Monday 27 February 2012

Mahabuba Wangu, Hata Kifo Hakitatutenga: My Love, Even Death Won’t Separate Us


Copyright: Magpie Tales


Mahabuba wangu, hata nife roho yangu ipae akhera
Mpigo wa moyo wangu hautasheheni la kukera
Masalio ya mwili wangu utazikwa kaburini
Lakini mikono yangu nitayanyoosha mbiguni
Kutoa dua la hili penzi, kukupenda  ewe waridi
Ijapo nafsi yangu itagubikwa na mauti
Nakshi hii itapenya na kukaidi kifo


My love, though my spirit be dead
The pumping of my heart will harbor no bitterness
Though my body be buried in the cemetery
My arms will be raised to the heavens
To make petitions of this love, of my love for you
Though my soul be shrouded in death
This fragrance will defy death

Hata izraili akiniita, nami niitike,
Sikio langu litafuata sauti yako, hilo ulifahamu,
Ua lolote utakaloliweka kaburini mwangu haitakuwa hasara
Maadamu chozi lako litalizuia kunyauka
Iwapo kwa muda, juhudi zako zitanifaa

Even when the Angel of Death calls me
My ears would be attuned to your voice
Whatever rose you will place on my grave won’t be in vain
Though your tears will keep the roses from wilting
Even for a while, your love won’t be in vain




Poem translated from Kiswahili.

For a Prompt by Magpie Tales



A Bicycle, A Neon Light and Darkness






I will need a bicycle and a neon light o'er my head
And perhaps darkness sprawled on my horizon
So that with the idea in my mind
And the tyres to crunch on my path
I will ride into the future



For a prompt by Magpie Tales


How To Read a Food Label in a Food Store

Copyright: Magpie Tales




Pilgrim, our lives are choices
Pre-determined by some forces
In a consumerist society, judgment is key
Else, such could be procured for a fee
After all, immortality is the rage thing now



 


From a prompt by Magpie Tales



Thursday 23 February 2012

An Afterthought: Unprocessed Question


Another poetry form is known as “The Brace Octave” which has eight line stanza with a set rhyme scheme. The end rhymes are abbaabba or abbacddc.



Like a train chugging, his drab body appears
He is carrying papers and seems to have news
Interesting how his countenance concealed any views
Even the revealing gestures were lost to his peers
But we listened to him amidst the rowdy jeers
While he spoke, he seemed to mind his Ps and Qs
Though not as fluent, he ploughed without cues
So what makes him clever as he disappears? 


The Proclamation of the Hills


On 20th February, we celebrated the World Day of Social Justice. Social Justice has been a running theme in this blog. Though late, again, all is not lost. My conscience will now rest after writing a poem about the day.
This poem takes a poetry form known as “the Bob and Wheel”. It consists of 2 separate but related stanzas. The second stanza has the first line termed the ‘Bob’, with the next four lines termed the ‘Wheels’. The ‘Bob’ rhymes with the second and fourth ‘Wheels’. The other two wheels rhyme with each other.

******* 

Link

Let this Proclamation of Our Common Intents
reveal our Mutual Accord to the service of man
to remind us of our chequered histories of tyrannies
that led to early deaths and perpetual human want
which, if we could foresee, early enough in time

                                                       could have prevented the loss we bear
                                                       on our visages, for us the savages
                                                       yet, such a past to examine we dare
                                                       though they suppurate under bandages
                                                       the scar of history we all share



Wednesday 22 February 2012

They Told Me That Speaking Mother Tongue Was Foolish



Yesterday, the 21st of February was the International Mother Language Day. I was caught up in my professional engagements and even at midnight I hadn’t had the time to write about this important day. I consider the subject important so here we go.


They told me that speaking mother tongue was foolish
And it was sacrilege to speak Kiswahili
While growing up I hated myself
My true being
I hated my culture
I despised my mother tongue
Because it was inferior
If I spoke my mother tongue
My teachers whipped me up

In my school, if I spoke Kiswahili
And woe betide me, Pokot,
I carried an offending piece of wood or a bone
Around my neck
Like a pariah, I would be avoided
Like a stray dog, I would be despised

So, you ask me why I don’t speak my native language?
How can I speak it when my childhood language was robbed off
Castigated as being the lesser one
Punished for being the source of doom?
When I counted my numbers in Pokot
Why did you beat me up?
What crime had I committed?

For the fear you instilled in me
You ostracized me from me
For the punishment you meted on me
I associated my language with pain
And the pain made my buttocks sore
And what made my buttocks sore
Was not good
And what was not good
Is what you conditioned my mind to avoid

So, here I am,
I have read English, I speak horrible Kiswahili,
I speak none of my native language,
Instead I am thinking of learning French or German
Try to learn the pronunciation, the spellings, the grammar
I don’t care if there are speakers I could talk to
As long as I will write confidently in my CV
“Can speak and write fluent French”

That is me
I talk with a fake English accent
And most times I don’t speak like the English
Because my tongue’s saliva is mixed with those of my ancestors
I am sure they sink deeper into their graves
Every time I speak through my nose

I am a stranded soul
Like a country’s border, belonging to no one
My ancestors can’t recognize my tongue
And the ones I emulate can’t hear what I say
As for me, sometimes I wonder whether I am the one
Speaking
Because, let us be honest,
The real me is something deeper than the flair
I try to paint in my speech

I try to talk fast, to roll over on the last r’s,
Or may be to shrug off my shoulders
That is my fake me;
The real me would like to mouth words
And not shrug shoulders—well, from my neck of woods
We don’t do that;
My real me would want to say “YOUR”
And not “YO”;
But as you can see, that would not be cool

That is what I have gotten into
And the first mess started when they said
Speaking mother tongue was foolish.


A Society of Hornbills



Today is the World Thinking Day. The theme this year is on “Environment”.
Here’s my attempt.

Link


What happens when a society
That is keen on self-destruction
Poison the air that they breathe
In the name of civilization?

What happens to the collective wisdom
Of a society that kills and plunders
Chocking the soil that sustains life
Drying up the waters that quenches its thirst?

What happens to the children
Who, being told “protect the environment”,
Witness with horror their parents
Throw waste into public spaces?

Sadly, our society has become
The proverbial hornbill that was warned
But never heeded

I looked at my daughter’s eyes and cried
Her eyes shone bright, her smile so pure
I wish the air was so
I wish the neighborhood she lives was so

When she grows up I will tell her:
“Daughter, your lungs have inhaled
Obnoxious gases which I helped create;
The wetlands, the forests, the waters—
All that was beautiful-- I have depleted;
And now, teary as I am, I recognize my folly;
I was mean and greedy, I never thought about you;
The gift I could have given you would have been
The snow on Mt. Kenya and the Mara and the Statunga
But now, depraved, ashamed, I have nothing to offer
But the acrid air, denuded soils and cactus raising their arms in protest”

And even if my daughter smiles
I know all is not well
All will not be well. 





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