The Mourning Poet

Why should a poet’s muse always be pain?

Why?

Why should a poet mourn of a lost something?

Lost love,

Death,

Infirmity,

Why is a poet always on the receiving end

Of all the pain assigned to humans

Why?

Why do poets carry burdens for far too long?

Why do poets love deeply?

Why do they give their whole soul

And hearts

To an uncaring world

Are poets blind to the life’s simple bliss

Are poets immune to good things

Why are poets concerned too much?

On lost things

Instead of what remains

When everything is gone

Why do poets always rummage

Through ruins,

Searching what’s already gone?

Why?

Springs of Life

Rusty I have grown

The words have frozen

I can't think,

I can't think how to rhyme 

The cute phrases that cured my solitude 

no longer rouse emotions 

The longings have dissipated

like morning dew 

The world is dreamless 

The heart feels good to step on 

The sprouting flowers,

Their bewitching bloom 

No longer gnaws the soul 

Even when I don't know how

to write poetry again 

Stay Safe

we walked on Nairobi streets
reckless, uncaring,
our main concerns were muggers
and pickpockets,
other than that, we mingled freely

not any more
corona rules the streets

and it is invisible
tiny things ruling the air
and we have to keep distance
and put on face masks
and wash hands

things won't be the same again
not in a long time
its difficult to make plans
as this pandemic rages on

first world countries are the hardest hit
people are dying like flies
we are only praying
even those who've never prayed
are stringing words together
to form a prayer

stay safe
keep distance
sanitize
care about your neighbor
and most importantly don't trust your neighbor
he or she could be the dreaded disease

An Empty Shell

it was always within reach, 

it was always within control, 

now it is not, 

you indulge to the point of no return 

everyday 

until all you are is an empty shell 

But It Is Life

the days came and went by,
running along with your memory, 
the further the days strolled 
the further your memory receded 
at the back of my head 
in the secret compartment 
I store mathematical formulas 
formula I have never used 
all alone, I think of you 
the dark haze, 
the maze of steps 
that lead to you 
and i am lost, lost in the wonder 
of how we stopped loving, being us 
but it is life 

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is a candle in a whirlwind

Tomorrow is a gushing wound

Tomorrow is a withered tree

Tomorrow is a crashing plane

Tomorrow is a nuclear disaster zone

Tomorrow is a desperate orphan

Tomorrow is waiting for a man

A man who will never come

Tomorrow is a drowning man

Clutching a twig

Tomorrow is a hurricane, an earthquake

Tomorrow is a still birth

Tomato Scam

It is that time of the year when we – when I say we I mean Socrates, Plato, Confucius, and I – invoke one of the age-old wise sayings we came up with; thou shall never purchase a mere tomato for a price exceeding kdf. Our efforts were not only arduous but unmatched to date, considering the obvious fact that kdf had not yet been invented. Man, I remember people didn’t even vote then.

I have faltered twice on the saying. No, three times to be exact, although I can perfectly explain to the panel of eminent persons, should I be called upon. I made up for the flaw by –wait for it – shoplifting. At the time, I lived in a neighborhood where people strictly went grocery shopping. Our mama mboga, or grocery lady, had her kibanda tucked around one corner. It seemed as though rich people went there for discounts, but it was not anything like a discount to me.

I have veered off the topic. I was talking about tomatoes. So this day, after a hard day, I dashed to a mini-supermarket tucked on one of the buildings that had this giant black intricately designed gate. I only saw Somali ladies with those weird paintings of theirs entering and leaving that gate. The supermarket was more like an after-thought, for it was located on the first floor of the building, and was accessed on the outside via a steel staircase that made a lot of noise. I had mastered the steps and avoided the one that made the most noise as I ascended to make my paltry purchases – a sachet of coffee or half a kilo of sugar.

Once inside the supermarket, I selected two eggs from the shelf and a tomato. The tomato cost a whopping twenty shillings. The tomato itself was huge. If it talked, it would definitely have had linguistic prowess exceeding Waititu’s by kilometers. What did I do? Of course, nothing. I just sulked at the open robbery and quickly forgot about it. My motto quickly transformed to 'I can do without tomatoes.' Little pretentious ingredients whose only purpose was to make me feel miserable and deprived. And make me feel like I couldn’t enjoy a meal because, without it, food tasted like a concoction of sawdust and cow dung.

However, by mere chance, I checked at the counter with a packet of unga and two eggs, but parting with the said items with the price of unga. How did I do it? The cashier did not see the eggs. And that effectively turned me into a shoplifter. One day, when I get to public office, this statement might haunt me, but I don’t care. Given a chance, I’ll steal, and I don’t think I’ll ever wean myself off the habit. I don’t do it now because I haven’t had any chances. Besides, there’s so much anger out there, and being caught will surely mark the end of you.

On second thought, maybe I was not a shoplifter. I only pilfered. The excuse I can give is that they sold me, against my express will, a tomato costing twenty shillings. I’d pilfer little things like coffee sachets and eggs. And the very tomatoes. There was simply no way I could purchase them at such a price. Until the other day.

I was out and about trying to assemble things to make a meal of – veggies here, onions there, and tomatoes. Usually, I make it a point of buying things from the same place. Upon checking the price of tomatoes, it simply didn’t inspire me, but I bought it anyway. It was tiny, the same size as plums, but went for fifteen shillings. I silently wished I poured libations to my ancestors, maybe they would have intervened.

Beaten, I made my meal, glad that I was veering off my culinary delights that mainly involved boiling, ate, and proceeded to ruminate at the unfairness and injustice brought about by tomatoes’ decision to make themselves scarce. Foods without them, except at home tastes as though someone is punishing you. When did tomatoes actually decide to wedge themselves onto our tables, ruling our foods with a reptilian grip? 

I do not know, but right now, I do not intend to buy them anymore. The sad fact is that the simple exclusion has not made me any rich.  

Right now, I can only reminisce the times I could have bought four of them for ten shillings. And they nearly the size of Akothee’s boobs. Now their presence is as arrogant as Akothee herself.