the echoes may be quiet now, but they still reverberate

I wish to relay my sincere apologies to my faithful readers here for my continued blog absence. This is uncharacteristic of me. Over the past two weeks, I have been fully engaged in my professional responsibilities which have usually left me drained at most times. But I hasten to add that my mind is fermenting something and I have been making some curious observations lately. I want to assure you that I am well and that I miss you a lot. I will be back in a moment.

Sincerely,

echoesofthehills.

A Little More Love

It was her pained expression that drew me to her

The knots that tied up her happiness

Her eyes, unable to trust, darted warily

Her stomach, as if on mortal fear, rested like a slab

A slab of broken, forgotten pavement of a haunted house

Her fingers, trembling, had no certainty

Her being was in turmoil, her essence was in flames

Distrusting, she let her eyes sear me

As if by the baleful look I would retreat

But I didn’t

Every part of me was apprehended

By the weight of this woman’s sorrow

Whatever she carried, I guessed,

No soul could barely lift

If she wanted me to go back, I couldn’t tell,

But I stood there, our eyes communicating

Me, a timid pilgrim,

Her, an equally timid pilgrim,

Somehow I believed that there was a middle ground

“I roam the streets,” she tells me,

“I know pain, I know bitterness, I know what cold is”.

I don’t know what to say, so I remain quiet.

She tells me her children eat from the garbage

One was knocked down by a speeding van, a year ago.

She was raped by her father, infected with AIDS,

Chased from her village, forced to fend for herself

“This street is my home,” she says flatly.

Then she just ignored me and suckled her month-old baby

I thought to myself, “Despite the dirt, her baby gets the love”

As I rummaged through my pockets to help her

She still maintained that pained expression and the distrusting eyes

And as my palm rubbed upon hers, a part of me died

Perhaps all this woman needed was a little more love.

The Letter That Refused to Write Itself

i wanted to write you a letter, fellow pilgrim,

to explain to you this feeling i have, this sojourn i am taking,

to capture the beautiful emotions of this discovery

to spin this story, to tell it softly, tenderly

like a griot

perhaps i would have explained to you

about thum and si ni sisi

for these songs transported me to my ancestors

my ebony-black body streaming with sweat

my feet thumping the ground, resurrecting african rhythm

bonfire lit, the orange hue suffused with night vigour

i will then shake my legs, coaxing the jingle to woo the night

my ostrich feather, like antennae, connecting to the wavelength of my people

the rhythm rising in my body, the tune hitting up the back of my head

every other part of my body attuned to the moment

how will i capture these emotions?

i have been to these hills before, at night,

i would stare down at the sleeping village

in the darkness, i discover myself, my essence

the whisper of the hills is so strange

not a bellow, not a command, just a whisper

and in the morning, the same hills remain aloof

as if they never eavesdropped to me last night!

but every night, we commune silently,

however much i try to write a letter to you

these feelings, these emotions escape me

sometimes some experiences are

best left to the wise counsels of the hills.

Soliloquy

Kenyans, where has your sense gone to?

People take goats to the market place

But you pride in taking hyena to the market place

While others are thought sane

You are thought insane

But it thrills you to be thought and considered insane

For it appears to me that the most ridiculous runs the show

Your people take so much time to find wives

Sending emissaries to inquire on the girl’s history

Not to find traces of madness, witchcraft and laziness

And for months and years, a wife is carefully selected

Because you always reasoned that a wife is

A middle hut pillar, holding the family together

Even during baraza, you will listen to cases

Listening to either side, to get to the truth,

You are slow to pass rash judgments

And you believe in justice and due process

In your traditional court systems

And even in your approach to life

A parent would know

Which child will become what in future

A child that is busy writing on walls

With charcoal sticks could be an artist

A child that is busy feeding the cat

Could probably end up being a vet

A child that picks lit firewood and swings it

Might probably end up as a witch

So, what became of you Kenyans

Where is your sense of judgment,

Your patience and collective wisdom?

You choose your women right

You listen to your cases right

You predict your child’s future right

Why can’t you elect leaders right?

He is not my leader

He talked loud and rough

His voice floated above the market chatter

Because he had a point to make

He always elbowed in his arguments

Analogies, syllogisms, facts

To form a perfect conclusion

Of what he held to be unassailable truth

He brooked no opposition

I noted that any doubt one raised

Made his nose swell, sometimes his hands could fidget

At this point he would shout and holler

But ceteris paribus, his anger remained afloat

He was one of those people

Whose understanding of argument

Actually involved fisticuffs

Debates were won by violence

So it surprised me not

During the live TV Debate

He pulled the host by the scruff of the neck

Upon being asked what he thought of his anger management

But, quick to make amends, he straightened and apologized

Saying, “that was a bit personal a question”

The host also straightened and with good cheer

Said, “the normal occupational hazards”

But I doubted if he could lead me

Because I had questions to ask him

Honest, serious, damning questions

Which a cool mind and tranquil spirit could answer

I suspected others had the same questions too

As he ran about with his loud chatter

I watched him keenly

And seeing no wheat in the chaff he spoke

I chose not to elect him

I see him nowadays, brazen as always,

Loud and boisterous, insulting us for not electing him,

And for every careless word he utters

I am more grateful that he is not my leader.