I Woke Up From a Dreary Dream

I woke from a dream
It was about you - about us
The still night was a perfect witness
The mournful moon sang a dirge
Of lost companions
Just like I, lost in a dream
A dream that was once perfect
Because it had you in it
For I could feel you beside me every night
And every morning
I woke up to a perfect dream
The echo of your heart ringing
The reflection of your smiling face gleaming
And the clock, gobsmacked
Stopped to watch eternity pass by

But you are not here
You will never be here again
I am too proud to apologize to you
To apologize for the little imperfections of mine
Too proud to admit my addictions
Too proud to admit that you are are the only one
I ever truly loved
And perhaps the last
Because I am scared of beginnings
And perhaps even ends
Because I don't know if I'll ever get over you

A Little god Within Us

If anything, I pride myself in having a brilliant memory. I can remember pretty mundane things, that may have happened years ago. Plenty of them are embarrassing, which gives them the street cred to run riot in my head every once in a while. Even with a brilliant memory, I still manage to forget really important facts such as how to make money by simply not doing anything.

Today however, I do not choose to recall embarrassing things that have happened in my short career of not doing anything meaningful. It was a Sunday. I remember lying on the bed waiting for the clock to hit one so that I could join the queue filled with rich kids clamouring for that one meal they clamoured for- French fries or chips to the common man. The details have escaped by brain, although I could have been counting the number of the squares on the mesh that was part of the upper deck bed. My leg could have been suspended on a red shoe string that acted as a sling. I don’t remember any of those, except I was lying down on the bed when she texted me.

After we exchanged pleasantries, she asked me what I was doing. Previously, I never thought of anything other than blurt what I was doing. It was somehow special when a girl asked one what they were doing. It was as if they were weighing if they could interrupt you without deviating you from saving the world from its evilness. Also it was as if she wanted to show up naked on your door. Now it is not special at all. You could respond with a bland message, texting you.

And so she asked me what I was doing.

‘Fantazing.’ I had replied.

‘About what?’

‘About (insert the name of that person you hate) naked and lifeless body.’

She laughed-in text-and replied that I had just made her day.

I thought myself as a little god who had made someone’s day. Just with a fantasy of someone’s dead and naked body. I wanted to let her know that I was a god, something I had once told people. Just to emphasise the point, I had put it my whatsapp bio: I am a God, it read. We then were in a makeshift relationship, one that never quite took off. And she reminded me, when she got the chance to tell me, that I was blaspheming. To me, it was far from blasphemy because I didn’t use the article the. Better yet, the words were a title to a Kanye West song that I sort of loved. The lyrics to the chorus were:

I am a God

Hurry up with my damn massage

Hurry up with my damn ménage

Get the Porsche out the damn garage

I am a God

Even though I'm a man of God

My whole life in the hands of God

So y'all better quit playing with God

Soon as they like you make 'em unlike you

'Cause kissing people ass is so unlike you

The only rapper who compared to Michael

So here's a few hating-ass niggas who'll fight you

And here's a few snake-ass niggas to bite you

I don't…

Speaking of being a god, I have countless thought that there is a god in each one of us. Just devoting our lives to not, consciously and unconsciously, hurting others, and perhaps helping that person in need may be a godly act. You could be walking on the street and you stumble upon a street kid begging. Something may stir within you, and you hand that child a few coins you had although you had vowed not to sometimes back. You have however acted as an agent of god.

In the course of our lives, we’ve encountered people with seemingly incurable ailments. Pictures of their bodies devoured by invisible creatures are splashed in social media, ruining your browsing experience because all you ever wanted was to see pictures of girls in tight clothes, escorted by captions about an earth quake that devastated a remote village in Indonesia. You are forced to abandon your mission and concentrate on this human being, whom, with all due respect, God has decided he suffers from an ailment that leaves his external body parts either excessively swollen or simply nauseatingly unsightly. Below the description will be an m-pesa till number, urging you to contribute money for treatment in India.

Then the fear that it would you next triggers a hormone that is responsible for philanthropy. You reach for you m-pesa account and send something small. It’s not only you, millions others will contribute. Millions will be raised and the sick person will fly to India for treatment. Most often this person will thank God for having heard his prayers.

A simple act of kindness shows people that there’s God above, watching the downtrodden, and the helpless.

A Little Girl's Silent Tear

On normal days, I would scan a manyanga first before boarding. It had to meet a tight criterion such as color and design, how loud the engine is when revved, and lastly if I can recognize a tout that once ripped me off. But not that day. I boarded the first and walked straight to the rear, something I wouldn’t do when all by brain cells are in tip top condition.

It was a Saturday. We had unnecessarily binged with a friend the previous day. The things alcohol can make you do are quite terrible. It can make you think you are immune to HIV. But not me. When it comes to women, I draw a line that I do not cross. I had a class that began at 8 am that day. The lecturer was one hell of a woman who considered you late if you check in after she had. And she was always in class ten minutes early.

Having been paid, and having settled all my bills, the next logical course of action would be to grab a drink and then sleep early so that I would wake up refreshed. As I have earlier mentioned, the alcohol in us told us that one was not enough, and we left for the club at one am. We grabbed a mzinga, poured a few shots and left. Dizzily, we maneuvered around the neighbourhood to our keja. And I slept fitfully.

At six am, the alarm began ringing. It felt I had slept for only ten seconds. At first I thought it was not meant for me, but for the ninja we stayed together. I remember cursing him for not rising up to shut the alarm, and head for his day job. But then it occurred to me that the alarm was mine. Guided by alcohol residue, I rose up, washed my face, picked my bag and left for school. I was sure as hell I smelled alcohol. You know how cheap vodkas last for an entire day.

On my way I bought PK to at least mute the smell of alcohol. I made my way to the sixth floor, guided by a heavy head. As usual, I sat at the back and waited for the lecturer to begin the lesson with devotion. It lasted close to ten minutes. It was unfortunate that we were to do a presentation. Luck was not on my side as the people who were to do it decided to abscond the class. It left only me, drunk and unprepared. I tried to plead with the lecturer but she could hear none of it. In fact she turned the class into a motivation one, talking about being prepared a million light years before the actual day.

I think I flouted every single rule she had put in place at the beginning of the semester. When I ended my presentation, the rest of the class was invited to judge it. One dude said I was chewing gum, which was not good. I interpreted this to mean I was disgusting. Another, a lady, spoke of how I had done well, considering the fact that I am an introvert. There being no other business, proceeded to sit. My mind was racing, wanting to another drink to drown the humiliation I had gone through.

Instead of walking t town then catching a mat to my hood, my feet failed to cooperate after receiving classified information from the brain. Ten minutes later, I was at the stage to my hood, where the story actually begins. I am seated at the back, and the touts are shouting: mtu mbili! Wa haraka mtu mbili! At that point some passengers are beginning to alight, and then are paid. How awesome can that be!! Incredibly, passengers filled in and we set off.

Just in front of me sat a couple with two children, a boy and a girl. The man and the woman were separated by the aisle. Both kids sat on the father’s lap, while the big fat woman, whose body spilled on the aisle, sat cozily sipping yoghurt. She was talking to the little girl who I guessed was about seven years old. I didn’t get a word for she was speaking Kikuyu.

The little girl had these really cute eyes that, I guarantee you that, will give men problems when she turns eighteen. The big fat woman sipped her yoghurt, as she talked to the girl. She talked. She talked.

Then, the little girl cried. Not the usual cry. A silent tear cascaded down her chubby cheeks. That tear corroded my heart. It felt like sulphuric acid had been poured on it. At that point, I wanted to know what the fat woman had told her. The father sat quietly, said nothing. I remember the kind of man who wouldn’t defend his children.  

As the journey wore on and people began alighting, a hawker stepped in selling candies. The girls face lit up as he tapped her father, and pointed at the sweets. The father reached into his wallet and retrieved an old fifty shillings note. The little girl picked those chocolate candies. Surprisingly, she shared with the fat lady and her brother. A selfless act. Her father didn’t eat the candies and she had an extra. All the while, the fat old lady spewed her words, words that were silently destroying the little girl’s heart.

But then again I wondered what made the little girl cry. Was she told that she would be slaughtered once they got home? Was she told that she would be adopted by monkeys? Was she told she was as impressive as exotic bacteria? Its never worth it. Kids are beautiful and they are supposed to cry loudly. Not silent tears. I can never understand it for I forgot about her when I sipped my left over vodka.

Mjulubeng

Ever since the damning revelations about the inspiration behind Naiorbi’s landmark, KICC, the term mjulubeng (udogo ni kajulubeng, ukubwa ni kulundeng – for those who don’t know) comes to mind. Sometimes in public, a strange little smile forms in my face, which a psychiatrist would definitely diagnose as the early stages of lunacy. But do I mind? Absolutely not. Because the term mjulubeng is way too hilarious.

This word, mind you, is not a product of random assignments. The person who conjured it up did not excuse himself to that filthy urinal at his local and had a eureka moment. He didn’t open his fly, fish the thing out and as he watched the trajectory of his money [already converted into unusable liquid form, unless for perverted sexual fetish] and had divine inspiration. He then exclaims as he staggers out of the bacteria infested toilet, ‘wow! From now on it’s called mjulubeng.’

No. It is far from it. Balding scientists sat in laboratories [it’s been years and I still say labarotory] for ages, disguised as space researchers, in order to come with this hilarious combination of words that would define a man’s favourite body part – mine is the brain. These scientists came in, day in day out, months in months out as they hammered words together to make this complex word. And every evening, when their wives asked them what they were doing, they calmly said:

“Space research,”  

“You mean you want to go the moon?” a prodding wife asks.

“Sort of,” the balding scientist says curtly.

And so they worked tirelessly, even avoiding alcohol because it would speed up the process. They had lucrative contracts. When they thought they wouldn’t come up with a word according to the specifications given, one of them had an insight: he told the others he was going to have a drink. All of the followed him and their contracts were severed.

But that was not the end.

Sitting in his room at approximately 3.17 am in the morning, wondering how he would write twenty pages due in a few hours, a university student cracked the code, giving birth to the now famous word mjulubeng. It follows that he never wrote 20 pages and decided to dedicate his campus life to making memes and shagging girls with intellectual depth of a fishing rod. He used the word extensively in the memes he created, until it stuck in people’s brains.

And now it is one hilarious word that will last for a long time. Cheers to mjulubeng.

I Stayed Awake

You made me feel like a teenager

Falling in love for the first time

I stayed awake, with a knot in my stomach

Thinking beautiful thoughts

Of you and I, loving each other forever

You weren’t mine, but I loved your laughter

Your laughter spoke to my soul,

I stayed awake listening to its message

Willing myself to sleep in the wee hours of night

And yet, you weren’t mine

I played Trey Songz’s song

A thousand times

Because I thought ‘I couldn’t help but wait

‘I didn’t wanna come between you and your man

Even though I’d treat you better than he could’

You are still out there

Breathing the same air

But in seemingly different hemispheres

Yet your laughter is what my heart still hears

The Helpless Children

Smoke rises as homes are reduced to rubbles

Silent sirens awaken the dreams of the dead

Hauled into ambulance are the wounded

And children cry helplessly, forsaken by humanity

Mothers wailing perhaps beseeching God

Asking Him, hopelessly, why He chose the land

A land filled with land mines planted by human cruelty 

They cry to lull their indescribable pains

The bombs still fall, men still load ammunitions

Is freedom this expensive or is it a form of folly

Where dictators order airstrikes to replace rains

Because stones course through their veins

Is there an explanation to human cruelty?

Is there even an excuse to cruelly rob a man’s life?

Is there anything musical about a child’s wail?

Is there anything worth salvaging in ruins?

Gaze At Me With Those Naked Eyes

Gaze at me with those naked eyes

Strip me bare, to my skeleton

Consume me with you undying love

Embrace the chaos in my life

Charm the ruins, salvage the dreams

For if they are worthy for you,

They are to me too