Friday 16 December 2011

Thank You Tororot For This Year


As we draw close to the end of this year, I have so many things to be thankful for.

I thank Tororot for speaking to the hearts of three kindest souls who paid my fees at Kenya School of Law. God demonstrated once again that He is the provider of all that we desire. Up to now, I have not figured out how I came to the Law School. To these vessels that Divine Providence used to expand my horizons, I speak blessings to their lives. I don’t have gold to offer but a heart that will touch other people’s lives.

I thank my mother, brothers and sisters, relatives, friends who stood by me all this time. The path I took is a bit difficult to understand. It gets complicated when I mix it with some writing and poetry. One day you will fully realize the import of all these.

I thank Sherry Blue Sky, my Koko, who has been my “koko” always encouraging me in my poetry and fundamental issues in society. She has let me grow in wisdom. She has had a tremendous impact in my life. Never had I figured out that a blog could unite two souls from such diverse backgrounds and geographical locations. I owe it to her of learning the word “bioluminescence” and “Yippee” and “Yay” and “Wowzers” ( And “argh”, ha ha).

I thank all my fellow poets and readers of my poetry especially Madhumakhi, TheUnknowngnome, Andy and so many other warm souls who have graced my blog. There are others who have always read my poetry and I may not know them by name but your presence means a lot to me.

I thank all those inspirational sites I call “mountains” to the Echoes of the Hills for their continuous  prompts, encouragement, information and dedication to our Muses. Their toil can hardly be compared to anything. They carry the love of poetry and humanity in their hearts. Such a virtue needs praise!

I thank all my Facebook friends, My Fanpage community, my twitter followers and all those friends I interact with in the social media. Whoever thought the social media would have united us all? Thanks for being there for me. Thanks for keeping me going.

2011 has been a tremendous year.  I have grown in so many ways. And with the grace of The Supreme God, I look forward to 2012 with a renewed vision, a child-like curiosity in observing nature and professional growth. If 2011 has been a window through which I look into my future, then how excited am I to sprint into it, marvel at its beauty, bring change with whatever seed Tororot has planted inside my heart and yet remain humble in realizing that we are but mere mortals and not greater than any other in this world.

God, you have a reason why I have lived this far. I trust in your Divine Providence. Create within me the desire to be a servant, to be your slave. Let me not harbour any resentment over anything. Let no anger poison my heart or mind. If I do anything, however small, let it be out of love. Lord, of your abundant Grace, that overflows in the path my life has taken, fill my heart with gratitude and contentment. I have not been any better than a beggar or a stranger with no house. I have not done anything special to deserve such mercy. If anything, Lord, I have fallen short of your Grace. You have let blessings chase me as if they were a mighty waterfall. I have not used my strength and where I have used I did not succeed without your hand. Where I have drank from the cup of sorrow, you have stretched a chalice full of encouragements, love and contentment. There is a path to all these, Lord. That is all I know. You are busy pulling the strings here and there. You have pulled me from humble beginnings and placed me among the privileged. You have not looked at my limitations but you have always expanded me. Tororot, I am not worthy yet you have made me a story of Your greatness. The limitations of our human tongue cannot express the height of my gratitude to You.

At that note, Echoes of the Hills wishes everyone here Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 2012. Keep well, dear reader. If Tororot sees it fit that we get into the year 2012, we will do this again next year. It only gets better. O, the excitement to all this!

Your Servant on Muse,
Lorot Son of the Hills
(16/12/2011)

Tuesday 13 December 2011

Elegy to the Dying Planet



Not many years ago
You could drink water straight from a flowing stream

Not many years ago

You could walk barefoot and be at peace

Not many years ago

We could say when it would rain

Not anymore.


Lakes, rivers, streams

Chocked with industrial wastes

Broken glasses, plastic, clothes, chemicals

Strangling the last breaths of the soil

Erratic rains, unsteady rain patterns

False clouds, the Met Guys know it!

Dangerous fumes let loose

Intoxicating the skies

Nations rocking bombs, nuclear race

Senseless experiments for “superiority”
And so, Nations converge in some Conferences
Waving the magical wand—we have the solution
So they recite the symptoms and hide the prescription
It is a power game and well guarded interests prevail

Meanwhile, the Climate Change is some exciting talk

You see, to cool off some steam from hot politics
Nations send their own to commit to what they won’t fulfill
Tell me, where is the panic
When all we see is a planet teetering off to oblivion?
Surely, there would have been some urgency
If “national interests” were at stake, right?

So, hyacinths literally suffocate lakes,

Oil leak into water masses,
Buildings are erected on streams,
Forests are depleted,
Wildlife poached,
Condemned buildings are built
Only to collapse and bury the innocent
In Naivasha, flamingos drank pesticides
Emitted from flower farms
Now, Naivasha is an Elegy


Ours is a world gone insane

Multi-billion industries raking billions
And wrecking havoc;
What is the “market value” of pure air?
What is the price-tag of a marabou stork perched on a tree?
Which money will buy Paradise Lost?
What of the Maasai Mara?
Yet, money will exchange hands
For a “private developer” to build on a stream
Where was Environmental Impact Assessment?
Who honours Kyoto Protocol?

This is the Eulogy to a dying Planet

Never in our history are we in much danger
This planet is falling apart!

Monday 5 December 2011

Lamentations





Link

Once a full land teeming with heroic sons and daughters,
Feet sprightly, hearts full of love, humility at its best
We saw them being born to the land
And as we severed their umbilical cords
We buried them in this land
To unite them with our ancestors
That pain we buried, the soil bore that pain

We never cared much about the raging floods,
The occasional ilat, the scorching sun,
The mad chepkrrir that blew round and round
Spinning at the centre of our being, irritating
Collecting dust and blinding our eyes with grit
Yes, even that we cared less

Once or twice, in the baraza
In search of truth, anger could take over
And in that moment of blind fury
Elbow could brush against elbow
For we never hit another at the stomach
For if they died, we would pay lapai

But we always looked up to the sun
Whoever lacked millet, we gave
Whoever lacked milk, we gave
The barren couples, we despised not
Our children slept in their homes
For love defined us, Tororot gave children

Our brave sons were fed with k’soyo
Made to drink fresh blood and milk
Walk bare-chested in the rain
As if that cold was some initiation
To the warm company of our departed warriors
Thus, there was no thorn-tree, no forest,
No darkness, no danger
Our brave sons could not bear
And if some succumbed to death
We left them in the bush
Whispered silent prayers
And moved on—not all live through this life

Our daughters would grow at the laps of their grandmothers
Taught the secrets of making their men happy
They would grow with virtues
To be taught that the first shaft of dawn
Shouldn’t find her tucked on-top of a mud-bed
That she would jump from the bed, bolt to the river
Be back to milk the cows and be done with breakfast
Before the sun rays touch upon the brows of her woken husband
She would oil herself, sew her beads, thatch her hut
Scold a girl not seated properly, gather firewood—
All these in one span of a day and another and another

When we quarreled, we used our mouths
Not hands
And as we spoke, we traded no insult
We abused no one, we despised no one
Even a whisper of insult to a madman
Was met with heavy reproach
For madmen were angels Tororot sent to us
To test the granary of our tolerance

Thus we lived, the sons and daughters of the hills,
If a day passed with anger in our hearts
We were worried
For bitterness was a poison
That even milk from our cows wouldn’t neutralise
We had learnt to speak in the ways of our people
To bring us together, to speak of our dark skins
To unite us in the tongue our ancestors taught us

We knew that the Sun was a jealous woman
As she rises from kong’asis, she demands attention
So we always bolted from sleep, chased after our cattle
Walked miles and miles before she rose
We knew how to rise to our fields
To plant sorghum and millet
Have time for the baraza, have time to harvest honey,
Have time to make babies, have time to speak to our children
Thus, when a day passed, and as cows came home
We could rest knowing we did our part
Laziness was not part of us

We kept our promises, too,
When we married and never had cows
We said, “Kinsmen, please wait till the next rains
When these calves will feed on green grass and fatten
But first give us our wife”
And with our words, we married
For we were honourable men
Our words were like the words of a mondö

We learnt to speak our frustrations
If a Chief failed to include our names in the Relief List
We told him so, but we never abused him
For Tororot provides leaders
We gave him the opportunity to tell us
For in the ways of our people
You don’t tie an adulterer to a köndölo tree
Without first inquiring from them
For we also believed in justice
We could not condemn a man unheard

These have been our ways as sons and daughters of the hills
These have defined us

But what have we seen?
Ashes of cindered dreams
We failed looking up to the sun
Thus our sights have been on trees
Snapping at the slightest winds!
We ceased being word merchants
Speaking on the wealth of our idioms and proverbs
Instead, our mouths have been filled
With words more obnoxious than the fart of a honey badger!

Our words have become the distant cricket sounds
Announcing of death;
Like the empty snuff bottle
They hang on the chests of old men
Without use, not even the incessant tapping helps;
In the past, we made promises and kept them
But now we tell them and swear by our ancestors
Yet fail to keep them—tell me, the whispers were carried by the winds
The caves of the hills echoed them, will you lie to nature?

We ceased being honourable men
Our days are filled with irrelevancies
Men chasing money, ideals flushed down the drain,
Mannequins of still ideas, collective hopes of a generation
Hurled to the winds of penury, convictions without conscience,
Positions without responsibility, visions without convictions

Yet, you could expect, in the least,
That there could be some semblance of reason
To order this confusion into clarity
But none!

The sun still shines
It still rains
And every day,
You hear the hills sigh
The uneasy tension of the trees
Snap
But it is business as usual
Yes, it is business as usual.




Monday 28 November 2011

Bakacheli Forever II


Tuwa wa Bakacheli, dashi koi piwa?

Nambo nyi tuwa mnambeate maka Digo

Atawatai shoke?

Nambo mnakasiri rebu ni maka mmembala mundi?

Nikimbeate Bakacheli utanao sou ya tuwa

Maka taha ni waju, tuwa lazima wakache dokoka



Dashi koya itandashi Bakacheli liukwe?

Kiche jima tuye ay Suam, tuwa wakigao labi dashi ya jima

Tumu akimiatu bunisa ya nite teyo

Fuhala unamase isis hatuna sape?

Mbeate kusi ya koso Bakacheli unao malomedo

Wakizau ma-mbeng’o wakibuhesa mafuele-fuele jamo kwa gumuu

Fuhala unamase nahaku sape, liukwe mendu?

Umewai nao tumu niga akinywaku icha kwa lihote ya lubuu

Fuhala anywaku jiu na zindama ndo asichinje sape keya ya fuele jamo?

Ka yohi si liaki, mi siwiju tuwa wanaliaki siba!



Bakacheli ni siple utaak Ngemwe na ukiasi risto maka hii:

Unakiasi yohi amam anambai anatwai Saida Karoli

Namwaju, aliwaku chanamsi Dichko nilimnao aki-grow

Utakiasi B.B.C. mendu kwa Ngemwe fuhala upali nite uchiwo news

Ka si tuwa hatuna sape, siwiju tuwa wana sape Nyake!

Ni siple utatapa towato wanawaju Chelsea, Man-U, Arsenali

Ukimzauli Torres anazache muti niga atakumbiamwa

Ukimzauli Museveni wa Nyake ni nina atamase hawiju

Ama umzauli First 11 wa muti ya Nyake hawiju

But anawaju ya Arsenali!



Bakacheli ni siple lomedo atakungadu na lukup keya

Ukimbeate kwa koso kusi ya Chicha

Ni siple tumu atawanunu daso buyas fuhala azamali kuusi

Akilaku raami na jima na kugapi risto

Mi nimejizauli: waha tuwa wanamali mbasha nambo wamendako

Na waha tuwa wanaak Ngemwe wamenano?



Bakacheli ni siple utateago mude kwa koso

Fuhala ummbiamwa utamptapa akindae kuchato jima nimto

Coz hukita risto ya waha ma-amam kubuhari buhesa koya

Kuhu Binairo utagapi mude ma-giha, kohu ukinyafa vyohi

Watamase umeteapo na fulai yamba ya Binairo umetale kohu!

So utanao chanamsi akiwaku rimzu, next time utakiasi ametapa libo

Kwani libo utatapa ukiteago janaki?



Ni siple utawanunu difu ya nihamsi

Tuwa wakiriafi ulitapa bujo!

Rock, inin itatibi Rock na Sambusa oya?

Nikindae Bakacheli nikiwaku na oos jamo kiwi jamo imim ni simdo

Lubuu utamiatu kwa ditcre, lubuu kwa icha ya mandifre koya

Fuhala lei imekiba ingachu komfu—huwiju lei kusi chanamsi

Atakata umwanunu wami ya nite

So, imim Mlesa mbokita niliwaku nikichinje oos jamo

Iwe manito ya miku, lekobo, lubuu ( Unakambuku yoi manito?)

Fuhala chanamsi akikata lubuu, utawato Lletwa koya

Fuhala uwato lubuu kwa lletwa imerafu malekobo na lubuu

Ah, tumekato limba tumu nguya



Hii ni risto inaninyafa kundape Bakacheli

Shenmi, Rolwo, Dichko, Nyaoko, Lalea, Laikonge,

Bakacheli Forever

Forever Bakacheli. 







R.I.P Maloe


“Bakacheli ilisatepo tumu nguya Maloe. Yuhu tumu aliwaku na risto ngimi nasa. Angendae leshu, yarabi mustahara, yuhu tumu angewaku tumu bwamku nasa. Maloe aka-die Lodwar. Wangemkazi Bakacheli tungendae rikabu keya na kumtiapa ramii, na saabu dokoka na kum-tell risto teyo ya Bakacheli. But tumu aligo na hatuwiji walimkazi piwa. Wherever you are, Maloe, tuwa wa Bakacheli wanakusimi nasa.”

                                                                                                         -- Mlesa (28/11/2011)



Mendu, taha maka umego

Nitakaandi risto koya paha

Mendu, tuwa walikuwau

Wangewaju levi tulikundape Bakacheli

Walahi yohi suki wangemiatu kundau njapa ya riga



Kamwa maka tuta vihi mendu

Nilikiasi Gordon umego

Tuwa wamekumacho suki

Nini kwa waha tuwa hawakutuzauli ewew ni nina?

Tumu akikata kukukill si ndifre koya, liukwe!



That day, ewew ulimase

“Why Black Man Suffer”

Tuliwaku na Ziko na Shikla na Ndiomo

Levi ulindape Super Eagles

Na lei wongu koya ya Eto’o

Ah, Maloe, nini kwa walikukill?



Waha tuwa wangewaju levi ulimase

Ewew kou “Par” na Babake

Tukindae chicha na ewew

Ukamase nchii ya nguwazu nahaku lekenge

Ati wanawaju mutai

Levi ulimase chanawasi wa furisa wanapaka “Rays”

Kwa guumu oya na yohi mbivu ya Bakacheli

Ah, Maloe, tuwa walikukill hawakunyafa wapo!



Mendu, usilija

Bakacheli doba ni wapo

Red Bullets ilidie ( hii risto si wapo, nawaju)

Masti imemuka Bakacheli, tumu koya Babake,

Todo—waha tuwa kowa wapo

Babake alirima, Todo alitaak sakabi sakabi!



Nazauli maka jiste koi kou nimbingu mendu

Unatapa 10% koya ma-a nahaku risto ya Par?

Tuwa wa Bakacheli wanakusimi nasa, Maloe

R.I.P. Maloe



Bakacheli Forever I


I now turn to poetry in a language that will lock out most of my readers. This is regrettable. The language is in corrupted Kiswahili. I christen it Likiswa. This poem is to appeal to a select clique. Much apologies to my regular readers. I had to let these out.

*******************

C) Daniel A'Vard


Mamendu, hii si risto utamaso kwa bukita

Hii risto ni risto ya ma-old men wakizame tapa

Hii si risto utatapa jiste ma-a Ngemwe

Hii risto ni risto tuye

Si risto nguya



Bakacheli—inin inatumbuasu?

Nini kwa tumu akukiachu

Na eyey hakushali?

Sijanao waju ikimacho tumu jamo ut

Ikitumacho Bakacheli

Inamacho fuchi, limumwa, tomto, ritaji, nimaski—

Sijanao waju ikimacho tumu jamo ut

Ikirain, mendu, nambo hijarain Ngemwe fuhala hijashanye

Kwa amam Peitum?

Waju na wamvu inatutibi tewo!



Aanj ikijaku, mendu, nambo hijakupae?

Aas basa ukindae lihote, nambo aanj haikukuchawa?

Ma-a buyas ukikaamu, nambo hukuchanawa na icha?

Waju, Wamvu, Aanj—nahaku tumu inamguacha kumchanawa!

Ndo nazauli, nini kwa tumu akukiachu rebu?



Dashi koi piwa ukitapi nimtiha koya?

Nambo tuwa wakukiachu rebu, si wangenyafa yohi nimtiha?

Liaki ni koya, ukikaamu buyas ni ewew, ukialal tile ni ewew

Nambo wakukiachu nazauli, mendu?



Bakacheli ni siple wapo, sijataak

Bakacheli ni tuye, sijataak

Ndo nimekaandi hii risto mkiasi

Kiriafi hii risto:

Bakacheli ingewaku piwa maka tuwa wangechanawa an ziupu

Ya kukiachu tuwa?

Bakacheli ingewaku piwa maka towato wangendae leshu

Dalaba ya kungachu mbeng’o ay ma-abab oya?

Bakacheli ingewaku piwa maka tuwa walizamali Form Nei

Wangetapa sape ya kundae lejco instead of kulaku ramii na sabuu ma-keston?

Bakacheli ingewaku jea maka tumu maka Kamlesh angengaje nitau poha jiste?

Bakacheli ingewaku jea maka sape ya D.F.C wangetiapa tuwa fuele yami jamo jamo vihi?

Bakacheli ingewaku jea maka Red Bullets ingetapa sape fuhala muge tuwa wazache?

Bakacheli ingewaku jea maka furisa ingewaku na tilai?

Na risto ya kuwao mafuwai nei nei ishai?

Na risto ya kuwato mbeng’o nihamsi ishai na ukapele maka zimbu nota vihi?



Kiriafi hii risto:

Risto ya ma-amam towato oya ku-die wakindae siho ishai?

Risto ya kusako bujo Bakacheli ishai?

Risto ya maziupu ya mangouwo ishai?

Kiriafi risto ya tuwa kufaku aanj ishai?

Rain ishanye, tuwa wanavu ndihima na gambo

Maka tuwa wa Mesopotamia (Akiriamet)?



Mamendu, hii si risto utamaso kwa bukita

Hii risto ni risto ya ma-old men wakizame tapa

Hii si risto utatapa jiste ma-a Ngemwe

Hii risto ni risto tuye

Si risto nguya

Bakacheli Forever.


Friday 18 November 2011

Who Am I, You Ask?


“The question “Tell me about yourself” is one of the most difficult questions I can answer. I have the playful bit within me and the sombre one. I would desist from telling you what I do for a living or the high ideals. So in defining me, I will tell you about the attachment I have to carefully spun words or the creased look I saw yesterday at the bus-stage. The challenge I have is to solemnize the marriage between those seemingly contradictory personalities. Or may be to stick to the whims of my soul.”
-Lorot Son of the Hills (18/11/2011 4.26 p.m )


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Image supplied by Poets United


Who am I, you ask?
I am the comma in your sentence—
A pause in your thoughts
To be processed in your moment of reflection
I am that germ of idea that clings on your mind
Pleading to you to follow the higher cause
I am your breath floating in the air
The breath that is muted in silence
Of the refugee in a camp, the shackled prisoner
Of thoughts censored, the ebbing voice of a child
Who inherits the debts of the world at infancy,
The silent whisper of disinherited woman
Kicked out of the matrimonial home
I am an “Old Soul” trapped in a young body
My soul dwells with its kindred, feasting on
The Wisdom revealed by them
I am a pilgrim upon these sacred hills
From this vantage position looking at mankind
To write their memoirs for they don’t have the time
I am a flood of ideas sweeping across nations
I might not be able to fulfil them all
So I scatter them around human souls
I am a pastoralist boy learning the ways of the city
Many times I miss the goats and the cows
I miss the smell of cow-dung, I miss sitting in a smoky hut
I am the words you don’t find in books
They are the wisdom of the streets
Like how to duck in blind alleys or how to skip muddy puddles
I am that irritating sound of a man biting pepper
Increasing your appetite in eating this life’s knowledge
I am the psalmist, the quiet psalmist with the broken harp
Singing to this world, singing hope to this world
I am the recollections of life
(That song was a hit back in the days, that was in 1940!)
I am the drumbeat sounding from far villages
Dum dum, I sound, the ignored crier with an important message
I am the elephant, I am the hare, I am both
I am the ogre in your fable; I am the silly warthog in your narrative
I am that confusing legal provision from your attorney
I hide my meaning in notwithstandings and whereases and wheretofores
I am the angry howl of a conductor, the funny bumper sticker
I am the jutting neck muscle of an angry protester
With a placard turned up-side-down
Who am I, you ask?
I am a whole two decades of a sojourner
I taste this life with a teaspoon
I leave mugs to my seniors
I am that nudging thought buried deep inside you
I am the torn page in your book
Pilgrim, how do you tear a book?
I am the hardtalk of Atwoli, the soothing sermon of Joel Osteen,
The engaging tone of a sports commentator, the funny comment of a street cobbler,
The honesty of a mama mboga, the firebrand voice of a condemned man,
The cry of an IDP, the soaring hope of a refugee;
I am a simple soul in a fleeting world, churning out poetry
I am you, I am the universe, I am me—Lorot Son of the Hills.






Shared with Poets United in The Thursday Think Tank # 57 You and Yourself (I...)

I had fun with this. Thanks Poets United.




Thursday 17 November 2011

The Poem That Made Me Laugh





Smile.  Have you ever noticed how easily puppies make human friends?  Yet all they do is wag their tails and fall over. 

~Walter Anderson, The Confidence Course, 1997

The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.

 ~William Shakespeare, Othello

*****    *****
Link


So, you ask me:
Lorot Son of the Hills, what makes you smile
And although you expect an immediate answer
My little sojourn on this earth
Would not give a quick answer
It is as if you ask why a serial killer kills
Or why Malcolm X smiled before his assassination
Or about the Black Hole

Such things my mind grapples with
But they don’t weigh upon my heart
For like the eternal path of wisdom
They stretch to no limit
These things I don’t know
These things I continue to learn

But I remain happy.

So, you asked what makes me smile
Even when I am in a carjacked matatu
I really don’t know
Perhaps it is that appreciative smile
Even when our finances are in disarray;
It could be the curiosity of a child in exploring
The mysteries of this life;
It could be sometimes sleeping hungry
Wake up on the next day looking up to the sun
With a bright hope of a new day;
My spirit refuses to perch on the tree of misery
It dwells on the windward side of life.

I pray to Tororot, the God of the Rising Sun,
To retain Satisfaction within me
Whether I have or lack money
Because in Satisfaction I feel grateful
To eat, sleep, wear and sleep under a roof.

I pray that I would not apologize to anyone
For painting the solar system in my heart;
Or have the milky way painted on my face
These mysteries I want to experience myself,
To perceive them;
In them I find delight
And not even a mountain-load of money can replace it

So, fellow pilgrim, let us stroll upon these sacred hills
To see what will be manifested
We are here for a reason
Never let these fleeting shadows of life
Blind you to the beauty it possesses
For I have seen beautiful faces bow
To the cowardly challenges this life throws
Give me a smile, give me a laugh
Let us light up our problems in a pyre
And see their smoke rise up
Let us be ready to fail and learn
I slip so many times, some times hard,
Some times light;
Every time I dust up myself and say
“Lorot Son of the Hills, your knee-caps feel
Good when they touch the ground
Pain feels so good sometimes”
And I walk and smile
I could kiss the soil
For I get intrigued by the rough edges of a stone
They are my learning stones
They keep me at the edge
They keep my mind sharp and alert.


Tuesday 15 November 2011

A Love Letter of Noise to Silence



"I would write a love letter to silence, to praise adore her of her virtues. I will mix my poetry and charm to woo her. She is the most noble woman I know of. Where all else is caught up in the confusing tidbits, she still remains. If only she knew how much I love her and care."

                                 -Lorot Son of the HillsTM (Eon to eon)


"There is so much noise in this world. The greatest challenge is not to add to it but on how much we are able to reduce it. You can switch off the radio. This is not a heroic act. The most heroic act worth a little praise is to find silence within you, to hear your heart beat, to hear your ideas vibrate in your mind, to watch a thought and never lose it."


                                -Lorot Son of the HillsTM (Eon to eon)

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Link


Link


They said that the loud din that is my trademark
Booming from loud speakers
Of burst voice boxes of street hecklers
Raging in the clanging market wares
Of hawkers shouting “ua mende ua panya
This they said was noise
So they cupped their ears to let me pass
But the headphones of a youth
Sang to him, yet they called this noise

In the prayer hall
With priests and brothers and sisters
Clutching at the rosary
They recite Hail Mary
A metre away is a soft piano sound
Floating across the room
And settling on opened hymnal books and misale

Inside the mosque
The iman of the muslims
Resides in their lips
As they bow to Allah
Long after the muezzin
Has called them to prayer

So, silence, calling to mind
All my boisterous ways
The many times I have been unnecessarily loud
Caught up in empty prattles
Escaped in a furious decibel of expletives
Or banged tables without a cause
These are the times I needed you most

For, you, you silence, scare me most
In your cold aura of tranquillity you
Remain the most powerful
Forget the brawls and the hard-talk
I once ranted to a monk for one hour
All that time he looked at me
Never said a word, never lifted a finger
I froze one hour later and made as if to go
Upon which the monk told me:
“My son, some times you can speak
Other times you can keep silent
It is wisdom to know when to
Speak and to keep silent”

Silence, I am tired of my loudness
Sweep my soul with your virtues
Even if I have to kneel before you in the streets
Trust me, silence, I could do this
I am ready to make peace with my past
When I have been wrong yet talked most
When I shouted in the forest and sanctuaries
When I engaged in Latinisms and legal talks
As if by being plain I would have been any lesser
All these I will find within myself to forget

So, I implore you, my queen silence
To accept me as I am
I am a changed man
Look, I now wear a flowing rob
I don’t carry those small ringing gadgets that stir the soul
I want to learn your ways
To see a thought, sit it, watch it carefully
And never let another thought overbear on another
I want you, silence, to come into my life
I am a changed man, silence, teach me your wisdom
Perhaps this world needs you more than me
Perhaps you have right all this time.


Tuesday 8 November 2011

They Forgot to Frisk My Mind!



I went into the exam room
With a prohibited material:
My mind.

They confiscated my phone,
My mwakenyas, my prayer notes,
Looked at my palms
So as to be sure I hadn't written anything.

But they forgot to frisk my mind.

In it I had stacked volumes and volumes of books
All the audio files of my lecturers
All the exam questions
All the possible twists and turns.

And it was written all over
It spread from one wall to another
Of my mind.

Unbeknownst to the good invigilators
My mind should have been the prohibited material!

So, in the exam room,
With my mind sprinting like a deer
And as graceful as a dove
I threw in a dash of my self esteem
A sprinkling of my poetry and humour
And the airtight logic of my thoughts

Such is my mind, Invigilator
Such are my thoughts.

I have been doing these as long as I can remember
Pursuing reason in dim-lit pages of legal clutter
Walking through a labyrinth of a professor’s strange thoughts
Sizing up opinions, humbling proud edifices of theses and antitheses

But long after collecting my script
When the pressures have died down
I will go back to the library and read

That is how I operate
Books were my first love
They still are, still will remain.



Just to let you know




As you might have noticed, dear reader, I have not been at my element lately.

I will be sitting my Bar Exams as from 14th of this month.

In this regard therefore, I won’t promise to churn out poetry as I am wont to do.

What I will promise is that my mind will be alert during this period to respond to the surprises of my muse.

It turns out that my best poetry comes out in very solemn moments or at unexpected times. Whatever turns out, I will write them as they occur to me.

Sincerely,

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