A Dog's Day

Every dog has its day

What day, if I may ask

Is it a birthday, ‘cause we have them too

Dogs walk around feeling special

Because they have their days 

And I will rob them. All of them

I want all the dog days

I’ll keep them in the closet

Together with my skeletons

Ask My Shoes

Ask my shoes, they’ll tell you the secret

Of why I am not talking to you anymore

Like why my feet are reluctant to walk

And find paths the lead to you

Ask my shoes, and you’ll hear them protest

They sit by the corner, feeling lonely, and black

Desolate and unwanted, because you saw me with them

Because they were not like other men's shoes  

Because shoes maketh a man, they didn’t mold me

They came short of creating an ideal man

A man deserving your undying affection

I might as well been barefoot

Ask my shoes where I have been

All the ladies I have been to

And they will tell you without saying a word

That I am lonely and desolate as they are

Mkubwa's Consignment

The consignment belonged to a ‘big man’

They said ‘mkubwa’ as though he is omnipresent

They called him with reverence only reserved for gods

And when the consignment was found to be contaminated –

Not just contaminated but was full of carcinogens

We protested vehemently, braced teargas and water canons

Because ‘mkubwa’ is our man – and saying anything bad about him

Makes us sufficiently threatened

When the big man was arrested the other day

We felt our idling days lacking flavour, and we hit the streets

How can they not see that is perfectly normal to steal money –

Neither your mothers – but belonging to sick mothers and children

How obtuse can the law be? Or the law enforcers

Who cares when mothers die delivering babies

Who gives a damn even when it takes several days to

The nearest hospital

They arrested us too, them morons

We went to keep ‘mkubwa’ company

They kept him in a self-contained cell

While we communed with our shit, and the stench from

'unbathed' bodies,

We ululated when we saw guards taking chicken to his cell

We ululated even more when we saw ladies –

Our wives, sisters and friends – line up to ‘know’ mkubwa

He is ours, we muttered while eating half-cooked meals

While he ate the best, including our hopes – yet we didn’t care

From Lie To Lie

The horse that you ride is called lie

Galloping from lie to lie

Trampling the tenets of trust

And, over time, you appear

Same as the aesthetic appeal of rust

lie to lie your mouth spews

even the sacred vows would be a lie

only backed by the congregation

who think nothing more than the food

they are going to eat or just ate

and the man of god is up to no good.

What remains of you is a skeleton

No one can put life into you

Because all you do is lie

Your all life is a valley of dry bones

Prophet Ezekiel cannot speak life to it

God won’t even speak redemption on you

The Dancer

O, look at that agile dancer

Her graceful moves strips,

Even the hallowed of men,

The ever pricey decorum

Look at that purple dress,

How it fits her so snugly,

As though it was part of her skin,

Holy men’s stray at her sight

Look at how she holds her glass,

As though it were filled with holy water,

Yes, it sure is, for Jesus made it,

Instead of milk

Hear the music booming,

As though revelers are partially deaf,

Some attempt dance moves,

Yet manage to look like frail leaves

Stuttering in a fierce wind

It’s time to head home,

Many to angry wives left in the cold,

Some to cold homes that embrace

The voids they’ve been seeking to bury

The Lifetime Partner

I watched the essence of life,

The very ingredients that make life worthy,

Emerge from the shine in your sleeves

The rich laugh that you wear on your sleeves

Made me fall in love with the idea of a life,

A life marked by your graceful presence

I fell in love the with the idea of listening,

The echo of your heartbeat in mine,

As well as your nourishing breathe

I fell in love with the idea of seeing you grow old

And yet still find you as beautiful as the first day

I laid my eyes on you

Forgive the indelible transgression on my person

For some of them make me who I am

Don’t fall for the idea of an ideal me

I am a thoroughly imperfect man

The Drunk Lady

She hadn’t realized how drunk she was until she stepped out of the door. For a woman of her class, she appeared, jutting out distinctively in a dull masculine den, dressed in relatively expensive boots – or they weren’t, who cares about the price of women’s boots – a tight fitting blue trouser and a cheap sliver-colored jacket. She also had a baseball cap, perhaps signaling her lack of patience in a salon, listening to women drone on and on about their marriage woes. She is too free and free spirited at that for idle talk spun by women under the cage of a masculine authority disguised as love.

You watch her walk out and stop by the door, her weak legs slowly giving in like faulty springs unable to sustain the weight above it. You watch her summon the last of her energy towards the wall and leans against it with all her might. With soaring empathy, you want to help her get home safely. She is mumbling under her breath and your vain attempts at lip reading – that’s why footballers cover their mouths when talking to one another – tells you that she saying; ‘shit. I am too drunk. Shit. Shit. I didn’t think I’d get to this level.’

Before you make your mind to help her, her guardian angel appears by the door and walks her out of the dinghy bar.  You can tell how much relieved she is for bringing a long a companion who’d become her feet when the toll of inebriation would disable her locomotive ability.

It is as if you know her. But your knowledge of her does not extend beyond hearsay. But then again, just like a church, nobody really knows anybody. He or she goes attends to church regularly, but you don’t know the demons they hide in their closets. You probably know who they are married to, and their children, and nothing beyond that. And for her, they said she is a soldier’s wife. And that she’s a Cleopatra in that den condemned by Christians for eternal condemnation. They said the soldier is in Somalia, probably a service man deep inside the heart of the devil.

You remember thinking that if it was true, that indeed her husband was indeed a soldier posted in Somalia, the he got a raw bargain. He’s dodging bullets to earn a living and support a wife who checks into a bar as early as eight in the morning. Every damn day, you will find her, ‘removing’ lock. On the rare days you checked in during such earl hours, you found her. As a man unable to project the same kind of moral standards on yourself, such a woman does not the definition of a true woman.