Do No Call Me

Do not call me yet.

I have not good news

If there were, you’d have heard it

I am not yet a millionaire,

I stopped gambling, but I may start soon

 

Do not call me. 

She, who was my fiance, 

Broke up with me

As it stands, nobody will bother you 

to contribute to money for those ceremonies, 

where people will gather and cheer you 

for finally settling down 

 

Do not call me

the streets of Nairobi have had the best of me

nothing much has changed 

only age, 

probably dreams 

and expectations - all had to be adjusted.

 

Stagnant

Inside you are the grandest dreams ever dreamt 

Yet each day, you appear empty and unkempt 

The dreams are within your grasp 

But its distance stings like a wasp 

There are plenty moments of solitude 

When you pause and assess your mood 

You ask yourself whether you are ready 

Yes, the dreams even make you a little heady 

Where do you get everyday?

So far, far away 

Stagnant in a muddy puddle 

The dreams seem too much to handle 

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