Ode To An Introvert

Look at you, 

all silent and listless, 

as if you are are absent, 

speak up, do not act like a dump stone 

tell us your story, 

do people eat each other where you come from?

Are you a fugitive

that you must live invisibly among us?

Tell us anything, 

tell us about space, or nursery rhymes?

Do not tell us you do not have nursery rhymes 

everyone has them, 

Don't you even have opinions?

Or they are too strong for a fickle beliefs,

Talk to us or talk at us 

we do not care, as long as you are talking 

We need new gossip material 

about that silent guy who sits alone by the corner 

sipping his drink as if the rest of us do not exist 

We desperately need to feel good about ourselves 

we need to know we are better than you 

Benevolence Is Not Obligatory

Its approaching seven in the evening. You are taking a walk to clear your head. You could use some form of unfamiliarity. You take an unfamiliar street. Amid the hustle and bustle, it is difficult to mind your own business. Children shriek and hurl vulgar (adult-rated) insults at one another. You mutter watoto wa siukuizi under your breath, because you are now too old, and probably about to be inducted into the hall of wahengas (wisemen). 

Then you spot an oddity, a peculiar sight. You know what that sight means – it means the grim reaper visited a family. How do you know it? The bereaved family takes out a speaker, plays some sombre gospel songs, and places the picture of the deceased close by. The family wants you to know that death has visited them, and that they may (or may not, that’s the way things are done) need some financial assistance.

As you walk by, you look at the deceased’s picture and the family that has gathered around. Your only concern is how the deceased met his death. Was it a long illness bravely born? Was it an accident? Was it thugs? Did he die suddenly? Then you begin thinking about your own mortality.

But one of the deceased family members confronts you. She forcefully wants you to be empathetic and respond in kind by parting with your hard-earned cash. It is nauseating, that level of entitlement. You ignore her and walk on. She is not done with you and shouts:

“Ata wewe utakufa!!! (You will die also!!)” where did that come from? Really? Was it even necessary? She says it as though she is never used to being rejected or ignored. Or she had signed a pact with God that whoever she talks to parts with something. The nerve!! Benevolence is not compulsory.

In anger at her statement, you respond in kind ‘pia wewe utakufa! (You will die too)’She adds more insults that put to question whether she was actually bereaved or not. You walk on, wondering where the confidence came from. You rarely respond to such kind of comments from strangers, not especially those who are bereaved. 

You must have been slightly tipsy because when you are in that state, you fire back salvos regardless of who is spitting them. 

New Year, Same Old Stuff

 All and sundry heralded the new year, 

Some with pomp and glamor, 

some with a dark sense of humor, 

and some slept on the bathroom floor, 

passed out. 

some waited with bated breaths, 

watching the clock slowly tick towards twelve, 

some sung and prayed feverishly in church 

The pastor decreed and declared, 

that it would be year of unmatched blessing, 

some prayed for riches, 

some for love, 

some for security (mental, financial, emotional) 

But for most, the new year is now as old as Methuselah, 

four days into it but it feels no different, 

Just the same old stuff, but a different year

Back to default, back to old habits

The Withered Flower

It had quite elaborate dreams of its own, 

to bloom and shower the world wit its 

iridescent colours, 

it knew that even in moment of inconsolable 

gloom, 

its beauty would provide a warmth, 

a warmth only felt by the eye or the nose 

because it never thought of the day it would wither, 

die, 

and get trampled by ungrateful and marauding souls 

souls that have never contemplated their own ends, 

But the flower smiled anyway, 

Because that was the climax of its life

It had lived a life, often chocked by water, 

and chemicals that did a whole lot of good, 

they sustained it, the chemicals and the water, 

until the day it was uncremoniously plucked 

and the flower knew without being told 

that the end had come - it could smell it, 

it was nigh 

Wisdom

 the wisdom giveth

got taketh away, 

by the puff, one puff 

it rose like the smoke, 

blown away from the nose- 

nose thrills, you may guess

but that does not make any difference 

so long as there is life, 

there are dreams to be pursued 

and where dreams are, 

misery is stalking close by

Remain A Mystery

 do not assail me with stories of the yore, 

of whom you were before, 

I know you might think I might be interested 

I guess I might be, but I'll take instead, 

instead, I find the present you alluring, 

a you so perfect in certain dark crevices, 

don't they say people are angels before you know them? 

I like you to maintain a mystery around you, 

unassailable and distant, 

never ever spill your secrets, 

I do not trust myself to keep them, 

My ears have born a lot of secret stories, 

Do not entrust me with another burden, 

It is not heavy but I like not to know any secret 

Keep your mysteries closely guarded 

because if you don't I will stop liking you 

Dating A Retard

Coyotito Ruto wakes up startled as if suddenly roused from the grips of a death-like slumber. He opens his eyes slowly as if he is out of coma and unsure whether he was back to the real world or he is in the other world where dead loved ones are presumed to go. Or be. He sees familiar things. He can even touch them. And he reaches for the very first thing everyone these days reaches when they wake up – his phone. There are seventeen missed calls. All from one person. Coyotito knows that once a caller reaches the two-digit zone, it becomes an emergency – an emergency where the caller’s head needs to be examined.

It becomes clear to Coyotito that one does not need an empirical research to figure out that love is the principal cause of retardation in people. They can do crazy things. They can do unexplainably ridiculous things such as getting married Backman (n.d.) or leaving seventeen missed calls. Coyotito has always had an inkling that Glenda’s brain is ‘not full.’ He does not remember saying anything remarkably special to her for her to fall head over heels for him in such a devastating way that she completely lost her faculties.

Coyotito traces his steps before he fell asleep. It has been barely two hours. And how he slept like he felt asleep. And in that period of being blissfully unaware of his existence, someone managed to call him seventeen times. That number exceeds by a scale of 4.7 the limit where extreme or irrevocable retardation begins.

According to a research done by the University of Buruwein (motto: ndo manake), each number of missed calls denotes the mental state of an individual. The maximum allowable limit of missed calls left by a single individual should be one or less. The research took into consideration the simple truth that there is a 90% probability that someone is purposefully ignoring your phone call. Pretty much everyone is  a retard, or has been a retard at some point in their lives, presumably before they lost their phones. Coyotito knows without a shred of doubt that some people are quite challenged at being retards for the sole reason that there is no manual just like everything else.

Speaking of manuals, Coyotito (or Coyo as his girlfriend loves to call him when she is angry) would have loved Glenda to have a manual. She can be mad at Coyotito for paying the bills or not depending the mood. She can be mad at him for not having money and not want him to leave for work at the same time. He has the manual for this – leave her. But he dares not. He just wants a manual to cope with her retardation. And that’s not too much to ask. 

Most resolute and unshakeable vows are rarely made at the altar. The sacred ones are the ones said in secret or never uttered at all. Coyo knows that. Glenda knows that. For that matter, they know that they will get stuck in their chaos, revel in the labyrinthine maze of their lives, laugh and love hard and probably threaten each other’s lives when it is absolutely necessary. And one ceases to exist, the remaining one will figure out how to get on with life probably in a maximum-security prison.