 |
| 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.
Posts
