The Hiatus

the king went on a hiatus 

he needed a break from 

all his nagging subjects 

and came back in chains 

came back a slave 

of unrequited affection 

Meaningless Thoughts

these naked thoughts dance 

in my head, 

like strippers on a pole 

offering no meaningful purpose 

except loaf time, 

rob me the ability to think straight 

beguile me, 

keep me trapped in a meaningless 

trance, 

hooked on something 

both heaven and hell 

know do not belong to me 

and never will 

The Nightmare

 Last night, I was a person of interest in a murder case. The whole incident scared the wits out of me because I kill small insects for fun – people who know me wouldn’t even have the privilege of saying “we know him, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.” And that, my good friends, would have thrown any lingering doubts of my innocence out of the window. It would further throw these lingering doubts down an abyss of oblivion if it were on a Monday or Thursday as they would meet manually propelled projectiles.

We (suspects) were filed into a room for interrogation. It wasn’t really an interrogation but to take a lie detector test. I knew it because I am a true crime enthusiast and I have watched numerous documentaries where suspects are strapped with those strange-looking objects that measure even the slightest change in your heartbeat, skin moisture and even your thoughts.

I knew I would fail the test even though I couldn’t identify the victim in a photo lineup. My heart would be beating like isukuti drums when asked whether I killed the victim. I knew the machine would scream ‘liar’ upon which I might have been executed on the spot. You know how our police work – kill suspects and find investigate later whether they were criminals or not. It takes guts to be a criminal who does not even have an ambition to vie for a political office. I don’t and the lie detector test would definitely pronounce my guilt in a crime I did not even know the victim.

But strange things happen, as they tend to happen in dreams. This was one of them. A mutura seller rescued me. He entered the room and spilled his merchandise, angering a couple of cops idling around the room. They clobbered him like nonsense, ignoring the fact that one of his legs were shorter than the other. He ran away in a pitifully comical way.

Instead of leaving him alone, the police decided to have fun by giving a discernible head start, hopped into their vehicle and gave chase. At this point, I stopped being a suspect and became an observer in the ensuing slow police chase.

The limping mutura guy popped into a chuom. One officer alighted and gave chase. Moments later, the officer emerged from the chuom running for his dear life, followed closely by the limping mutura guy had seemingly gained superhuman speed considering his locomotive impediment.

I stood there wondering what was inside the chuom. My curiosity was satisfied when I saw a monstrosity nibbling the behind of a white guy emerge from the chuom, which had then turned into a cave. Then I woke up from the nightmare.

 

The Unforgiving World

in your still moments, 

you will think deeply about the world, 

it has been cruel and unkind to you 

you think of the burdens 

unfairly heaped on your shoulder 

you fail to recognize the culprit 

who allowed the burdens on your shoulder

and you think the world is unforgiving 

in the grand scheme of thinks, 

you are your real enemy

in an relentlessly unforgiving world 

A Phone Charger Willfully Left Behind

As part of my mission to write something seemingly intellectual (or lack thereof), I will teach you a very important life skill: never ever deliberately forget your phone charger because you don’t want to remove your shoes. Who would do that, you may ask rolling your eyes in a manner that says ‘what is he saying?’

I’ll tell you who would do that. Me. I belong to a long lineage of self-respecting men who do not subject themselves to dull indignities of abiding by a sick and twisted tradition (by which I mean invented by women) of removing shoes before entering a house. I’ll only do that when entering a ‘shrine’ because the blessings from a ‘shrine’ are worth any indignities.

Unlike you, a phone is not a valuable companion. A simple click and your whereabouts are revealed. I am not a criminal, but as a wannabe fugitive, that’s not something I would want. Being unreachable does not bother me anymore. Your woman would still think you are busy shanking another of her species even when you are in the ICU. While fighting for your life, you will get a thousand messages insulting your very existence. Ptoh! Fear women.

I was told to remove my shoes. I squinted at them closely because I almost bought them twice the price if the hawker could hold them for me and I decidedly said, ‘ptoh! If I ‘remove’ them I am dead.’ These shoes aren’t grand in any sense but they communicate to me a vital lesson of survival: ‘good things might pass you by when you are not ready.’ And then I again decidedly said, ‘a mere charger!!!” I wasn’t right in the head and I was ready and off I left.

And now I have to use chargers that only work at specific angles of elevation, 34.89 degrees Celsius, specific time of day and probably its mood, which has veto power. It means if the charger is not in the right mood, it won’t work even if you summon your ancestors in alphabetical order. I hate this charger. It has a couple of sisters – I don’t know if chargers identify as women but why not risk – who have also conspired with it. One discharges and the other gives the following info ’66 hours till full.’ I don’t desperately need a phone but waiting for a decade is a no.

In the meantime, I have to coax the working charger, threaten to cheat with its other sisters, and chant libations at the same time. But these chargers are goddamn resolute. It takes persistence, patience and every other word ever conjured by motivational speakers such as Atwoli.

My phone has to be on somehow, just in case I receive those texts that say, ‘hey mom, nilipoteza calculator. Tuma pesa kwa hii no. 008t3663545.’ These messages are close to those romantic messages you receive when your purported woman has realized her ‘main’ is cheating on her with his ‘main’ and has officially promoted you to the ‘main.’ I dare not miss them because there is nobody to miss these days. As such, there is no other viable option of wasting Safaricom’s text messages I occasionally receive when I purchase data bundles.

 

 

 

The Biggest Crime

the biggest crime you 

can ever willing commit 

is giving someone your heart 

all of it, 

with the mistaken belief that 

it will never be broken

it will be broken into a thousand 

pieces 

and you will be forced to 

give the rest of them 

broken pieces of your heart 

and they will break it even further 

Long Silence

the long silence that punctuate 

our conversations recently 

have had me hanging on a thin thread, 

swinging like a pendulum 

between taunting oblivion and eternity 

the memories of the yore 

flicker periodically at a distance 

beckoning my weak limbs to 

take one step - just one step 

a step closer to your embrace

I take hazy and unsteady steps 

swinging between wanting to you, 

and wanting to forget you 

but then I hear your voice 

and the thread snaps on the side 

that has me wanting you - 

the side that I am familiar with 

the side where silence 

reveals the deepest thoughts inside us 

and reveals our deepest secrets 

I remain hopeful that this silence 

will never lose meaning 

for I wouldn't know what to do