Music for the deaf

Could she twirl?
Turn in beautiful melodic motion,
Interpret the music with her movement,
Sing the song with all but her voice?

I had heard about it but never knew what music was,
What melodies sound like,
The richness of a beautiful tune,
The melancholy of the minor chord.

Till she shewed me what music is,
With her movement, her body, her soul;
How the world listens with its ears...
No, how the world should listen to music.

Giving insight to a deaf man on the virtues of music,
The beauty of melodies,
In a way men with ears haven't heard before.

Dance for me forever,
And don't heal my deafness,
For to hear as men do would be to deny me the beauty of her grace,
It would be to blind me to the only silent expression of music I know.

Forever dance for me,
Dance for me forever.

Harry

It is wretched, it is fatal
It is glorious, it is brilliant.

To enjoy life's finer details,
To enjoy what commonfolk cannot.
Ooh to indulge in pleasures,
Pleasures so sacred, no man can buy them.
An experience no man can put a price on.

To hate with a hatred so cruel,
Because you have been robbed,
Robbed of perfection of the object you once worshipped.
A robbery so stealth, ordinary men will not notice the difference.

It is wretched, it is fatal
It is glorious, it is brilliant

Six stringer

My baby don't talk much but when she talks, she produces the sweetest sounds I know.
She doesn't cry out for attention but her eyes betray her; and melt my heart.

She ain't 100 degrees hot but she sure is as fine as the word could be.
Sleek and beautiful, not too flashy but stylish. That's how I like them and I got myself a good deal.

She's a storyteller, telling stories of times that were, times present and times to come. Rich in history and possesses a tongue, wise like that of a serpent.

Beauty is encased in her body, where the heart reverberates with brilliance. Right in her bosom where all fears, worries bad anxieties are settled. Where hope is rekindled and joy set ablaze

I love you my love

My guitar

Cut-and-dried

Nice tux, good clean nice tux.
Perfect haircut: hair beard and all,
Fashion Omega watch,
Brilliantly polished shoes.

Perfect wife,
Beautiful in every sense of the word,
Perfect stride
Proper make-up
There's no room for 99%, it's all or nothing.

All eyes on them,
Focused attention,
There is none more perfect,
None more enviable,

Or so it seems.

Valentine

Darkness engulfs the whole land.
Dull, heavy nimbus clouds block out the sunlight,
And in a matter of moments, releases the contents of its belly,
Wrecking destruction and yet, giving life to the land that so desperately longs for a refreshing.

A bolt of electricity lights the dark skies,
Momentarily revealing the beauty engulfed by the darkness.
Escorted briefly by a thunderous roar that shakes the foundation of our souls.

Then follows the calm silence that is the raindrops, beating on the iron sheets.
For the madness that preceded it: beauty and craze,
Makes this feel like a drop in the ocean.
And just like that, a beautiful moment in time passes.
Etched only in the canvas of our memories

Sorcerers' well

He is the devil
She is the devil
They are the devils.

The devil is all around us,
Masquerading in various shapes and sizes; looks and appearances.
Whispering in our ears,
Holding placards to our faces.

But always hiding his face,
Veiled under the shadow of deceit.
The face that remains consistent
The face unknown.

One day she took my hand,
And led me to a well,
A well not so shallow but neither so deep,
Nonetheless, magic resided within.

Look keenly, search with your eye.
The enemy resides in your household,
A person you know intimately.
Look and tell me who you see.

I looked and searched,
With my eyes and with my heart.
And I saw the devil's face,
So attractive, so beautiful,
So me!!

Feminist speak

Today being the year TWENTY SHE-XTY. the year of our Lord and or Lady

Today is a great day for Womankind and all her folk. We have finally got our victor(ia) that shall (s)henceforth be recognised with the changes in the naming of the number six to she-x and many other pheno(wo)menal changes to the Queen's language thus restoring the pride and dignity that the patriarchal half of the society has for so long denied us.

Rise up now all ye women, No longer shall we be the slave(ttes) of those who have so long tried to suppress us. The chauvinists who continue to belittle our cause, who try to resist the wheels of Justi(nna). Always putting up the Men at work signs in an effort to create potholes on the road to freedom. No longer shall the signs of the patriarchal age dominate. A dawn comes upon the night blurring out the night that is the age of inequality and with it, the rise of the age of a new balance. disrupting all s(h)ocial order, closing the pages of history and rewriting a new shestory. We will no longer speak of the story of the lion and the hunter for none of them concern us. Now we shall tell the tale of the lioness and the huntress; the Pocahantas and Brave-heart. We are rewriting shestory, the kind of shestory Cleopatra would be proud of. We shall sing aloud praises of Marie Curie. Not of Napoleon and Hitler, of Obama and Blair.

This is our time. Stand tall. Justinna is served. The scales of Justinna now swing to our advantage.
This is Feminist Victoria

Autofocus

Undivided love.
Singular devotion.
If a man was to commit to these and these only:

Tunnelling vision,
Patient commitment.

Teaching his heart to desire,
For desire exceeds want.
While pulling the reigns of his heart
Training it to reject its list of lusts,

Breaking the cycle of broken men,
Reversing the trend of dysfunctional societies,

Then probably we could say:
I am a man and a man is who I am.

The lull after the storm

The harsh winds constantly beat against the sails by night,
Threatening to rip them apart.

The unforgiving midday sun bears down on the sailors,
Promising to bury them in hot humidity.

Eventually the ship docks at port.
No lives lost and a hull that is intact.

The reminders of nature's wrath,
Broken splinters and sunburnt skins,
Sign off as memorabilia

Of all that was; the beauty and strength, the valour and courage.

Trophies that only shine bright.
In the lull after the storm

The owl

Short days and long nights

Days blanketed in noise
Nights filled with silence.

Times when men walk in the company of each other
Times when men share the company of themselves.

When work gets done
And when thoughts get made.

Eventually craving for longer days
And quietly appreciating the short nights

Where periods no longer consist of seconds
And neither are moments measured in time.

He is

A man comes built with two things

Pride, so that he may have something of worth to hold on to, and

A heart to feel, feel all that the wretched world of men has to offer.

He is fashioned to use his pride as a sword. A tool to cut beyond the veil of impossibility
His heart, a shield to protect all that he values.

And when his sword dents, for his pride will soon be when he meets an obstacle in battle,
He won't be left with a sharp edge.  Only shame.
Which by the sharpening of, he shall overcome.

But when his shield shatters, he is made handicapped. Unable to craft another, he is left partially helpless.
His only choice, a specialist, a healer.
Only by whom, he shall rise up boldly anew.

His dignity he may recover,
But his heart needs a surgeon.

Friends

1:15 pm Fate or destiny

Time for her lunch break. At least that is what her body clock indicated. Not forgetting it was also time for her lunch hour walk, where she divorced herself from the computer screen which like an infant, was constantly in control of her mental and physical faculties. Time to leave the blue walls constituted by the corporate overlords designed to enslave her till her retirement, death or resignation, whichever she would choose to surrender her fate to.

1:16 pm Carl

Carl: So where are you going to have your lunch today Miss?
She: Nowhere in particular if you really want to know
Carl: Would you like me to take you to a new Italian restaurant that opened shop the other day
She: Not really, I need fresh air, not really a meal
Carl: You're sure
She: Yup. See you later!!!

1:17 pm Sunshine

There is something different about sunshine hitting you from the open compared to a few UV rays sneaking past the windows on tenth floor. More like swimming with fishes you own rather than watching them from the aquarium you rented from that uptown shop. Keeping up with the Joneses has its own disadvantages like not being able to have a relationship with your property. Only constant staring contests with the humongous house you got a mortgage on that you never get to enjoy because you are busy working late to pay it off; beauty pageants for your expensive phones every weekend when at lunch with your friends and staring contests with your dog because it is only there for the visitors to see and not for your security or company. If she was going to pay the mortgage and watch fishes swim in a glass tank in her living quarters, she thought she ought to at least enjoy one free thing, and for her, it was the gift of sunshine.

1:18 pm The King's Bench

He sat there as usual on his bench facing the tall blue buildings of the economic kings. It was not really his bench. It belonged to the City Council. However, after faithfully sitting on it for so many months, the people who passed there often had quietly and willingly acknowledged the bench as his and let him be. Men and women sat on other adjacent benches without ever bothering him. Probably because they also did not like the fact that he was a street urchin, and a suspicious one at that because he never opened his mouth to utter a word. He didn't stretch out his hand for handouts or help, neither did he have a cup for collecting coins. Once in a while during the lunch hour break, a coin or two was handed to him, to which he bowed in response to that gesture, but nothing more. Something else brought him there, a daily routine, an obsession, a prescription.

1:19 pm Company

 She walked towards benches as she always did. Admiring the freedom the bird had and wishing she were as they were. And she slowly approached her favourite spot in the environment, a bench with a King. She smiled at the man who smiled back at her and sat on the bench next to him. She put her hand into her bag and produced a transparent plastic bag containing the remains of her vegetable sandwich, which she had only had a bit of in the morning when rushing to work. She handed it to the mute who gratefully accepted it and went straight to consuming it. And as he did so, she stared at the birds, breathed in the air and enjoyed his company. As soon as he was done eating she smiled, got up and left.....  

The shroud

A coffin that holds men for a certain while,
Not dead but sleeping men,
Held there not by their own desires,
Veiled by the choices they made.

Men who lie there still and immobile,
Shielded away from the sunshine and the light.
Men with hopes and dreams,
Plans and ambitions,
Awaiting the one key that releases them,
Before the undertaker takes them under.

Opportunity is all around us they say,
Each opportunity, a key to a gateway to work.
But like a bunch of keys, only one opens the main door,
Unlocking a mansion filled with rooms endless.

And so,
Only one key unlocks the casket,
And one master who turns the key in its place to open,

The coffin of obscurity

Laments of a generous driver

A dedication to all those Kenyans who give people free lifts in their rides. I hope I will be able to appropriately present your sentiments.

If you are a driver, probably drive your own car or have one that is under your care, you probably have heard the words,

"Niaje bro, si unidunge lift hadi base x?"

Or in the case of a female,

"Hey Lelli (insert smiley face). can you please drop me at base x?"

*base x being your destination of choice

Problem number one

It so happens these requests sometimes are presented at the most inconvenient times especially when you are going in a totally different direction. Of course it won't be much of a problem if you are both heading in the same direction but if you are heading in a totally different way, there arises problem number one.
If you are a dude, you know it is easier to tell a fellow dude no and they will harbour no hard feelings. After all, catching feelings is for he weak. However, saying no becomes much more of a mountainous task when the request is presented by a member of the opposite sex. you have to be more understanding and all that emotional stuff you have to be sensitive to.

Me to dude: "Zii, siendi hiyo direction"
Dude to me: "Sawa, tuchekiane morrow basi."

Me to chic: "Eeeerm....... Well......."

Problem number two

After establishing the time of departure and the destination, suddenly, especially in the case of the female race, three or four other passengers will appear at the designated time and spot. A plus three is the maximum if you have a five seater, anything more than that is attempting to mock the traffic gods that randomly parade our roads. so usually the driver has to find a way of breaking one of their hearts or breaking the law. I think I should call this 2(a) because....

The second problem 2(b) is if the self-invited passengers make themselves comfortable and fill the little air left in the car with their conversations and totally exclude you as if you are  taxi driver and not a new acquaintance. It is like coming to my house and talking about my dog instead of talking to me.

Then at times, they may leave some litter in the car as if their handbags have no room for the wrappings they threw around. Or in the case of dudes, have no hands and feet to escort the litter to the nearest dustbin.

Ooh and insisting you change your playlist or the radio station as if they do not have multimedia enabled mobile phones.
CARRY YOUR OWN RADIO AND EARPHONES!!!!

The worst part of accommodating unexpected passengers is that they are now seated in the seat reserved for your imaginary friend and now you have to relegate the poor dude to the boot.
Or you thought we open the boot when people come to dump our laptops in there???
LEAVE SPACE FOR THE IMAGINARY FRIEND. Back left preferably


Problem number three

In the case of ladies usually,

Lady: "Can we stop at this supermarket I buy something?"

Me in my head: what option do I have?
Me to lady: Sure

Lady: goes and spends an eternity there. Does monthly shopping (and it is mid-month), sees a beautician, catches up with friends she bumped into and whatever else that can be conceived as possible.

Problem number four

This is the deal breaker. The meat in the sandwich. The big cahuna. The meat in the buffet.

Fuel, FUel, FUEl, FUEL.

As a driver, you probably have a blacklist of friends especially who ask for lifts and never for once offer to fuel. And they will ask you to drop them off at Big Square or Java or Art Caffe to go meet their pals, yet they are apparently too broke to help you fuel your car.
Though it might be important at this stage to mention, fuel is budgeted for. When a driver fuels his car, he or she has an idea of how much distance the fuel should cover. So in essence, the fuel is designed to help him reach home at the end of the day and home only. Any other extra distances is up to you as the passenger to cover. After all, your extra trips are not in a driver's budget, are they?

And please, fuel tanks run only on petrol and diesel. They do not accept the following:
 1. Thank you
 2. God bless you

If you ever served that for supper or traded it in at a supermarket and can prove it, we will gladly accept your tokens.

PS: We might not ask you to fuel because we may be feeing rich or because of our ego. However, if you offer, we will take note of your good manners and cross you off our blacklists. And stop praying to God to punish you with the blessing of a car so that you may suffer as you have made others before you to.

Love in a kiddie meal

Sink your teeth into it,
Let the juices splash onto your tongue,
Let the bread melt in thine mouth,
Till the sweetness of the mayo,
And the sharpness of the chilli,
Do a ballet's dance.

The bread characteristically soft,
The lettuce deceivingly crunchy.
One plant processed and cooked,
Another harvested and raw.

The glory of the meal found in the meat,
Thinly cut pieces but big on taste.
All other ingredients, encompassing the main agenda,
Sweet and salty, hot yet cool.

My sandwich experience

Tongues of men, you fail me

She opened her mouth and out flowed words,
To a listening ear that she had longed for.
He didn't hear much. Heck, he can't even recall a full sentence.
But his ears heard. His brain processed.

She shut her mouth when her words ran out.
Sighs of the heart in languages unspeakable was all that was rumbling now.
Then he listened.
His heart listened, their souls communed.
An understanding soul, a listening heart:
all she ever needed.

Tongues of men, you fail me.

God dead in Garissa

"Our present state is a factor of our past actions,
Our present reality is a factor of our perception of the future"

Lelli Mandela

To effectively answer the question where was God during the death of the students in Garissa, one must not ask finite questions but must demand to understand infinite reality.
A reality simply put is a transcendence of perceptions based on facts to a perception based on unchanged truth. To accept that there is a truth that may defy present facts in time and may offer higher insight into what is real.

There has been an argument that the massacre happened either because God is not real or is altogether present but unable to save. I could take this time to argue out whether God is real but that is not why I have sacrificed my words today.
God was present and watching as it happened. Probably even shed a few tears for He has emotions too.  If I were Him, I would have cried over the unnecessary manner in which the young people had to die. Maybe mourn for the killers for they have not yet known my love and will spend eternity separated from it.

Time is a factor of eternity. Death just a transition into another state. Death is not such a big deal  as men see it. It is a big deal if it was final, if there was no eternal hope. If there was no heaven or hell. I think I may do well at this point to declare that I have a working soul so yes, it is a big deal as a man.

The Bible says do not mourn as those who have no hope. Hope speaks not of the present but of the future. That is what the gospel promises, an eternal hope. Something that helps us live our present lives rather than exist for like 80 years.

God may have altogether failed to save our comrades because of hope, not because he is incapable of interfering in human affairs. If he were to interfere in every death and stop all unreasonable manner of descending to the grave, then we would have nothing to look forward to after death. Maybe death was the most selfless way of giving man a glimpse into eternity.

He touched her

And she didn't know if his hands were cold,
Or if her body was hot.
All she knew is that she felt a change,
She felt the difference.

Warm body and cold hands,
or was it
Warm hands and a hot body,
Whose temperature was right?
Whose body temperature was wrong?

Did she fear him or
Did she fear her?

Instrumental waltz on the key of D

There are things only melodies can express,
Feelings too deep, inexplicable moments, desires unmatched, tearless pain.
Joy untold, fears, worry, anger,
Confusion.

Regrets, injustice, failures,
Hope, love, triumph,
Incongruity.

Give me my guitar, burn the dictionary,
Mute my tongue, arrest my voice.
Senseless words, foolish rhyme,
I no longer have use for words,
They don't dig deep enough.

Let my troubled heart speak,
Though it lacks a tongue, it shall talk.
Teach me not how to write, that's not what my fingers were made for.
Only teach me how to play,
For then all my words come to life,
Then my handwriting will be perfect.

Firmament of Conceit

Put asunder eternity and time.
Divide the waters and let them never touch.
Let the heavens and the earth never kiss,
For as long as time exists, so should their estrangement last.

Ma lady, make pious prayers,
Pray not in anger but weep if you may,
Hold your heart,  let not your tongue curse your God.
Shackle your bitterness, unchain it if only to forever lose it.

Voices of scrolls eternal shouting out from the chambers of immortality,
Yet to a man whose liberty has been taken by the death of his son,
The shouts only come out as faint whispers carried by the winds of time.
Whispers of truth,  drowned by the storm of sin.

Let us pray to our gods, gods fashioned by the hands of politics.
Ignore the whispers, the voice of the people is the voice of God,
And right now, the voices are screaming in the midst of the storm.
Voices of despair,  voices of benightedness.

And that is why the earth and the heavens will never kiss,
For the folly of Man so denies him the wisdom of eternity.
Fruitlessness, the maturity of the seed of Pride,
Will forever remain his bountiful harvest, in a vineyard of leafy fig trees.

Resurrection

Don't bother checking, I am sure as an atheist is of his disbelief.
Don't touch it, there is no point in being disappointed when it won't rise again.
I didn't check but I know, the heart no longer beats.
The dying horse is already dead.
No need to confirm my disappointment.

But...

Maybe you could check, I am not sure but I have the hope of a Christian.
Touch it, shake it, shout. It might just respond to your gallantry.
I didn't check, because I fear for hope's last ounce to be crushed.
There still may be life, confirm it.
Crush my fear one last time.

Stories

Stories are told of ages before,
Stories of triumph and strength,
Of hope and courage,
Of death and fear
Of sorrow and pain.

In the dead of night, peak of the hill,
Laughter of men on strong drinks,
Laughter that did little to hide their fear,
Ominous camp fires from the opposite end.
This is war.

They sang songs, melodies of death and life.
Tunes of hope, melodies of sorrow,
Notes of celebration, chords of regret,
A father's shout, a mother's cry.
This is war.

As the morning dawns, belts are buckled, swords are sheathed,
Boots are worn, breastplates adorned,
Spears are raised, flags are hoisted.
This is war.

If this is death, so be it.
It is destined for a man to die once,
Then face judgement.
Trials are official events,
My excuse to be fully girded.
If I am to be judged, let me stand dignified.
Polished armour, shining sword.
If today is the day, so be it

Pretty lady

If a thousand moons were to be plunged in blood
And all of earth's light dimmed by the chaos of war,
If there was ever a light needed to shine beauty into the blight,
Then without a doubt, I would nominate you.
Beautiful lily, perfected star

Hidden

Sharp edges, coarse ends.
Graze the skin, feel the pain.
I forgot the gloves in the expectation there won't be danger.
I fore went any protection, knowing and hoping I would be safe.

The festering pustule.
The torn skin.
Pierced souls,
Shattered glass hearts.

No need to stay calloused, I said.
No need for shield, sword and spear.
Just another sheep from the flock,
No wolves here.

No need for binds now,
Let the blood flow,
Let the me wallow in my ignominious state,
My plume once again is no more.

Music

I long not for your words,
They are a great distraction,
A desiccation of the great beauty within,
A denial of the glory resident.

Distract me not with your words,
Draw not my attention from that which matters,
Deal me the hand that wins.

[Transpose ]
Give me ecstasy,
Enisle me in love
Eternal chains,
Engrain me into all that you are.

My love

Isn't it a beautiful thing when you can listen to a voice without having to pay attention?

To be able to hear the message without ever paying attention to the words?

To be able to feel what the musician felt, to be able to laugh and cry with him?

To love deeply and to be grieved as he?

To dance without a care in the world?

To be caught up in eternal ecstasy,
And never want to leave

Is this love?
No woman no cry
Exodus
Get up, stand up.

Thank you Bob for giving the world,
What the world needed.

Reggae heartbeats,
Roots and Culture.

Let me be buried

All I ever wanted to do is dip my foot into the shallow waters,
Test its temperature and play on the banks of the river.
Keep it safe, for I knew not how long I could swim in deep waters.
Probably coz I never tried.

That was then and now I knew not whether I regretted that choice.
Now I was being driven downstream,
Currents too strong to resist,
Water too deep to walk on.

I no longer had control.
I was drowning but,
But I liked it.
I wasn't interested in help neither in surviving.
I was being choked, losing air fast.
I didn't care.

I had always wondered what being engulfed felt like,
What not worrying felt like,
Not caring,
Letting go,
Death.

And now that it is all here,
I am at peace.
Do not look for my body,
Let me be buried in the currents,
For I finally found my rest.
My grave of freedom and fearlessness!

My wife 3

It's been a week now, a very long one. I hadn't even noticed time passing. All I knew is just that there were sunrises and sunsets. I could not point to a specific time in the day when anything had happened. I don't know if I ate lunch at 9am or 4pm. I even cannot remember what my wonderful housemates had cooked for supper. I usually enjoy their food but everything this week had been tasting like rubbery slippers.

To many people, this dilemma seems more than easy to resolve: just elope with the love of your life and live happily ever after, though in uncertainty.

Accelerate the plans.
Cut off communication.
Find a perfect hideout.
Start a new life.
Stand up to your father.
Reject Wangare.
Stand up for your rights.

All plausible but unfortunately for me, far fetched realities.

The truth behind this new arrangement is that political marriages in every sense of the word still do exist. Not the Kalonzo-Raila types but the kind ensuring continuity in family relations.
The funny thing is, my dad is not even a politician. It was all my grandfather's doing.

How?

Well, let me summarise it for you. My grandfather is a politician but all his twelve children or disciples if you like, were all married. He even had twelve dogs in his compound. I don't know if it is mere coincidence but you have to suspect. Since there was this dilemma, the son of the firstborn child had to make this merger happen.

It is usually only natural for the firstborn to take the political reigns of the family but my father did not trust my elder brother. I personally love the guy but if I was the dad too, I wouldn't trust the little crook. At least not with something sensitive as a politically arranged marriage. So at this point, the question, "Why me" was becoming irrelevant as the days flew by. So much for being a goody two shoes. Now I was paying the price for my perceived loyalty.

Reputation, Love, Politics. Seems my life had now blown up into a traditional soap opera.

A Man's World

In the beginning there was man,

And ever since there has been man.

A man, defined by strength and valour,

Courage and splendour,

Magnificence and extravagance.

He conquered other beasts,

He subdued the lion in a circus

And in India he made the largest land animal his servant.

He rides on the strength of horses,

And on these fearless beasts, he conquered kingdoms.

In Eastern Africa, he kills the king of the jungle as a rite of passage,

In Asia, he charmed the most deceitful of them all, the serpent.

He beat others of is kind into submission,

And for those whose manly pride was too great, he killed them.

Authority is his sceptre, Ego his shield.

He conquered it all, He is King, He is a lord.

All except one,

One who cannot be conquered by swords

One who cannot be beaten into loving submission, 

One who cannot be tamed unless he chooses to,

One who will not pay homage unless he chooses so.

The only one to whom man willingly subdues to,

The only one who can save him,

From the wilderness of lust and power.

The greater one, The majestic one,

 

The Wo-Man

My wife part 2

Okay, maybe it's all a joke or a bad dream. Just a prank by my dad. This surely must be a big mistake. a big political mistake. I shall just close my eyes, take a deep breath and exhale and wake up from this nightmare.

Breathe in,
Breathe out.
Open my eyes!!!



Wachuka

Wachuka Wachuka Wachuka!!! If there is a name that sounded more melodic than any of John Legend's songs, it had to be this. The one lady who had turned my world upside down. She had by some black magic spell  [I am not sure but I highly suspect] turned my heart of stone into flesh. Soft and squishy too if I may add. She had succeeded where no other lady had and had brought colour into my world where no other artist could.

My love, my dear,
No day passes without me thinking of you.
Your absence is like tormenting hell-fire and your words
Your texts, your calls, a flood of relief to a burning man.
 I am eternally condemned to your love,
Chained by the hope that one day,
 I will no longer have to write
From hell.

It was six months into this new found relationship with Wachuka, I had already planned it all out. The engagement, the wedding (colour code included too), a team of seven minions running around the house for the next couple of decades and a humble home somewhere deep in the reserves, where only my art and our love could pervade our privacy. I love her, I truly do. I had no choice anyway. You are usually arbitrarily relieved of the choice of loving a person like her when she came into your life when life tasted only like plain boiled potatoes with carrots floating in that pool of supposed good stew.


That is all I could think about on the ride back to Nairobi. The greatest melody in my life was starting to sound like a broken record, a dying elephant.

I just wanted to die!!!!

My wife

"Yo guys, I  have been summoned by my father. He wants me to go to Nanyuki with him. I don't know why but it sounded like a emergency."

Summoning is an act exercised by a father when he is in the last stages of denial that his son has moved out and started his life as a bachelor. Usually the last kicks of a dying reality-rejecting horse. The guys here are my housemates who have turned my life upside down since moving out. We inform each other of summon notices just to verify in advance that we have no intentions whatsoever of being kidnapped.

So here I was on my way to Nanyuki on the morrow. My father, my brother and I. He spoke something about a deal he wanted me to be a witness to, my brother and I. He sounded suspicious.  He sometimes did pull those lines but today it just sounded off. I looked in the direction of my brother for more information but he looked as clueless as Old Lenku.

After the three hour drive, we arrived at a humble homestead somewhere on the leeward side of Mt. Kenya. The air was fresh, though chilly. The reception on the other hand, totally the opposite. Unusually warm in every sense. Lesos spread on the ground in  a red carpet fashion. Something that smelt like goat meat boiling in a sack of potatoes as the Kikuyus love it. And the rice, which at that time I suspected had been laced with tonnes of potatoes and salt.
The singing kikuyu women. Singing what sounded like wedding songs. That is the problem with being an urban kikuyu. Some words just fly by you like the annoying fly that you cannot catch in your palms.

So we sat down in those blue plastic chairs reserved for special dignitaries. Then the warm sodas that they put in room temperature water to try and deceive the rest of society that they are actually cold. Then they served the overcooked and under-salted goat meat with the rice. At least the chapatis were decently done. Then followed the speeches, or at least the opening speeches.

Leo tumejaliwa kushuhudia maajabu ya Mungu. Bibilia yasema kwamba wawili wakiletwa pamoja, hakuna anayefaa kuwatenganisha. Amina??

AMINA!!!

Leo hii, tuna furaha nyingi kama jamii ya Kamau kumpa boma ya Mwangi mtoto wetu Wangari. Wangari, ebu kuja hapa.

I stared in disbelief as a homely looking young lady stepped forth from within the house. Decent looking lady. Short hair, chocolate complexion, dark eyes and milk white teeth. Her nose was neither too big nor too small and her overall body structure was in line.
So I guessed I had come to witness my brother's ruracio. I was surprised to see that my elder brother had decided to finally get serious and settle. God knows how much he needs a woman in his life to bring things into order.

Mwanaume wa nyumba ya Mwangi anaweza simama??

I expect my brother to stand then my dad stood up and said,
"Ndiye huyu kijana wetu.  Muriithi, ebu njoo hapa."

DID HE JUST CALL ME OUT???  ME???  ME?????  WHAT????

We fix broken eggs and repair rotten tomatoes 8

Hisdan Dual Duel

In most organisations, you will probably find two kinds, no make it three:

1. The ones who think of how to make the wheels turn. Usually a small percentage.

2. The ones who turn the cogs. They are the majority.

3. The ones who announce to the world that the wheels are turning. Also a small minority and the loudest. They also do make sure that they let the whole world know that their neighbour's wheels haven't been oiled or washed.

Our chefs were also in need of these services and where there is a need, there is usually a problem solver or an opportunist who in this case was Hisdan D. Duel. A gun for hire every half a decade and this time,  Half Century happened to be the top bidders for his services. Narrowly out bidding their rivals, the tangerines if I may mention.

Usually, teachers have a problem with noise makers. However, our friend here seemed to prove that other than a hobby or disorder, noise making can also be churned out as a talent in the marketing field. Proof that not all "indiscipline" cases are hopeless cases. He was also a fighter as his last name seemed to suggest.  It may seem pretty unusual for a cook to take on such skills but if your profession constantly  habitats a person around dangerous objects such as knives and forks, some secondary skills may be honed via association.

In a vocal exchange of opinions, or just the mere dissemination of his employer's opinions, Hisdan proved to be the loudest on any occasion.  Whether it involved vocal admiration with a hint of worship of the chief chef or in trashing the spoons of his competition because they were yellow, his unparalleled gift was always on display.

The chief chef today made a brilliant meal. So brilliant you will divorce your wife so that you can eat here constantly.
The tangerines' meal was so pathetic, even on the day of judgement the devil will beg to be dissociated from them.

You need to eat our food.  It has God's stamp of approval on it.

Such a noisy marketer. And he took no prisoners. So loud, annoyingly loud that you couldn't ignore him. You had to hear or listen. Either way, your eardrums are never secure from his vocal marathon. I usually wondered if he had anything left to say to his wife after a long day at the office. His wife must either be a very patient phlegmatic or such a competitive sanguine. Either way, it helped him thrive where his culinary skills failed.

A dirge on the key of E minor

"Don't play that. Play the Major chord."

He was always there, at least on stage with me. Always correcting my mistakes and encouraging me to play through my mess.

My security, even though it lasted only half an hour every week.
My confidence, my pride.
Bliss.

Today he was not there. Don't know why nor where he was.
So I composed a dirge.
The major chord was too aggressive.
The minor just right.
Melancholic songs deserve reverence, musical reverence.

It started with the E minor,
But there was no guide from there,
Just one chord to describe death.
Just my lonely self and my lonely chord.

Guess it was perfect.
Death is self explanatory, it needs no alibi.
A dirge as we lowered the casket into the ground,
In it, lay hope, dressed in different shades of confidence.

Affection

28

Neither complete nor mature,
but more than enough to make a great smile.

Wisdom teeth.

Growing pains,
Unnecessary yet inevitable.
And so wisdom is,
Unnecessary if one is to survive,
Yet inevitable if one is to thrive.

32
Appearance is no indication of Depth,
Just ask a thirty two teeth smile and a twenty eight one,
No one can tell the numbers.

So is friendship in its fullness.
A hug, a kiss, an embrace:
A smile.

Heart, love, sacrifice:
Depth.

Seat of blood

He did it once again,
Ran off to the street of lights,
Lighting up paths laced with thorns.
Eventually he would get to the roses,
That would wilt as the blood on his soles clot.

Then follows the crippled walk back to earth,
Henry Dunant standing at the end,
With antiseptic and bandages in hand.

The mercy seat of God.

Perfect lipstick

What are you?
What are you doing?
What do you like?
What do you want to be?

Perfect questions, perfect answers.

Who are you?

Kill me

The lull after the storm,
The calm after the chaos.
No more weathering the storm,
Or an endless despair for dry land.
No more, no more!!!

The last drops of paint are now dry.
No more sketches on my clean wall,
No more incorrigible writings on the walls.
Pure white, whitewashed white, snow white.

My forest, my man-made forest.
Trees now growing in line like boy scouts,
Growing and maturing faster, like soft woods are meant to.
Bye hardwoods, bye bye disorderly trees.
I won't miss you, you grew too slowly anyway.

But....

It is not the hope of dry land that made the voyage enjoyable,
Nor did it prove the sturdiness of the boat,
Neither the tenacity of the sailors.

The neat whitewashed wall denies me the vigour of youth,
The beauty of splattered colours.
There are no messages in the worst of handwritings,
That point to a moment in time.
No colour, no collage, no beauty, no memories.

It takes ages to grow hardwoods, centuries even.
Then they have no order, no symmetry, just grow wherever and whenever they feel like.
But that's what makes a forest beautiful.

The promise of calm,
The spotless white,
The symmetrical artificial creation.

These are things cowards long for.
Nothing that the strength of love can give.

If you leave me, kill me.
For I cannot enjoy these.
I would rather the harsh storm, the badly coloured wall, the order-free forest.
For no his-story came from sailors who hated the sea and loved dry land.
No clean wall could tell her-story.
No man-made forest told their-story:

A love-story.

Don't leave me, but if you do, kill me!!!

We fix broken eggs and repair rotten tomatoes 7

Mutton stew

From time to time, usually more often than not, the chefs made mutton stew. This one was for the exclusive taste of the chefs and their close friends. They usually made it from meat picked from dying sheep. Usually after the sheep had been lived beyond its usefulness in regards to wool shearing.

There was usually a wool shearing season. The wool shearer a.k.a the taxman was in charge of this process. There was no escaping the big man. He would look for you, find you and take his share. Part, or should I say most of it, conveniently got lost when his friends visited his shamba and his stores. The wool was meant to make clothes for the population to help them survive the cold season. And the nights too. The woollen clothes were to fit from top to bottom but as fate would have it, the material ran out faster than a Kenyan marathon athlete. All that was left for a majority of the population was just enough material to make scarves.

Sometimes the wool shearing extended beyond the season. The sheep were sometimes forced to trade it in for a bit of fertiliser for their pastureland when their self produced manure was not enough to make the land more productive. It was an illegal trade since hay was the currency of trade but sometimes, in Africa....

Sometimes, the chefs couldn't wait for the sheep to age and decided to slaughter them at their prime. At other times, there happened to be a deficiency in wool since the chefs had cut off pastureland meant for the lambs to make space to set up food stands to sell their soups. The flocks would die of hunger and thus the wool debt.

On this particular day, one of the chefs, the deputy of Half-century, happened to conveniently extend his food stand into the pastureland. Men noticed. The women and children too. There was going to be some noise this time round. So the big boys ordered us to take our rungus and shields to go confront the mass of demonstrators. They wanted to fight for the animal rights and my employer, Half-century was having none of it. Adults and children were going to demonstrate. What do children know about animal rights anyway? A lesson in teargas will teach them not to get involved next time!!

Animal rights my foot!!!!

On the morning of the incident,  as I got into my anti-riot gear, I took my family's photo from my desk and had a good look at it. They are the reason I work everyday. My wife, my son and my daughter. All so beautiful. I usually did this as a ritual every morning before I started my day. Just to remind me, no matter how bad my job pays and makes me feel like trash, I had something to live for.

As I put the photo back onto my desk, I noticed a funny blur on the photo. I brought it closer and rubbed it with my fingertip to clear away the stain. Instead, the colour started fading and beneath the colour, a strange object began to reveal itself. First came the hooves.

I rubbed harder.

Then came 16 legs.

Four short tails.

Wool.

Round bodies.

Sheep. Four sheep. FOUR DAMN SHEEP!!!

MY FAMILY IS A FLOCK OF SHEEP!!!!

We fix broken eggs and repair rotten tomatoes 6

Aromat.

Everything is better with aromat.

The current system of serving food at the marketplace had grown stale. Men were tired of having to wait in line for their portion of omelette soup. It was usually on a first come first serve basis. However, the rules determining who came first were very amorphous. Too grey: a bit of black here and a bit of white there. Therefore, the cunningones and the strong ones always ended first. The shrewd ones too. Though the shrewd ones always got a bit of soup, whether they were in line or not. Their secret was very simple, make friends with the number ones after they had been served. That way, they wouldn't sleep hungry.

The luxury of sleeping on with an occupied stomach was not attainable to the majority. It was only a fantasy most could only dream of. The poor chaps would eat the bit they had been served that day (if lady luck shone on them) and make stories around campfires. Stories of hope and to some degree, delusion. The reality of "kukula ugali na stori ya nyama".  Or in this case, stori ya omelette soup. They could almost even taste it with their tongues. But it was just that, almost!!

So they got dissatisfied with this arrangement and as with all dissatisfied men, grumbling followed. It started from their stomachs, their children's stomachs in particular and generated into moans and groans.  A groan for a second liberation. They were tired of the omelette soup. At least they wanted a change in the diet. (Not the kind of diet slimming ladies want, but it could qualify since a majority were slimming and losing weight anyway). The winds of change had started blowing from the east.

The chefs came together. Interests had to be protected and viewers had to be entertained. The crowds needed more. More for their temporal gratification but not an eternal satisfaction. 

"Aromat"

"What is that?"

"A detailed scheme of how we can make the best out of it without injuring our interests."

"Explain."

"Just create a cheap portion and tell people it is an elixir. Add it to the food and increase the rotten tomatoes of economic inequality to the recipe. They are in plenty anyway. More people from the middle class section of the line will have their fill and their ears will be too full of our advertising jingles to be able to hear properly the grumbles from the nether ends of the line."

"What shall our jingle proclaim?"

"Everything is better with Aromat."

And that is how the New Aromat Ordinance of Twenty-Centuries-and-One-Decade was born.

The climb

To the lofty, my truth is inaccessible.
To the humble, he will see it.
For the pride of Man denies him perception
And his knowledge,  a barrier.

For a proud man is always looking down in spite,
And a humble man, his face lifted in prayer.
When he looks down, he has no view of that which is above
When he looks up, he sees only but just a spot,
A fraction of that which is eternal.

The higher you elevate man, the less his view of the sky.
The lower he descends, the wider his view.
The higher he goes, the more men he sees,
And vainly compares himself to them.
The lower he goes, the less of pride in men he sees,
And the greater the view of glory.

Higher up the ladder of pride,
Or lower the ladder of conceit he shall descend.
Either way, we are all somewhere along this climb.

We fix broken eggs and repair rotten tomatoes 5

Noses RuKia

The morphology of Blue Label to Half-century had already happened. It was quick and fast. Quite a swift change. One that caught the ignorant by surprise but again, put in a bit of flamboyance here and there and there you go!!  A new word. Probably leaves the script writer feeling like Charles Dickens. In case you didn't know, we credit a couple of words to that walking dictionary. The only difference with the Half-century script writer is that they did not spice up the language.  Though I must credit them with improving the visual appearance of the omelette and thereby psychologically improving the taste (in the eyes of the fans).

And in the midst of the script writing came forth Noses RuKia.  Usually known as Nonsense RuKia but the first name was too long to pronounce. And we shortened it to our liking. Like the way we would say Jay for Josephine because we got tired of pronouncing the name in the middle of that vocal journey. Which reminds me, why do we get tired during our vocal journeys?

She killed.
She kille.
She kill
She kil
She ki
She k
She
She.....
She killed me with her looks.

So Noses RuKia. When Half-century promoted one of the chefs to chief chef,  they made the mistake of employing that guy to be the cook. He was probably the worst act of them all. Noses couldn't try to pretend that he was fixing broken eggs or repairing rotten tomatoes. He on one hand wrapped the broken eggs in green paper, some 1000g heavy, some 500g heavy. Then plast them in eggshell like colours and lifted them up in the same manner Simba was lifted up in front of the wildlife on Pride Rock.  The crowd of course went wild and was convinced that the eggs were repaired. Eggs of tribalism and hate.

So Noses was unskilled at this job. Or ignorant. Or just plain obtuse. I couldn't put a finger to it.  Always forgetting that broken eggs needed good presentation and that broken eggs needed to be hidden. Unfortunately,  for this brute, egg breaking was his speciality. And the Half-century crowd somehow loved it. Some hated it but for sure, he did stir still waters.
The tangerine crowd of course hated it.

Aberrant

There are nights,
Some shorter, some longer.
And this one, longer than I would like to remember,
For it is punitive for a man to experience an obsession once,
And forever dream of it,
But live in trepidation.

Embers of what once was,
A fire upon which melodies were refined,
And golden words came alive.
Where the cold was just but a rumour,
And the worries of the night far flung into Sheol.

That was when I met Her,
Hidden deep beneath the covers of lucidity.
She never showed her appearance in the day,
But in rare moments of darkness; on days like these, she came forth.
Draped only in splendour,
Dressed in odourful charm,
Footsteps so calm.
A gracefulness the beauty of the night could not match.

I couldn't hear her come,
Yet I knew she already was.
I couldn't see her, but I knew there in that moment;
There was none more beautiful.
A silent assault played on a minor key.
And yet, no refined orchestra could play a tune better.

"Come
Come with me."

*silence*
*tension*

She placed her chin on my neck,
And gently worked her hands on my tense muscles.
Working from the shoulder to the torso, lower back and slowly up again.
Till my mantle dropped, plumage and vainglory;
And all bulwarks undone.

"Come,
Come now, let us go...."

Disenthralled
Ecstasy
Rhapsody
Amorphous.

I could go on but I will not.
It would be wrong for a man to describe such delectations in one stroke.
Pleasures under the moonlight deserve no less than the finest in language.
So unfortunate that the Queen's language isn't enough.
To understate such feminine panache, I will not.
But I will give you her name

Delirious

We fix broken eggs and repair rotten tomatoes 4

Bored of the morsels. They wanted more. And the more they had, the worse the aftertaste. Eventually, the morsels stopped tasting nice. The crowd was bored and the chefs were once again in trouble.

The chefs had to think fast. Their Union was breaking apart anyway. Stories and rumours of undercutting were strife. Suspicion grew. Distrust matured.

And eventually, the tangerines retreated to their kilns. They needed a new strategy.

There was whispering in the now speculative crowds. Fingers crossed, fingers pointed at each other.

There was whispering in the Blue Label kilns. There was now whispering in the Tangerine kilns. Minds at work.

Then a shout came from the Tangerine kilns.
"We fix broken eggs!!!"

And a quick and witty response came from Blue Label.
"We repair rotten tomatoes!!!!"

We repair broken eggs and repair rotten tomatoes 3

STOP!!!!!!!!

You cannot behave in a manner likely to suggest that no form of education has ever been imputed into your systems.

"But it was their fault, they stole our eggs and gave us broken eggs."

"They gave us rotten tomatoes."

"We gave you fresh tomatoes and you swapped them with rotten tomatoes."

Hush!!!! We can work out something. Starting with you chefs. How can we make a combined omelette, one that at the least will leave some morsels for the audience?

Then began the negotiations that went on for two days. Finally, they agreed to use the kilns from the Blue Label side of the kitchen. The tangerine chefs crossed over to that side of the kitchen and started cooking alongside their "sworn fiends". Actually in class today, the word fiends is spelt as F-R-I-E-N-D-S. 

Meanwhile, the audience still remained in their seats. No one wanted to cross over and above make friends. But now, the omelette morsels were thrown occasionally into both crowds and the scrambling continued. They even went ahead to make idols of their chefs. They worshipped and adored them.

Up until they got bored.

We fix broken eggs and repair rotten tomatoes 2

The blue label fans now went wild. The crowd was ecstatic. Their team,  their chefs were now the heroes. They threw in another piece and like starving dogs from the heartland of kambaland, they once again scrambled for the piece. They were wild. Hungry and wild. Curious to satisfy the insatiable need to know how men with public opinions felt when they ate the omelet. As fate would have it, it was the best thing they had tasted in their lives upto this point. They wanted more and they were willing to fight for it.

A third piece was thrown into the crowd and the scrambling started again. There wasn't enough and I had to get a taste. Then scramble turned into shoving and into vicious fighting. But I didn't care. I would rather hurt my neighbour. My needs came first anyway. Teamwork ends here.

Meanwhile, tangerines were having a problem. They hadn't made enough to distribute in the manner blue label were doing. And their oven was slower than that of their competition. So they now had to find a new strategy. They now turned the heat on blue label. Blue label had been stealing their eggs anyway. So the focus now turned to Blue label. The fans and the chefs all of them accusing blue label of unfair practice. The fans started shouting and wailing. I started shouting too along with my fellow tangerine fans. Then I threw a sponge into blue label's fans.

The sponge hit me. I got a mustard seed and threw it into the tangerine crowd in retaliation.

So began the acrimony.
So began the hate.
So began the war

We fix broken eggs and repair rotten tomatoes 1

"We fix broken eggs and repair rotten tomatoes."
I didn't believe it till I saw it.
They actually do fix them and repair them. I saw it with my own eyes, my own two eyes.

The process was an intriguing one. A short one too as a matter of fact.
They broke eggs and harvested rotten tomatoes. Five day old eggs and fifty day old tomatoes.
The chefs were in a race to make omelets. Hell's kitchen was the factory. Public opinions were the destination. And not the public opinion that the poor hold, no, not that. The kind I am speaking about is the kind located around the central province. The bigger it is, the less the visibility a man has of his feet, and probably the ground too upon which his footsteps rest upon. The kind only a well fed man can relate to.

There were two sets of competing chefs: blue label and tangerines. Blue label being the current title holders of the competition, we're obsessed with retaining the title. Tangerines on the other hand, had seen the opportunity to capture the flag. And so the fight began. And the spectators watched on, cheered on.

As the competition went on, a strange thing began to happen. The spectators were no longer cheering. They always cheered the team with the bigger omelets but now,  their cheers had receeded into resentment. Maybe so because they did not get a chance to taste the omelets. Then they started pointing fingers at the teams and the teams could no longer make more. The omelets were enough, but it was just not in their character to share it with the audience.

They knew their game was up. They needed a new strategy.

Blue label by this time had made more omelets than tangerines and decided to throw a piece to their disgruntled fans. The fans immediately scrambled for the small piece of omelette.

Treasure

If a man knew what it would take,
The cost of his heart's desire,
Then he would pursue it with all his might.
He would scale the highest heights and swim the deepest depths.
For his ultimate happiness depends on it,
The joy of his soul.

He would devote all his energy,
All his wealth in the blink of an eye,
For nothing materialistic can buy the treasure he holds so dearly.
And when he has spent all he has to acquire that which he seeks,
He would yet be richer ten times over than a king whose throne is built with sapphire and gold,
Whose palace is built upon onyx and silver,
Laced in splendour and grandeur.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Her smile

Courtship

A heartbeat so loud I cannot hear my thoughts.
Hot blood gushing through my veins driven by the incredible pace my heart is working at.
I am tense.

When she opens the door,
What will it be this time?
Lazy eyes, excitement, fatigue or energy that will open the door?
Calmness or secrecy, secrets the heart cannot tell.
Either way, my heart cannot settle.

Will it be a hug? A long one, a short one. A tight one, or a tight one.
Will it be a kiss, a peck? A short one or a long one.
Either way, I want to see her.

We had an argument two hours before.
We laughed two hours before.
We were excited two hours before.
We were mad at each other two hours before.

But that doesn't matter now. Of course it still may, but it doesn't.
For when our eyes meet, when I behold her beautiful face,
In that moment of madness and admiration, all else is forgotten.
Eternity stands still in that moment.
All emotions cease.

And nothing but love and worship for her majesty fill the moment.

And so, I knock the door

Avion

An imagination, a dream.
An absurdity, a wish.
Madness and hope,
Fallacy and prophecy.

What joy would it be if we could move without our feet touching the ground.
What awe would strike man when he could finally touch the stars.
The freedom that birds feel when they travel unrestrained.
The power to drive chariots of fire drawn by wind.
An imagination, a dream.

An absurdity, a wish.
Madness and hope,
Fallacy and prophecy.

The word avion apparently came about when man was imagining of flying way back in the 17th century when even cars hadn't been invented yet.

Poem for a friend