Exquisite Pains

 I have grown accustomed to these pains, 

these exquisite pains, 

pains that glitter inside my bones 

For in feeling them

I am filled with dread, 

the ever-numbing dread that 

I am still alive 

The Toil

 the sun unwraps darkness 

revealing a gift to mankind 

a gift of endless toils 

for it is the price we pay 

if only to stay alive 

the gift of light is fine 

a fine for our desire for exquisite 

or unrefined living 

or for survival - it does not matter 

That Night

And when you smiled 

bathing the night sky with an alluring gleam 

I knew there was much more to it 

than mere infatuation 

There was more to those pearly white teeth 

revealed to me under the night sky 

You asked me to hug you

God, you asked me to hug you 

Like I did not know what a man was supposed to 

Because I did not know what to feel then 

I wasn't sure how to act 

But then we lived through the awkwardness 

The awkwardness thawed 

and warmth slipped into our hearts 

melting every fibre of resistance 

Being Broke

With a face of grim concentration, as though you are being watched by an enthralled audience, you deliver a prophecy: ‘ii ni ile wiki gas itaisha.’ You see, the conditions are perfect – you are broke and have no prospects of seeing any money in the foreseeable future. the trouble with the prophecy is that you do not know the exact date or time the gas will sneak a surprise on you. But you have a rough idea: it will happen when you are jovial, when you are halfway cooking ugali, and at approximately seventeen minutes before midnight.

It just happens that when you have no money bad stuff and surprises sneak up on you. It is in the constitution under article (7) (f). There is nothing much you can do about it except chin up and get used to it. There just isn’t any school, or app that shows you the percentage of gas left in your cylinder. And you, right there, have the audacity to think that we are civilized? Well, if you think so, why don’t you cook with it?

At that point you have no energy to resist the thought that some people’s lives are far much better than yours. People who use firewood to cook. First of all, there is a way food cooked with firewood tastes so much better. It is as though there is a hidden cooking intellect hidden in the sooth-producing source of fuel. Second, you’d know in advance when you are about to run out of firewood, and plan your cooking. There is no way, in a hundred years (unless it rains), you would wake up in the middle of the night to make a meal.

The last time you checked out, there was a student who had invented an app that would tell the amount of gas left in your cylinder. It involved a laptop, and some application that eludes even your wildest imaginations. It would save you a lot, that app. But you’d have to make that university student rich first. Which might be something you are reluctant because you cannot figure out how such a man’s brains works while yours only comes up with the most mundane stuff like: ‘let me have a drink. I may have ideas.’ Then you have ideas, and it all revolves around having another drink. That goes on until your wallet begins making hearty jokes when you tell it about other better ideas. Usually it is the following day when you wake up with only 50 shillings and an unopened packet of condom.

The Day Everything Changes

 the head feels a little light 

a testament of bleak and blurry thoughts

running havoc, yet running things 

and the strides, leading astray 

adopted its purposeless 

each metre gobbling up remaining active brain cells 

and there was no guilt whatsoever 

because it was a day everything changed forever 

and strange gathered around, 

as though the camp fire the listen to a sage 

of a man well traveled, 

well travelled not beyond the walls of his bedroom 

consuming thoughts of greatness 

of vanities 

of the consuming aura of penury

but not today 

because today everything changes forever 

the beguiling sense of much sought affection 

usurped senses, dreams suddenly stalled 

for she stood and said; lets go 

and the men scampered 

and a chapter began 

a chapter that's still being written  

Nervous

 It is one in the morning

I am nervous. I do not know why I am nervous

Boyz II Men is playing 

I am alone in a sea of people 

bobbing up and down the waves 

Clinging to twigs

I am drowning in a sea of men 

Men having the best times of their lives 

I am nervous 

And I do not know why. 

Something is grinding my intestines 

A diabolic being is guiding my thoughts 

My conscience is blurry 

Like a king's impending death 

I am no prince 

There was never a kingdom 

Wheelbarrows For The Poor

 The 'Hustler's' chopper raises dust 

Amid chants from the poor and the downtrodden 

The poor who wants the hustler's crumbs 

Crumbs for a bread - a stole bread 

For the hustler has never owned a bakery