But It Is Life

the days came and went by,
running along with your memory, 
the further the days strolled 
the further your memory receded 
at the back of my head 
in the secret compartment 
I store mathematical formulas 
formula I have never used 
all alone, I think of you 
the dark haze, 
the maze of steps 
that lead to you 
and i am lost, lost in the wonder 
of how we stopped loving, being us 
but it is life 

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is a candle in a whirlwind

Tomorrow is a gushing wound

Tomorrow is a withered tree

Tomorrow is a crashing plane

Tomorrow is a nuclear disaster zone

Tomorrow is a desperate orphan

Tomorrow is waiting for a man

A man who will never come

Tomorrow is a drowning man

Clutching a twig

Tomorrow is a hurricane, an earthquake

Tomorrow is a still birth

Tomato Scam

It is that time of the year when we – when I say we I mean Socrates, Plato, Confucius, and I – invoke one of the age-old wise sayings we came up with; thou shall never purchase a mere tomato for a price exceeding kdf. Our efforts were not only arduous but unmatched to date, considering the obvious fact that kdf had not yet been invented. Man, I remember people didn’t even vote then.

I have faltered twice on the saying. No, three times to be exact, although I can perfectly explain to the panel of eminent persons, should I be called upon. I made up for the flaw by –wait for it – shoplifting. At the time, I lived in a neighborhood where people strictly went grocery shopping. Our mama mboga, or grocery lady, had her kibanda tucked around one corner. It seemed as though rich people went there for discounts, but it was not anything like a discount to me.

I have veered off the topic. I was talking about tomatoes. So this day, after a hard day, I dashed to a mini-supermarket tucked on one of the buildings that had this giant black intricately designed gate. I only saw Somali ladies with those weird paintings of theirs entering and leaving that gate. The supermarket was more like an after-thought, for it was located on the first floor of the building, and was accessed on the outside via a steel staircase that made a lot of noise. I had mastered the steps and avoided the one that made the most noise as I ascended to make my paltry purchases – a sachet of coffee or half a kilo of sugar.

Once inside the supermarket, I selected two eggs from the shelf and a tomato. The tomato cost a whopping twenty shillings. The tomato itself was huge. If it talked, it would definitely have had linguistic prowess exceeding Waititu’s by kilometers. What did I do? Of course, nothing. I just sulked at the open robbery and quickly forgot about it. My motto quickly transformed to 'I can do without tomatoes.' Little pretentious ingredients whose only purpose was to make me feel miserable and deprived. And make me feel like I couldn’t enjoy a meal because, without it, food tasted like a concoction of sawdust and cow dung.

However, by mere chance, I checked at the counter with a packet of unga and two eggs, but parting with the said items with the price of unga. How did I do it? The cashier did not see the eggs. And that effectively turned me into a shoplifter. One day, when I get to public office, this statement might haunt me, but I don’t care. Given a chance, I’ll steal, and I don’t think I’ll ever wean myself off the habit. I don’t do it now because I haven’t had any chances. Besides, there’s so much anger out there, and being caught will surely mark the end of you.

On second thought, maybe I was not a shoplifter. I only pilfered. The excuse I can give is that they sold me, against my express will, a tomato costing twenty shillings. I’d pilfer little things like coffee sachets and eggs. And the very tomatoes. There was simply no way I could purchase them at such a price. Until the other day.

I was out and about trying to assemble things to make a meal of – veggies here, onions there, and tomatoes. Usually, I make it a point of buying things from the same place. Upon checking the price of tomatoes, it simply didn’t inspire me, but I bought it anyway. It was tiny, the same size as plums, but went for fifteen shillings. I silently wished I poured libations to my ancestors, maybe they would have intervened.

Beaten, I made my meal, glad that I was veering off my culinary delights that mainly involved boiling, ate, and proceeded to ruminate at the unfairness and injustice brought about by tomatoes’ decision to make themselves scarce. Foods without them, except at home tastes as though someone is punishing you. When did tomatoes actually decide to wedge themselves onto our tables, ruling our foods with a reptilian grip? 

I do not know, but right now, I do not intend to buy them anymore. The sad fact is that the simple exclusion has not made me any rich.  

Right now, I can only reminisce the times I could have bought four of them for ten shillings. And they nearly the size of Akothee’s boobs. Now their presence is as arrogant as Akothee herself.

Fatigue

every part of your body aches, 
the brain has since ceased running 
only receiving pain receptors 
your eyes drool, wanting nothing more than to shut down 
and see NOTHING for a long time 
but you have to be up, 
to dream the same dream 
the dreams you are scared to pursue 
because down the road, 
you will be served with a sign 
of disappointment 
and you feel you've used up, 
all you energy to try again 
the truth is you did, 
what with mathematical formulae 
pendulums and kilo joules 
chemical formulae, the periodic table and protons 
you tried to be good at them, 
and biology too, 
but life happened, and wanted nothing to 
do with classroom shenanigans  

The Alarm

the ever contemptuous alarm rings, 
splitting the silence and your slumber 
like firewood, 
it jolts you to the world of never-enough 
a world of never ending pursuits 
money, love, happiness 
you seek them despite the eerie laughter 
a diabolic laugh telling you 
of the vanity 
of needless worry that assails you 
for this world will swallow you whole 
although ravaged, scarred and scalded 
people will speak glowingly of your exploits 
because you often obeyed the alarm 

Random Musing

Find me by the roadside, dazed

Dreaming of paths that lead to you 

Seeking to swim the rivulets 

Of the numerous memories of us 

Singing along to our favorite songs 

Embracing worry out of our weary hearts 

Promising each other eternities 

Plucking love from our gazes 

the penetrating gazes that ripped our senses 

the promise of our beating hearts 

screaming in our heads 

boisterous that nothing will come between us 

find me by the roadside seeking those moments 

gazing at the distance hoping to see you 

emerge from the darkness that swallowed 

I long the glow in your eyes 

when you look at me and say you love 

because 

because that is a feeling i can't ever trade 

only because no could actually offer me money 

for now, its only me who knows the value 

What am I Writing About

it knocks and swiftly enters 
finding you naked as the day you were born 
you are alone 
for so many dawns have come and gone 
still, you live thinking 
thinking thoughts in disjointed notes 
and when you are not, 
you are baring your soul to the deal 
daring its fangs 
to sink into you 
and take you through 
for nights have ceased appealing 
neither days 
but you don't to be ambushed, and be found naked
or donning torn underpants 

Vile Banter

Every sports betting enthusiast or gambler – if you choose a higher moral ground – has had this distinct moment in his career: staying late up the night refreshing a live score site or an app. Mind you, this is a feat he (most gamblers are of the male gender) never achieved while in school or if he is still in school has never made head or tail of the advantages unless it involves nudity and free drugs. 

 

The sole purpose of staying late at night is to follow a minute by minute progress of a team he bet on especially with school fees – confirming he is a moron – or the last team on his betting list that will guarantee a windfall. At that moment, there are many glittering things he will buy, and the mere thought of possessing them is enough to give him an erection.

Unless you are a Kenyan politician, karma does not just sit by and watch make lots of money without working hard for it. The reason could that all the luck apportioned to the males in your lineage were all used up by one of your fathers in his attempts to woo a fairy princess. And so, you will lose your school fees, and, more painfully, your sleep.

It was a sure bet, you tell yourself, banging your head on a hard surface. Once in a while, you’ll gather your friends or pretty much anybody who is interested in your ‘team moja iliniangusha’ story, and go over the minute details of your gambling exploits, hoping they’ll bow down their heads and make you a ceremonial gambling god.

That’s never the case because they too have their own stories, some better than yours especially if they did not bet on school fees. You will hear of a story where Chelsea, despite having close to useless odds, therefore poised to win by a landslide margin, gets held to a 2-2 draw by a lowly Norwich.

“Nilikua nishinde 800k,” the man will tell you and you will believe him even when he is lying. “It was the last team, and I thought I had already had the money.” And that was the last time Chelsea was Chelsea to that gambler. It officially morphed to Chelshit, even if you are a diehard supporter and were once willing to bet on your own two balls – biological ones just for the sake of arsenal fans.

The advent of betting added another dimension to football fanaticism: crude and vile banter. It is no longer about how a team plays shitty football, but about how that shitty football prevented me from winning a windfall, thereby changing my fortunes and the fortunes of all the generations after me, even up to the fifth one. And the emotions expended in it is so real that it can cut through steel reinforced concrete.

Gone are the days when a game of football was just that. Despite the fact that Manchester United is a limping team, no self-respecting fan will bet against it even though they blatantly and boisterously talk about its complete shittiness. It is often a welcome loss in the case that it  has lost and thereby making one lose money, because it only confirms that you have always passionately hated Man U, and there’s no way you could ever ever bet on such a loser team. You call it names referring to a donkeys gonads.

Sometimes, while watching a game of football, and it is open consensus that majority of the patrons have bet on a certain team, be sure that banter is legally prohibited on that team people have bet on. These are people capable of rage that can move mountains. They’ll order your swift removal from the place because you are causing financial disturbance in manner likely to cause economic depression. Worse still, they could have been sent by their wives to bring a packet of milk and decided to bet on a team they were sure to win.

Facing the danger of being called stupid for the hundredth time, the man of the house will do everything to bend the force of nature just to make sure he retains his money, but plus a little more. Often, dharma (the law of cause and effect) sits by and calls the man stupid in advance, making sure Barcelona, with odds of 1.2, losing miserably to Las Palmas. A one-nil loss. No over 2.5, no Messi goal.

And in that state of utter disappointment, the least that man can do, even though he can constitutionally punch you, is call Barcelana  by certain organs found in the nether regions, which, by definition are overused. And this is not reserved only to the moment he lost his money, but eternally. Even if Barcelona wins by ten goals, he will find something he thinks is deragatory and says with Miguna’s conviction. And he will feel good about until you tell him about how shitty Chelsea is, and he happens to be a Chelsea fan.

He Thinks of You Till it Hurts

He sits in silent contemplation,
Turning thoughts of you,
The same thoughts of your loveliness
Your timeless laughter ringing in his head,
Echoing inside the void created by your absence,
And emptiness that fillas every part of his body
But he sits still, thinking
Of your eyes boring into his,
Of your hands tracing patterns of pleasure
on his skin
He thinks until your absence hurts
He misses you, but you are in a parallel universe
Getting concerned with problems unique with your world

The Picture

It’s still you, the very lady I fell for,

The tooth gap, a door to your laughter

A thousand lives spring from your feet

I want to love you today,

And tomorrow a little more

Do not hoard your love to make me change

Be there for me when I need you

And I’ll be there when you need me

Everything will fall into place

A Sinner's Funeral

A palpable somber mood,

Wrung the air of oxygen,

Beckoned the departed to reveal secrets,

Secrets hoarded by the confined body

 Still as though in deep slumber

Mourners wondered where the destiny,

The mortal destiny of man

A destiny vast yet tiny as a coffin

 As mourner after mourner

Extolled the virtues of the departed

And prayed for her soul

As it met God’s ever just judgment

Was a her lack of religiosity the greatest sin

Confessions of a Homo Technolopithecus

Picture the earth before creation – dark, desolate, and scary. Time stretches endlessly, without the grasp of the ever swooshing deadlines. Now picture yourself in that world, in this present world with numerous technological distractions which have embedded themselves into your everyday life.

You will be lonely in a crowd, wandering in the streets as though you are a lost soul seeking redemption. I guess that’s how it feels without a phone, for that’s the experience I went through back in the village when power went off, and KPLC, ever reliable in disappointing, took its sweet time.

I am homo technolopithecus, a reverse from the sapien sapien thing. I can’t live without my phone. I love to feel it in my pocket, the right pocket of my trouser, and whenever I feel its absence my whole body is sent into unspeakable panic. It has to be there, even when I don’t need it, such as when I am dead and need to check whether I have received a text.

You may have heard of people making jokes that the wifi was down once and they were forced to talk to their families. They confessed that they seem like nice people. I am one of them, though I do not overly peg my existence on the internet. I just need to feel my phone, on for I derive immense pleasure in drawing the security pattern and gawking at it endlessly, for hours. When I get bored with it, I set it aside for ninety seconds and resume fiddling with it.

I can’t, for the fluids in me, imagine how someone can survive without a phone. Of course there are people who can live without it – dead people and hopeless drunkards. Even though no one actively looks for me, I feel I am obliged to be reachable. It is true with relationships.

When you are in love, there’s that constant need to validate your affection. The only thing available, what with the distance is a phone. Texting and calling brings forth two dimensions in a relationship – strengthen it or break it. if you are dating a lady with the intelligence quotient of boiled maize, it can be disastrous because every time your phone is off, she conjures up a thousand scenarios of where you could be – which often is on top of a naked woman. To her, there are never any other viable reasons as to why you could be unreachable. That’s why I am a homo technolopithecus. 

 

The other day, while with a friend, he turned and asked me what postpartum meant. I looked at him with an ‘are you stupid glare’ and answered him. Because I know things, and the way I know things is through googling. That answers you why I thought he was stupid – he was holding his phone, and I wondered why he couldn’t make use of it. Some people! They think we have time to answer questions google can answer within a second, and not just answer – have detailed illustrations that may even include pictures of naked women.

As an avid social media user, I often rise in the morning to see the posts and go like – what a complete moron.  I love this routine so much that I log into social media even before my eyes have fully deciphered the brain stimuli instructing to open the eyelids. Even though social media has a certain dumbing-down effect, I love it. I love gawking at pictures of people living really good lives, read news and check out memes. Mostly I check out memes. And imagine my complete uselessness. 

 

Do not say ati I am addicted to my phone. Everything is in my palms. What more can I ask for? Money in my palm, entertainment, news, and naked pictures of women. I am a homo technopithecus, and one day when my bones will be discovered in the year 4000, they will discover my phone beside me. Archeologists at the time may wonder how primitive I was (or I am right now), but I’ll answer them now – I don’t give a damn.

Sober Moments

Every sober moment gnaws

The edges of his mind like a saw

It reminds him of abandoned dreams

Stupor rids him of lofty aspirations

He desires not the soberness of a judge

The verdict is often unbearable for his person

The world looks him an elevated pedestal

Saying with only its eyes ‘you are a failure’

He is every inch one, and he needs to forget that

Every single second of the day

The world does not cut him some sluck

It demands what he can no longer give

Except drunken drools and disappointment

The Pain is Gone

it feels different now,

the scars appear like petals,

like medals from a war

a victorious war,

it speaks of your exploits

right inside the belly of the serpent,

how you emerged, scarred alright

but with a new resolve,

to not only live but conquer as well

The King Never Farts

The king never farts

When he does, there’s always a peasant

Ready to take the responsibility

The king is infallible

He was ordained by god

And who can question god

The king is the wisest man alive

His word is a decree

No man can go against him

The Nightmare

She convulsed violently as if being tagged by powerful forces, each trying to make her cross into regions of their dominion. She looked as though she had just been exposed to a botched religious ritual, where the forces of evil and good matched each other in strength. People had gathered in the field, watching pensively and probably thankful that it was not a contagious disease. You watch the whole debacle through your bedroom window, a little bit intoxicated. No. You are so inebriated that you feel the world begin to spin dangerously.

Then, as if on cue, people begin to scamper to safety, scaling walls, and running while looking back as though the eyes aided in propelling them as far away from the scene as possible. Because of the substances you had consumed earlier, you fall asleep on your bed, with all your clothes on.

It does not take long before you hear footsteps inside your house. At first it is one, then two then many. You feel an ice cold hand touching your neck, and props you up as a mother would do to a baby. You slowly open your eyes, and come face to face with the convulsing woman. She has come with a crowd you earlier saw watch her convulse life threateningly. She touches your face and begs you to make love with her. She had been pretty earlier, but now she was an old woman, with a skin so wrinkled that one can hide a packet of unga when shoplifting. She is as repulsive as a blown up image of groin eating virus.

You sit on your bed and try to say a prayer, folding your fists tightly. Nothing happens despite you shouting Jesus forcefully. The woman’s entourage begins begging you to do as she asks as though the simple act possessed healing capability. You have never thought of your tool of intimacy as possessing any healing properties, and you don’t want to find out just then. May be she would turn into a maiden, and without any devilish tendencies you saw earlier. That’s none of your concern. What concerns you then is getting out of the place with your phone intact. Instinctively, you feel your phone in your pocket. It is still there.

It surprises you that none of the people restrain you as you make for the door. You should have asked them to leave, but it does not bother you. They can make away with anything they want in the house – you don’t care. All you care is putting enough distance between you and the devilish-looking group of humans. And with your phone. According to the National Bureau of Agony, nothing matches the agony of losing a smart phone, and even more agonizing is the wait until you can purchase another one.

When you get out, you are welcomed by darkness. And silence. All the houses have their lights off, except yours. There is no soul in sight. The world looks desolate, rid of any human soul. It felt as though the world was in readiness for the voice of God commanding with the voice ‘let there be…’ You think; let there be humans with actual human hearts and intentions. It dawns on you that the light in your house may have attracted them, for it is the only one in the entire neighborhood that’s on.

As you try to process the sudden change of environment, a young man dashes out of one the houses screaming hysterically. The scene provides a new dimension to the already fucked up situation you just found yourself in. What has happened to all the people? What am I going to do? A billion questions dart at lightning speed through your mind, yet do not give you a chance to contemplate the possible answers.

A slimy hand, or tentacles, cold as witch’s nipple at mid night wraps itself around your neck. As you feel life slowly slipping away, you wake up, drenched in sweat. It was a dream. Or nature was playing a cruel prank on you since its one in the night, and you damn know very well that it is time to think about all your problems, jumbled up as they are.

In the darkness, you stretch your hands to the table where you usually place your phone. It is still there. You press the power button and the screen lights up, blinding you momentarily. It’s not even three o’clock in the morning. You know what that time means – stay awake until six thinking the same thoughts over and over again. You know very well that you aren’t even imaginative enough to find better angles of thinking. Like getting your ass off and actually trying to live. But before that, you analyze the nightmare. It looked so real. Last time it looked this real, it became a reality – story for another day.

Other Days

There are days whose dawn, 
just their dawn
Stretched like a thousand forevers 
time crawled, seconds gnarled, 
dragging their feet to the minute, 
minutes were lazy, scurrying around 
as though they were being punished 
Hours, the cute hours, solemnly jeered 
Sometimes gnarled when you checked it
And you are stuck in a timeless void 
Waiting 

The Thud in Your Chest

The distinct thud in your chest, 
The sound of your indefatigable heart, 
Ever in a race, even when you are asleep, 
A race to keep up with your allotted earthly time
To live, love and laugh, 
And, sometimes, make memories 
Or money 
It's just a race, one beat coming slightly second after another 
Forever - which is not really a long time anyway