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...
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