A Woman With Balls

  We met a woman with balls. It is a privilege of sorts, because very few people ever do in their lifetime. How did we know, you may ask. We known- get ready for the answer - because she said it. "I have balls!" To quote her verbertim. And you must believe whatever a woman says, especially when she's drunk. And it's in the morning. And she has dreadlocks. 

It was a few months before the 2022 general elections. There was money to be burned. It was not surprising to find people drinking in the morning or in various stages of drunkenness. We were also in the process of catching up, although not on the benovelent pockets of a man or woman craving the debueached walls of Parliament. 

We were seated, silently ruminating about dreams we'd never attain. Unaware, we were on a brisk yet imperceptible march towards alcohol addiction or dependency, whichever you call it. We sipped our cheap beers, unbothered and not bothering anyone. 

It was in the morning, as indicated earlier. Nothing was badass. Nothing beats drinking in the morning, especially when serious tax payers are busy building the economy. We drunk during COVID-19, when all bars were closed. We were so serious no life-threatening disease would stop us. We were addicts then, but we never admitted to being addicts. Addiction happened to others, not us, we thought. 

You may think that all we did was drink. No, we dedicated some time to thinking about drinking. Sometimes we worked, a terribly inconvenient way to get money as opposed to being politicians' children. Besides, we were (still are) afraid of jail. 

It happened that the lady with balls was also an early drinker. She had an accomplice, a man. He talked recklessly about politics as if he was a man of great importance. We deduced later that he probably was a political operative sent to listen to the 'ground.' He pried. He prodded trying to elicit some political response from us. We kept quiet. Sometimes, when you are drinking in the morning, all you need is silence. 

He talked in English. He thought we were foreigners. Damn. We looked like foreigners. We kept quiet as if politics was something way beyond our grasp. As we ruminated, the lady with balls emerged from the bathroom. The smell of cigarette wafted through. We never cared too much although there was a distinct notice that forbade smoking inside the bar. The owner reprimanded her. 

It turned out that she hadn't been alone in the toilet, smoking. There was a man, a known local who fell on hard times due to addiction. He wasn't like us, we could never drink until we lose jobs. Such abominable things happen to others, not us. We sipped our beers to that.

When cornered, the lady pulled the woman card. She claimed that the owner of the bar was targeting her because she was a woman. As if the warning addressed women only, and not all women but her specifically. We watched quietly as she rumbled on and on about the unfairness of the notice against smoking. We'd never seen someone defend their right to smoke their way to lung cancer. We didn't intervene, nor interject at all. It was her against the sign. Which was pretty clear to us. 

She went further to claim that the bar wasn't even his, that he was riding on a woman's (a Woman like her who deserves to smoke where there's a sign prohibiting smoking) benovelence. That he was nothing without her. That without her he wouldn't be able to talk to her against ruining her lungs that belonged to a woman. And then she began attacking his manhood. At this point the man realized that she had stooped so low that his presence there was no longer required. How things can descend from smoking to manhood is a matter that baffled us. Secretly, we were glad our manhood wasn't under scrutiny although it should have. 

"I have more balls than you," she said laughing at her seemingly ingenious thought. "You only have two while I have thousands." She spoke with such conviction that you could have thought she was capable of impregnating a man.

She talked by herself sometimes supported by her colleague. She had so much to unpack, as though she was waiting for that precise moment. It's unfortunate that some drink while angling for a fight or confrontation. It's worse when it's a woman because, well, there's no reason to hit a Woman. 

Eventually she cooled down. The conversation tapered to some random irrelevant topics. However, there was only one question in our heads, which balls was she re

ferring to?

It Happens

 It happens, 

almost always, 

as though don't coax it, 

without silence

with lack of resolve, 

eventually we end up 

being the very people we loath 

we are okay doing nothing 

just dreaming those big dreams 

How Do I Miss You

I don't know how to miss you,

I have tried but I can't, 

I guess longing for you needs a manual, 

an how-to, 

it somehow feels as though it can't be 

a DIY project,

there's a science to missing you, 

and I am an ancient man, 

a man who tells time by the sun's position, 

and years by crop harvest, 

seasons by locust invasions, 

for that I am duly lost, disillusioned in my longing, 

probably undue, 

I don't know whether we'll ever meet again, 

I have reserved my missing you,

were it possible, 

I'd pack the precious little moments 

we shared, 

the brief love, 

the laughter, that often felt as though it was stolen, 

and store somewhere, 

somewhere I'd reach occasionally, 

to gaze and remember to miss you 

just for a second. 

for a brief vain moment. 

The Drunk

when you no longer exist, 

in anyone's plans, 

its you alone, in your decrepit hacienda, 

rolling tobacco on obituary section of old 

newspapers, 

you are like a shadow, present 

but never missed 

mulling, 

ruminating, 

meditating, 

you no longer dream

beyond your next tipple, 

it's over for you

it was over a long time ago 

The Silence

 The silence, 

the borrowed silence, 

as if we are tiptoeing 

around each other, 

one numb, 

the other uncaring, 

the haunting silence, 

the silence of a machete,

and a shovel 

The Interloper

I am alone, 

an interloper 

in a place I should call 

home, 

the stench that wafts 

after me is failure, 

I am an intruder, 

stalking,

walking around unseen, 

I am of little use, 

sitting by boulders

in unseen corners, 

trying to be invisible, 

I am not welcome in 

spaces where men have 

opinions, 

for I, an interloper, 

has not more sense 

than cow dung 

Too Tired Too Early

 an unreedeeming yawn, 

today's promising dawn,

filtered into a bucket of 

unfulfilling days 

unearned fatigue settles 

like dust

the head hauls unnecessarily heavy 

thoughts 

thoughts of yore,

dreams unlived 

girls unkissed 

abandoned stories 

again, unearned fatigue rattles, 

a warning, 

tomorrow might begin 

too early 

too early, 

always too tired too early 

I Have Loved You

 I have loved you in ways,

in ways devoid of common sense, 

I've loved in the quiet desperation of 

an addict, 

I have loved you 

in ways that asked nothing in return, 

but all I gotten in return 

is jeering silence, 

as if my heart has no discernible rhythm 

Distance

the vast chasm between our 

hearts, 

regrettable, though

I kinda hope you are okay, 

The Worst Recedes

 the ever overwhelmingly inviting 

pop sound,

of beer being beheaded, 

the taming sip, a slow 

slide towards uninhibited night 

unhibited pockets, 

daring damsels swing their posterior 

endowments

the deejay cranks up the volume, 

The Little Dog Is Dead

I whistled at the little dog,

It gave me a listlessly solemn gaze, 

as if I was disturbing a sacred exercise, 

as it tried to borrow a few sorrow-filled hours, 

by lapping water by the cowshed, 

the curved back, poking ribs betrayed 

 it's eloquent emaciation, 

It left it's pain for my speculation, 

bore it with a bravery only dogs know how 

I knew it wouldn't make it 

and I wouldn't interfere with it's fate, 

for the dog had yet to have a name, 

even if it had, I am not too sentimental about dying dogs 

I am not attached to them 

With time, someone will stumble upon its bones,

for a dog chooses solitude for a dignified death 

And tonight, it's loud absence will shroud the compound 

She Was So Happy

 

She was so happy, 

so happy in a bothersome way, 

because in her happiness, 

I saw a reflection of my own 

cruel unhappiness, 

a pathetic kind the repels other's 

joy,

and I, 

being no robber, 

and she, neither a lover of mine, 

I did not have any means, 

except to crawl back into my 

unhappy crib, 

to be alone,

by myself, 

unbothering, 

and not bothered

as if allergic to

happiness

The Little Champ

 I envy the way he falls asleep

A half a minute and he's gone 

As if sleep had waited too long 

To accompany him till dawn 

I envy that he sleeps at exact times

Perhaps a little early but never late 

And every day of the week, he does 

Sometimes supper can even wait 

I envy that he does not brood at all

About the day's trivialities at sunset 

All he cares about is his sweet slumber 

Unlike I, by midnight, rest isn't earned yet

I toss and turn for hours every night,

I pour libation, offer blood sacrifice 

To the unyielding sadistic sleep

Only glimpsed at a minute to sunrise

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