Dangerous Games

I didn't know much about Nimuno, except the fact that I hated him for no particular reason. You can hate someone for no reason, as if they are reincarnations of the most despicable vermin. Neither science nor religion can explain this.

But as I think of it now, I doubt whether it was actually hatred that fueled that short-lived relationship two decades ago. But then, somehow, as a kid, there are certain things you can passionately dislike without evidence as to why you should. Even remotely. And it's okay.

 This happened even though I hadn't as much as a glance at him. As such, I wouldn't pick him out in an identification parade, even if he was the only one. He didn't have any remarkable features as per my recollections. I didn't know his name. I nicknamed him Nimuno.

Nimuno found himself in the unfortunate annals of my hatred, albeit without reason or even ever knowing it. I knew very little about his background, other than the whispered rumour that his mother was involved in a polyandrous marriage. Although I was young, it was an unheard of novelty. It would have made no difference, then, if Nimuno's mother had been an axe murderer.

I became acquainted with Nimuno once when he had to visit a brick maker hired by our neighbor. The brick maker was one of the rumoured husbands. Nimuno had accompanied his mother together with a bunch of his siblings all of whom had similar heights, probably as a result of a biological impediment. It's hard to speculate. 

One fine day, with the sun shining beautifully, I saw Nimuno tracing his way towards the river. Instantly, like an animal which has spotted a prey, I swiftly swung into action by hurling precision guided projectiles in the form of insults. He responded in kind and the verbal fight quickly escalated into a rock throwing contest. Each of us was the target of the other.

I don't remember how it ended but we went at each other for a while before we gave up. However, I believe the dangerous game ended when of us got hit in the leg. Whatever the case, Nimuno and I didn't abandon that delightful game out of our own volition. 

Thinking of dangerous games, there were a few we played at Chebaon primary school. One involved small rocks. All one had to do was pick a reasonably sized rock and dare with the word 'Urwei.' Whoever fancied the dare would run a considerable distance and scream 'Area.' It was then up to the darer's accuracy. There were no fatal incidences but the game was banned when girls reported it at school. This wasn't a game you would try within the school's precincts.

There was another game which I remember vividly because I lost a shoe. At the time nothing was fun if it did not involve inflicting each other pain. The sadists among us invented a game or copied it from other sadists in other schools where we kicked each other for fun. We were right, because most games involve inflicting each other pain. Like all contact sports.The rules were simple, no shoes (most of us didn't have shoes) and standing up was a sign of invitation to get kicked. If one fancied a one on one combat, it was more than welcome. 

During one break time, I brought the game to a premature end. I had removed my shoes as per rules and sat down waiting for the right time to pounce on someone standing. It would take time for someone to switch off and forget that he was part of a game where standing made one a legitimate target. I lurked behind some boy who forgot who temporarily forgot. I pounced and gave a kick that sent him sprawling to the ground. He writhed on the ground, contorting himself and grimacing with extreme pain. We gathered around him thinking that he was dying. 

He didn't. 

The bell rung and we rushed to class. I could not find one of my shoes. There being no time, I went without one. 

We never played that game ever again. Nobody snitched. Even the boy who hid my shoe was well covered. I never knew him. I would find my shoe a few days later by a fluke. We got so engrossed in a game that we never heard the bell. 

We got to class and the teacher ordered each one of us to fetch their own canes. I fetched mine right where my shoe lay perfectly hidden from view. Whoever hid it made no special effort to ensure I never recovered that shoe. I was too excited that I forgot the punishment that awaited us. We received our strokes, each with his own came lest we spread whatever disease each cane carried.

Memory of Darkness

 I stood still on edge of the beloved abyss,

And watched in my custom listless gaze

As the memory of you staggered away,

as if willing me to rescue it,

but bit by bit, it got devoured 

Oh. The eternally ravenous darkness 

Everything merged with darkness 

I watch the birthed darkness, with futility 

Knowing I am watching your memory 

I carry with me that darkness 

With time, I too, will become that darkness

A Casual Stroll

 It was a casual stroll on pliant evening, 

She walked beside me, her face plastered with a solemn smile,

Hand in hand, listening to little jiggly whispers

Our grand hearts emitted 

She gazed, seeing possibly a quiet future

Where she longed for nothing except 

this cute evening strolls where everything dissipated

And rolled into endless, timeless treasures

No Other Way

 On a free fall, plummetting into the abyss, 

I grasp something, powerful and undefinable 

It's a cocktail of hope and desire, 

I can feel I'll make it back up, 

and soar even further than these humiliations

I'll soar beyond my wildest dreams

I have nothing except going up, and up

Anything Unlike This

 I have longed for better,

undefined pleasures,

just anything unlike this 

Not this seemingly unassailable boredom,

bring the guillotines, cynide 

just get me out of here 

by whatever means 

I long for something beyond this is,

or maybe a genie can get me beer 

I can be anywhere so long as there's beer

 the purgatory, jail....

Anywhere, any place unlike here...or here,

But just let there be beer 

Man Down

When Pius woke up that fateful morning, he didn't know that he would kill a man . He had dressed in his work clothes (dirty old clothes for he was a menial laborer), washed his face and was ready to face the day. Pius didn't even greet his wife that morning, because poverty strips you of everything remotely related to romance and replaces it with a single instinct - survival. 

Pius took his tea without even contemplating anything. He was just glad that his only cow, as emaciated as it was, hadn't given up yet. Judging from the color of the sugarless tea, Pius knew Chesumei (the cow) didn't produce much. He thought maybe they should slaughter it, eat the meat and forget he ever owned a cow instead of waiting to it to succumb to natural courses. Truphena, ever optimistic, wouldn't agree to it. 

After his not so hearty breakfast, he rose slowly and curtly told his wife that he was going. 

"Where?" Truphena asked without looking at her husband. 

"I am going to Kapchombir. Didn't finish the work," he replied, volunteering extra information so that she doesn't pry, so that she doesn't speak. He stepped out of his humble abode. For the last time. 

Truphena understood him. She had wanted to tell him not to pass by the local when finished but she thought better of it when she saw him with a machete. Pius wouldn't use it on her but she knew he would grab anything, from time to time, to hit if she asked anything he deemed emasculating. She just hummed her a gospel song as she went about her chores. Pius went his way. 

Pius strolled along listlessly, his face wearing that forlorn look that seemed to have been permanently imprinted on it. He never smiles. Nobody knows the last time he ever smiled. Probably a decade ago. He takes detours here and there, exchanges greetings with neighbors out of obligation rather than courtesy. He reaches Kapchombir a few minutes to 9 AM and begins clearing overgrown weeds, for that was the specifications of the mundane job. For it, he would earn a thousand shillings. 

After an hour and a half, Pius had cleared the remaining patch. Maybe he would have to come back to till but that was a job for another day. He was certain Chombir would reach out to him first if he needed that task to be done. 

Having no phone to contact Chombir, he was forced to walk to his homestead to claim his wages. Upon getting there, he was informed that Chombir had travelled outside the country and didn't leave any 'report' concerning Pius. He was dejected but didn't say a word. 

What has become of people? Pius asked himself. Didn't he expect that I'd finish this and have my payment pronto? Rich people, he thought ruefully. He gurgled his throat, concocted a phlegm and spitefully spat on the ground and made his way towards the iron wrought gate. He didn't utter a word. 

As he walked, he subconsciously dipped his hands into his pockets. Pius felt a piece of paper with the left hand. He fished it out and discovered, delightfully, a worn out one hundred shillings note. It felt like he had just gifted himself, or tipped himself. 

Buoyed by the little fortune, he walked with a renewed purpose. A hundred shillings weren't that much, but with prudence, born of experience from never having much, Pius knew it would make intoxicated enough to forget his sorrows. 

At noon he sauntered into Mama Rick's homestead. A bunch of haggard looking men in various stages of intoxication gazed at him nonchalantly. Pius didn't know that he would have to kill one of them. 

Although it's whispered that distillers (mostly women) of illicit brews make a lot of money, they never make an effort on their appearance. They look haggard just like their customers. Their attires seem to say, 'come ye all with miseries you would want to forget awhile, for I too have miseries that don't make me any better than you.' It feels like a communion of people with similar grievances against God yet the distiller, like Mama Rick reaps more from people like Pius. 

Pius settled down on the grass as the other patrons. There's a permanent bench with a thin plank on one side but no one prefers to sit there. Mama Rick's assistant winked at Pius, and gestured with her hands. He understood that she meant 'the usual.' 

There was nothing usual about the usual. It tasted like a donkey's piss. Granted, Pius had never tasted donkey's piss but he just had a gut feeling it would taste like that chang'aa. Well, it has never tasted any different, he just had a different mood. Unexplained mood. 

Pius took a sip and placed the green enamel cup on the grass gingerly as though it contained some secret to eternal life. He scanned the environment he was in and determined that there was no other place he had to be other than Mama Rick's. He removed his machete, which he had tucked in his gumboots, and and placed it beside him. 

He surveyed the area, noting all the hallmarks of poverty - a toddler dressed in an adult's T-shirt, an emaciated cow just like his, a grass thatched house. Two drunkards were arguing about a subject that did little to interest him. Pius sipped his poison slowly, almost as if an external force willed him just to lift the cup. 

The village's resident joker showed up. It was whispered that he often drunk more than people who went to work, yet was the laziest person ever seen. His modus operandi was simple: get cup and charm drunkards into pouring him a tot. On a good day, he might end up with a full cup upon which he would make fun of hardworking people. He called himself the government, since governments work on the same principle as him - collect taxes and piss on people. 

Pius wasn't in a mood to be pissed on. When the joker came around, he politely warned him to stay a few kilometers from him. On other days, he would have chosen to walk away, but not today. Maybe if it's the Day it's the Day. The joker got the message and walked away only to return a few minutes later having found a receptive audience for his stale jokes as well generous with their meagre resources. 

He warned him but his arrogance, driven by inebriation, couldn't allow him to take no for an answer. Tax evasion, he called. Pius warned several times but when he decided to use force, Pius called on his machete to do the talking.

The Race

 Some seldom speak about it

Perhaps scared of rebuke 

For life, somehow, is meant 

To be lived in misery 

As to why, nobody knows 

Yet its crystal clear that all 

Good things are immoral 

And often test man's quest for immortality

Spare Me

 Spare me the gallows, guillotines 

Spare me rebukes, castigations

For I dared to live life with a big spoon 

For I promise solemnly, I would still do it again 

Just give me that chance 

And I won't disappoint you on this 

Suffering Enemies

 All my enemies are suffering 

And I, too, is suffering

Freedom

 I'll sip my whiskey tonight 

Tomorrow, and the day after 

Then I'll write as freely 

as the thoughts flow 

I'll sail, as a piece of paper 

in a whirlwind 

Unbothered by the destination 

For I have sought freedom 

but only found solace in a bottle, 

brown, colorless, blinding - whatever

He Gave Up

 He gave up on us

And we can't forgive him, 

But not because of giving up, 

He gave up haphazardly,

and for a man, 

as grand as he was,

that was unforgivable

When Stars Align

 There was no reason for you to come 

But you showed - all showered and dressed up- 

I know the effort of even getting out of bed,

especially when you don't have to 

But you showed up and even smiled 

When stars align on my end, I'll do the same for you 

I hope you'll still be there, waiting 

For the hero inside me to slay me and take charge 

No Muse

 The trees dance,

The river rambles along 

The birds chirp,

Their usual merry unhibited,

The bees move from flower to flower,

searching for sweetness

A cool breeze flows by

And the poet can't think - 

can't conjure up anything of beauty,

or remarkable adoration 

or unrequited love as poets are fond of,

And there flies a butterfly 

A yellow butterfly. Colorful 

It flies away, like a moodless poet's muse

I Don't Fathom

 I don't fathom where I am 

Neither where I came from 

nor where I am going 

I'd have been content, 

if I were imbibing a beer 

I don't have a beer 

But I got time, 

My muse ran away, 

with the woman who never loved me

She's happy somewhere 

I no longer long for her 

I long for a few beers, 

and, thereafter, a dreamless sleep