Poetry

The Turn

Don’t tell me my water is contaminated,
Don’t tell me my food is sub standard,
Don’t tell me my religion is backward,
Don’t tell me my way of movement is slow,
Don’t, don’t tell me my teachings are inept.

I had my water from the source,
I had my water running clean,
I had my water in the shade,
Yes, but you brought it close, thank you,
But it got dirty, you said of chemicals.

I had my food, raw, much a delicacy,
My food, food that I planted; organic,
The food that was healthy and wealthy,
Yes, but you told me to break it down,
Had to be sought far, you gave me preservatives.

I was a believer, had my God,
A God I could ask for rain, and be given,
A God, I could repent to and be forgiven,
Yes, but you told me to abandon the practice,
But you gave me a Bible, directed me to heaven.

I walked my distance, animals assisted,
It took me time, but I traversed,
The air along the journey; serene,
But again it was slow, so you, meddled,
Told me to use motors, faster, with carbon emissions.

For generations, information was passed,
Norms, vices and virtues,
Responsibilities were instilled,
And here you gave me a curriculum,
Told me I needed classrooms, added me languages.

Pick the mangoes, all if need be,
Graft one, and let it breed anew,
Water them and let them flourish,
And yes, let the mangoes remains,
For the grafted fruit will need a history to tell.

Poetry

If India was a Star

If I see a star, I put my dreams there,
If I learn of stars, I add my ambitions,
If I talk of stars, know I have reached one,
For in the stars, I hold my breath.

I imagine the beauty of a nation,
I imagine if it was unknown,
I imagine if it gets discovered,
Discovered as a planet, new.
And it happens to be India.

What with the infrastructure, oh yeah,
People running there for all medications,
People running there for businesses,
Maybe discovering it as a star would shine on me.

Indians here are a community, respected,
They say you cannot go wrong with an Indian,
Guilty as charged, maybe I am on the star,
Discovering what can be seen, reflecting on the orbit.
That is, if India was a star, full of life.

Maybe I would become a surgeon,
Remove the buds, the growth and bad vices,
Maybe I would remain me, nature goodness,
Maybe my friends would run India, they have best interests,
But yes, I would run there not for anything, coz’ its new.

Poetry

The Queer Wife

“And in every union, let there be a bond, one that binds in quiet,” the voice still felt clear, drumming the words that haunted her. Sometimes she thought she could see the words running down from the well designed roof. A roof she had gazed to severally when her mind failed her.

Kamimo had been a loved wife. She wasn’t sure if she was loving, not with the dreams that had edged themselves in her lately.She sat quietly, her face radiating a warmth of a beautiful young wealthy wife. Deep inside her there was a vicious battle, incomprehensible.

Kamimo, born last in a family of four was the only girl. Her parents were traditional hard liners with a windy sway of Christianity. She had been brought up facing conflict of the two. But where they agreed she was disillusioned. She lived in a closed fist of self conflicts. Peace was alien to her. If it brought itself, she would cause the inevitable, and laugh as things broke. That had been a life she thrived in.

Karagita village as Kamimo loved telling everyone was situated between two hills, ample shades and clean water. Grazing lands ran long and wide, so did the hunting bushes, a culture that was getting outlawed.

“How did this all happen?” Kamimo asked this facing the wall not expecting an answer from her husband who was lost in his own delusions. “Maybe there is still a way through this, if not out of it,” she hissed this time looking straight into her husbands sharp face, avoiding the disappearing eyes. Lately she had noticed that her husband was keeping to himself. But his joy would vanish at the sight of her. “Maybe I am to blame. If there is blame anyways.” “And what should you be blamed for, sometimes its no ones fault, things happen for and with a reason.” He spoke now fully attentive to her, his thick voice echoing, surprisingly Kamimo never let her small hands off the chin.

When Kamimo married Ithaka, she had all dreams of a happy marriage. Roses in bed and thorns in the fire. Theirs was a happy ever after dream marriage. Many looked forward to see how the two would advance. They had come together as a secret. Had been praised and jeered for that act. It was considered in one way bold and another a sin.

Ambitions and success brought them to the urban life. She decided to work her way up the career path while her husband embarked on his education and running of a family business. Having children was only a discussion from family members especially Ithaka’s mom. Their time together was mostly in the morning as they left the basement parking of their two storey bungalow. Mostly Ithaka would return to a fully dressed and snoring wife.

After two years, Kamimo having graduated, and with a little help from her husband opted to start a kindergarten. This was a good time for her. She could spend time tending school issues and be at home when her husband came back. Life and love blossomed. Sundays became even livelier. Attending Church together. Having lunch outside at the comfort of whistling trees and splashing water. All time smiling to the congregants who had seen so little of them since they moved into the neighborhood. A happy ever after got a real meaning. A handsome tithe made the pastor have some free time whenever he saw the couple.

The school became an envy to many. It was a gold that hang on a mango tree. The school had gotten roots. A fully pledged primary school. She had hopes to build a high school too. Mr Ithaka was now a common face in the school compound, feared and loved. If you were in the wrong side of the enthusiastic Mrs Kamimo Ithaka, you got reprieve upon meeting her husband.

Kamimo finally delivered the first bundle. A joy of a womb. She silenced the speculators, turned them to spectators. It was her time. She made sure everyone noticed. This didn’t take long, soon she was like a run away bride. Being at home was the house help’s obligation. She saw her daughter less. School was everything to her. Years went by but she continued the distance. Pleads of her husband seemed like a nuisance. She wanted her space.

It was now the seventh birthday of little Wacera. The sixth birthday that the mom would miss. Mr Ithaka had tried, but she didn’t bulge. As the cake was ceremoniously cut to pave and mark an added year to his jumping daughter, he sunk heavily in his seat, his mind rocketing away.”If its children you want, let’s have them with someone else. But I am not carrying anymore child!”Kamimo shouted. “But we are both capable to have and raise more. Why should your option be considered?” He had responded this being a hundredth discussion. ” Maybe you have not been listening, all these years.” The agreement had come through, Ithaka would have children but with the house help who agreed without hesitation. She was not to lay claim of the child. She had practically posed as Wacera’s mom.

Mr and Mrs Ithaka’s house help had to have a house help, it was time to deliver. In anticipation, she gave birth to twins. A boy and a girl. Ithaka didn’t know whether to be happy, confused or sad. He had two mothers. One who took the name, another who took care. A wife who didn’t want to toil with child care. Work was a good excuse to be away. Amazingly, when the twins were born, she took days off to help. This added to the confusion the husband was in. She was seen more. The house help wasn’t involved in naming the two beautiful children. It was the work of Kamimo. She referred to them as her own and named them after her mom and dad. “How interesting”, mumbled Ithaka opening eyes just a moment as his daughter joyously held a cake almost tickling his nose. Her face eroding all pains.

It was becoming more confusing as weeks went by. Kamimo went back and buried herself neck high in the sand of school. The house help though forbidden by her of any contact with the husband had her own dreams. Dreams that fit no way into reality. She fancied the life she was living, could she have a way to own the life? She was a mom to children who called her aunt. In church Kamimo would stand with her husband and three children as the house help cheered on with a happy face covering a pierced heart. A couple, an envy to the community and a treasure to the church. Who could believe her. They were players in money and everyone offered them prayers.

Ithaka loved the children, they were his. Kamimo loved the children, to the world, they were hers. The house help loved the children, she knew two were hers. But she was under oath, it choked her.

Kamimo, as she pondered over the matter decided she would change. She had seen how much the husband laughed around the house help. She had one day returned un announced. Her husband, children and the house help were running on the field behind the house, elated by the sunset. Beaming of joy and energy. She wanted to be right. Then some notes took her by surprise. She regretted stepping into the house help’s room. “Oh my, ..am I still loved? Hey, Ithaka! Ithaka..” She shouted, trying to feign play.

Poetry

Zoa ya Bidii

Alizinduka kaona yajayo magumu,
Masomo ya kadri, bidii ya mchwa,
Kazi ya kuvuja mpini, kujenga viungo,
Kalipa ushuru, kwa msururu,
Lakini shida zanoga, afikilia kugura.

Ajabu kalamu kamwaga wino,
Kejeli kitabu hakishiki wino,
Kikishika hakisomeki,
Kikisosomeka hakieleweki
Ila shida zamnogea kugura aona ndio jibu.

Mtaani anaonekana mshamba,
Aonelea heri angebaki mashambani,
Lakini mashambani alikuwa bingwa,
Bingwa sio wa darasa, bali wa mahaba.
Shida zikazidi kafokewa, katemwa.

Atafute mratibu, tibabu au mganga,
Vipi yote yampe kisogo, mbele ya vigogo,
Bidii bila matokeo yavuja moyo,
Kalamu ingawa ina wino, kitabu haisomeki,
Safari ya bidii yaisha kama vile wino.

Poetry

Listen to my Heart.

I always wanted you to be part of me,
But you chose to depart from me,
Decided to be apart.
Apart from my part that started with you,
Thus I ask, did you ever listen to my heart?

Do you ever listen to my heart,
Listen as it throbs.
As it pumps all that energy you ignore,
As it obeys my sunken spirit,
As it wonders through the streets,
As it collects the shreds, all spilt,
Do you?

In the morning, you listen to my heart,
In the evening, you listen to my hurts,
All day and night you hurt my heart,
The cuts go deep, yet to get you is so steep,
Even if I give you tips you rip my heart,
But all I want is you to search your calm,
Feel my heart, if its good pat my back.

If it were a journey, I would bid you bye,
If it were a race, I would cheer you on,
If it was a competition, I know you win,
But now, I am in competition for attention,
Competition for attention in repetition,
But, do you listen to my hurts.

Poetry

Comes Back

I love this jungle.
Where one animal becomes more of animal than the other.
Where any food is good,
Where good food is good indeed,
Yes, but when my boss wants my food,
He faults it into the bin,
When he is broke, he burns my canteen,
When he wants more from my canteen,
He tells off buyers, takes it home,
Calls it fair play, no court dramas,
No fear for Karma, routing evenly,
Big headlines, breaking news,
New encounters, new discoveries,
Whisking here and there, breaking of my canteens kitchens,
Yes, but the committee of system sleeps well,
This the way to better rewards,
A way to earn rewards, in the system,
And the canteen might be back soon,
My canteen will be recommended new colour,
The report will read of hygiene,
Metamorphosis into ventilation,
Lastly and vastly I will need new paint,
And boom, the canteen slithers back,
The only new thing, is discounts,
Rooting back of the canteen,
The systems will have moved on,
The customers will have missed it,
A thriving jailbird bears new flowers,
And the cycle is clear,
Tomorrow the system will give rewards,
The canteen will be aforementioned,
It has helped integrate the buyers.

Poetry

What did Galton See.

What makes a visitor sweep your house,
What makes a visitor remain as a spouse,
What makes a visitor visit with a clause,
What makes a visitor go home with a cause,
But a dream if realized lives longer.

Maybe Galton found a home away from home,
Maybe he saw an abode of future fame,
Maybe he saw unutilized farm,
Maybe, just maybe, he run from pain, found some plains and planted his cure.

Are you glad he came down here?
Saw a hole and made a tunnel,
Saw a distance of travel, made a road,
He became a creator, fenced it, ‘coz he was Fenzi,
And today we are living a dream.

Today, if he knew what he left behind,
He made roads, mapped them,
But to us he created a job, offered a future,
He created history, and made me count the years,

In a mans effort, fruiting tree emerged,
He created a brand and we all pride in it
Thus a hundred years we celebrate.
To a young Nation, a Kenya we love,
A gift came, colonized or not,
A change, whether calm or painful,

It was an easy mobility, an improvement,
Maybe, we should as a country even, honor him,
But much appreciated is the continuity,
Growth and development, slow but sure,
Branching, sprouting, enhancing,
In all we celebrate this milestone.

Collectively let’s grow, and we shall glow,
Together let’s steer this brand,
Let it not bend with age but bouncy with energy,
If a dream was realised the brand should be natured.
Support structures alleviated,
A personal initiative, course for growth,

And if we want to earn well, let’s learn well,
If we want a client tomorrow, let’s treat them well today,
Appreciate where we have come from,
Prepare for the greatness ahead,