This is Kenya (TIK)

This is the house of murder,

Death is taken as a small blunder,

Wildlife are not spared also from this striking thunder,

We are that house near Uganda.

Leaders talk the walk,

At least that’s a promise they don’t break as they away after the campaign talk,

We associate them to a producer of pork,

Citizens are students of school of hard knocks.

China became the 3^rd tribe,

After the poor and rich tribes,

With 42 to bribe,

Hence the negative vibe.

With insecurity we are told “usalama utaanza na wewe” as if there is no army,

With tribalism we are told “nchi ni wewe” when they have divided us in elections,

When taxed we are told “kutoa ushuru ni kujitegemea” when its them depending on us,

Leaving us na mamoshi inaingia kwa macho na macho yangu inatoa machozi,

This is Kenya

White is Right

White means right
Black means otherwise
That's the language I was left with.

I was given the guide too,
A dictionary, too bad it favoured one side.

I looked up,
Not to the skies blue,
But for the two words,
White and black.

Black mail
Black Maria
Black market and black marketeer
Worse, black mass
Black sheep
Black widow....

I bothered not looking for white.

A Fantasy

Memories, fire up, and burn my brains,
As your taste comes up, and takes over my mouth,
I smell your scent, and my eyes pick you up.

I remember the touch,
Almost feeling it close,
I feel your warm breath on my face,
I feel your racing heart on my chest.

My hands go up, only that this time,
There is no you to hold on to,
I close my eyes, and open my memories,
The only way I can see you, and feel what I want to.

My lips open, and I feel yours grab mine,
My tongue rolls,
And your teeth find a resting point,
My hands form a circle,
Fitting to the radius of your waist,
Should I remind you that you have the warmth,
Just enough to boil me within,
And fire up my heart beat, like a star-bound rocket.

My fantasies.

Love by design

Last time you came to say hi,

You waited until you almost said bye,

With a smile and a face that’s shy,

Came close and asked me to hug you tight.

Your sweet scent on my clothes and bed you left,

Like a thief it’s by design my mind you theft,

Stole the whole of me and my soul you saved,

On a daily it’s you now I craved.

Food doesn’t taste better without the thought of your lips,

Every girl I meet looks like they have your hips,

Breathing becomes difficult without the thought of your hands by my ribs,

Pleasure isn't to dream without your tender nibs.

If your love was a game in Olympic,

I’d always be there to pick,

My Nike shoes with a tick,

To run a marathon that I would win quick.

It’s only been five minutes,

My patience is already tested to its limits,

My heart beats with the right love lyrics,

I can’t let you leave to the exits.

Gossiper

She was called Margaret,
Folks called her Maggy,
Her ears were keen,
She was sensitive,
She was informed,
She was the village gossiper.

Maggy knew all,
She knew what tree would fall,
She knew what calamity would fall,
She knew what rock would roll,
She knew all you wanted her not to know,
Let alone what you told,
She knew it all.

She was a peace maker,
She was an enemy maker too,
She fished for stories from both sides.
She fished gossip,
She made sure she wasn’t the bait,
Because she knew,
The bait never comes out alive.

Her witty tongue,
Was an unbeatable glue to secrets,
They would come pouring out of you,
And leave you with regrets,
After she had carried them away.

She had the face,
That proved,
You had never seen anyone more innocent.

She knew everyone by name,
Even the nicknames,
She knew who had illegitimate kids,
And she knew the true fathers,
Though she knew how to keep it safe.

Maggy was an early riser,
She did her chores with haste,
She knew gossip loses taste,
When the sun rises too high

She always knew who made,
The best breakfast,
The worst lunch,
The heaviest supper,
And who had no lunch at all.

She was also the village messenger.
Her feet were friends to the paths,
Even the village dogs dared not bark,
Lest she forget what she had in mind.

She was a gossiper, yes
And some envied her,
Because no matter how much you avoided her,
You would have the urge to be with her
In order to know what your neighbor
Had up his sleeve.

Yesterday she was found lifeless,
Her body lay helpless by the roadside,
Her face was curious,
Like it was hiding some information,
She was from the Mayor’s house,
She was going to the Councillor’s.

“She was carrying some information”
People said in hushed whispers,
The Mayor’s wife said nothing,
Neither did the Councillor’s,
But people said they knew.

She was gone,
The news of her passing,
Travelled far and wide,
Just like her feet.

The village informer.

Who would quench
What they knew not?
She had been lured into being the bait,
And true,
She came out not alive.
Only two people knew.

Parrot Poet

A poet is like a parrot
immitating what he sees
he sees not only with ears
but with  eyes and skin

he imitates a lot
he translates what he feels
to others so they can hear
to those who are keen

a parrot says what it hears
a poet writes what he hears
here and there
some unfair
some unpredictable

a silent poet
is like a caged parrot
his wings try to flap
and his beak tries to shout
but the cage restricts
and confines his being inside

however,
the voice of his beak is not
neither are the bangs of his wings
they defeat the confinement
and ring out in the open
where ignoring ears pass by
and some stop by
just to smile at the scene
ignoring the pain in the cage

a loud poet is like a parrot
free and unbothered in the trees
his voice rings out loud
to the inhabitants in thier silence
the parrot proves unique
for his mastering of words
is a way above average
and the other birds
look up to him with awe
and a tinge of envy

a poet is like a parrot 

Maize and Beans

I was a seed, or so I am told,
I was plantetd, along with other seeds,
But I was a wise seed, I knew 'First come, first serve'
So I ended up in the sole perfect slot, I sprouted,
I grew, and grew, in the safe confines,
Till my term expired, and I had to create space,
For another wise seed.

I came out from the warm comfort,
To the cold vast land out,
I was tendered well and pampered,
I knew scorch, my body didn't,
I knew what freezing was, but my body didn't
I was protected from the harsh realities I was destined to face.

Then 18 seasons later, I was a mature plant,
Even capable of planting another seed,
Provided a perfect slot was ready,
So I wasn't ready to sow, as I had been,
I strived to become a rich plant, and have my own farm,
Where I would sow only three seeds, and cut my seed supply.
But that was never meant to be.

I struggled to survive, andf struggled to get a farm,
I had to survive, and make my farm survive too,
I sowed the first seed, it found a perfect slot,
After the standard term, it came out of the confines,
A beautiful bean seed,
Then I sowed another, came out a perfect maize grain,
I said, 'Just one more'
And true I got a good maize. I said its enough.
I was wrong.

Seems I had selected a fertile farm,
With plenty of slots, apparently, all were the perfect slot,
So I got a maize, bean, maize and bean again,
Seems the slots never happened to be imperfect,
In a decade, I already had a plateful of githeri,
Too bad I had nothing to sustain them
So I have a new hobby, counting the maize in my plate of githeri
And avoid the farm, lest I sow in a perfect slot again.

Maharagwe Mahindi

Maharagwe and mahindi,

A names that only few would think that they represent only foodstuffs,

A mixture would make a nice perfect meal,

This one here is a code name for a ‘perfect’ deal.

Poor mothers deceived out of their ignorance,

After all that pain and tolerance,

Getting out of a maternity ward in sonorous,

A nine month care of a baby to be born reduced to less importance.

Some say they were lied to of the deaths of their born ones,

A cartel that has done to many not once,

A lie that deprive them of their daughters and sons,

A life they bring out of every breath of their lungs.

Kids are sold like cheap clothes,

By the people we trust to help give safe passage to life,

A warning to many wife’s,

As you push out you bundle on your neck there’s a knife.

Tik tok

Tik tok,
Clicks the clock, an echo of my heart,
A sign that I am alive.

Tik tok,
Clicks the clock, a replica of the throb in my soul,
A sign that I'm in love.

Tik tok,
An hour past midnight, a step past ordinary love,
For you I face up,
Phone at hand, you in mind,
For you I pen this piece,
For in my life you import peace.

Tik tok,
An hour, with a minute late,
I mind our fate, sealed with Cupid's aim,
We are safe in our safe, a safe with a lock,
The lock; a resemblance of our kiss.

Tik tok,
A photocopy of our heart throbs,
When we share those moments we treasure,
When we are joined by invisible ties,
When we blend and bend all laws,
Just to get a piece of each other.

Tik tok,
Clicks the clock, an echo of our footsteps,
On the lone path after dusk,
As the moon so graceful lights our step,
In the silence of the night.

Tik tok,
There it goes again,
Steady, it doesn't fade, like the heavy rains,
The rains that hold our attention,
In a warm embrace as we watch the matching drops,
Like an army with a common course
Like our love with a sole goal.

Tik tok,
It won't stop, till the battery is dead,
A resemblance of my love for you,
It will never end,
Till my heart is dead.

Tik tok,
That's how I love you.

POETRY IS A LADY

Poetry is a lanky lady
in a blue bikini
and getting it off
makes her more beautiful.
Poetry is a sleek stripper
at a night club.
Her body and her moves
are arrant threats to beauty.
Poetry is nature
in a nude form.
Her beauty is as obvious as
a scorching sun at noon.
She is a night's full moon
whose presence can't be denied.

VOICE OF MY THOUGHTS

The voice of my thoughts;
reduced to strokes and dots.
Till earth's corpse rots,
these poetic flow won't clot.
Valuable voice as loud
as thunder through the clouds.
There's definitely no doubt,
it's audible even to the south.
Message so loud and clear
like the acute appearance of fear.
The theme is real and rare;
its my emotions boldly bare.
You are one amongst many.
Your love doesn't cost a penny.

Introverted

He prefers his own company, he talks less,
Words find their way through his pen,
He has less friends, to most he is allien,
He is a friend to his pen, and the internet.

He does not initiate dialogues,
He finds himself locked in them,
Sometimes he talks animatedly,
Mostly he only listens,
He argues, only with facts,
He seems to know everything,
though he never tops at school.

He likes company of people,
But later, he sits alone,
Most of the time he is called shy,
He is told to be braver,
But he isn't shy.

He is mentally drained in presence of people,
He prefers to talk facts,
He hates being insulted
He listens before talking, he never interrupts.
He reads, and crawles the internet,
He makes multiple friends,
But prefers not to meet them.

He is the unpredictable kind of guy,
He is no allien,
He is just introverted.

Food for my Thought

I am hungry, I thirst for knowledge,
I am dry, starving, taken with ignorance,
Grabbed by blinds, stuffed under vases of blue,
I thought I was full,
I thought I was filled with knowledge,
But now it comes to reality,
My eyes open, and I realise I'm fed up,
My stomach fills with empty rumbles,
My brain bangs the emptied skull, my hands hang limp,
My feet, cracked from kissing gravel for miles,
My eyes blind from the dust that come from the kisses,
Just give me my brain back,
I want food for my thought.

A PRISON NOTE

Regards to my wonderful wife
who placed the sun in my life.
Don't tell her I'm in prison;
serving a term for treason.
She shouldn't know I'm in jail
and that I've been refused bail.
Inform her not of my situation.
My candid and cruel condition
that attacks my soul with sorrow;
Sorrow that sinks into my bone-marrow.
Don't tell her of my tasteless meals;
handicap beans with sick cereals.
Tell her I've left the shores of Africa
in a bird-like metallic monster.
I've gone in search of greener pastures
lying within the bosom of the future.
Save her from the arrows of agony
and from cries starved of melody.
I've given her enough pain
which has made her eyes to rain.

DEATH OF A PEN

I'll persistently pester poetry
like silence disturbs a cemetery.
So she can paint a perfect picture
and carve out a real structure
of my frail and feeble feeling
that can be clearly seen
like the body of a full moon
that appears at the death of noon.
The  pathetic emotions of a poet,
creative even in death.

Sorrow has sank her teeth
on my optimism's feet.
And to willingly walk on
is far from having fun.
My hope is a lifeless leaf
being chastised down a cliff.
My zeal is now paralysed
like a dream that can't be realised.
My life has become a sun set
since I lost my pen to death.

The Sun of Africa

He sits down,
In the farthest forlorn corner
Of the mud walled cracked windowless room,
The teacher calls it classroom,
the dictionary says otherwise.

He knows many a people,
Prominent and low,
Nelson Mandela,
Koffi Annan,
Gamel Nasser,
All of them,
Aren't they kids in the hood?
In fact Koffi is Nasser's twin.

He knows not the blue waters,
But the dusty drops,
That merely quench the thirst,
In fact,
The drops so dusty,
Aren't a remedy at all,
They leave the throat scratched.

He has a sister Aisha,
19 year-old wrinkled face,
She is a mother of three,
Traded off
To a nomad with sheep.

She was booked when three,
And sold off at thirteen,
She is such a punch bag to the man,
Thin but bone-hard.
The man so ruthless,
Even to the eye.

He passes his fingers,
Through his dust washed hair,
Coiled as the only form of comfort,

In the distance are gunshots,
He can only fathom the receipient,
The scattered flesh,
Just like his aunt, uncle,
And his other cousin,
Tears cloud his eyes,
The same tears that cloud The Sun of Africa.

A Voice From Lamu

> The Red Cross tweeted the attack before midnight
> The  Police arrived at the scene after the attack

My face tells it all, so does my son's
It was Mpeketoni at first, and we had this fright,
It was our brothers, sisters and cousins,
We thought we would be next.

Let's face it, we thought of our safety, and asked,
And we were assured.
They were poured in numbers, with guns at hand,
Their presence gave us a feeling of hope.
The Police.

But, when we needed them most,
When bullets gained flight into our lives,
When wails infested the night like desert locusts,
When hearts throbbed, grounding us with fright,
When all peace took flight, and crashed with a thud,
Loud, as the knock of the hooligan gun.

They were not here, even after phone calls,
They heeded not,
They came though, after all was lost.
All I do now is shed tears, and let the sun dry them.

I feel a loner, with no more family,
I am promised relief and life, but I can't afford,
I envy those who reside in peace,
Those who live with it;
The peace I know is my neighbour, with a bridgeless river;
As our boundary.

Even after the national prayer,
I knew I would be safe, safe from death,
But God helps those who help themselves,
I am helpless, with false hope that I cling on,
I am left to look at the only bright thing in my life,
The only thing that dries my tears,
The sun.
Fellow Kenyans, why have you forsaken us?

Political Chess

["An empty stomach is not a good political advisor", Cosmic Religion Quote]

It's all chess, a race, a chase,
Each move is planned, it is watched,
It may seem wrong to the watching eye,
But not to the playing mind.

Day after day, words fly to either sides,
Ties and bonds dissolve, others are created,
Some are born, more die,
But the old lies remain bold.

They make fanatics out of us,
And make us create a fuss,
After half a decade, they become friends, the best
And we follow on blindly,
Yes, blindly.

We were made blind, and they took away our walking staffs,
Away, that's where we have been staffed
As our very hearts starved,
Starving, both for food, and justice too.
Don't be suprised, they starve too,
They starve for power and influence, and money too.

They do all things to justify themselves
They make us see their right side, never the wrong,
Each side is right, we are left to fight.

We starve, and they find a reason to starve more,
They manufacture promises behind closed doors,
With closed ears to matters of justice,
They burn our money to manufacture lies,
Lies sweetened by our pain,
Lies they sell to us, in exchange to our votes.
Lies we love most, lies even after realising they are lies,
We readily buy them after their warranty is over,
A warranty that costed us half our decade.

Lest we forget

I live in a country that’s tribalism is the order of the day, 
That’s my country and everyone has a tribe to prey, 
But this shouldn’t end to slay, 
For the sins of a politician none of us has to pay. 
   
Some are calling for saba saba, 
Others are eating like mamba, 
Like putting mwananchi kwa kamba, 
Hii ukabila haijanibamba. 
   
There are positives for being a member of a tribe,

That doesn’t involve a way to bribe,

I have a lot to describe,

That also don’t involve hard jibe.

Our different culture is unique,

So as the languages we speak,

Togetherness is all we seek,

To preserve this tribes that antique.

Maasai,

The pride of Kenya,

Well protected traditions that needs no tender,

Kila mtu anapenda,

Tembea Kenya is now my agenda.

Luo,

From the lakes,

With unique English accent like Shakes,

Flawless dark skins created with no mistakes,

If they were fruits I’d say they are grapes.

Kikuyu,

Best known for trade,

Under the Mugumo tree they prayed,

Most in the central Kenya they stayed,

Work with one and you will get paid.

Luhya,

Best known for Mulembe, meaning peace,

Can’t do without a chicken piece,

Surely around them you will be at ease,

This is my tribe if you please.

Kisii,

Rhymes with kissy,

Near the lands that’s fishy,

Rain drops there easy,

Fast talking like the rapper whizzy.

  

Kamba, 

Naturally artistic, 

From curving’s to pictures that are nostalgic, 

The longer the distance, to them a shorter logistic,

Humble Kenyans to be specific.

Kalenjin,

The great runners,

Will win the medals all season winter and summers,

To them one, two & three is their numbers,

To dance the Kemboi dance without a drummer.

Taita,

The coastal people,

Lifestyle so simple,

Makes my Swahili sounds like flowing ripples,

Surely if you visit here you wouldn’t be no more single.

Add your Tribe to make this longer…..