Diatribe to the Dying Tribe

So you are incensed, miffed because

I told you that I am incensed, miffed

By the state of the world, dreams incinerated

Never to smoke, hope choked

Never to flame, ambitions wilted

Never to blossom

And what did you say?

That I am being judgmental, a cynic

A soothsayer, a prophet of doom

For in my shady lens, I see blurred

Sketches of man’s imperfections

Rather than the ‘bigger picture’

Of man’s triumphs

I told you man’s shine

Shouldn’t be dimmed by frail moonlight shadows

That litter man’s galaxy of success

For what is a meteor’s dazzle

If after a minute of spectacle it fizzles?

What is the essence of the sun

If not to bring morning to man’s night of doom?

And what did you say, friend?

That I talked ‘abstract’ and needed

Something ‘immediate’ and ‘real’

That I was being more philosophical than

The Platos and Socrates

And to be immediate

I told you that you are an intellectual

Midget, phobic of learning, a stranded

Soul in a crowd of probing minds,

Thus, in a defeatist spirit,

You cry ‘abstract’ yet all else fits

I didn’t mean to be rude, friend

If I projected myself as such, I request

For your apology, but still

How do you speak of liberation

If you have no clue of Maji Maji and Mau Mau?

If you should talk, peel off your tribal skin

Tell me about the ocean’s tides

How it rises in tandem with man’s kites

Speak with wisdom, entrance me

Tell me about the world in 2072

Not some cheap gossips about witchhunting

That is not new, capture my imagination

With a novel idea, an idea that will save

The planet, not them-and- us cocoon

And so, to incriminate me,

You contorted my noble thoughts

Twisted them to paint me as the bad guy

Assassinated my character

Berated me, besmirched me, bespattered me

But in your bones, you know

That your life has been a lie—

A counterfeit contraband

You also know that

My thoughts stain your conscience

Because I speak from nature

I don’t build gabions in deserts

I don’t breathe helium in theatres

And so, mistakenly,

For every quadruple of accusations

You heap on me, nature throws a dozen

Of alibis, like a dove I shrug them off

Because your case is shallow, accursed

To penury of yourself, self built on quicksand

Because my case is the case of man

Not so much about me—scratch that

I had to write this to you,

Because I realized, quite surprisingly

That all the energies you summoned

Against me could easily be tapped

Into some initiative—learning maybe?

Because if you think about it

I drink the potent brew of minds

All of them combined can’t be wrong

Even if you breathe hail and brimstone

I will clinically drizzle them bit by bit

I have put out infernos-what is fire

towering in a tea glass, friend?

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Blame it on Me (Audio Version)

Martin Luther King Jnr (Audio Version)

We march on with Martin Luther King Jnr

Traversing the streets of Nairobi, Uganda and Tanzania

Singing “we shall overcome”

Marching on through tear gas canisters

Passing through a jet of hot water

In true fashion of satygraha

For the “latter-day-God’s-children”

We march on singing “Haki Yetu”

Infused with the vision of a bright future

Carrying behind us the shadow of maimed souls

Holding in our hearts the bravery of our forefathers

Symbolically walking into our future

We march on with the voices

Dating back to centuries past

Others not heard, tucked away in a nation’s closet

Of bloody past

We march on with voices to be born

Of “brothers’ keepers”

Of “sisters’ keepers”

With fire “shut in their bones”

With  voices true to pin

In a fiduciary capacity

To hold society’s values in trust

We march on through the streets of Nairobi,

Dar-es-Salaam and Kampala

Waving olive leaves

Wearing white gowns

Stepping on pavements in saintly pace

Waving at shops in brotherhood

In unison shouting “Peace”

And at every stop, we demonstrate

Our concern for humanity

The rising food prices

The below-par development

The executions

The corruption

We demonstrate the lost future

Of children unborn

Yet indebted by present-day

Extravagance

We demonstrate the sorrow

Of cancer patients

Persons with HIV/AIDS

Being eaten away

In the periphery, yet

At the centre, they

Have the life-blood

We march on with with Martin Luther King Junior

In satyagraha

To demonstrate the urgency of the moment

To fight for “God’s children”

We march on, undaunted

We march with Luther King Jnr.

Ode to Nelson Mandela (Audio Version)

This Lady I Loved (Audio Version)

Letter To Son (Audio Version)

If I Could (Audio Version)

God Recites a Poem (Audio Version)

Come O Brother( Audio Version)

This is For You ( Audio Version)

Ten Minutes in Nine

Child of Shame

For my readers who had read "Child of Shame" here's an attempt I made at reciting that poem. Hey, I just uploaded it with all the errors in it purposefully-- to make you laugh. More importantly, I have to start somewhere. I fumbled through the Movie Maker program and hey presto here's how my voice sounds.

I am still experimenting. Let me know your random thoughts ( ha ha).

To Me, Reading is Me

It was a joke, or let us say
The most hard-hitting statement:
"If you want to hide anything from Africans
Hide it in a book"
First I looked at the statement from afar
Unsure about its veracity or intentions
Then I drew closer to it, we were now
Eye-ball to eye-ball
Its cold gaze and grimace said it all
I looked around
Half-baked graduates with half-baked ideas
With half-baked dreams
You see professors in ghostly rimmed glasses
Lecturing from notes written twenty years ago
Fraud intellectuals, quack doctors, quack lawyers
Quack experts
You find 'experts' learned in abstractions half-understood
Postulating on the science of man and plants
What books have they read if not those
Big tomes of technical whatnots?
What novel have they read?
Which page-turner have they flipped?
Have they read Shakespeare or Dunia Mti Mkavu?

Many ask what makes a man tick
I say what he reads from pleasure
And as they speak, we notice it
That occasional phrase from Lewis Carrol
That beautiful imagery, that proverb from our people
We are not robots, we are human first!

To betray our fear
We avoid carrying books openly
As if some curious soul might ask
'Hey, is that a book you carry?'
What is amiss?
If I carry an encyclopedia and a collegiate dictionary
On my arms, which section of the law have I breached?
Plus it is my arms, right?
Now, if I go to the library
Why should I brush it off with
'Got to do some assignment'
To whom do I owe an apology
To drink from the fountain of knowledge?

I have no apology to make

Now or in the future
Call me a 'bookworm' all you want
How I wish you knew of a new book's
Fragrance
If only you sat through the night reading
Grisham's book
Sometimes laughing, sometimes crying
Had you discovered 'you' in a book
Travelled to new lands, coursed through
A poet's quill, got agitated for a character murdered
Yearned for a moment to whisper escape to your hero
Hopped onto a train chugging through history
Witnessed man's tragedy, uncovered well-kept secrets
Discovered heroes and heroines
If only you experienced a drop of this
Out of the ocean of man's treasure trove
You would consider calling me a bookworm
May be not exactly, because
This life, brother, is a book
The North Pole and South Pole are the Covers
And the breathing souls inside are the characters
We learn from them, we unlearn from them
We relearn from them--in real time.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Free At Last! Viva South Sudan!

"We have resolved to overcome the past and face the future with a renewed sense of purpose, and it has stirred a forgiveness and reconciliation." 

           --South Sudan Legislative Assembly Speaker James Wani Igga

Photo credit: Roberto Schimdt

It was a joy that reverberated across
From Juba to Kakuma Refugee Camp
It was a tear that escaped an eye
Just one tear-drop that lay hidden
In the gun-powder and mutilated bodies
A tear that lay for years
Still, chilled by horror
Concealed in fear
Suppressed devoid of happiness

As we watched
The clock ticking
The banner saying, 'free at last'
Garang's mausoleum watching by
Battery of journalists thronging by
The many of the returnees coming back home
We could not express that pride
For when the heart sings
Sometimes we keep quiet to let it flow

And to express that moment
One South Sudanese said, 'People
say that we will have problems
but all I know is that we have freedom'
As I watched his countenance
He looked like one who
escaped death, lived in a refugee camp
and drenched in squalor of seeing home up in flames
I believed his words, totally


And from your brother from Kenya
March on, March on, South Sudan
You have inhaled the intoxicating fumes
Of misery, why should you then suffocate
from the mild tempered gas of a new dawn?
You have waded through the empty sands
alone in war, why then as a nation
should you die at the oasis?
With the Proclamation of Independence
What else do you need if not the hurried
Steps to catch up with us, your brothers?
March on, March on, South Sudan

C) Lorot Salem 2011


Lorot Son of the Hills' Notes:

This poem was meant to be written on Saturday 9th July 2011 on the occasion of the birth of the Republic of South Sudan, the 54th state of Africa. However, I was trapped in my scholarly works and tight schedules. But as always, better late than never. Here's to South Sudan...Viva South Sudan!

The Fools' Declaration

Let it be known to all men,

This 6^th day of July 2011,

The year of our Lord

That we the fools

Of the world

ASHAMED by the knowing lot

EMBARRASSED by their posturing of intelligence

DISCOMFITED by the rat-tat-tat of their speeches

CHAGRINED by meaningless science and arts

DISTURBED by the widening gap of us and the “wise”

DISMAYED by the open disregard to our low intellects

Hereby

Pass this instrument

We have suffered at the hands of the quick-witted

Throughout ages to this present moment

And now, through this instrument,

We exercise our right to self-determination

And to chart our destiny through our foolish means

We exercise our right to be fools

Of course without injury to the “wise”

This right we want to exercise

Without being mocked, ridiculed, exposed to contempt

By the “wise” at all times

To our children, present and yet to be born,

Let this instrument be our bequest to them

Not to fear to exercise their stupidity

To add figures using their toes,

To translate English to their local language,

To never again live in fear of being wrong

To our folks in the art of politics

Let this instrument protect you

From the quick tongue of the rat-a-tats

Who speak 300 words per minute

Let this instrument put away your shame

Of not being of their march

We, the fools of the world,

Show our commitment to shun anything of knowledge

The books, the volumes of frightening information,

The documentaries, the periodicals, the internet

We demonstrate our resolve to retain our identity

Even with the threats of globalization,

book-nization, internet-nization

We promise not to be moved

And to stand firm by what we resolve

Let this declaration be our text

To be followed into posterity

Let it enshrine our rights and duties

Our privileges and limitations

Let us be kept simple

Amidst the floods raging in the planet

Of men drowning in knowledge

Blown by the wind of information gibberish

Devastated by the earthquake of too much facts

Let us be kept safe from the madness of the wise

Signed____________________________________

All the fools of the world.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Child of Shame

Due to be performed on 5^th August 2011 for a Spoken Word Poetry Slam @ the Lily Pond Art Centre Nanyuki, Kenya ; The Theme is on Street Life Experience. More entries are invited and to be directed to Lily Pond Art Centre. Let us have fun.

Song Intro:

Na na na na…na na na na

Na na na na…na na na na

……………………

Ni chuki, ndio na hisi
Nikiwaza jinsi
Mlivyojitolea kuniudhi
Bila matokeo yaani

Ni chuki, ndio na hisi
Nikiwaza jinsi
Mlivyojitolea kuniudhi
Bila matokeo yaani

Na na na na…na na na na } x 2

…………………………

Credit: Song: “Chuki” (Hatred); Artist: Wyre

Rain patters, Cold shatters,

Misery bites, loneliness invites

Darkness creeps, solitude stings

Welcome to my world, share in my word

I sit here in the garbage mound

This I call home, this I call my place

And you…you sit in your expensive homes

Perimeter-walled as a fence

As for me…as for me, my fence is my skin

Unclothed, dirty, baked in human filth

I do not complain

As you drive by comfortably

On a Sunday afternoon, your leisure stops

Immediately, you securely roll up your windows

And look the other way, away from me, away from my misery

It is as if by avoiding looking at me, I will disappear

I wish I could but I am there in my indignity

I am that mud in your car tyres, I don’t belong

I am your chokoraa, degrade me! Go on, distance me!

I rummage through rotten food in the bins

Some time I get lucky, other times I don’t

Most times we fight to live, there are many of us here

We keep watch of the dustbin trucks, they are our saviours

And as they unload our daily food onto the bins, our day’s worries are offset

Then, then we worry about the askari

For our crime of sleeping in the streets, we are lashed

Chased down alleys, break our legs on manholes

Get torn backs, bruised heads

And we somehow live on to see another day

Others die, die from the injuries

But no one knows, no one cares

After all, our story is shameful

Not good for the country

I am your child of shame

I expose your limitations

As I sleep in the roundabout

With no roof over my head

I mock you, you in a 4-bedroomed house

And you, you my leader in a leafy suburb

As I light up polythene to keep warm

And suck on glue, you, you who is in a posh

Sitting room, I mock your cold heart

Your house may be warm but is your heart warm too?

As rain pours on me and July cold wraps me

I mock you, you who brought me to the streets

I blame you, yes, you, you who sired me

Abandoned me, you who ignored better laws

To protect me, you who despised me…

At times on a Sunday I hear a preacher preach

There is nothing as great as love

I doubt him:

If love was great, why could I be hated so

The piercing eyes, the cold grin, the mean looks

The hurried steps

It is as if I want to beg from them

And when they do, they throw a coin

And count that as charity

What charity!

All I want is to be loved, to be appreciated

To be counted, to belong…not your coins

After all, I eat from the dustbin

As I see my friends walking with their parents

A sense of sadness sweeps me, overpowers me

The clothes they wear, I should wear too

The shoes they put on, I should put on too

The love they receive, I should receive too

I see them happy, I see them jump about

I feel like I could play with them

But I cannot, I could not, probably never will

See, I don’t belong, I am chokoraa

I walk away, away in sadness

Sadness that I am a dirt, I am grime, I am filth…takataka

I am a child of shame

I walk away… to the rain, to the cold, to the misery

To the darkness, to the solitude

And wait for another day half-asleep at the roundabout

If, only if the askaris don’t come for me

Or it rains, or I am run by a vehicle,

Or I catch cholera at night or mauled by a dog

Or (you never know) caught by a stray bullet

Boom! Boom! Boom! Another pest rid of society

Another statistic, another figure…till we meet chokoraa

Till we meet child of shame…till we meet…till we meet…

End Song

…………………………………….

I'll see you when you get there

If you ever get there, see you when you get there

I'll see you when you get there if you ever get there

See you when you get there  x2

……………………………………………..

From Coolio’s Song, I see You When You get There

Lorot Son of the Hills' Note:

Chokoraa- A derogative name for a 'street urchin'. Urchin is also a politically incorrect term coined at the height of widespread hate for street children. I also oppose "watoto wa kurandaranda mitaani" translated loosely to " children who roam the streets" because this heightens the stigma already attached to them. A more humane term should be coined.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Moon versus Sun (Championship Title)

Like a true poet, I am no slave to shackled thoughts

My mind imagines things, it is all over

You think about ordinary issues

Very predictable:

It is sunny today—not that I disagree

But I would love to see the sun breathe its rays

On your bald pate and see you arguing with it

Along these lines, “Sun, cool off your tempers

How about saving your energy for the night

Moon came over to my neighbourhood

Boasting of his might”

Sun would reply:

“Really? I am king, ain’t I?”

“Yes you are, you rule the Milky Way,” he would say,

“But my problem with you is that you rule during the day”

“What kind of talk is that?”

“I am just saying”

Moon would be strolling by, thoroughly amused

Sun would gleam at him and say,

“Moon, looks like we haven’t had a fight for quite a while now”

“Yep. I am spoiling for a fight. Let the fight begin”

Moon would let out a war cry, chest-thump

And say something like, “Not my fault I have to kill”

Sun would equally say, “Let the galaxy witness this,

Moon has asked for it”

The argument would go on for a while

The observer would let say Africa be the boxing ring

And kick everyone from the ring and blow the whistle

Moon would do some push-ups and somersault

Sun would be cool, calculating

They would size each other up

Besides the ring would be a gigantic fire extinguisher

The size of Antarctica

A brush of punches lets a spark

Now, the ring is smoke-filled,

Moon is retreating….Sun is advancing

Blows are raining on somebody….a grunt is heard

More smoke now…fire…fire…Moon dashes out of the ring

And jumps into the Atlantic Ocean…Sun follows him up…

The ref restrains him…Sun says, “Gotta teach him a lesson,

I am sun. I am the King. How dare he!”

Now Moon is holding up a white flag and coming up

Plucks an olive branch…waves it…

The galaxy’s breath lets out…that was very, very close

Africa would have burnt out!

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Two Statements, One Accused

The Opening Statement: Prosecution

“Your Honour,

A great task awaits all of us

Calling upon us to right a wrong

And punish a prohibited act

This we do in this court

to find blame or otherwise,

to accord justice to the injured party

What an honourable task!

Your Honour,

The accused seated there

Armed with a wicked ingenuity

Misdirected artistry and knack

In cahoots with others, in a

‘most evil enterprise’,

Devised a computer program

That siphoned millions of money

From the accounts of thousands

Of hard-working, disciplined Kenyans

Working on the same egregious and abominable

Plan, they registered a company using false passports

Used the company as a conduit

To channel that money, not in a single moment

Struck by their consciences;

But true as a pin is to needle, the bell

Of their actions tolls for them, the bits and pieces

Have fallen into place, and what lay hidden

Has now been exposed and is now being tried in this

Honourable Court

Justice will be dispensed in this court

To put the accused behind bars

Your Honour, we will show in our evidence

That the accused committed various offences

And that he belongs to prison…”

The Opening Statement: Defence

“Your Honour,

If it pleases the court,

I wish to give an opening statement

As we have heard from the Prosecution

He says that our client, defrauded in a ‘most evil

enterprise’ through a well-calculated

Scheme using a computer program;

He says that our client committed

A most ‘egregious and abominable’ act

That fleeced Kenyans of their hard-earned money

The prosecution thus said

That they will adduce evidence to show

That our client deserves to be locked behind bars

That his actions don’t deserve ‘approbation’

But ‘opprobrium’

That much, the Prosecution said of our client—

Your Honour, look at the accused

A banker for 25 years standing

An impeccable record in the industry

A father of three, a husband

A Kenyan like any other who, were it not for this case,

We would not have known about

The eloquence of the prosecutor

To paint a picture of our client

Using the most arrant and sordid of terms

Brilliant as this could be, cannot impose guilt

As we will show, Your Honour, this is

A case of a disgruntled employer

Intent on leveling charges it cannot substantiate

Keen on tarnishing our client’s name

We will demonstrate to this court that

There is no nexus between the crimes

Alleged with our client

We will do this, one piece of evidence after another

One assertion after another, one argument after another

We will put the prosecution to strict proof

To reveal, Your Honour, that

In fact, our client never committed the said offences

and that this is purely actuated by malice…”

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Ten Minutes in Nine

As the panel sits, eyes burning on me,

Mounting pressure on me,

Demanding intelligence from me,

I stand there

Their marking parameters defined

Seven marks for content, seven marks for presentation

Two marks for etiquette, two marks for audibility, two other marks

For I don’t-know –what

I stand there wondering how I should stand

Like that reasonable ideal student

If my hands be at the back, I am hiding something

If my hands be folded on my waist, I am tense

If I let my shoulders broaden, I am being brazen

If I fold them across my chest, that is rude and not in keeping

I feel like to pocket but I let my arms rest by my sides

In short ten minutes, they uncover me

Throw questions to gauge me

One minute flash of my mind

Law of Contract, Torts, Criminal Law, Conveyancing

Succession, Commercial Transactions

Wait a minute…Giella Versus Cassman Brown

I think I heard this somewhere

They ask me for the principle it holds

The panelists aren’t serious, are they?

I am thrown off-balance, I am at a loss

I venture: Giella case is a landmark case in law

On Conveyancing, the case concerned a land transaction

Under the RLA…Now, Cassman Brown was the Owner

Let me use ‘Vendor’….Now, the principle, err, is on sanctity of title

As you are aware under section 143 of the RLA…

And as I mention section 143, I let it roll to exude my intelligence

And grounding on law

‘They are impressed’, I think to myself

Then my bubble is burst

‘Heard of restraint of trade?’ They ask

‘Yeah…err, yes dear panelists’

‘What are the three principles to be followed before granting injunctions?’

‘One, err, it depends on the time…if the court has time to grant it…

Two, if it has time, for how long will the injunction run and…and, three,

…whether it could as well grant mandamus, certiorari…but this depends on

Time mostly…you know there are backlog of cases’

‘They asked for it, I gave it to them’, I celebrate

‘Excuse me, student number 202809876, no hard feelings

But if you don’t know of the principles of injunctions

You could as well set off to Narok and be a herdsman

…I mean, you don’t know prima facie case?

Not even irreparable injury?

Not even balance of convenience?’

‘I know them, dear panelists’

‘Tell us, then, what a prima facie case is’

‘Well, a prima facie case is one which is on the face of the court

Let me explain, if that case, I mean the records, the files have been brought to

Court, then that is a prima facie case…if it is still in the registry, it is not a prima facie case’

‘Your time is up, student number 202809876,

We have serious doubts on how you qualified to be here…

You don’t belong here!”

I walk out, I see no one on the corridors

I hear distant voices asking, ‘what were the questions’

I am in no mood, I collect my books and head to

I don’t-know-where, it makes no difference

That a holiday awaits me

Image: google:dazzlejunction.com

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Float Like a Butterfly….



Image credit: google: allposters.com

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee

So Muhammad Ali, the great boxer, once said

In my mind I can see the butterfly

All merry, the wings, the colour

It is there in the boxing ring

The crowd is roaring, urging on

Some covering their faces, the pressure is mounting

The bell is rang, the stage is set

Inside the suffocating ring, the butterfly fights for air

But no one cares if the wings might drop

But float it must—

You see, that choreographed anger

Comes with a price tag

Those simulated invectives

Are a part of the scheme

A cover-up

Either way, beneath that anger

Lies much anger against the ‘arrangement’

Where the organizers of the bouts smile

All the way to the bank

So, float he will,

And he must,

Inside the ring, so many things could go wrong

Knocked-off canines, bloody noses, fractured cheekbones,

Bleeding ears, lacerated foreheads, raptured brain cells

But the crowd will cheer on

“Go on, Muhammad, go on, finish him off!”

Never aware of the pressure on the mind to concentrate

One micro-second of lapse to earn a blinding blow

One miscalculated killer punch to send one off-balance

One mishearing to earn a disqualification

They call this a livelihood, puts food on somebody’s table

I don’t understand it, I mean I empathize

Then after floating like a butterfly

It is the sting, it is that jab, it is that punch

Anger levels rise within permitted levels

“Go on, Muhammad, go on, finish him off!”

Assume, just assume for one moment

When I have rained blows on my opponent

I remove my gloves, look upon the crowd

And walk away, away from that assured glory

Press will write, “Mad Muhammad Muddles”

With that my boxing career is given a knock-out

With that headline, I am cast in bad light

Not even the hours upon hours of lifting weights count

Not even the morning run count

Not even the more than 15 years matter

My titles, my championship wins, my awards

Lose meaning

When I win, everybody else wins

When I lose, only I and I alone loses

But still I have to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee

Image credit: google: worldgallery.co.uk

C) Lorot Salem 2011