed at our hope for ages that Mukuyuni was intellectually barren. So it could not sire academic giants and hum the tune of eliticism for the world to dance. Moreover, Musiambo and Kalamu had unlocked and left wide open the golden gates to the university. They had been, for centuries, closed on us. Now we could march there happily, if we so wished. For the desire to go to campus, to complete the 8. 4. 4 system is the heartbeat of every serious student. A son or a daughter of a peasant or middle class cohort in extreme corners of this country. Staunch believers in the god of education as the ultimate social equalizer. Fancy that!
My soul brother, Auncle and I had postponed success the previous year. Albeit unwillingly. But the year, 2008 had been a bore anyway. See? Thus comrades: Mariko, Maka, Weresh, Musoka, Justine and Muheshimiwa leapt forward. The latter was a mathematics genius. The dude knew the numbers like his mother tongue! Perhaps he was the greatest mathematician I had ever seen. His remarkable game with numbers was amazing. We even understood him better than our teachers. I envied him. Anyway, Auncle and I were now determined to achieve success by all means possible.
Exhibiting brilliance was an uphill task. No easy eh! So Musiambo and Kalamu were just good. But they became our role models. Indispensable inspires. I personally shed tears of admiration when the former was hoisted and carried shoulder-high. Celebrating. Ululating. I dreamt and longed to be in his shoes. It required extra-ordinary efforts and struggle to attain any remarkable brilliance. For whoever attends a local school-- the kind commonly baptized ''CDF schools'', those only used as polling stations: there are no relevant books-- those available are archaic and full of cockroaches' shit; there is no motivation; there are very few qualified teachers-- these are ever bored by the sick condition of the school and the principal's frustrations; and financial constraints are a darling. Therefore, manouvering through these, and feel the sweet fragrance of success is a matter between life and death. Many tried. They failed. We survived. Sometimes we were clobbered to go home and bring fees-- amidst hungry times. Something the principal knew pretty well to be rare like a chicken's urine. While in form two, a comrade, Toshiba had quit school under such circumstances. I loathed it.
Furthermore, being in a mixed school earns one special challenges, wrapped in beautiful flowers of fate. Girls, beautiful senoritas, are in plenty. At Mux, some were beautiful whilst some suffered from the incurable disease of ugliness. Some were tall like flagposts whilst others were dwarf. Some were fierce whilst others were docile. Some were lovable and worth dying for whilst others were a no-go-zone. Some enthralled with killer smiles whilst others scared the hell out of us. But we loved and adored them. We seduced them; fought over them; emptied our pockets for them; and bit them. This was perhaps when chewing books became damn boring. We really felt alive. Damn. Fancy that! But this sector, under the department of Heart Affairs, was strictly for professionals. Professors and doctors of Sexology and Seduction from the university of life. The likes of Meta, Abu, Mkwe and Mariko.
Clashing with teachers was inevitable. Hatred and violence erupted like volcanoes. But we overcame. The worst of all was the mere misunderstanding with our maths teacher, Man Chalo. It emanated from our desire to dictate the quantity of content to consume. So the guy was infuriated. A student telling the teacher what he wants was unheard of. He salivated to thrash us. He prescribed a punishment dosage for us. We refused. He chased us out of class. So while he taught, we were away digging a latrine pit. Giving back to the community eh! But our game didn't go far anyway. His dues were met. He eagerly thrashed us, particularly Mose, Melo, Achesa, Anto and Lawi. They had not attempted doing his damn assignments for ages. Poor dudes!
Anto, Auncle and I were members of a wonderful gang. Anto would later pursue a gun; as we follow the pen. In dilapidated and archaic lecture halls. He is now a policeman, walking about with a deadly piece of iron strapped around his neck. Serving our bloody nation. We are busy collapsing under piles and piles of books; going crazy over nasty exams. Uncertain where the wind of fate will drift us.
The school had just, recently, woken up from an ageless academic slumber. A comrade, Musiambo secured a ticket to university on a regular basis. Then Kalamu, another ambitious fellar had followed suit. It demystified the common belief that gnawed at our hope for ages that Mukuyuni was intellectually barren. So it could not sire academic giants and hum the tune of eliticism for the world to dance. Moreover, Musiambo and Kalamu had unlocked and left wide open the golden gates to the university. They had been, for centuries, closed on us. Now we could march there happily, if we so wished. For the desire to go to campus, to complete the 8. 4. 4 system is the heartbeat of every serious student. A son or a daughter of a peasant or middle class cohort in extreme corners of this country. Staunch believers in the god of education as the ultimate social equalizer. Fancy that!
My soul brother, Auncle and I had postponed success the previous year. Albeit unwillingly. But the year, 2008 had been a bore anyway. See? Thus comrades: Mariko, Maka, Weresh, Musoka, Justine and Muheshimiwa leapt forward. The latter was a mathematics genius. The dude knew the numbers like his mother tongue! Perhaps he was the greatest mathematician I had ever seen. His remarkable game with numbers was amazing. We even understood him better than our teachers. I envied him. Anyway, Auncle and I were now determined to achieve success by all means possible.
Exhibiting brilliance was an uphill task. No easy eh! So Musiambo and Kalamu were just good. But they became our role models. Indispensable inspires. I personally shed tears of admiration when the former was hoisted and carried shoulder-high. Celebrating. Ululating. I dreamt and longed to be in his shoes. It required extra-ordinary efforts and struggle to attain any remarkable brilliance. For whoever attends a local school-- the kind commonly baptized ''CDF schools'', those only used as polling stations: there are no relevant books-- those available are archaic and full of cockroaches' shit; there is no motivation; there are very few qualified teachers-- these are ever bored by the sick condition of the school and the principal's frustrations; and financial constraints are a darling. Therefore, manouvering through these, and feel the sweet fragrance of success is a matter between life and death. Many tried. They failed. We survived. Sometimes we were clobbered to go home and bring fees-- amidst hungry times. Something the principal knew pretty well to be rare like a chicken's urine. While in form two, a comrade, Toshiba had quit school under such circumstances. I loathed it.
Furthermore, being in a mixed school earns one special challenges, wrapped in beautiful flowers of fate. Girls, beautiful senoritas, are in plenty. At Mux, some were beautiful whilst some suffered from the incurable disease of ugliness. Some were tall like flagposts whilst others were dwarf. Some were fierce whilst others were docile. Some were lovable and worth dying for whilst others were a no-go-zone. Some enthralled with killer smiles whilst others scared the hell out of us. But we loved and adored them. We seduced them; fought over them; emptied our pockets for them; and bit them. This was perhaps when chewing books became damn boring. We really felt alive. Damn. Fancy that! But this sector, under the department of Heart Affairs, was strictly for professionals. Professors and doctors of Sexology and Seduction from the university of life. The likes of Meta, Abu, Mkwe and Mariko.
Clashing with teachers was inevitable. Hatred and violence erupted like volcanoes. But we overcame. The worst of all was the mere misunderstanding with our maths teacher, Man Chalo. It emanated from our desire to dictate the quantity of content to consume. So the guy was infuriated. A student telling the teacher what he wants was unheard of. He salivated to thrash us. He prescribed a punishment dosage for us. We refused. He chased us out of class. So while he taught, we were away digging a latrine pit. Giving back to the community eh! But our game didn't go far anyway. His dues were met. He eagerly thrashed us, particularly Mose, Melo, Achesa, Anto and Lawi. They had not attempted doing his damn assignments for ages. Poor dudes!
Anto, Auncle and I were members of a wonderful gang. Anto would later pursue a gun; as we follow the pen. In dilapidated and archaic lecture halls. He is now a policeman, walking about with a deadly piece of iron strapped around his neck. Serving our bloody nation. We are busy collapsing under piles and piles of books; going crazy over nasty exams. Uncertain where the wind of fate will drift us.
Haunting Memoirs 3.
Prefects
are all conformists. Stooges. Puppets. So were ours. They always bent
so low to dance to the obscene tunes of the school administration. They
always sniffed for trouble in us. They always had distaste in everything
we did. Be it good or bad. They worked hard to deliver us to teachers
for thrashing. Otherwise how could they be perceived as working? Serving the school.
Prior to the introduction of the voting system, prefects were always imposed on us. But this still thrives to date. Really! Teachers bend laws, rig and smuggle small-headed mugs into student leadership. The tragedy is when the subjects to be served are all big-headed. Damn. How can a fellow who hardly clicks in class; who ever lies to examiners and ends up scoring miserable marks order around his counterpart whose intelligence could easily outdo a teacher's? Impossible. Only an intelligent mind can lead intelligent minds. And it is with reference to this that I always honour the one Muheshimiwa. A fellow bighead. Though imposed on us, he was the only guy who spoke what we yearned to hear. We listened whenever he talked. For everything that forth came was absolute wisdom. That was in 2008. The year of the first harvest.
Some prefects mistook themselves to be small gods. They threatened and scared us. To them, you were either a friend or enemy. It was damn expensive to afford friendship. It was hellous to be an enemy. They exercised authority in totality. One of these was Mariko. The headboy. He used to vomit alot of Shakespearean nonsense till we complained. Teachers veered into sixes and sevens. Damn. Fancy that! Cool.
Mariko was the best prefect ever. Best of the best. Though only at the onset. He had mastered the art of rhetoric at the time most of us could hardly utter a word in the queen's tongue. Except the usual 'yes' and 'no'. Sometimes he could address us until the principal only dismissed us-- instead of giving his long, boring and disjointed speech! So Mariko advocated for strict observance of the School Language Policy. Damn. How on earth could it happen? We cursed. We loathed it. We resented him. Most often, we enjoyed eating words in mother tongue-- the best we could as if they had been spiced with palm wine.
Only Vicky put Mariko in his right place. Though only for while. He elated the god of mother tongue; and we joyfully worshipped it. He swore to bring an ox-plough and plough Mariko with it. Should the latter do anything stupid. He cooled. Vicky meant business. No one fucked with him.
Vicky and Felo were evil geniuses. Too bad they came before their time. Mukuyuni was thriving on old-fashioned ideas, barren ideologies and cowardice (on our part) when they exhibited some radical tendencies. They drank like fish and smoked like chimneys. Infact sometimes Vicky used to ask for permission to go home and come back whilst sober. A nasty fellow. Fancy that! Anyhow, together with Yakubu, they slightly shook the foundations of the existing system. We denied them support; we're choking with cowardice then. Infuriated, the administration dealt with them ruthlessly. They suffered from a bout of frustration. Mukuyuni wasn't a haven for radicals. They left. However, Yakubu remained to race with us. I respected him and still do. He was the only guy suspended for criticizing our teacher of chemistry for crude teaching. Something none of us could afford. Most of us were busy gathering unhonourable suspensions for making noise, rudeness, seducing and loving girls...
Mariko's successor was Anto. A nasty and indifferent fellow indeed! His counterpart-- the head girl was Sara. A very humble, quiet and God-fearing lass. She was also the C. U chairperson. Whenever she sung and preached, I felt like going to heaven there and then. Her heart was so cool like fresh milk. Many men stalked her; dying for her. It's a pity that no one merited.
I can't honestly forget other angelic gems in our class. Martha Mukopi, Lilian Edowan, Rael Naulikha, Maurine Wabuge, Rose Nyongesa, Loy Mamati, Lucy Wachilonga, Linet and Josephine Kimani are just but a few. They made us men. They made us not regret our going to Mukuyuni. May God bless them. May they live long to see there grandsons' grandsons. May they grow beards! Damn. Moreover, I can't enjoy the present sweet nakedness and fear for the sad fortunes of tomorrow without remembering Kuka Lukibisi and Kuka Makokha. The former was the first guy to grow and keep a beard. So proud of it was he that he always stroked it when talking to teachers. They always felt embarassed. They left him alone. Morever, he had once masqueraded as a seller of '' kelukelela ''-- the charm that lulls women to die for men. The latter was a professional liar. Professor of Lying & Falsehood. But he repented afterwards. It's no use to busy live on lies. Unschooled and colourless lies. His heart was scrapped clean. Today he insults the devil and incites the Old Man Above with unwavering zealousness. Damn Prof.!
Prior to the introduction of the voting system, prefects were always imposed on us. But this still thrives to date. Really! Teachers bend laws, rig and smuggle small-headed mugs into student leadership. The tragedy is when the subjects to be served are all big-headed. Damn. How can a fellow who hardly clicks in class; who ever lies to examiners and ends up scoring miserable marks order around his counterpart whose intelligence could easily outdo a teacher's? Impossible. Only an intelligent mind can lead intelligent minds. And it is with reference to this that I always honour the one Muheshimiwa. A fellow bighead. Though imposed on us, he was the only guy who spoke what we yearned to hear. We listened whenever he talked. For everything that forth came was absolute wisdom. That was in 2008. The year of the first harvest.
Some prefects mistook themselves to be small gods. They threatened and scared us. To them, you were either a friend or enemy. It was damn expensive to afford friendship. It was hellous to be an enemy. They exercised authority in totality. One of these was Mariko. The headboy. He used to vomit alot of Shakespearean nonsense till we complained. Teachers veered into sixes and sevens. Damn. Fancy that! Cool.
Mariko was the best prefect ever. Best of the best. Though only at the onset. He had mastered the art of rhetoric at the time most of us could hardly utter a word in the queen's tongue. Except the usual 'yes' and 'no'. Sometimes he could address us until the principal only dismissed us-- instead of giving his long, boring and disjointed speech! So Mariko advocated for strict observance of the School Language Policy. Damn. How on earth could it happen? We cursed. We loathed it. We resented him. Most often, we enjoyed eating words in mother tongue-- the best we could as if they had been spiced with palm wine.
Only Vicky put Mariko in his right place. Though only for while. He elated the god of mother tongue; and we joyfully worshipped it. He swore to bring an ox-plough and plough Mariko with it. Should the latter do anything stupid. He cooled. Vicky meant business. No one fucked with him.
Vicky and Felo were evil geniuses. Too bad they came before their time. Mukuyuni was thriving on old-fashioned ideas, barren ideologies and cowardice (on our part) when they exhibited some radical tendencies. They drank like fish and smoked like chimneys. Infact sometimes Vicky used to ask for permission to go home and come back whilst sober. A nasty fellow. Fancy that! Anyhow, together with Yakubu, they slightly shook the foundations of the existing system. We denied them support; we're choking with cowardice then. Infuriated, the administration dealt with them ruthlessly. They suffered from a bout of frustration. Mukuyuni wasn't a haven for radicals. They left. However, Yakubu remained to race with us. I respected him and still do. He was the only guy suspended for criticizing our teacher of chemistry for crude teaching. Something none of us could afford. Most of us were busy gathering unhonourable suspensions for making noise, rudeness, seducing and loving girls...
Mariko's successor was Anto. A nasty and indifferent fellow indeed! His counterpart-- the head girl was Sara. A very humble, quiet and God-fearing lass. She was also the C. U chairperson. Whenever she sung and preached, I felt like going to heaven there and then. Her heart was so cool like fresh milk. Many men stalked her; dying for her. It's a pity that no one merited.
I can't honestly forget other angelic gems in our class. Martha Mukopi, Lilian Edowan, Rael Naulikha, Maurine Wabuge, Rose Nyongesa, Loy Mamati, Lucy Wachilonga, Linet and Josephine Kimani are just but a few. They made us men. They made us not regret our going to Mukuyuni. May God bless them. May they live long to see there grandsons' grandsons. May they grow beards! Damn. Moreover, I can't enjoy the present sweet nakedness and fear for the sad fortunes of tomorrow without remembering Kuka Lukibisi and Kuka Makokha. The former was the first guy to grow and keep a beard. So proud of it was he that he always stroked it when talking to teachers. They always felt embarassed. They left him alone. Morever, he had once masqueraded as a seller of '' kelukelela ''-- the charm that lulls women to die for men. The latter was a professional liar. Professor of Lying & Falsehood. But he repented afterwards. It's no use to busy live on lies. Unschooled and colourless lies. His heart was scrapped clean. Today he insults the devil and incites the Old Man Above with unwavering zealousness. Damn Prof.!
The Things We Sing: An Overview of Contemporary Music.
Music
and the soul are soulmates. They are (or ought to be) intertwined.
Inseparable. Thus attempts to divorce them renders music lifeless. Dead.
See?
Music speaks volumes about and for the soul. Thence it heals, soothes, uplifts, pleases etc etc. Such music, when sung, apparently informs us who is singing their heart to be felt and who is exercising their jaws and contorting their face to be heard.
Good music is invaluable; it is of timeless significance. Like the infamous 'zilizopendwa' and 'rhumba'. It hardly runs out of taste. It is highly honoured and accorded utmost sacrecy. Really! There is ever a sense of newness and freshness when they reach our ears. They flow in our blood. And we nod, as we dance with our hearts. Unlike the awkward dances we perform in the face of alien tunes.
Our society has always relied on music for recording history, socialization, education and cultural preservation among others. However, modernity has infected this noble medium with lots of wonders. It is sad to note that negativity outwheighs positivity. Mostly, the content--sometimes x-rated, rhythm and dances have, more or less, ruined the value and taste of music. Music isn't music today. Just mere things. We yap and shout obscenities behind a computer, in the name of singing.
Okumba Miruka in ''Encounter With Oral Literature'' argues that not everything that has a rhythm and can be sung is a song. This therefore implies that not all lyrical compositions are songs. See? Well. Some of them are just things. They are sung to make money. They are sung to gather fame. Most of them infact hit briefly prior to veering into obscurity. Out of shelves. But they do well in smuggling filth and moral decay into an otherwise morally upright society.
Good music is defined by style, thematic concerns, originality and didactic function. Songs are fashioned from poems. And since a good poem, Taban Lo Liyong posits: must have a moral to convey, music is not an exception. The content should be drawn of the inherent society's traditions. It should speak to the people, and for the people. Something they could easily relate to. Such songs will evolve into classics. They will withstand the test of time.
I have been watching my uncle play litungu since I was a little boy. He sings in our local lingua, lubukusu and sometimes in swahili. In drinking dens; at cocktail parties and in public functions. The worst one, which perhaps I dislike, is entertaining and praising politicians. Anyway, his content, originality and approach to social issues have enabled him to survive in the industry. He still grapples to remain afloat in these troubled waters. But it would have been a different story-- a sad one of course had he gone contrary to the societal expectations.
To ensure that we remain in the public limelight and win people's trust and attention, we disguise our 'music' with unfathomable flavours. There is a new meaning attached to genres today. For example, what is so gospel in Willy Paul's 'Lala Salama' and Juliani's 'Utawala?'. I am Jose Chameleone's hit 'Tubonge' is also a gospel. Oh, sweet Jesus! Mentioning God here and there, especially there is not enough to make what you are singing a gospel. Which gospel would you be preaching? Spirituals are felt.
In attempt to meet the prevailing demand, music is construed or rather is fashioned on foreign models. Nudity is stylish. A video without nude or skimpilly dressed women is not worth watching. Apart from the Western music, this is also dominant in most Jamaican dancehalls and riddims. Obscene, uncivilized and awkward feats are significant. What nude women showcase is astounding. You can imagine its moral implications.
Whether we have lost music or music has lost us is disturbing. Really! What is the use of wasting time rapping about women, money and praising oneself amidst critical issues in need of address? What is the use of leaning on alien cultures and tastes and leaving ours desperate, ailing? Well. Only we know what. But are the things we sing relevant anyway?
Music speaks volumes about and for the soul. Thence it heals, soothes, uplifts, pleases etc etc. Such music, when sung, apparently informs us who is singing their heart to be felt and who is exercising their jaws and contorting their face to be heard.
Good music is invaluable; it is of timeless significance. Like the infamous 'zilizopendwa' and 'rhumba'. It hardly runs out of taste. It is highly honoured and accorded utmost sacrecy. Really! There is ever a sense of newness and freshness when they reach our ears. They flow in our blood. And we nod, as we dance with our hearts. Unlike the awkward dances we perform in the face of alien tunes.
Our society has always relied on music for recording history, socialization, education and cultural preservation among others. However, modernity has infected this noble medium with lots of wonders. It is sad to note that negativity outwheighs positivity. Mostly, the content--sometimes x-rated, rhythm and dances have, more or less, ruined the value and taste of music. Music isn't music today. Just mere things. We yap and shout obscenities behind a computer, in the name of singing.
Okumba Miruka in ''Encounter With Oral Literature'' argues that not everything that has a rhythm and can be sung is a song. This therefore implies that not all lyrical compositions are songs. See? Well. Some of them are just things. They are sung to make money. They are sung to gather fame. Most of them infact hit briefly prior to veering into obscurity. Out of shelves. But they do well in smuggling filth and moral decay into an otherwise morally upright society.
Good music is defined by style, thematic concerns, originality and didactic function. Songs are fashioned from poems. And since a good poem, Taban Lo Liyong posits: must have a moral to convey, music is not an exception. The content should be drawn of the inherent society's traditions. It should speak to the people, and for the people. Something they could easily relate to. Such songs will evolve into classics. They will withstand the test of time.
I have been watching my uncle play litungu since I was a little boy. He sings in our local lingua, lubukusu and sometimes in swahili. In drinking dens; at cocktail parties and in public functions. The worst one, which perhaps I dislike, is entertaining and praising politicians. Anyway, his content, originality and approach to social issues have enabled him to survive in the industry. He still grapples to remain afloat in these troubled waters. But it would have been a different story-- a sad one of course had he gone contrary to the societal expectations.
To ensure that we remain in the public limelight and win people's trust and attention, we disguise our 'music' with unfathomable flavours. There is a new meaning attached to genres today. For example, what is so gospel in Willy Paul's 'Lala Salama' and Juliani's 'Utawala?'. I am Jose Chameleone's hit 'Tubonge' is also a gospel. Oh, sweet Jesus! Mentioning God here and there, especially there is not enough to make what you are singing a gospel. Which gospel would you be preaching? Spirituals are felt.
In attempt to meet the prevailing demand, music is construed or rather is fashioned on foreign models. Nudity is stylish. A video without nude or skimpilly dressed women is not worth watching. Apart from the Western music, this is also dominant in most Jamaican dancehalls and riddims. Obscene, uncivilized and awkward feats are significant. What nude women showcase is astounding. You can imagine its moral implications.
Whether we have lost music or music has lost us is disturbing. Really! What is the use of wasting time rapping about women, money and praising oneself amidst critical issues in need of address? What is the use of leaning on alien cultures and tastes and leaving ours desperate, ailing? Well. Only we know what. But are the things we sing relevant anyway?
Meeting Nabwire.
She's got a figure,
This lass in green,
Eight's just but a lure;
Hers is disturbing once on the scene--
She is a Miss World!
She existed as a dream:
Haunting me every other day,
And opium,
Wiping worries and healing with a say,
And I died to stare into her eyes.
I thought she's a racist,
Till my complexion raised no fuse,
I thought she's a materialist,
Till the forex jargons died in use,
She's for my heart.
I wobbled in her world;
With a sack of loneliness,
And remains of my heart-- for good,
And therein I vowed never to mess,
Let I want beating from above.
We exchanged our sorrows,
And shared the little bread of fortune,
Whilst cursing our foes,
And tightened our hearts' chords to play one fine tune,
Throughout the bleak morrows.
(c) Pius Khisa.
This lass in green,
Eight's just but a lure;
Hers is disturbing once on the scene--
She is a Miss World!
She existed as a dream:
Haunting me every other day,
And opium,
Wiping worries and healing with a say,
And I died to stare into her eyes.
I thought she's a racist,
Till my complexion raised no fuse,
I thought she's a materialist,
Till the forex jargons died in use,
She's for my heart.
I wobbled in her world;
With a sack of loneliness,
And remains of my heart-- for good,
And therein I vowed never to mess,
Let I want beating from above.
We exchanged our sorrows,
And shared the little bread of fortune,
Whilst cursing our foes,
And tightened our hearts' chords to play one fine tune,
Throughout the bleak morrows.
(c) Pius Khisa.
Naked Woman Sings.
My lover's hoe is a bore-
It falters whilst in my vineyard,
Its firm stave wanes whilst down low--
With every thrust,
Sweating,
Panting,
But thirsty for goods still...
Ablaze...
I moan and gasp with pleasure--
Fueling him,
With me to the sky to fly;
With the rhythmic thrusts,
O, he crumbles...
His heydays long gone;
And sex prodigy eroded.
Aides plunge in expertly,
With sharp-edged sledges:
They cut through painfully,
Plough and plough and plough...
I'm turned over and over,
And dangerously folded like piece of paper,
Whilst blasting it open--
Deeper and deeper and deeper...
And caressing my bulging milk bags-- carefully like a bridal gift,
I cry gayly;
I moan for more and more...
It falters whilst in my vineyard,
Its firm stave wanes whilst down low--
With every thrust,
Sweating,
Panting,
But thirsty for goods still...
Ablaze...
I moan and gasp with pleasure--
Fueling him,
With me to the sky to fly;
With the rhythmic thrusts,
O, he crumbles...
His heydays long gone;
And sex prodigy eroded.
Aides plunge in expertly,
With sharp-edged sledges:
They cut through painfully,
Plough and plough and plough...
I'm turned over and over,
And dangerously folded like piece of paper,
Whilst blasting it open--
Deeper and deeper and deeper...
And caressing my bulging milk bags-- carefully like a bridal gift,
I cry gayly;
I moan for more and more...
Woes of the Sun ( with Velona Seth).
Velona:
I grew up in a mud house-
Only full of bitterness,
Yet they tell me to smile,
I won't, even for a while,
Life knows no happiness.
Pius:
I ululate today, alive;
I mourn from infancy, striving to survive,
On a pint of milk so high,
On a gramme of unga expensive to buy,
Whilst gold's good at hide and seek.
Velona:
Did you also feed on left overs?
Couldn't imagine I'd grow older,
Chapa kazi... even at this age,
I toil only for peanuts,
If only I could choose my life...
Pius:
I outdid dogs and hogs in pits,
Till I was ripe for wheels:
I ride to where I little know,
The filthy streets aren't safe anymore,
At roadblocks I must stop--
So they can sip,
A little of my sweat.
Velona:
You are better off-
At sunset she brings tea and half a loaf,
Wish I had a wife;
So unbearable: this life,
It wouldn't allow me...
Pius:
Tea and loaf are served with a dish of trouble--
A huge budget like the register of hell!
As if I'm a government minister,
Little I offer,
To keep us awake for morrow,
And she packs...
I grew up in a mud house-
Only full of bitterness,
Yet they tell me to smile,
I won't, even for a while,
Life knows no happiness.
Pius:
I ululate today, alive;
I mourn from infancy, striving to survive,
On a pint of milk so high,
On a gramme of unga expensive to buy,
Whilst gold's good at hide and seek.
Velona:
Did you also feed on left overs?
Couldn't imagine I'd grow older,
Chapa kazi... even at this age,
I toil only for peanuts,
If only I could choose my life...
Pius:
I outdid dogs and hogs in pits,
Till I was ripe for wheels:
I ride to where I little know,
The filthy streets aren't safe anymore,
At roadblocks I must stop--
So they can sip,
A little of my sweat.
Velona:
You are better off-
At sunset she brings tea and half a loaf,
Wish I had a wife;
So unbearable: this life,
It wouldn't allow me...
Pius:
Tea and loaf are served with a dish of trouble--
A huge budget like the register of hell!
As if I'm a government minister,
Little I offer,
To keep us awake for morrow,
And she packs...
Naked Woman Breaks Down.
To sides she turned,
To ease the ceaseless pain.
Long the python had disappeared, after the bite,
Leaving her to wane-
Helplessly.
She'd veered into a trance,
During the last dance,
Excited ghosts of beer in her head,
Had her lured and dished out the sacred good,
Indiscriminately.
Thence wobbled a thing in the womb,
Therein some devil had left a stump,
Whilst injecting dreadful microbes into her blood,
And pills just lied--
She cried.
Her beauty fast withered;
Best beauticians failed,
Her well had cooled many well like the Nile,
Now even lunatics at her won't smile--
Unlike before...
To ease the ceaseless pain.
Long the python had disappeared, after the bite,
Leaving her to wane-
Helplessly.
She'd veered into a trance,
During the last dance,
Excited ghosts of beer in her head,
Had her lured and dished out the sacred good,
Indiscriminately.
Thence wobbled a thing in the womb,
Therein some devil had left a stump,
Whilst injecting dreadful microbes into her blood,
And pills just lied--
She cried.
Her beauty fast withered;
Best beauticians failed,
Her well had cooled many well like the Nile,
Now even lunatics at her won't smile--
Unlike before...
Fruity Wishes.
I wish I knew how dormant are seeds of love;
I could have pawned myself to study breaking them.
I wish I knew the ages rooting takes;
I would have before dawn sowed them.
If only I knew growth's choked by weeds,
I would have erased them long ago...
Oh, this love!
I would have pampered it like a kid.
If fate had it that time wasn't nigh,
I would have caged my conjugal thirst for eternity...
But,
Master, now that you created this angel for me:
Why didn't you sent her along with Gabriel?
Once upon a time,
When I boasted of youthood vitality, libido and vigour...
Wafula p'Khisa.
Lirango Lienjofu
(Thigh of the Elephant).
I could have pawned myself to study breaking them.
I wish I knew the ages rooting takes;
I would have before dawn sowed them.
If only I knew growth's choked by weeds,
I would have erased them long ago...
Oh, this love!
I would have pampered it like a kid.
If fate had it that time wasn't nigh,
I would have caged my conjugal thirst for eternity...
But,
Master, now that you created this angel for me:
Why didn't you sent her along with Gabriel?
Once upon a time,
When I boasted of youthood vitality, libido and vigour...
Wafula p'Khisa.
Lirango Lienjofu
(Thigh of the Elephant).
A Plea to My Bride.
Superfluous wealth-- money and cars,
Varieties of dishes for dinner,
A team of servants to pick litter,
And luxurious wonders of the world,
My love, are dreams of the past.
I have nowhere to dig gold;
I have no fuel for adventures,
But a heart to love.
To at bay keep turbulence,
Honour your abilities,
And tolerate your weaknesses...
Bear with our little;
Admire not the vast outside...
Fate denied us.
But be gentle, woman:
As we old grow,
Ours in store is ripening.
I pray you be a good wife,
Beautiful and honour our noble ways.
I pray you bear dozens:
To perpetuate my royal lineage...
Wafula p'Khisa.
Varieties of dishes for dinner,
A team of servants to pick litter,
And luxurious wonders of the world,
My love, are dreams of the past.
I have nowhere to dig gold;
I have no fuel for adventures,
But a heart to love.
To at bay keep turbulence,
Honour your abilities,
And tolerate your weaknesses...
Bear with our little;
Admire not the vast outside...
Fate denied us.
But be gentle, woman:
As we old grow,
Ours in store is ripening.
I pray you be a good wife,
Beautiful and honour our noble ways.
I pray you bear dozens:
To perpetuate my royal lineage...
Wafula p'Khisa.
Can't We Be One?
Perhaps it's an abomination,
Queen of hearts, craving for your luring lips.
But I can't leave you alone,
Wandering about; edging to men's spears...
Perhaps I am dreaming still.
But even worst dreams are worth though!
If only I could infect you with what I feel,
Thence to bed lure you as a pillow...
Oh, dear!
I am overwhelmed.
Take me;
Have me!
I beg, thorn-less and beautiful flower:
Hear my heart sing.
Be generous with this flour;
For a while, soothe my insatiable longing...
If we could be one.
The violent cold and rain are ceaseless here.
Can I come in?
This minute distance; should it keep us far?
For Christ's sake, let me win; just win.
Wafula p'Khisa.
Queen of hearts, craving for your luring lips.
But I can't leave you alone,
Wandering about; edging to men's spears...
Perhaps I am dreaming still.
But even worst dreams are worth though!
If only I could infect you with what I feel,
Thence to bed lure you as a pillow...
Oh, dear!
I am overwhelmed.
Take me;
Have me!
I beg, thorn-less and beautiful flower:
Hear my heart sing.
Be generous with this flour;
For a while, soothe my insatiable longing...
If we could be one.
The violent cold and rain are ceaseless here.
Can I come in?
This minute distance; should it keep us far?
For Christ's sake, let me win; just win.
Wafula p'Khisa.
Claudia Wasige.
At the fall of summer,
Cold and weary-- in our olden selves,
The cold benches of Mukuyuni;
And caged voices of knowledge seekers:
At our patience gnawed.
Unwavered; what still held us--
Intertwined and inseparable:
The hope that we shall live...
Uneasy are these extreme peripheries of the Sahara!
You contracted boredom thus.
Perhaps to cheer up you craved,
So I, a masquerade:
From a dunghole emerged...
I sang; you danced.
Maybe my tune you adored;
Maybe your soul I tickled.
So endearing was it,
Whilst it lived...
But alas, daylight crawled in!
Sooner before I could retire...
Now about I hover, and wander,
A masked spirit.
Lost in thoughts.
#homageToMyMuse!
Wafula p'Khisa.
Lirango Lienjofu
(Thigh of the Elephant).
Cold and weary-- in our olden selves,
The cold benches of Mukuyuni;
And caged voices of knowledge seekers:
At our patience gnawed.
Unwavered; what still held us--
Intertwined and inseparable:
The hope that we shall live...
Uneasy are these extreme peripheries of the Sahara!
You contracted boredom thus.
Perhaps to cheer up you craved,
So I, a masquerade:
From a dunghole emerged...
I sang; you danced.
Maybe my tune you adored;
Maybe your soul I tickled.
So endearing was it,
Whilst it lived...
But alas, daylight crawled in!
Sooner before I could retire...
Now about I hover, and wander,
A masked spirit.
Lost in thoughts.
#homageToMyMuse!
Wafula p'Khisa.
Lirango Lienjofu
(Thigh of the Elephant).
Honour My Word: In Defence of Poetry.
In a society where wisdom is associated with the old, the young need
not to draw diagrams and geometrical figures to prove points. They need
not to scream or stage showdowns to render their notions relevant. No.
The old know truth once they see it. So the young know nothing that the
eyes of wisdom have missed. A woman who started cooking early boasts of
many broken pots. Achebe opines.
I am not a poet of any distinction. I may not even be a poet. See? But sanity has taught me to accord everything the honour they deserve. As a believer, I accord God the honour he deserves. As a child, my parents I accord the honour they deserve. As a learner, my teachers I accord the honour they deserve. And as a master of the word, I accord poetry the honour it deserves. Why should you not?
Poetry, like other words in scriptures, is sacred. Undressing and wrapping it in filth and rudimentary emotional tendencies is an abomination unforgivable. Every god feels it the bone. But do we care? Time has changed indeed. And poetry too has to. But it should only do so to capture and represent our reactions and responses to societal issues. As J. C Echeruo puts it, works of young writers should have a message; poetry is not simply the beauty of language or phrasing but the quality of the soul! This is influenced by what the body experiences.Moreover, these are neither Nerudian nor Shakespearean ages. They aren't colonial ones either. Oyoo Mboya argues that this is a contemporary age. What we lace poetry with should therefore be current. However, I would like to clarify something. The best African poets, according to Arthur Gakwandi, have not written odes, elegies and sonnets. They have invented new models to embody their encounters with modernity. This is evident in the way they have exploited folk traditions of their people and created new dramatic forms of expressions. These lie abundantly in the works of most Euro- Modern African poets like Chris Okigbo, Wole Soyinka, Okot p'Bitek, J. P Clark etc etc. This questions the nature of our poetry. Is it African? What is so African in our poetry?
Ngugi posits that a writer does not write or live in a vacuum. There is the society. Rich and poor. Happy and sad. A poet who fails to capture these-- societal issues, is irrelevant. Damn!
Herein, there are poets, pseudo-poets and masquerades. The latter outnumber the former. Indeed they are starving us with dry, senseless and filthy stuff. Texts or poems? Sadly, most of them are allergic to criticism. None is willing to learn. How then will we paint the world beautiful again?
Poetry is serious business. Damn. Only the spirited few can run it. It is not the mere scribbles we display to gather 'likes' and invite idle comments. Whoever can't bear its dictates should try prose or just opt out, sit and scratch their bottom and smell their fingers! Other genres also entertain no mediocrity.
Lastly, many a times some fellows here argue that poetry is just playing with words and also one can write about anything. I detest that. Verily, poetry is not language. It only uses it. Moreover, everytime a poet holds a pen, there is something on their mind. A human experience to be captured. See? It is not all about anything. Nonsense! The ' how ' and the ' what ' are at the heart of every poem.
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.-Thigh of an Elephant.
I am not a poet of any distinction. I may not even be a poet. See? But sanity has taught me to accord everything the honour they deserve. As a believer, I accord God the honour he deserves. As a child, my parents I accord the honour they deserve. As a learner, my teachers I accord the honour they deserve. And as a master of the word, I accord poetry the honour it deserves. Why should you not?
Poetry, like other words in scriptures, is sacred. Undressing and wrapping it in filth and rudimentary emotional tendencies is an abomination unforgivable. Every god feels it the bone. But do we care? Time has changed indeed. And poetry too has to. But it should only do so to capture and represent our reactions and responses to societal issues. As J. C Echeruo puts it, works of young writers should have a message; poetry is not simply the beauty of language or phrasing but the quality of the soul! This is influenced by what the body experiences.Moreover, these are neither Nerudian nor Shakespearean ages. They aren't colonial ones either. Oyoo Mboya argues that this is a contemporary age. What we lace poetry with should therefore be current. However, I would like to clarify something. The best African poets, according to Arthur Gakwandi, have not written odes, elegies and sonnets. They have invented new models to embody their encounters with modernity. This is evident in the way they have exploited folk traditions of their people and created new dramatic forms of expressions. These lie abundantly in the works of most Euro- Modern African poets like Chris Okigbo, Wole Soyinka, Okot p'Bitek, J. P Clark etc etc. This questions the nature of our poetry. Is it African? What is so African in our poetry?
Ngugi posits that a writer does not write or live in a vacuum. There is the society. Rich and poor. Happy and sad. A poet who fails to capture these-- societal issues, is irrelevant. Damn!
Herein, there are poets, pseudo-poets and masquerades. The latter outnumber the former. Indeed they are starving us with dry, senseless and filthy stuff. Texts or poems? Sadly, most of them are allergic to criticism. None is willing to learn. How then will we paint the world beautiful again?
Poetry is serious business. Damn. Only the spirited few can run it. It is not the mere scribbles we display to gather 'likes' and invite idle comments. Whoever can't bear its dictates should try prose or just opt out, sit and scratch their bottom and smell their fingers! Other genres also entertain no mediocrity.
Lastly, many a times some fellows here argue that poetry is just playing with words and also one can write about anything. I detest that. Verily, poetry is not language. It only uses it. Moreover, everytime a poet holds a pen, there is something on their mind. A human experience to be captured. See? It is not all about anything. Nonsense! The ' how ' and the ' what ' are at the heart of every poem.
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.-Thigh of an Elephant.
Tuesday 21 October 2014
Singing for My Beloved.
You went never to return,
Too soon like a criminal on the run.
With you vanished my light:
Plunging me into an empty eternal night,
Pregnant with haunting nightmares...
In the storm away you sailed:
To white highlands yonder,
Where fresh and cool is air,
You make merry in the friendly atmosphere;
Whilst I forcifly inhale volumes of lead!
Whilst at the shore we kissed, farewell,
Little did I know of my sentence to hell,
So on a wet stone,
Sick and weary I sat alone:
Watching the ocean swallow your ship,
Tears stung my eyes, as pain lashed on me the whip...
Oh, daughter of my in-law,
Of the flowers you sowed,
Who will water and tend them?
The home we sweat to erect--
Now under siege,
Who will guard it?
As cold winds blow wildly,
Away they take your scent steadily,
Inciting tides to turn:
Turbulent times return,
My tear glands burst,
Like water pipes heavily pregnant,
And forth come rivers--
Forming lakes; further separating us...
Too soon like a criminal on the run.
With you vanished my light:
Plunging me into an empty eternal night,
Pregnant with haunting nightmares...
In the storm away you sailed:
To white highlands yonder,
Where fresh and cool is air,
You make merry in the friendly atmosphere;
Whilst I forcifly inhale volumes of lead!
Whilst at the shore we kissed, farewell,
Little did I know of my sentence to hell,
So on a wet stone,
Sick and weary I sat alone:
Watching the ocean swallow your ship,
Tears stung my eyes, as pain lashed on me the whip...
Oh, daughter of my in-law,
Of the flowers you sowed,
Who will water and tend them?
The home we sweat to erect--
Now under siege,
Who will guard it?
As cold winds blow wildly,
Away they take your scent steadily,
Inciting tides to turn:
Turbulent times return,
My tear glands burst,
Like water pipes heavily pregnant,
And forth come rivers--
Forming lakes; further separating us...
The Looming Darkness.
Owls hooted,
As the sun hurried west to rest--
Long its eye had closed.
World insects chorused their taunting songs,
Whilst to roost fowls retired;
Women from shambas;
Men from chang'aa dens;
Boys from cattle fields;
And girls with meals from mills,
All sighed with relief:
Another boring day was ebbing...
Streaming with companions,
The path reminded me,
Of the adventurous journeys we made-- in angles;
Trees around echoed our vows, made with glee...
Oh, those blissful days my love,
Left behind:
Remain a false sense of hope!
A cold welcome I received from the guard of my privacy,
The tongue-tied souls therein battled with silence--
Puzzled...
My roaring appetite waned,
Soon a mountain of Ugali before me was put,
At the thought of you...
And off went the lantern,
After a bloodless battle with the wind.
The loud silence sent a cold shiver down my spine;
The cold whacked me, like a refugee in an open tent,
Whilst searching for you, in the empty space,
For warmth, and to feel your pulses...
As the sun hurried west to rest--
Long its eye had closed.
World insects chorused their taunting songs,
Whilst to roost fowls retired;
Women from shambas;
Men from chang'aa dens;
Boys from cattle fields;
And girls with meals from mills,
All sighed with relief:
Another boring day was ebbing...
Streaming with companions,
The path reminded me,
Of the adventurous journeys we made-- in angles;
Trees around echoed our vows, made with glee...
Oh, those blissful days my love,
Left behind:
Remain a false sense of hope!
A cold welcome I received from the guard of my privacy,
The tongue-tied souls therein battled with silence--
Puzzled...
My roaring appetite waned,
Soon a mountain of Ugali before me was put,
At the thought of you...
And off went the lantern,
After a bloodless battle with the wind.
The loud silence sent a cold shiver down my spine;
The cold whacked me, like a refugee in an open tent,
Whilst searching for you, in the empty space,
For warmth, and to feel your pulses...
A Maiden's Lament.
I'm ever on the move--
Like a travelling scholar:
Every day, and every night;
Somewhere in gutters,
I will away my unpalatable sleep,
With street masters--
Darlings of fate!
I'm burdened with misery,
My head's heavy like a sack full of cement!
I have nowhere to lay it,
Even the pen wherein was I birthed:
Needs me no longer,
Neither do I...
*
Into pieces, taboo I smashed--
Denouncing and evading our way:
Bartering little lasses to their grandfathers' agemates,
What an archaic and barbaric honour!
Maybe ancestors and gods of the land I annoyed...
But I fret not,
Should they me offer a hearing:
My decision I will justify,
On the thresholds of the land beyond,
Where grapes of justice are in abundance;
And are out dished--
Regardless of race, tribe, and what wonder between our legs lies...
*
The man from whose seed I sprouted,
Is angry like a tiger.
He is spitting venomous threats,
And cursing every soul under his wretched roof.
For once, I made him lose,
After wasting time salivating,
For a bunch of wealth--
And another title.
I ruined him,
He blurts.
The tiger has befriended chang'aa;
To appease anger and burry shame.
But when they violently disagree,
He crawls home like a baby, whimping and whining,
Like a bitch on heat.
He rains on mother,
Fists and abuses,
Oh, poor woman!
She must pay,
For bearing bigheaded girls....
*
In the name of hell,
He curses,
Mother--
She wasted his energy,
Upon forgoing sleep,
In a losing game...
Countless times,
He wishes,
His seed fell among thorns,
Or on a rock.
I wouldn't have seen light!
The fate of his lineage,
Remains bleak.
So,
Thirst for heirs--
Just enough to make a football team,
Persuades him,
To buy many a woman,
Sleep less;
Worker harder,
But bow out,
The saddest man in the world!
His simba,
Is a women's no go zone.
Countless times,
He's divorced mother,
To accompany me to nowhere...
Women,
He swears,
Are bad.
Damn bad.
Venomous pythons,
Concealed in rusty cloak of beauty!
*
By the knife,
That ate his childhood,
Father solemnly swore:
My throat he'll slit,
Thus throw a feast for dogs;
If on his soil I step...
He lauds Nanjala,
Even when he's numbed by chang'aa!
In the night,
Staggering home:
In sand signatures he draws with urine,
And competes with owls to hoot!
Nanjala had not,
Given him a headache,
When he salivated...
Some awful creature,
On a golden chariot emerged,
And she said nothing;
She just left,
Throwing dreams into darkness.
Still innocent she was,
Her breasts were mere protrusions--
Two pimples!
And village boys,
Busy hovered around,
Eavesdropping,
Timing,
Like a hawk,
Ready to snatch a chick.
Robbed.
My people are up in arms,
Demonizing all good we deem:
Miniskirts, tights and micro-tops--
Fashion trends of our time...
Folks at me stare--
Disgusted. And with wonder eyes,
As if on myself I've shitted...
Women hurl stones of abuses,
That a slut, whore and bitch I am,
Because with passion I've embraced:
Westernism...
So out I let milk bags pop,
And expose my sacred thighs,
For the world to see.
But I'm just a helpless slave to fashion,
As they are to culture!
Men whimper like dogs on heat,
When they glance at my breasts-- full and firm;
Unlike their womens' at home,
Which dropped during independence--
And are ever skinny and flat like slippers.
Their spears itch;
With uncontrollable erections,
And their adulterous eyes:
Everywhere escort me!
Village women cry out their hearts:
They mourn the generation they sire,
Now thriving on menacles of falsehood,
With no point of departure,
Between vices and virtues,
Between a truth and a lie.
Heads they burry in shame,
When sons around walk;
Whilst out stick their buttocks,
And their baggy trousers sweep the ground like brooms,
So swaggerific eh!
A current woman I am:
Immune to dictates of culture.
Unlike my grandmother,
I can't wear long robes like a nun,
Or ape muslim maidens--
They dress like ninjas,
Hence concealing the obvious beneath,
To appease the gods of culture...
Men are Gone; What Remains for Maidens?
A woman,
Complete,
In my society's eye:
Must bear and suckle...
No honour's reserved,
For me, wandering afar:
If my parents I deny grandchildren,
If God's call to procreate I ignore,
And deny this soil statesmen thus...
*
I am bewitched by the scent,
And opulence of a handsome man--
A man of style, reason and substance,
Who can't starve me with stones,
When I badly need bread;
Who can't offer me a snake,
When I'm dying to eat Tilapia;
Who can't adorn in a chameleon's coat,
And wander aimlessly near men of class,
Who knows secrets of the land...
I desperately desire one thus,
Yes I do!
To hold and kiss me,
In the morning when it's cold,
In the afternoon when it's hot,
And in the evening when it's dark.
I've been waiting for one,
I see no one,
Oh, are they taken?
If men are gone,
What remains for maidens?
*
Sons of this soil,
Are trapped in thighs of cities,
They left looking for a life,
For soil isn't the only thing today;
Who has time to grow yams,
That will soon be eaten by moles?
It's been grabbed after all!
And man cannot live on soil alone!
They have been lured thus,
By wonders of civilization,
Big women of substance--
Sexually starved,
Have dragged them deep,
Into their bushy vineyards,
Forever working therein,
Who remembers home?
In the dark,
Others established,
Kingdoms and empires.
Therein, drugs and crime,
Bring surprises in excess--
Infections, madness and death are prime,
So men are too busy to keep women,
Can they even serve them well?
Most vulnerable men,
Have been enslaved by the bottle,
They drink like fish,
Worship it loudly,
And speak in tongues whilst,
In their veins it flows!
At boiling point,
They violently tremble,
Like a chick heavily rained on,
With drooping arms...
Their stained teeth,
Are like a grasshopper's mandibles!
Their spears have been gnashed,
They will never erect to pierce meat!
Some sold souls,
They walk with stones in their chests,
Their brains are full of soot,
Oh-ho-ho-ho...
Once bound to a woman,
She will never moan and gasp passionately,
Amid nonrhythmic thrusts--
Sex boring!
They batter and starve women,
Then butcher them,
When bitter waters of life,
Become hard to bear...
So where can I find a man?
If all are gone,
What remains for maidens?
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
Like a travelling scholar:
Every day, and every night;
Somewhere in gutters,
I will away my unpalatable sleep,
With street masters--
Darlings of fate!
I'm burdened with misery,
My head's heavy like a sack full of cement!
I have nowhere to lay it,
Even the pen wherein was I birthed:
Needs me no longer,
Neither do I...
*
Into pieces, taboo I smashed--
Denouncing and evading our way:
Bartering little lasses to their grandfathers' agemates,
What an archaic and barbaric honour!
Maybe ancestors and gods of the land I annoyed...
But I fret not,
Should they me offer a hearing:
My decision I will justify,
On the thresholds of the land beyond,
Where grapes of justice are in abundance;
And are out dished--
Regardless of race, tribe, and what wonder between our legs lies...
*
The man from whose seed I sprouted,
Is angry like a tiger.
He is spitting venomous threats,
And cursing every soul under his wretched roof.
For once, I made him lose,
After wasting time salivating,
For a bunch of wealth--
And another title.
I ruined him,
He blurts.
The tiger has befriended chang'aa;
To appease anger and burry shame.
But when they violently disagree,
He crawls home like a baby, whimping and whining,
Like a bitch on heat.
He rains on mother,
Fists and abuses,
Oh, poor woman!
She must pay,
For bearing bigheaded girls....
*
In the name of hell,
He curses,
Mother--
She wasted his energy,
Upon forgoing sleep,
In a losing game...
Countless times,
He wishes,
His seed fell among thorns,
Or on a rock.
I wouldn't have seen light!
The fate of his lineage,
Remains bleak.
So,
Thirst for heirs--
Just enough to make a football team,
Persuades him,
To buy many a woman,
Sleep less;
Worker harder,
But bow out,
The saddest man in the world!
His simba,
Is a women's no go zone.
Countless times,
He's divorced mother,
To accompany me to nowhere...
Women,
He swears,
Are bad.
Damn bad.
Venomous pythons,
Concealed in rusty cloak of beauty!
*
By the knife,
That ate his childhood,
Father solemnly swore:
My throat he'll slit,
Thus throw a feast for dogs;
If on his soil I step...
He lauds Nanjala,
Even when he's numbed by chang'aa!
In the night,
Staggering home:
In sand signatures he draws with urine,
And competes with owls to hoot!
Nanjala had not,
Given him a headache,
When he salivated...
Some awful creature,
On a golden chariot emerged,
And she said nothing;
She just left,
Throwing dreams into darkness.
Still innocent she was,
Her breasts were mere protrusions--
Two pimples!
And village boys,
Busy hovered around,
Eavesdropping,
Timing,
Like a hawk,
Ready to snatch a chick.
Robbed.
I found refuge in a house of christ,
When wandering at first.
His handman therein seemed kind...
Well. He assured us to find,
Invaluable treasure,
From the kingdom above,
Which he seemed disinterested in!
Desperate eyes,
At him stared expectantly--
Therein for seasons had camped:
Tilling, weeding and harvesting,
To nourish the man of God.
For nights on end,
They sing, dance and chant prayers--
Till stars and the moon out bow.
To have a bite of the bread of salvation,
Oh, is no easy brother!
Virgins of my salt,
To him appeal most.
They have ripe breasts-- ever erect,
Like a clock's arm,
Indicating 12 noon...
He sexpiritually caresses them,
During exorcing!
On him I spat,
When into mine he slid,
During exorcising!
Obstinate demons,
He deems are best conquered,
By caressing women's milk bags...
Loose again I broke thus,
Away from our Father I ran:
Plunging deep into the city's dark heart,
Thirsty for a juicy living...
Oh, my people,
Herein:
Life leans on loose threads of fear--
Bullets and batons sing;
We everyday groan and mourn!
And to appease the god of hunger,
Everyone must eat from their plate.
Whoever has no papers,
Grapple for crumbs with paupers in bins...
So for a meal:
I barter my virginity...
If men's thirst,
Isn't at home quenched,
We make a kill!
They dance,
They pant,
They scream,
As we relieve them,
Of their notes.
Somewhere,
A degree holder,
Earns by engaging brains;
Anywhere,
A sex merchant,
Earns by opening thighs,
Tax-free!
Woes of Westernism.When wandering at first.
His handman therein seemed kind...
Well. He assured us to find,
Invaluable treasure,
From the kingdom above,
Which he seemed disinterested in!
Desperate eyes,
At him stared expectantly--
Therein for seasons had camped:
Tilling, weeding and harvesting,
To nourish the man of God.
For nights on end,
They sing, dance and chant prayers--
Till stars and the moon out bow.
To have a bite of the bread of salvation,
Oh, is no easy brother!
Virgins of my salt,
To him appeal most.
They have ripe breasts-- ever erect,
Like a clock's arm,
Indicating 12 noon...
He sexpiritually caresses them,
During exorcing!
On him I spat,
When into mine he slid,
During exorcising!
Obstinate demons,
He deems are best conquered,
By caressing women's milk bags...
Loose again I broke thus,
Away from our Father I ran:
Plunging deep into the city's dark heart,
Thirsty for a juicy living...
Oh, my people,
Herein:
Life leans on loose threads of fear--
Bullets and batons sing;
We everyday groan and mourn!
And to appease the god of hunger,
Everyone must eat from their plate.
Whoever has no papers,
Grapple for crumbs with paupers in bins...
So for a meal:
I barter my virginity...
If men's thirst,
Isn't at home quenched,
We make a kill!
They dance,
They pant,
They scream,
As we relieve them,
Of their notes.
Somewhere,
A degree holder,
Earns by engaging brains;
Anywhere,
A sex merchant,
Earns by opening thighs,
Tax-free!
My people are up in arms,
Demonizing all good we deem:
Miniskirts, tights and micro-tops--
Fashion trends of our time...
Folks at me stare--
Disgusted. And with wonder eyes,
As if on myself I've shitted...
Women hurl stones of abuses,
That a slut, whore and bitch I am,
Because with passion I've embraced:
Westernism...
So out I let milk bags pop,
And expose my sacred thighs,
For the world to see.
But I'm just a helpless slave to fashion,
As they are to culture!
Men whimper like dogs on heat,
When they glance at my breasts-- full and firm;
Unlike their womens' at home,
Which dropped during independence--
And are ever skinny and flat like slippers.
Their spears itch;
With uncontrollable erections,
And their adulterous eyes:
Everywhere escort me!
Village women cry out their hearts:
They mourn the generation they sire,
Now thriving on menacles of falsehood,
With no point of departure,
Between vices and virtues,
Between a truth and a lie.
Heads they burry in shame,
When sons around walk;
Whilst out stick their buttocks,
And their baggy trousers sweep the ground like brooms,
So swaggerific eh!
A current woman I am:
Immune to dictates of culture.
Unlike my grandmother,
I can't wear long robes like a nun,
Or ape muslim maidens--
They dress like ninjas,
Hence concealing the obvious beneath,
To appease the gods of culture...
Men are Gone; What Remains for Maidens?
Complete,
In my society's eye:
Must bear and suckle...
No honour's reserved,
For me, wandering afar:
If my parents I deny grandchildren,
If God's call to procreate I ignore,
And deny this soil statesmen thus...
*
I am bewitched by the scent,
And opulence of a handsome man--
A man of style, reason and substance,
Who can't starve me with stones,
When I badly need bread;
Who can't offer me a snake,
When I'm dying to eat Tilapia;
Who can't adorn in a chameleon's coat,
And wander aimlessly near men of class,
Who knows secrets of the land...
I desperately desire one thus,
Yes I do!
To hold and kiss me,
In the morning when it's cold,
In the afternoon when it's hot,
And in the evening when it's dark.
I've been waiting for one,
I see no one,
Oh, are they taken?
If men are gone,
What remains for maidens?
*
Sons of this soil,
Are trapped in thighs of cities,
They left looking for a life,
For soil isn't the only thing today;
Who has time to grow yams,
That will soon be eaten by moles?
It's been grabbed after all!
And man cannot live on soil alone!
They have been lured thus,
By wonders of civilization,
Big women of substance--
Sexually starved,
Have dragged them deep,
Into their bushy vineyards,
Forever working therein,
Who remembers home?
In the dark,
Others established,
Kingdoms and empires.
Therein, drugs and crime,
Bring surprises in excess--
Infections, madness and death are prime,
So men are too busy to keep women,
Can they even serve them well?
Most vulnerable men,
Have been enslaved by the bottle,
They drink like fish,
Worship it loudly,
And speak in tongues whilst,
In their veins it flows!
At boiling point,
They violently tremble,
Like a chick heavily rained on,
With drooping arms...
Their stained teeth,
Are like a grasshopper's mandibles!
Their spears have been gnashed,
They will never erect to pierce meat!
Some sold souls,
They walk with stones in their chests,
Their brains are full of soot,
Oh-ho-ho-ho...
Once bound to a woman,
She will never moan and gasp passionately,
Amid nonrhythmic thrusts--
Sex boring!
They batter and starve women,
Then butcher them,
When bitter waters of life,
Become hard to bear...
So where can I find a man?
If all are gone,
What remains for maidens?
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
Tanzia za Afrika..
Chants and rants I hear,
That ruin, herein, tranquility.
Teachers, medics, whores and cane-cutters...
Afar, frail and hungry,
Carry forests and placards--
Ravenously chorusing,
Anthem of the oppressed:
... solidarity forever,
Solidarity forever,
Solidarity forever!
So our state they irritate,
As its balls they tickle...
From sweet slumber, owners awake--
After decades of loud silence:
Our wine gulping; venom spitting,
Thus loosen grip on heavenly dreams,
As voices grow hoarse, and sonorant:
... Haki yetu, tunataka!
Haki yetu, tunataka!
Tunajenga, kwa gharama,
Na kihali tumeinama...
Itakuwaje tumesoma, na tumesota!
Mapato duni, maisha noma,
Twataka usawa, tuache kulalama...
Haki yetu, tunataka!
Tu! tu! tu!
Rusty riffles sing;
Butts spit bullets,
Arousing tension thus:
Feet shuffle, a stampede!
Some bodies fall,
Groan, thence into silence veer--
Eternal silence.
Ah, here comes boys from Kiganjo!
Engorged with fury and distaste...
They are here to riot;
They are here to provoke violence,
To outlaw lawful demos!
Oh, run brother, run!
They are here to issue death:
To whoever is bored with life--
Thus dare toy with their father's testicles;
Thus dare hit their hand against the wall!
Whoever is bored with life,
With noise, degrades the environ...
Town criers, fish mongers, petty rebels...
Incite partriots to distabilise,
Our otherwise stable state,
Now are hunted like antelopes,
To feed angry and hungry prisons all over!
Come brother, let's run!
Vacate these filthy, and rowdy streets.
For pigs and vultures leave them,
Tired we are, sniffing glue,
Courting disaster,
And serving the devil.
Come brother, let's run!
Lest drugs abuse us to death.
Let us gather the only pieces remaining,
Of our lives wretched,
And flee, thus colonise the cool countryside,
There we could get pastures greener,
There we could get many Irokos, thus perch on,
To ourselves sustain...
Angels of death,
Have our abode invaded.
The city is under siege,
Moans and groans anywhere,
Are anthems of the departing everywhere!
So medics are adamant,
To at bay keep death.
In streets they're scattered, like locusts on poor crops,
Basking,
And with police, playing hide and seek--
Amidst blasts of tear gas,
And raining stones, abuses and rungus...
We've no lambs,
We could our doorposts paint with their blood,
At bay keep them thus...
So poverty and diseases,
War and crime,
Fear and illiteracy:
Are busy killing us,
On the morning of our death...
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
That ruin, herein, tranquility.
Teachers, medics, whores and cane-cutters...
Afar, frail and hungry,
Carry forests and placards--
Ravenously chorusing,
Anthem of the oppressed:
... solidarity forever,
Solidarity forever,
Solidarity forever!
So our state they irritate,
As its balls they tickle...
From sweet slumber, owners awake--
After decades of loud silence:
Our wine gulping; venom spitting,
Thus loosen grip on heavenly dreams,
As voices grow hoarse, and sonorant:
... Haki yetu, tunataka!
Haki yetu, tunataka!
Tunajenga, kwa gharama,
Na kihali tumeinama...
Itakuwaje tumesoma, na tumesota!
Mapato duni, maisha noma,
Twataka usawa, tuache kulalama...
Haki yetu, tunataka!
Tu! tu! tu!
Rusty riffles sing;
Butts spit bullets,
Arousing tension thus:
Feet shuffle, a stampede!
Some bodies fall,
Groan, thence into silence veer--
Eternal silence.
Ah, here comes boys from Kiganjo!
Engorged with fury and distaste...
They are here to riot;
They are here to provoke violence,
To outlaw lawful demos!
Oh, run brother, run!
They are here to issue death:
To whoever is bored with life--
Thus dare toy with their father's testicles;
Thus dare hit their hand against the wall!
Whoever is bored with life,
With noise, degrades the environ...
Town criers, fish mongers, petty rebels...
Incite partriots to distabilise,
Our otherwise stable state,
Now are hunted like antelopes,
To feed angry and hungry prisons all over!
Come brother, let's run!
Vacate these filthy, and rowdy streets.
For pigs and vultures leave them,
Tired we are, sniffing glue,
Courting disaster,
And serving the devil.
Come brother, let's run!
Lest drugs abuse us to death.
Let us gather the only pieces remaining,
Of our lives wretched,
And flee, thus colonise the cool countryside,
There we could get pastures greener,
There we could get many Irokos, thus perch on,
To ourselves sustain...
Angels of death,
Have our abode invaded.
The city is under siege,
Moans and groans anywhere,
Are anthems of the departing everywhere!
So medics are adamant,
To at bay keep death.
In streets they're scattered, like locusts on poor crops,
Basking,
And with police, playing hide and seek--
Amidst blasts of tear gas,
And raining stones, abuses and rungus...
We've no lambs,
We could our doorposts paint with their blood,
At bay keep them thus...
So poverty and diseases,
War and crime,
Fear and illiteracy:
Are busy killing us,
On the morning of our death...
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
Woman of My Dream.
Whoever spots her;
The undisputed Miss Universe--
Clad in purple and scarlet,
In variable weather: fine and filthy,
To my abode summon her,
She's the woman of my dream.
The angelic gem,
Adoring, and of her roots proud:
Tans her skin not,
And forsakes where she was born,
Thirsty for foreign identity fake...
The canon of our secret code,
Enshrined in our ways noble,
At peace is with her.
She tickles not balls of taboo,
By arousing my father's appetite;
By for free selling nakedness,
Like some girls of the city.
She by the hearth sticks not,
To be painted by ash,
Or roast in simmering flames.
The woman of my dream:
In the sun melts,
In the rain dissolves,
Subsidizing my meagre harvest.
A sturdy and brave woman like a lion,
She's shaken not by threats of thunder.
On the forefront with me,
she fights fiercely,
Thence whine not at a foe's spear!
The woman of my dream,
Is not a news seller--
A darling to gossip maniacs.
She is a bee and an ant;
Ever engrossed in her duties.
She has unwavering faith,
In the doctrine of the Almighty.
Not idols of wealth, power, fashion...
So won't we falter on the narrow path...
Her elephants ears,
Can well hear:
Imprisoned whispers afar,
Thence offer a shoulder to lean on.
The woman of my dream,
Has no membraneous bells,
On either side of her head for beauty!
She's eyes clear like a crystal,
Unblinded by fallacious make-ups and scientific wonders.
Through my heart she peers:
To read my desires, hopes and worries.
Through the solid empty tomorrow,
She envisions what the future holds...
My sweetheart, woman of my dream,
Is best schooled;
No task dares challenge her, however abstract!
Thus, she differs truth of lies;
She differs virtues from vices,
And maneouvres, like hare,
Through life's hurdles.
She's a musculine woman!
But less a stinging tail and beard.
She's endowed with an enormous butt;
And ripe, full, sagless breasts,
She's kind, loving and forgiving;
With a vineyard so fertile,
For unending bearing...
She has appetite for kids,
The woman of my dream.
So we'll reproduce like weeds!
Drunk with bliss every day...
She has a flexible heart,
The woman of my dream.
So well it dances to tunes of time...
It hardens to bear turbulence;
It softens to love and soothe...
My beloved woman,
Has an honour for my folks;
And is a credit to hers.
So she'll save some for me, at me click not,
Keep our dirty linen indoors,
And go not with the wind;
When my basket runs out of wheat.
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
The undisputed Miss Universe--
Clad in purple and scarlet,
In variable weather: fine and filthy,
To my abode summon her,
She's the woman of my dream.
The angelic gem,
Adoring, and of her roots proud:
Tans her skin not,
And forsakes where she was born,
Thirsty for foreign identity fake...
The canon of our secret code,
Enshrined in our ways noble,
At peace is with her.
She tickles not balls of taboo,
By arousing my father's appetite;
By for free selling nakedness,
Like some girls of the city.
She by the hearth sticks not,
To be painted by ash,
Or roast in simmering flames.
The woman of my dream:
In the sun melts,
In the rain dissolves,
Subsidizing my meagre harvest.
A sturdy and brave woman like a lion,
She's shaken not by threats of thunder.
On the forefront with me,
she fights fiercely,
Thence whine not at a foe's spear!
The woman of my dream,
Is not a news seller--
A darling to gossip maniacs.
She is a bee and an ant;
Ever engrossed in her duties.
She has unwavering faith,
In the doctrine of the Almighty.
Not idols of wealth, power, fashion...
So won't we falter on the narrow path...
Her elephants ears,
Can well hear:
Imprisoned whispers afar,
Thence offer a shoulder to lean on.
The woman of my dream,
Has no membraneous bells,
On either side of her head for beauty!
She's eyes clear like a crystal,
Unblinded by fallacious make-ups and scientific wonders.
Through my heart she peers:
To read my desires, hopes and worries.
Through the solid empty tomorrow,
She envisions what the future holds...
My sweetheart, woman of my dream,
Is best schooled;
No task dares challenge her, however abstract!
Thus, she differs truth of lies;
She differs virtues from vices,
And maneouvres, like hare,
Through life's hurdles.
She's a musculine woman!
But less a stinging tail and beard.
She's endowed with an enormous butt;
And ripe, full, sagless breasts,
She's kind, loving and forgiving;
With a vineyard so fertile,
For unending bearing...
She has appetite for kids,
The woman of my dream.
So we'll reproduce like weeds!
Drunk with bliss every day...
She has a flexible heart,
The woman of my dream.
So well it dances to tunes of time...
It hardens to bear turbulence;
It softens to love and soothe...
My beloved woman,
Has an honour for my folks;
And is a credit to hers.
So she'll save some for me, at me click not,
Keep our dirty linen indoors,
And go not with the wind;
When my basket runs out of wheat.
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
We Lost, Minayo!
I pray we return, and gather ruins.
We could a fire light; thus warm aching bones,
When hearts heal,
Time will tell.
*
Excited, we grappled for the sun
Aside tucking our star, forsaken
Wanting; thirsting for care.
But apart fate had us ripped!
Surging to clear scholarly assignments...
Oh, Minayo, we lost!
For a season, and many a reason,
In noisy chambers of Mukuyuni; you're locked up...
Whilst deeper in the rift I plunged, to gather madness,
The return remains astounding,
Apple of my eye; finding its lustrous beauty gone.
Village madmen, parrots and prostitutes had,
On it spat, shitted and urinated.
Oh, Minayo, we lost!
To the wise, silence is a virtue.
I thought, whilst into manhood blossoming,
Our violent laughter we surpprassed:
To settle debts with life.
Who knew we could rebel,
Sooner, before the First Harvest?
Oh, Minayo, we lost?
*
Sadness rests on my sullen face,
It knew no grief-- once upon a time.
Echoes of receding footsteps,
And lyrics of a love we under the moon sung:
Resonate with my dying heartbeats...
In miasmic loneliness herein thus,
I wander, blind.
The future afar is bleak,
I can't even grasp the tune of time,
And dance to songs, the wind whistles;
The cold has my bones cracked,
The rain has my flesh numbed,
Without a should, I'll never stand-- upright.
But afar, a nolstagic feeling recur,
My desolate heart still hum:
Oh, there lived a woman,
There lived a woman...
Beautiful Minayo.
But who killed the woman in you?
Leaving a heartless and inconsiderate tormenter.
Daughter of my in-laws, your warm embrace I lost;
And sweet fragrance of your breath,
The night my mat you left for his bed.
My world turned upside down,
My heart inside out:
Whilst arms akimbo, a finger you pointed at my remaining piece,
Hurling at it obscenities,
Which abomination had I committed?
The road was tired of us.
The road doesn't tell whoever walks on it.
And scriptures lure me: forgive and forget...
Nothing happened to beg for forgiveness.
But to forget?
Tell me how,
A man deprived of life could forget it and live.
How could he forget,
In the face of emptiness,
That reminds, and forever reminds,
Of a treasure left behind?
*
Seeds of life we'd sowed,
Irrigated with sweat and blood,
Longed to see them grow, then bear,
Lost patience in silence,
And let strangers devour fruits...
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
We could a fire light; thus warm aching bones,
When hearts heal,
Time will tell.
*
Excited, we grappled for the sun
Aside tucking our star, forsaken
Wanting; thirsting for care.
But apart fate had us ripped!
Surging to clear scholarly assignments...
Oh, Minayo, we lost!
For a season, and many a reason,
In noisy chambers of Mukuyuni; you're locked up...
Whilst deeper in the rift I plunged, to gather madness,
The return remains astounding,
Apple of my eye; finding its lustrous beauty gone.
Village madmen, parrots and prostitutes had,
On it spat, shitted and urinated.
Oh, Minayo, we lost!
To the wise, silence is a virtue.
I thought, whilst into manhood blossoming,
Our violent laughter we surpprassed:
To settle debts with life.
Who knew we could rebel,
Sooner, before the First Harvest?
Oh, Minayo, we lost?
*
Sadness rests on my sullen face,
It knew no grief-- once upon a time.
Echoes of receding footsteps,
And lyrics of a love we under the moon sung:
Resonate with my dying heartbeats...
In miasmic loneliness herein thus,
I wander, blind.
The future afar is bleak,
I can't even grasp the tune of time,
And dance to songs, the wind whistles;
The cold has my bones cracked,
The rain has my flesh numbed,
Without a should, I'll never stand-- upright.
But afar, a nolstagic feeling recur,
My desolate heart still hum:
Oh, there lived a woman,
There lived a woman...
Beautiful Minayo.
But who killed the woman in you?
Leaving a heartless and inconsiderate tormenter.
Daughter of my in-laws, your warm embrace I lost;
And sweet fragrance of your breath,
The night my mat you left for his bed.
My world turned upside down,
My heart inside out:
Whilst arms akimbo, a finger you pointed at my remaining piece,
Hurling at it obscenities,
Which abomination had I committed?
The road was tired of us.
The road doesn't tell whoever walks on it.
And scriptures lure me: forgive and forget...
Nothing happened to beg for forgiveness.
But to forget?
Tell me how,
A man deprived of life could forget it and live.
How could he forget,
In the face of emptiness,
That reminds, and forever reminds,
Of a treasure left behind?
*
Seeds of life we'd sowed,
Irrigated with sweat and blood,
Longed to see them grow, then bear,
Lost patience in silence,
And let strangers devour fruits...
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
Re-imagining Tales of Faith.
I sing not a song,
Different from the obscenities,
You've laboured listening to all along.
This is another seed of worries...
I come not with something new,
Woman, I'm also a man; with a penis and beard,
Thinner and longer and bushy, see?
But could dig where others have failed.
I fold not my limbs,
At this age, to dance so awkwardly,
As if I've itching buttocks...
No, Waridi, take me not wrongly.
My soul I sing,
My heart dances along,
Strike your banjo,
Smuggle herein not maringo...
I have for long walked,
Along this narrow path,
Why can't you take me home?
I am really hurt and tired...
Let's not today live,
On a diet of yesterday's faults.
We could tomorrow starve,
Whilst others feast on fruits,
Of the word...
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
Woman, I'm also a man; with a penis and beard,
Thinner and longer and bushy, see?
But could dig where others have failed.
I fold not my limbs,
At this age, to dance so awkwardly,
As if I've itching buttocks...
No, Waridi, take me not wrongly.
My soul I sing,
My heart dances along,
Strike your banjo,
Smuggle herein not maringo...
I have for long walked,
Along this narrow path,
Why can't you take me home?
I am really hurt and tired...
Let's not today live,
On a diet of yesterday's faults.
We could tomorrow starve,
Whilst others feast on fruits,
Of the word...
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
Looking for a Mate.
My people think I'm ripe,
Enough to render a woman pregnant,
So mother's mad, seething in pain--
Thirsty for grandchildren...
Behind my father's threshold thus,
A simba I erected,
Into the wild then plunged:
Hunting for a woman, to warm it,
For lukoba lufumila omukhasi; nokona enjala bubi!
[a home's praised because of a woman; sleeping hungry is bad].
I wander, here and there,
Among big women with big breasts;
And small women with small and skinny breasts,
They drill extra holes on their bodies,
And stuff them with gold, diamond and silver...
For a mate I'm looking,
Among black women with pink skins,
White women with darkest hearts,
She-goats with raptured manners--
They naked wander in daylight!
Could she be here?
Bakoki, men of my riika,
Ages have seen you here, catching termites,
Has a girl passed,
A bucketful of water on her head,
Or collapsing under a bundle of firewood?
The woman in sandles,
Head clean shaven like an inmate,
In a long dress like a nun,
And afraid like a new chicken,
Is the treasure I'm after.
Where do I find her?
Women of the city,
Women of class,
The girl you the other day despised,
That she grows backwards,
That her tender thighs haven't felt,
The luring insides of a miniskirt;
And can't walk without panties like you--
Perhaps for aeration...
Is my mate.
Which way did she go?
She whose palms have cracks,
And her ugly foot befits no ladies' shoe...
So you evade her most,
As though her ugly beauty is infectious,
And she hasn't studded her nipples, lips and clitoris...
Which way did she go?
My clansmen,
Across great rivers and ridges:
I've journeyed--
On long voyages,
Searching for the bearer of your lineage.
I have met women.
Some thrash men like children,
Some sit on them--
Treating them thus, like pets and puppets...
Some see men with their stomachs only,
And couldn't single out my mate!
Women of the market,
You who gossip, dawn to dusk,
Till vegetables rot, unsold;
And your poor men sleep on empty stomachs,
Have you seen a maiden herein?
Selling grapes,
Or visiting the mill...
Here I sit, weeping,
Thirsty for my pie.
Women come and go--
Their astounding breasts popping out dangerously,
As though about to fall!
Full and erect,
Empty and sagging...
Over their mountaineous buttocks,
My neck I crane,
To view the dark alleys of the world.
Could my mate be somewhere, there...
Stranded?
Lost?
I will look for her in the vineyard,
Perhaps she could be weeding millet.
I will look for her in the fangs of pythons,
She could have been abducted...
I will look for her in our Father's House,
She could be dining at the table of spirituality...
Starve me not, cowboys,
Did you say she ran into the bush?
To marry not a man with a thorny chest,
Whose aged hoe's blunt,
Thus would groan and pant, whilst deep inside...
I'll follow her, therein,
Perhaps a home we could start,
Sire a clan of bushmen--
Immune to fallacial seductions of modernity;
And far from the witchcraft and madness,
Of science and civilization.
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
Enough to render a woman pregnant,
So mother's mad, seething in pain--
Thirsty for grandchildren...
Behind my father's threshold thus,
A simba I erected,
Into the wild then plunged:
Hunting for a woman, to warm it,
For lukoba lufumila omukhasi; nokona enjala bubi!
[a home's praised because of a woman; sleeping hungry is bad].
I wander, here and there,
Among big women with big breasts;
And small women with small and skinny breasts,
They drill extra holes on their bodies,
And stuff them with gold, diamond and silver...
For a mate I'm looking,
Among black women with pink skins,
White women with darkest hearts,
She-goats with raptured manners--
They naked wander in daylight!
Could she be here?
Bakoki, men of my riika,
Ages have seen you here, catching termites,
Has a girl passed,
A bucketful of water on her head,
Or collapsing under a bundle of firewood?
The woman in sandles,
Head clean shaven like an inmate,
In a long dress like a nun,
And afraid like a new chicken,
Is the treasure I'm after.
Where do I find her?
Women of the city,
Women of class,
The girl you the other day despised,
That she grows backwards,
That her tender thighs haven't felt,
The luring insides of a miniskirt;
And can't walk without panties like you--
Perhaps for aeration...
Is my mate.
Which way did she go?
She whose palms have cracks,
And her ugly foot befits no ladies' shoe...
So you evade her most,
As though her ugly beauty is infectious,
And she hasn't studded her nipples, lips and clitoris...
Which way did she go?
My clansmen,
Across great rivers and ridges:
I've journeyed--
On long voyages,
Searching for the bearer of your lineage.
I have met women.
Some thrash men like children,
Some sit on them--
Treating them thus, like pets and puppets...
Some see men with their stomachs only,
And couldn't single out my mate!
Women of the market,
You who gossip, dawn to dusk,
Till vegetables rot, unsold;
And your poor men sleep on empty stomachs,
Have you seen a maiden herein?
Selling grapes,
Or visiting the mill...
Here I sit, weeping,
Thirsty for my pie.
Women come and go--
Their astounding breasts popping out dangerously,
As though about to fall!
Full and erect,
Empty and sagging...
Over their mountaineous buttocks,
My neck I crane,
To view the dark alleys of the world.
Could my mate be somewhere, there...
Stranded?
Lost?
I will look for her in the vineyard,
Perhaps she could be weeding millet.
I will look for her in the fangs of pythons,
She could have been abducted...
I will look for her in our Father's House,
She could be dining at the table of spirituality...
Starve me not, cowboys,
Did you say she ran into the bush?
To marry not a man with a thorny chest,
Whose aged hoe's blunt,
Thus would groan and pant, whilst deep inside...
I'll follow her, therein,
Perhaps a home we could start,
Sire a clan of bushmen--
Immune to fallacial seductions of modernity;
And far from the witchcraft and madness,
Of science and civilization.
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
Re-union.
When rains have beaten and subsided,
And birds have opted for warmth in their nests:
Our woes, afar would drift,
Ahead surging, my love, would be useless,
Trying ages have denied us rest,
So we'll retrace our footsteps back...
Our house will be cold,
Wretched, leaking and infested;
But there isn't a place--better, like home.
Wasn't it therein that we consumated our love?
As creeking crickets; hissing snakes,
Just echoed the rhythm of my hoe at work...
Around the hearth we'll squat thus,
Tell and re-tell old tales--
Gathered from virgin lands yonder,
Wherein thirst and hunger had us taken,
To harvest misery...
Again, we'll love,
By the fireside,
In gloomy darkness...
With laughter we'll choke,
Every dawn-break;
Whilst the sun shines,
And the wind hums melodies--
Drowned by the rain...
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
And birds have opted for warmth in their nests:
Our woes, afar would drift,
Ahead surging, my love, would be useless,
Trying ages have denied us rest,
So we'll retrace our footsteps back...
Our house will be cold,
Wretched, leaking and infested;
But there isn't a place--better, like home.
Wasn't it therein that we consumated our love?
As creeking crickets; hissing snakes,
Just echoed the rhythm of my hoe at work...
Around the hearth we'll squat thus,
Tell and re-tell old tales--
Gathered from virgin lands yonder,
Wherein thirst and hunger had us taken,
To harvest misery...
Again, we'll love,
By the fireside,
In gloomy darkness...
With laughter we'll choke,
Every dawn-break;
Whilst the sun shines,
And the wind hums melodies--
Drowned by the rain...
(c) Wafula p'Khisa.
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