Suleiman

In his heydays, he bestraddled

All the hip night spots--

Lambada, Tembo, Bobz—

Cash flowed from his pocket

Like the tits of a Friesian cow

He visited the Pirates Beach, cruised

In glass boats, wore dark sunglasses,

Tipped the beach boys in thousands

For he had won a lottery

But now, you see him

A haggard frame abused with cocaine

He strolls aimlessly, a pale shadow of his former self

Sometimes you find him in Mtwapa

With a wistful look of a retired soldier

Or he could be spotted staring at Nakumatt

As if to relive his former glory

If I should Die

#117  Carry on Tuesday

Task: To use the opening line of Rupert Brooke’s poem “The Soldier” in which he expresses movingly his love for England

                                    

                                             *                *                *             *              *

If I should die,

Think only this of me:

My soul lived for Kenya

In taarab, genge and reggae

It dwelt in the Mara and Fort Jesus

If I should die,

My thoughts be scattered

To console the bones of Marsabit women

In unbridled compassion, yet

Let them scorch conscience of tyrannies

If I should die,

Keep in good stead, keep your eyes

To my playful self, mourn me not,

Read me “Death, Be not Proud”

For I will be in

good company of immortals;

Losing Sight

For a prompt of Carry on Tuesday #118

“An eye for an eye will make the whole world go blind”

-Mahatma Gandhi

Task: To use the first five words

*      *         *        *

An eye for an eye

You see plucked pupils everywhere

Resented souls, poisoned intentions

As these dark sockets find beauty

In the glaring pupils of the glazed souls

It irritates, it mocks blindness!

Son of the Hills, Look to the Hills

For Sunday Scribblings' prompt #276 Captivate

Son of the Hills, look to the hills,

For they know the dirges of the orphaned monkeys

And hunted hyraxes; sorrow to them is not new

Yet, times without fail, their peaks stand aloft

Roots of eroded stunted trees claw at the boulders

As the winds hoarsely whisper to caves, the tales of the hills

Are told, of its majesties; forget not of this, Son of the Hills.

Come Back, My Bull

For Sunday Scribblings prompt #279 Distant

Come back, my bull,

I wake up every morning

And stand at the homestead

Hoping I will see you coming

With an arrow in your hands

And bravery in your footsteps

Come back, my bull,

My heart is getting cold

I need you in my arms again

Its been many moons now

Come back, my bull

Standing Ovation

For a prompt of  Sunday Scribblings # 278 Standing Ovation

The up-coming comedian

Hit up his punch-line, lingered around

For a standing ovation

None was forthcoming

So, as a trick, he ventured:

“ Let us be on our feet,

We need to pray for the comedy industry

Because ovation is like a vocation

You reflect before acting”

In Pursuit of Happiness

For a prompt of Sunday Scribblings #279 Pleasure 

Have you ever felt that tickling sensation on your feet

And felt like to scratch it but just sat idly?

Have you heard your stomach rumble

In a meeting, and all you did was to shuffle your feet?

Have you rubbed a feather inside your ears

Softly, ever so softly and closed your eyes in pleasure?

Have you felt so hungry

And suddenly gate-crushed into a barbecue party?

Have you listened to the best music

And all you could do was to tap your feet and drone along?

Have you  laid your hands on a legal thriller

Flipped pages over and over, forgetting to lock your door?

Have you been tickled by the character of your novel

And all you did was to laugh again and again like a man possessed?

Have you felt so lazy

And all you did was to keep your eyes open to save on your energy?

Have you once felt so stupid that it made you happy

Looking at yourself in the mirror and gave it a firm handshake?

Have you walked in the streets and felt like

Your phone had  been stolen, then felt it and smiled?

Have you felt good reading the last line of a boring book

And believed that you had read the book?

He

 From a prompt #280 Sunday Scribblings Forward

He always postulated that a time will come

When by rubbing against heads, thoughts could be shared

He wrote in his book

That the world would be ruled by dangerous fools

He warned that man will destroy himself

In search of perfection and going all high-tech

He warned, he postulated, he theorized

And trapped in his stubble was a conviction

That surprised many

May be he was right

May be he was wrong

The Apparition

(For the Poets United's The Thursday Think Tank #61 - She)

My sight of her sticks out—like a sore thumb

The kamdelen-infested eyes, bare-feet

Parched mouth—words of sorrow

Spoken, frail frame of wasted body

Thought I, weighed down by

The sultry air this woman carried:

Where was her elegance of kidong’a?

Which wind would flutter her lorwaa?

From a corner of a shop I watched her

Carrying a malnourished baby

She could have been 14

Yet she could have been 40!

You my Elders, unshackle her

Free her! Untie her!

You my Elders, bring back her innocence!

Bring cheer to her face!

You the owners of traditions

You are busy hunting the egrets

Unaware of the vultures hovering over your heads

One day, Kacheliba Hill will rebel!

Lorot Son of the Hills’ Notes:

Kamdelen- Pokot for dirt in the eyes.

Kidong’a- A pokot traditional dance.

Lorwaa- A Pokot traditional dress.

Cry, Beloved Kenya, Cry

Cry, Beloved Kenya, Cry

Cry for your country, Cry

What do you have to show

For ashen faces and babies dying on sands?

But it is good headlines

To read of deaths from hunger

Good news to see how far

We have come from

And are in the same league with Singapore

Neck by neck from Independence days

You see, hunger is the mainstay of our economy

Isn’t it entertaining to watch babies suckling from dead mothers?

Must be classic comedy

To see first hand somebody die clasping at a beggar’s bowl

Of course those are side-shows

Not as big as 2012 or Hague or Constitution

And I agree, totally

After all, these deaths happen every year

And we could be sure about them next year

For these people love dying!

They enjoy it! See it in their faces, I bet

They could do it again and again ( I mean dying)

May be you should not cry, Beloved Kenya

You could export hunger to other regions

You see, change of tact

Recall the athletes, forget the road rehabilitation

Run ads in the telly

“Kenya is your hunger destination”

Play the clips of malnourished babies

Play videos of starving characters on the throes of death

Do it big time

Then boast of the tourists

Make Turkana your capital

Create a Metropolitan City in Northern Kenya

Create Hunger Ministry

To make sure that many die of hunger

And at the end of the year

To clapping citizens, tell them:

“Our hunger turn-over grew in double digits

As you are well aware

In this year alone

3,000 died

We plan to make it

5,000 by next year”

May be you should not cry

Beloved Kenya

Everything is in control

Hunger should be your pillars of development

Combined with forward planning

We are well on track

Let us do this again

Next year at a time like this

Hunger is here to stay!

A Day in the Life of a Nomad

4.00 a.m

Cow-bells outside

An occasional howl

Everything is peaceful

The village is calm and sleepy

5 a.m

Mothers milking cows at cow-sheds

The low of cows

Life is catching up

The village is waking up

7 a.m

Basking in the sun, taking tea

Counting cows and seeing them off

These cows needs to be rid of ticks

Time they were taken for cattle dip

9 a.m

Busy brushing teeth with kamsityan

Singing songs of my bull

The cows are grazing

It is me, my cows and my world

I am all peaceful

10 a.m

Gathered at baraza

Chief has a message

From serikali

Half asleep, resting my head on ng’achar

Looks like I will spend the whole day here

“Supay Kokwo,” Kirwokin greets

“Mmmmh,” we respond

“Bad news people, you stole from Turkana

It is in K.B.C and everywhere

I am in hot soup”

Age-old animosity

Tired culture

Spoilt image

Time folks went to school

Stopped this polygamy circus

Changed from nomadism to “somadism”

It is crazy!

1 p.m

Still half-awake, half-asleep under oron tree

Fellow old man is telling me how he first tasted rice

At the D.C’s compound

Then we hear a case of stolen donkey

Most complicated case

We listen on and on and on

5 a.m

I sprint from the baraza

Cut through thorn trees and shrubs

To go look for my cows

I pass through the market-place to buy tobacco

To keep the nostrils of an old man busy

Then I drive my cows home

Whistling and singing my bull songs

7 p.m

Seated at the aperit

With fellow old men

Fire lit to scare away witches

And to keep the stomach of old men

Warm and cared-for

We keep our guns at the ready

And sleep in the cold

Lorot Son of the Hills’ Notes

Kamsityan- A traditional toothbrush from a tree branch mostly from select trees.

Baraza- a Public gathering where information to the community is disseminated; a Kiswahili word.

Serikali- Kiswahili word for government.

Ng’achar-A Pokot traditional stool.

Supay kokwo- A form of Pokot greeting especially when addressing a large gathering of people.

Kirwokin- Pokot name for a chief.

Oron- a Tarmarind tree, most Pokot gatherings in Kacheliba are done under this tree.

Aperit- A resting place for Pokot men outside in the compound where fire is lit and from which they keep watch of their cows.

Serious Grass Business

(Prompt: Poets United Thursday Think Tank #59 Grass )

Let me wear camel-skin pair of shoes

Walk the walk of a herdsman

With far-flung clouds teasing above him

And the mist of hope lost

In a sweltering heat

What will I feel?

If I had an AK-47 on my back

A dozen arrows and the right instinct

Pray, from what will they protect me from

Unless I shot at the heaven’s tap?

He will walk on and on, that herdsman

To the point of listening to his footsteps

And after many days

Behold, he will lead his cows

To a no-man’s-land

Where one minute egrets

Abound and the next vultures prey

Life and death

For many months

This will go on

This little hobby of looking for grass.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Journal of a Pokot Market Boy

(Prompt: Poets United Thursday Think Tank #60 Market Days

Lorwaa-dressed pretty Pokot girls

Men on shuka, cattle bells heard from afar

Mitumba sellers, Rock hotel abuzz

Blaring loudspeakers of crusading pastors

The concealed whistles of lomedos wooing their girls

Car horns, vegetable vendors, shop sellers

It is market day, Kacheliba

It is a one-day affair

On a Sunday.

A week long dazed small town

Comes to life

Once again

Cattle sold in the open

Hot tea served defiant of the midday sun

Feet oiled yet get dusty all the same

Loafers strolling aimlessly with prodding sticks

Clever goats partaking of maize vendors’ ‘wares’

Bicycle riders with missing bells

Careful buyers bargaining for hours

Patient vendors sweating in the sun

Sugarcane packed under ses tree

Thirsty bestraddlers of the market

Crouching on their knee-caps to drink from kisima

O, Kacheliba Market Sunday!

C) Lorot Salem 2011

My Grandma and I

We sit at night with my grandma

A glowing tin-lamp

She a happy old folk

And I her grandson

“Please be calling me,” she says,

“Because you make my night’s sleep so happy and easy”

She finds joy in small things

She tells me to read hard

So that she boasts to others of having “officers”

She knows M-PESA

Tells me how she “signed” beside her name

Yet granny never went to school

She notices that I have added some weight

Tells me, “Grandson, Nairobi has kept you well”

Her wish is that when Tororot calls her

They will count her grandchildren and great grandchildren

She has the figures now and keeps adding them

From her voice, she would be happier if they were more

“Read hard grandson,” she tells me,

“the world nowadays feeds those who have gone to school”

Then I show her four books

I tell her “All these are in my head—all of them”

She looks at them bewildered

“All these, grandson? Not a small fight, this!”

Grandma never dreams of big things

She wants a new mattress and a blanket

And may be a lesso

She wants to be visited by all her grandchildren

Like her neighbour’s grandchildren

She wants a new iron roof over her head

This will make her happy, she says

I give her 200 shillings

She breaks into a dance

Spits into my hands, says prayers to me

Tells me, “Let my saliva smoothen your paths

Whatever is dry, let it be wet and soft”

Grandma sings out

Then stops and says, “Grandson, I hope I will be

There to see you eat at the shade”

“Get your first salary,” She foresees, “then bring it to me

I will bless you, your granary will never be empty”

Then as sleep crept upon her

I walked her to her hut

In the dark night, Grandma and I walked,

Side by side, with a phone lighting her way

It was about to rain

And as she stepped into her hut

I stood there, smiling

Consumed in her “halo” presence

“I love you grandma,” I whispered

The night carried away those words

It felt so good, it felt so nice

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Lorot Son of the Hills’ Notes

I actually wrote this poem on 1^st August 2011, a day after a wonderful night spent with my grandmother. That night will be etched in my memory. I particularly remember her wonderful stories. She said that she had been sent some money through M-PESA, a local money transfer facility in Kenya. It is a requirement that the recipient signs beside ones name. Now, grandmother ( she has never seen the inside of a class), gets hold of the pen and demonstrates how she signs her signature in the fashion of how the educated do. Funny Koko.

Honoured

My good friend Andy has honoured me with an award. That was an uplifting comment from you on your blog. The link is here May Tororot, the God of the Rising Sun continue to stock creativity into your mind and add more life into your years.

Sincerely,
Salem Lorot "Lorot Son of the Hills"

When…

When we let our thoughts soar with the eagles

When we envision a horse gallop on a lake

When we can scrape at misery and hurl it

When we can still our thoughts

When we can paint darkness

When we can paint lightness

When we can fathom the unfathomable

When we can bring characters to life

When we can create suspense

When we can speak our deepest thoughts

When we can reveal our silliest follies

When we can rise above mediocrity

When we can learn of virtues

When we can see a rainbow in the skies

When we can see ourselves in another’s eyes

Only then will we be free.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

For a prompt by Poets United Thursday Think Tank #55 Freedom

Answer Me, Dear Writer

You who create words, tell me

What is the use of the space bar in your keyboard?

When you hit that key almost with irritating certainty

Don’t you realize that you create destitutes?

Why should you stir division and call it elegance?

C) Lorot Salem 2011

For a prompt by Poets United Thursday Think Tank #57 Loneliness

Inside a Night-Time Poetry Journal

As the cow-bells draw near

The golden sunset rays arcing

Darkness fast approaching

Old men trudge past hurriedly

Women with sacks on their backs walk fast

Soon, the fireplace is lit

The smoke-filled hut resurrects

Children play with moths

As mothers adeptly cook ugali

While milking cows at the cowshed

Laughter abounds

Of the cleverness of the hare

Or the gullibility of the elephant

And as the merry floats into the night

It mixes with the howl of the winds

Perhaps as a befitting valedictory

To the wonder of the African night

C) Lorot Salem 2011

From a prompt by Poets United Thursday Think Tank #58 Nightime

A Bleeding Poem (Audio)

                       I

Poem bleeding, seeping, trickling

With blood, raw emotions most blunt

Is what I write, parading it to fight

Poem protesting, projecting, most

Frightening, faceless, decapitated

Amputated, crying out in the depths

Of hollowness, sutured, unsecured

Most obscured, uncured is the poem

I write

See, wrote I perfumed palaces

Blind to all its fallacies, furnished

Chandeliers, shrubbery, lawns

Everything the rich could own

But that poem bled still

Steel is not what made it

Twas like a dog’s heart transplanted

To a rhino’s—serenity amidst inferno!

Wrote I everything picturesque

The mountains, the fountains, the landscape

But what for?

Of hypocrisy, heresy, lunacy?

What for?

Of dilly-dallying, molly-coddling?

What for?

Of damage? haemorrage?

                     II

So ghastly an image

A bleeding poem, fractured stanzas,

Sprained meter, bloodied rhymes

Sombre, sad like October,

Severed, feared

Air scented with antiseptic

Etherized, pungent

Like an adulterated detergent

Abused agent

Unwashed gent

Formless, soulless, heartless

A bleeding poem, screaming at them

Hollering, venting, not circumventing

Pointing, needs no anointing

If you are allergic to horror

Why then do you put up with terror

Stare at the gnarled form

Electrocuted in the fiery storm

Gaze at the faze, chase the gauze

Keep guessing, it is death amazing

                  III

In the circle of death

Mortality spins round and round

Most profound, chaos is the High Priest

Debris is the shrine, bilge is the paraphernalia

Inter alia, mania let loose, fear on noose

Tweedle little human flesh

Perforated, peppered

Served on the altar of human greed

For our cannibal taste buds, we agreed?

Why are you horrified then?

Bon appétit

                 IV

Why are you horrified?

A bleeding poem, in a bleeding world

With a bleeding inspiration, for a bleeding

Motivation, Peel off the gloves

Unmask yourself, smell the blood

Raw wound wasn’t bad like a rotten one

This is the real thing, some sterner musing

Sorry folks, I forgot to warn

Of cadavers, blood and death

You see, we don’t plan collapsing bridges

Or the spurting blood

Do we?

Forgive me if I am being bold

Bleeding poems haven’t been told

Until they flooded our doorsteps

Or the rancid smell of decompose floated

Sorry, death is not fixture to be slotted

                      V

Had I wanted, I would have been blind

Blind to the blight, refuse to look at the paint

Hard enough, enough to notice the dark theme

Had I wanted, I would have painted my own

Canvass, revealing Africa in all its glory

But I keep on seeing elements of its gory

I would have painted the Maasai

The wildebeest and other beasts

But sorry, my creativity bore me to

The Maasai pushed off the cliff

The Wildebeest unmotivated, lives most stiff

C’mon, don’t frown, I am not a clown

If I were posturing, telepathy I would not be conjuring

Had I wanted, I would paint the glory of the African Sun

In all its shades, even when to the West it fades

I would mimic the laugh of the hyena

You would cup your ears

                       VI

But I ask, why do we bask

In the sun we are most clueless?

Shouldn’t we, rather, grope in the darkness

With a hope of light, even with sadness?

What ray should we illuminate

If we can’t fulminate?

How are dark things illuminated

If before time they are eliminated?

How does blood trickle

If they are with chemicals made fickle?

What is a heart most enduring

If it is shielded from the sun most searing?

How will a bleeding heart clot

If it is hid in the furnace of suppressed emotions unfought?

                       VII

Poem bleeding, seeping, trickling

With blood, raw emotions most blunt

Is what I write, parading it to fight

All you need is a toolkit

This is no child skit

Hemorrhage is no sleepwalker oddsey

It is no fantasy

C’mon, uncover the jetting blood

Stop the spill, save your stunt

Harangue later, don’t harass

I am also harassed, the pain, the shame

The blame, the game

I could also want to be a spectator,

Or rather be a commentator

But what for? How do we talk of

Swabbed wounds? How do we describe

The pain we don’t ascribe?

Which expertise do we merit

If not what we claim to inherit?

Or isn’t it blood and all

After all, a free for all?

                      VIII

So let the bleeding poem be

Crawling stench of soul’s morgue

Embalmed, uncalmed, uncharmed

Let the bleeding poem be

Let it mix with our artificial colognes

Hypocrisy! The air is thick with death, bloke

If I were you, I would heal the wound

Protect the scar, leap in fright from afar

I would keep my soft spot close with me

Not exposing them to life’s weird talons

But then, go on, peel of the scar

Let it bleed anew, perforate it

Nib it, tuck it, go on…

Let that pain sting

Is it as fresh as the cologne?

Is it more immediate?

More urgent?

How does it stir you?

Because you are bleeding, huh?

                  IX

That pain is the bleeding poem

Because it bleeds, it heals

Because it heals, it shields

Because it shields, it shrills

Because it shrills, it stills

Bleeding poem is what I write

Bleeding poem is what I parade to fight.

C) Lorot Salem 2011