The Capital

I walk in this congested streets,
Confused and out of wits,
All I see is women with beautiful tits,
Not only that, see their beautiful naked legs & feets.

She walks past me with a tight short skirt,
I can tell she looks sexy & smart,
Another let the clothes hug her body fat,
She looks like she has several butts.

I bump into someone and fall,
Its like I've hit a wall,
He walks away without guilt as he picks his call,
I collect myself wishing he'd next hit a pole.

I continue walking among this population,
Crippled with the Western mutation,
Anything just to get attention,
Only to feel they belong as their intention.

Mesmerized by the so many 'ladies' dressing near nude,
With sagged pants from the dudes,
In my village this would look rude,
A proper long dress & well fit & worn pants would always be good for the mood.

My first day in a big town,
Among the great with known nouns,
Soon I'll have adjusted to all that wow,
As the city swallows me at least not now.

Death of a Night Knight

The night knight, donned in the clanging shielding armour,
on his dark horse, the symbol of death he rides on,
with a sword the size of his rib, the smallest but mightiest in his unit.

He comes with the hush of the evening breeze,
with courageous smiles and pride, mind you it may be his very last,
but care and worry are the last he may think of,
the night knight.

He takes in a deep breath, as his eyes take in the sight of the loot,
he intends to make riches out of the would-be captives,
now resting on their hard beds, their peace uninterrupted.

He is assured of victory, and robbing thousands of necks of their heads,
He relies on the war cries of his men, the outer source of his strength,
his mind is full of the praises and women back home,
the prize for his result, an outstanding victory.

He stands his guard, but he sees not the poisoned arrow,
straight from the tree he passed by, to the joint of his neck,
He falls from the dark horse, the symbol of death itself,
down to the ground, which awaits to swallow him,
he draws his very last breath from the breeze,
the very breeze that gave him a false promise,
a promise of victory.

The death of a night knight.

Be Clear

I’m sleeping by your side,

Its dark and you are not out of sight,

I can’t explain what in my soul you provide,

I’m sure it won’t end tonight.

Both naked,

With the wild feelings that’s invaded,

It’s long that we waited,

We are here by ourselves isolated.

I move my hand on top of your curvy warm naked body,

I can feel you like the way I do it fondly,

Perfect and mastered art that’s not shoddy,

Besides you I will always be calmly.

You whisper into my ear,

“Don’t stop dear,”

I’m never stopping to be sincere,

Maybe it’s the love making that has taken hostage of your every thought cohere,

After this please be clear.

The Merge of Lips

Once again she turned,
she looked at me with those eyes,
eyes that owned the grip to my heart,
a grip that never hurt.

She stretched her hand,
her short smooth hand,
an even shade of dark chocolate.

She opened her lips,
That door to a white set of teeth,
With a tongue that gives me pleasure.

She opened them wider,
made an invisible shade to her eyes,
she held me seductively, then came her kiss.
and I melted, only that my body remained,
I got carried away to the moon
, only my feet remained,
I felt it, what just she makes me feel;
Love.

Words of a Poet

Words of a poet,
flowing through a winding valley,
are like the waters of the river,
straight from the source.
clear, from the start, crystal clear;
clean, devoid of any filth.
The words of a poet.

They flow from the source,
never to come back.
through silent cracks, 
foaming over rocks,
Getting dirty with each mile.
Like the Nile so great, they divide,
some red, some blue, others muddy.

Peasants find their pleasure in the waters,
together with their faithful flocks.
they quench their thirst in the dirt,
the dirt from the same waters 
once so clean and worshipped.

The words reach their end of journey,
the mouth of a speaker,
To the ears of the hearers.

Naked of the cleanliness it wore,
but the poet never tires,
he spits and spits.
the words of the poet; the unending waters.

My dark country

The beauty of the sun set is deceiving,

Once gone darkness conceiving,

Unfair contrast we keep receiving,

I’d rather after sunset then sun rise without darkness.

On my way back home,

I walk fast alone,

The sunset now gone,

In the dark I’ll be by my own.

I live at the end of this tunnel,

It’s longer than the neck of a camel,

A country called Babel,

Darker than the tunnel and the night combined.

I stand facing the tunnel before I make a step in,

I stand to face evil within this tunnel,

I may not reach the end of it,

If I do I will not dust off my feet.

There stand more serious challenges in the light,

My country needs more of the night,

For our leaders to continue to be right,

Feeling their absence yet out of sight,

Like a vampire they just need every bite.

Set Me Free

Smile like the rising sun,
Daughter of her father,
Her breasts,
Proud as the virgin hills of Ok valley,
Her voice, inherited from her mother,
Fresh as the dew at dawn.
Teeth aligned, like spikes on a hunter's arrow.
Her voice kills me slowly,
soothing like the royal flute.
Her skin so soft, soft like the hairless head of old Omar.
She leaves a fragrance in my mind,
Like the breath from the princesses mouth,
Laced with the taste of the palace milk.
Her feet, like of the gods,
Her steps, soft like her oil filled hair.
Her eyes, like bright stars, of the night dark,
Two balls of fire, that light up my heart,
Mysterious as the wind, soft but mighty.
Say yes to my plea,
And my soul shall be set free.

We must heal

The air was cold and I could feel it from my mother’s house,

Election had come and passed,

People couldn’t let the result get past,

It was Kenyans worst.

Neighbors become suspicious,

The friendship that was once delicious,

Now became an image that’s fictitious,

Not a word would describe it even malicious.

That very night changed it all,

They threw a petrol bomb through my mum’s bedroom window wall,

Care free people with no soul,

Intended to clear whole family in a fire ball.

My mother & aunty could have died that night,

Because my tribe was not right,

This is our Kenyan plight,

Tribalism is our daily fight.

It’s hard for me to forget,

Sometimes my cheeks get wet,

As politicians hold our trust in debt,

Gambling with our life as a bet.

As I’m writing everyone is alive,

Lucky to see death by its eyes,

Lucky to tell a story that will make me heal,

Lucky that few people know they are lucky when they act mucky.

Morning Kiss

Just the other day at dawn,
When the moon and her stars bowed to father Sun,
I bowed to my land, and gave it a metallic kiss,
Once,
Twice,
More and more kisses with my jembe.

Sweat trickled and fell, drop by drop,
Down to my beloved land.
Who doesn't sweat due to a well felt kiss?

My back shined like the glitter of the morning river,
My joints talking with the rhythm of the rise and fall,
My breathe like the whirlwind, continuous,
Growing bigger and bigger,
Faster and faster.

"Hey, who's that?"
My ears picked the words from the winds,
"It is Okutoyi's first son"
"You mean the one who always...."

The winds robbed the rest from me,
But not the shining smile on my face,
I continue with the rhythm,
The rhythm of the wet metallic kiss.

Handbag Man

He opens the door,
She walks out of the car on her high heels shoe,
Wearing a short miniskirt,
Her unending long legs could reach the stars.

He takes her handbag,
Walks behind her not to nag,
She doesn't like the sight of Doug,
His man silent man in gag.

She walks to her girlfriends,
He stands a visible distance,
Not allowed to hung around his boyfriends,
Holding her handbag for a makeup instance.

Her image is important,
She has all that's imported,
His wallet is all she carries,
In a wallet handbag exchange program.

He fears losing his angel,
The reason for his brutal loyalty,
Encouraged by everyone has a weakness,
His is her handbag

Streets of Red

Lined up in the near skies, is a street of red and blue,
Scarlet and blue clouds hanging on steel balconies,
Dripping not so clear water to the mud below,
Clouds of wet fabric, on a Sunday morn,
Colour the near skies, dulls the sea of mud below.
Voices of the kids fill the world below,
A ball there, a hulla hoop there,
On occasions a stray cat steals the flying ball,
And only adds fun to the kids.
Just down the street lies a man,
In a muddy ditch, a replica of his face and hair,
Seems he had one too many,
His speech as blurred as his memories.
On the other side of the street down below,
A stall, with the sound made from frying French fries,
Don't mind that French is an unknown thing here,
But the fries do a good representation,
And to my awe, they don't spread germs,
Mind you, no chemist spoils the face of the red and blue street