The beginning of a roller-coaster,
the ride through seemingly never-ending vistas
sometimes an occasional fear would creep in
and doubts emerge slowly but fizzle out
as we got accustomed to the cheap thrills,
which conquered the doubts
dismissing them as irrational
and so we went on drinking, making merry,
and one day, we gasp with horror
It is finished!
I am more than convinced,
in all its grandness,
that earth is one giant stomping ground,
is a festival of fools
so much do not make sense,
like how we are consumed by greed,
so much that humans are the only animals
that pay to live on earth
religion has the grandest ideas
on morality,
yet so many are evil - even the staunchest
believers
Humans are no better than animals
except humans can rationalize their evil
He is, by virtue, a man whose
well of excuses never runs dry.
Given an opportunity, or not,
he can always rely on a robust cache
excuses.
He can get away some of the times,
especially when he is not accountable to himself
He is too lenient with himself - Charles Chipcho
because Chipcho does what Chipcho wants
some things may mean the whole world
for a second, then it doesn't
everything lasts as long as he does not
find an excuse
or have an iota of care
At the touch of something divine,
A mere moment assumes new significance,
Yet, basking in the glorious world, words,
Words diminish the new meaning, perchance,
ashamed of their own nudity
A poet's words are often a vain attempt,
To fit an entire world in verse,
For to freeze time requires more than rhyme
To paint a moment requires more than canvas
In each poem are just jumbled words
No perfect poem ever makes sense
If it does, then it isn't a poem
No one is obliged to understand a poem
Many were composed by poets high on drugs
And the rest battling internal demons
maybe we dream too much,
maybe we are searching
an inexistent higher purpose,
maybe we are insignificant
yet we pretend to be
maybe we needlessly struggle
against a force too powerful,
that will eventually crush us
and condemn us to oblivion
maybe we should just rest easy,
be a little kind and gentle to ourselves,
maybe we should just to revel
in life's little simplicities
laugh at our own follies a little more
maybe we do not know
that which we think we know
maybe we are puppets
who dance to master's lullaby
a slow stroll down dry January
a tinge of regret masks merry
of the year past, and a deserved toast,
to dreams yet to come
a peculiar walk down dry January
an infinite number of day, all blurry
all queuing to be counted derelict
In one cold December morning
It's been tough, nothing much
despite deep and honest intentions
amounted from strenuous efforts
But, hey, isn't it December?
That's enough a reason to make merry
And reward oneself, once more
for three hundred and sixty five days
of bliss-filled, or lack thereof, existence
One midnight,
you will be home,
but feel stranded in a distant island,
and the songs you loved play in the background,
sounding more like dirges than
songs you can dance to.
Sombre
something grates your heart,
you try so much not to think at all
DON'T THINK! DON'T THINK!
Your brain doesn't obey the command,
It says that these are affairs of the heart
And it must be involved - it is the self-appointed judge, jury, witness,
and the advocate
The brain commands you to picture
the love of your life
in someone else arms
And you do - who are you to disobey a wise man?
The clock past midnight
and the dirges play on ... and on
Every wakeful moment
The wise spend it planning, learning or earning,
Losers spend it winnowing their airy dreams,
Wallowing in their misery,
And swallowing their future
And when you sit to ponder,
In the middle of a cold and lonely night,
What will tomorrow bring, you wonder
Be still, you are alight, always
Some of the times life seems like a walk,
In a forest full of hungry wild animals,
Be still, you make them up in your silent talk
You are alright, always
You are always alright,
There are no nights any darker
You are only scared of your light,
Be still, you are alright, always.
You do not need dope to cope
Time is never in haste,
You could wallow in misery or chose hope
Because, in the end, you will always be right
the blank pages dares me,
taunts me, mocks me to fill it,
I can't think of anything,
I can't arrange the idea inside
my head,
into something coherent,
something that would communicate the theme
"Look here's today's poem"
In the background, a soulful Vince Gill
song "Go Rest High on That Mountain"
It's kind of nostalgic,
brings forth a memory I haven't live through yet
and I realise I won't ever live such a moment
I have no desire
Deep inside I am country boy
not so well-versed with so many things
Well, and this is today's poem
for me and that one reader who shows up
on this page
I wish you weren't anonymous,
my one loyal reader
As a kid, I thought riding a bicycle
was an inborn skill,
I'd watch others graceful hop on the
two wheeler and pedal to their destinies
I might have asked myself,
"What's too difficult about it?"
Then I learned the hard way
My first contact with a bicycle earned
me a scar
I tried to apply what I had seen masters do,
And to my dismay, I realised there's more to
a bicycle than simply hopping on it and pedaling away
There'd be a thousand failed attempts,
a thousand falls, and a few scars
Before I could earn the right
to gracefully hop on it and ride away
the stars bury their faces in shame
when the catch a glimpse of your gleaming face,
the sun retreats behind the clouds,
sometimes it flees to another world,
when you smile.
every time you step into the room,
I feel like I have the universe in my palms,
I am yet to understand what you gave me
it always begins with a sip
- or a gulp - whichever will coax
demons out of the tombs,
sooner, ephemeral bliss takes over,
sooner, the raging storms make a hasty retreat,
to wait for their moment
sooner, the heights become hazy,
and tranquility - a sinister form of tranquility
weans a soul of all its worries, all its burdens,
and owns them
in an ephemeral bliss
the future blends with nothingness
Charles Chipcho caught the bus to bedlam,
He did not think even for single minute,
If he'd ever make it back,
And, because he had a two-way ticket,
He relaxed and made merry
with all the merry-makers of bedlam.
on the day you remember people
who did you a whole world of good,
let not your memory be too short
because those people did not do it because you deserved it
they did it out of the goodness of their hearts
Let not your memory be too short
You can move mountains
for people who wouldn't move a molehill
Remember that they do not owe you reciprocity
Do it out of the goodness of your heart
for long, you were disciplined,
you did not indulge in any pleasure,
it felt good to finally tame your demons,
for the first time, you felt untouchable,
the only opinion that mattered was yours,
but, because God has a sense of humor,
you were struck, at lightning speed,
by something unavoidable.
And, after all the sacrifice,
you are back to where you began.
I know, without a doubt,
Of a prisoner inside of me,
I am a jailbird,
Twenty-five to life
No possibility of parole,
I still maintain my innocence - it wasn't me
All I ever did was not consenting to be born
looking back,
it is amazing how I thought
of the vast opportunities that lay before my eyes,
I stood atop a mountain and gazed down
at the beautiful and rolling fields,
all for me to conquer
but then life happens,
I realised that it is unfair
and I never accepted it,
I haven't still.
often, when there seems to be no way,
and as sure as the sun will go down,
a silent prayer, 'please let it be today'
but there it remains - the same old frown
the stomach grumbles with discontent
there hasn't been much to munch,
each passing hour increases resent
of the discarded food and free lunch
there is nothing to enjoy - not a movie,
not that favourite song, not nothing,
the pangs increase, gravel would taste like gravy
at least it would be better than nothing
and then, stuck in a web of gloom
nothing ever comes to your mind
everything seemed crammed a tiny room
you search, but there is nothing to find
the more your laughter drifts further,
the more this life becomes a puzzle,
and in the bustling bubble of happy people,
the more I am struck by the significance of
of both your absence and presence
in spaces that the world chokes with its
bubble, hustle, and needless cheer,
in the crowds that passes us by,
in the crowds that make the world vast
desolate,
in the darkest hours that the sun
is never willing to be a conspirator,
we ride the rhythms of our favourite songs
because, in the end, music is all we got
buried deep,
buried in untouchable place,
buried in places where no amount of pain can
reach,
buried in sacred places inside us.
there are songs that we tend to personalize
as if the artistes sung them just for us,
they are some sort of cherished possessions,
and when the come through the speakers,
they awaken a memory,
that ferries us to a distant island,
we rise, we soar, we glide
through the rhythm,
and when we get to the island,
we sit back and soak in the memory,
right there, at that moment of impeccable solitude,
nothing matters - not money, not riches
just the pure bliss of knowing that no one else
will ever know the purity of a simple song.
We stood by the precarious edge of adulthood,
Stole a glance at its ever inviting abyss,
We counted days, months, years at that day,
The day we would take a plunge into
the ever secretive world - the world
barricaded by adults
don't you wish, on some occasions,
that you would numb to all the voices
that silently scream in your head?
don't you wish you would numb
the hopelessness that often grip you
on occasions you need extra strength?
don't you wish you would numb
the overwhelming guilt
that trips you when you make that step,
the most important step?
don't you wish you could numb
the paralysing fears and worries
that exist in your head?
the chariots that you would ride,
only need one word: numb
being numb to all the insignificant things
that bog you down.
regrets
grate the dreamless nights,
the cool breeze turn into a
spellbinding tornado,
of a thousand 'should-have-dones'
millions should-have-nots, should-have-beens
should-have-knowns,
and when the tornado eases,
you are just an empty shell,
seeking solace among mortals
puzzled that they are still alive,
almost against their will.
Small wins,
as inconsequential as they seem,
feels like fuel to an empty car,
a few drops will get the car a few inches ahead
and a few inches closer to the destination
celebrate them
in the dark crevices of his mind
lies grandiose dreams,
dreams as big as the universe
dreams as vast as space
as lays awake, the dreamer in him
convulses with delight
at the mere thought of glittering success
that would drive many mad with envy
the dreams are like opium to him
he seeks them everyday,
yet does very little to bring them to fruition
there are days we never long for
days that remind us of our existence
when all we want is forget how to breathe
but how do you even do that?
breathing, barring medical conditions,
comes naturally to us
call it default setting
except because tomorrow is another day
that reminds us of failures both by
commission and omission,
the wrongs things we did and the rights things we
did not do
of the wrong people we loved,
and the right people we neglected,
of the dreams yearn to live
and the reality we are in
as we breathe, we are constantly reminded that life
does not make too much sense,
and we don't either
Sometimes what goes on in our minds makes the world seem like a convoluted maze, dark and filled with eerie sounds. It should be better, we think. It should be, except it isn't. Because life never follows a script. We do create scripts right inside our heads, consciously or subconsciously. And when it does not go to plan, the world turns dark soon after sunrise. And we long for ephemeral things that will transcend our deep-seated worries. We binge watch movies, binge eat, and for some, binge on alcohol.
It could be better. But its so much worse than we envisioned. Yet somehow, it seems the situation is out of control. It seems that our guardian angels have taken a nap, or threw in the towel concerning our cherished dreams. We want to blame someone for the decisions we made. The truth is that it is far much easier to blame someone or anything to make the sorry situation seem a little better. We are us. Things like this should not be happening to us. But the reality is that it is happening. And it seems that it is out of control.
give me a loaf of bread
before I drop dead
so that you can come
and bestow upon my soul virtues I never had
say you truly love me
before we become 'used to be'
and you turn into a philosopher
waxing cliches
like you don't know what you have till its gone
life is a lot like a novel
lots of plots twists before the shovel
lots of characters, aiding or derailing the script
and sometimes the confusion between the real and ideal
makes life unbearable
you fall into hard times
that make you long for those nursery rhymes
because the meaning of adulthood gets lost
and you wonder why you were
so much in a hurry to grow up
they say life is unfair
because it is supposed to be
they say diamonds take a beating
to become the 'it' thing
but you are no diamond and hard is not your portion
I still miss her, in some kind strange way,
I know we still had so many to say,
We promised each other so many
Whatever flowed out of her mouth was honey
How do you begin again
When it is just too much pain
The one you ever truly loved
when you loved in a way you could never have explained?
I still miss her, a funny feeling now
And I ask myself, eerily, how?
What happened? What did not?
In my stomach settles a strange knot.
It is strange when you believe you were never meant to part
There is always that guilty feeling you never played your part
On some cold nights, you pause all your thoughts and ask why
And the ever elusive answer leaves you with a weird sigh
He came from the ranks of men,
who gradually gravitated towards oblivion
by sheer and willful ignorance.
He suffers frequent bouts of self-loathe
on moments he swore he wouldn't ever reach.
It is the umpteenth time to swear,
yet on his low moments,
he will be moved by how much he is doing
embrace the noose that took his grandfather away
On the outside he seems like a made-up guy
But broken into smithereens on the inside
How he wishes that things were different
If only he did things differently.
If they ever tell you that you will
get to a point, in a sinister manner
a point where your name will be
permanently struck of the register
of those seeking redemption,
yield to temptation. Believe them.
For heaven's sake, what would
a man actively seeking his destruction,
hope for?
There are only so many things to be grateful
for, yet focus on the same things
that have born nothing but angst,
self-loathe,
self-hate
and when nothing seems to work,
the very man stares at his own bleak existence
the existence that he made
and wishes there was a hand that hoist him
of the hole
that has become a rat race.
If there ever tell you
that you may amount to nothing
believe them.
In you, they are battling their own existential
struggles
and your failure might make them feel better about
their sorry existence
Silence.
Sometimes you crave it, sometimes you don't
Sometimes its liberating, sometimes it imprisons
Silence.
A lover's nightmare,
A jilted love's bliss.
Silence.
Sometimes it gives hope,
Sometimes it strangles it,
You oscillate between hope
and despair
Silence is not a dream
Silence does not obey laws of the stream
It lives on its own terms
Yet treats and harms
tell me any one tale
full woes quite avoidable
like Chipchos and his friends...
the have danced around fire
plenty of times,
each time getting burns to
what medical doctors call degrees
Chipchos seems to decreed to die young
broke and miserable
for each time he gets burned,
he goes back again
because he likes to dance around fire,
he says anything you love doing is
worth overdoing,
his lifelong mantra is that moderation is for cowards
We stood in unbearable rain
In the pursuit of truth,
It did not seem so vain
As contacting god from telephone booth
Not knowing drove us insane
We had an inkling, a slight hint
a candle on the window vane
i flicker in the night, a glint
It might not have been
Truth is, truth hurts
In the end we may never win
Either way, we may be broken into parts
It began with a whiff from a distant land,
A vast ocean lay between,
And to conquer it a fool's errand,
It did not deter them explorers,
The braved the oceans with nothing as
much as a compass,
And they came to a brave new world,
and discovered people who did not look like,
their unassuming ways dismissed as primitive
And they killed thousands,
They occupied lands never theirs - they did not even
want to share - the darn ungrateful sojourners
And then came a new language,
A new religion,
And concepts such as democracy introduced
to a people did not need it,
And they called those who wanted their land back barbarians
The white barbarians stayed and made foreign lands their homes
And the repercussions are still felt today, Centuries after
The old man spoke slowly,
and deliberately,
a penetrating gazed fixed one me,
He said "you are not depressed,
it is a white man's word,
an excuse of sorts,
to create psychiatrists, and counsellors
perhaps sell drugs for Big Pharma
You are sad that you are meeting that objective,
You are not depressed,
You are just broke
and with a huge void of discontent inside you
you wish you could be somewhere else,
living another life."
you've watched too much TV,
you've consciously let yourself to your ruin,
you've realized your ruins
and it is unsightly - you want a quick fix,
a lottery -
young man, you do not need a lottery,
even if you get one, it won't rescue you"
Once heaven looked like a good destination,
one that you would only see when you permanently
close your eyes,
and a heap of soil stacked over you - of course if you are
lucky
We believed, because we needed to believe in something,
We needed to believe something that assures as a shred of immortality
Who wouldn't to live forever?
On Sundays, when going to church was part of the school routine
Just like eating, we trooped to church and sung
Our little hearts incredibly joyous
For it was the only time you would be singled out for a beating,
at least no then,
Heaven was within our grasp
Years later, we realize that no one tells you
that you have to pay bills as you wait to go to heaven,
and the wait is pretty darn long
He smelled of a cocktail of frustrations
and bad decisions,
He mulled for hours,
He wanted to give up once and for all
Yet he couldn't,
because breathing is an involuntary act
and he had all his guts drained out of him.
He rolls over in his bed,
and waits for another day,
to make bad decisions
she's an agile dancer,
gyrating on the edge of the world,
she has nothing to lose,
except leave many men with loose change,
and with broken dreams
she carries graves inside her belly
she's lived it all
she's seen it all,
and she's not reluctant to tell
because, of many things,
she lost her ability to care or show
remorse.
I have made peace with the fact that I will have completely nothing to show after a few months of being handed a million shillings. I make this declaration with a clear and sane mind, backed by the fact that laying my hands on a million shillings is realistically impossible. I am not gambling – I know there is always one winner, and it’s not me.
But then, as a self-respecting person, there is a shred of hope that someday I might land a million shillings without breaking too much sweat. People have become instant millionaires by simply being in close proximity of certain government parastatals. I could begin idling around these offices to increase my chances of being randomly selected to supply certain sensitive goods often referred to by the secret code ‘air.’
I would use a million shillings as much as the next man. I occasionally take time off my busy idling schedule (I guess the experience will come in handy when I begin idling around government offices) to fantasize about a million shillings. It is a step scientifically proven by scientists who have had more than six cups of keg.
What would I do with a million shillings? This is a question you should ask yourself. Then you make a list of priorities you would buy. Buy a car, a plot somewhere, and build a house. What will, remain, if any, you plan to travel to an exotic holiday destination, say Bermuda Triangle. If you closely look at the list, you will realise that you are completely stupid, not because that money is not enough, but because it does not involve an approved amounts of drinks and a party to let everyone know that you are the new millionaire in town.
If you are like me, I have had a little money that I have worked my ass off to lay my hands on. How did I spend it? Slowly, as I thought of something useful I would do. Didn’t the wise say that failing to plan is just a form ingenuity? Days down the line, I realise that the little money was not that little at all. At least compared to nothing, which is what I will have a week or two later.
It is then that I make a budget – no, a budget is something you make before you spend money. I make what I will call a reverse-budget. It is the process of outlining everything you bought and adding up. Often, there is a deficit that will gnaw your mind. Where did 20,000 shillings disappear to? This is the most illuminating question that reverse budgets always reveal to you.
Back to the million shillings, which, by the way, I do not have yet. I will reserve a fifth of it for an item I will term ‘where did 200,000 go’ just to be safe from the knowledge that I will recklessly spend on things I won’t need (I might code this as things that might probably kill me). That will leave me with just 800,000 shillings, assuming that the government doesn’t give me the reason of hating it more by robbing me a part it and disguising the blatant robbery with glowing terms such as taxes.
Then I will buy something that will remind me of a time when I had a million shillings. You need to do that, because everyone who has had a million shillings does it. Some pay for sex regardless of the scientifically proven fact that some girls like to have sex, for free, with millionaires. Do not do that. You have to pay for a high end hooker such as the first lady. It will give you immense bragging points that will last you a lifetime, assuming you do not end up dead in Ngong forest for your dare devil act.
I have not yet settled on something, but I am pretty sure that while I think of it, some of my close friends will lose their jobs. How, you may ask. It is simple, we will hobnob from one club to another, for one month straight. If you are my friend, you will not refuse the offer. Trust me, I am a millionaire. I could buy you another job, or idle with you by the government offices until you are randomly selected to supply ‘air.’
The truth of the matter is that I will go broke. I am under no illusions that a million bucks will serve me a lifetime, neither will I come up with ideas to multiply it. I’ll simply enlist a couple of guys (I might even tithe) to help me go broke. But then that’s not how it is, I will just be a millionaire, under the illusion that the status is permanent, treating my friends. Hell, I’ll even have a bunch of new fake-friends who will, when occasions dictate, sing me praises.
I’d like me just rich enough not to be arrogant. In the meantime, let me walk by the KEMSA offices, they might be in need of a new millionaire. I got to be ready all the time. You never know when it’s your turn.
Do not call me yet.
I have not good news
If there were, you’d have heard it
I am not yet a millionaire,
I stopped gambling, but I may start soon
Do not call me.
She, who was my fiance,
Broke up with me
As it stands, nobody will bother you
to contribute to money for those ceremonies,
where people will gather and cheer you
for finally settling down
Do not call me
the streets of Nairobi have had the best of me
nothing much has changed
only age,
probably dreams
and expectations - all had to be adjusted.
Inside you are the grandest dreams ever dreamt
Yet each day, you appear empty and unkempt
The dreams are within your grasp
But its distance stings like a wasp
There are plenty moments of solitude
When you pause and assess your mood
You ask yourself whether you are ready
Yes, the dreams even make you a little heady
Where do you get everyday?
So far, far away
Stagnant in a muddy puddle
The dreams seem too much to handle
Look at you,
all silent and listless,
as if you are are absent,
speak up, do not act like a dump stone
tell us your story,
do people eat each other where you come from?
Are you a fugitive
that you must live invisibly among us?
Tell us anything,
tell us about space, or nursery rhymes?
Do not tell us you do not have nursery rhymes
everyone has them,
Don't you even have opinions?
Or they are too strong for a fickle beliefs,
Talk to us or talk at us
we do not care, as long as you are talking
We need new gossip material
about that silent guy who sits alone by the corner
sipping his drink as if the rest of us do not exist
We desperately need to feel good about ourselves
we need to know we are better than you
Its approaching seven in the evening. You are taking a walk to clear your head. You could use some form of unfamiliarity. You take an unfamiliar street. Amid the hustle and bustle, it is difficult to mind your own business. Children shriek and hurl vulgar (adult-rated) insults at one another. You mutter watoto wa siukuizi under your breath, because you are now too old, and probably about to be inducted into the hall of wahengas (wisemen).
Then you spot an oddity, a peculiar sight. You know what that sight means – it means the grim reaper visited a family. How do you know it? The bereaved family takes out a speaker, plays some sombre gospel songs, and places the picture of the deceased close by. The family wants you to know that death has visited them, and that they may (or may not, that’s the way things are done) need some financial assistance.
As you walk by, you look at the deceased’s picture and the family that has gathered around. Your only concern is how the deceased met his death. Was it a long illness bravely born? Was it an accident? Was it thugs? Did he die suddenly? Then you begin thinking about your own mortality.
But one of the deceased family members confronts you. She forcefully wants you to be empathetic and respond in kind by parting with your hard-earned cash. It is nauseating, that level of entitlement. You ignore her and walk on. She is not done with you and shouts:
“Ata wewe utakufa!!! (You will die also!!)” where did that come from? Really? Was it even necessary? She says it as though she is never used to being rejected or ignored. Or she had signed a pact with God that whoever she talks to parts with something. The nerve!! Benevolence is not compulsory.
In anger at her statement, you respond in kind ‘pia wewe utakufa! (You will die too)’She adds more insults that put to question whether she was actually bereaved or not. You walk on, wondering where the confidence came from. You rarely respond to such kind of comments from strangers, not especially those who are bereaved.
You must have been slightly tipsy because when you are in that state, you fire back salvos regardless of who is spitting them.
