Wounded Ground

Bury my feet on a wounded ground

Water them with your tears

And love that you hoard

In secret places between vanity

And a distinct fear of mortality

A Clog In The Mind

A thin film clings to the mind,

Marking the boundaries

Between the possible and the impossible

Between the sane and the insane

Between hate and love

Between self-love and self-loathe

Between the grand and the stupid

Between life and death

Between courage and cowardice

And, strangely, I find myself standing

On the negative side

Life is Scum

Life is a giant wad of scum ,

Trapped are we, consuming it,

Bit by bit, it gets bitter,

With bills and pills and feels,

That cater to every whimsical need,

Or wants

Or a way of escaping the ugly reality,

The reality that we are trapped,

Under this giant dome,

And to escape, one must stop breathing

Vessels of Debauchery

Life pours out of itself,

A rich and potent state

Availing the alluring things,

The pleasures that ruin

What choice do we have?

For we are only mere mortals,

Vessels of debauchery,

Of flesh and adulterated water

Do not speak of seekers,

The seekers of pleasure,

As ruined  beings,

Who lost control their ships

The sky is a giant blue mesh

With bars that cage dreams

Dreams to burst through

In search for elusive redemption

No Human Is Limited

The clock bowed in awe of your endurance

Cowed by you indefatigable will,

A will that powered you Kalenjin feet,

Feet oiled by well-made mursik

Mursik made in the same exact formula of the yore

A formula that inspired ‘No Human is Limited’

You etched your name in the annals of history

Right next to Neil  Armstrong, the Wright Brothers

You could shame Isaac Newton if you wanted to,

You can fly with your feet to break barriers,

Barriers set in the mind

Kipchoge, you’ve inspired mankind

Kipchoge, you are the god of marathon,

Never let Mo Farah ever get close to your achievements

We will be in awe of your greatness for a long time,

We are glad to have been alive to witness your extraordinary feet

And your feat

I Miss You

The very thought of you, slipping into bed

Beside me, smelling like a bottle of cologne

Ignites feelings of longing, a deep longing

A longing that digs pits of emptiness, voids

Within me, that can only be filled with your love

With a touch of your tickling hands,

A caress from your feathery hands

A kiss from your honey dipped lips

I miss you.

The void grows bigger by the second

Each tick is riddled with an oppressive sound

And, waiting for you, my love, becomes a hard task

As hard as landing a faulty air plane

I am crushing, I am alone bearing my solitude

As if it were a pain, a wound of sorts

Only you can heal me, only you

No one else knows the depths of my love

Only you. I miss you

Body Odour

I firmly believe that Jesus was not crucified for me to be overly concerned about people’s hygiene habits. This belief was severely tested when I boarded a matatu sometimes back and a lady walked by the aisle and I was hit by a nauseating stench of sweat. If it had a man’s I wouldn’t have been bothered. But a lady’s? That’s a complete NO. Man, if you could peer closely and intently you could see individual smell particles rising off her body like smoke.

I didn’t peer at her form, but I thought she had been entrusted by the entire femaledom to carry their sweat stench. Ladies are supposed to adhere to extremely high hygiene standards. Through rigorous training, as Dave Barry puts it, they can see individual dirt particles. But men can’t see dirt until it has piled high enough to support certain edible plant species.

It turns out that she was part of the matatu crew, and that stench – her stench – would been a premonition that I was about to be robbed point blank by the tout. First of all, the matatu set off with a billion guys hanging precariously by the door, with two light skinned guys behaving as though they were lovers. One even reached for the other’s cheeks as if to kiss, and the other guy was quite comfortable with it.

Then the tout began collecting money from the passengers. He was dressed in jeans that hang quite below where the recommended waist line should be. He had on a black and white checked round neck sweater that turned purplish from the matatu’s lighting effects. He got to me and I handed him a hundred shillings note. He tucked it around his middle finger as is the norm with these mobile accountants. Then he went ahead and to collect from the rest of the passengers.

When he was done, I tapped his shoulder and asked him for my change. He asked me how much I had given him. I told him.

“Boss imeisha,” he calmly told me and then acted as though I did not exist. I was wise enough not to protest for what I witnessed from one of the guys hanging on the door. The matatu had stopped to pick passengers when one prospective passenger disagreed with him. He was punched, Tyson style, and the matatu sped away.

I sat there wishing the worst of things for the tout for robbing me my hard earned money. I wished that he would buy airtime and call that crush he had been eyeing for ages, and she will accept upon which she would infect him with an STI. I wished that he would buy mutura and he would diarrhea non-stop. I wished that he would buy water and choke while drinking it. I wished a thousand other worse things to make feel better that I was letting go of my fifty shillings without a fight. 

I wished that the girl with the abominable stench was his girlfriend. And that she rolled that way even when she has had a thirty minute shower.