Friday 26 October 2012

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.

Sunday 14 October 2012

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.

Monday 8 October 2012

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?


Sunday 7 October 2012

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.



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