Nairobi Chicks

Nairobi chicks

Skimp on meals to become like a stick

Meet them down streets, shades and red lipstick

Those sumptuous curves; that singing gait – everything is tick

How you want to hold onto her waist and stick

She is something brown or something dark,

Something you want to lick

But wait

Go make with her a deal

You will then know if she is real

For when you are headed to the till

Lucky you if she won’t bring you her bill

Of shoes, electricity, rent, credit and still

She expect you to buy her another hills

You’d thought you had made a kill

Now you feel she’s here to steal

She’s a vacuum you can’t fill

So my nigger just be still

For that is the deal!

I Imagine Your Last Moments

I imagine your last moments

Hours before it happened

Wonder if you saw it coming

That this sun won’t rise on your faces again

That it would be hours; then you’d rest on your shadows

Hours before those brutes came

Merchants of death

Hooded faces adorning jungle fatigue

Gun-trotting cowards, crawling in the dark

Smelling the lie that they lived

Invoking the name of Allah

But for all the wrong reasons 

I imagine you wrapped in your blanket

Soundly drinking porridge from the huge slumber guard

Your snore carrying far, drawing them to your tents

They tear in, kicking, yanking your blankets off

They order you out in a smattering Kiswahili

I imagine what a nightmare real life must have felt

As they shooed you out, with trembling hands on your heads

I imagine you, down low

Sandy gravel, cold as ice, cutting into your knees

Your shirts soaked in sweat; you know you are going to die

You know nobody will come to your rescue

Your safety, if any, is in your hands

I imagine them looking at you; their cold eyes staring

Waiting for you to recite a passage from the Koran

You fumble and blab and cry

And all you could remember to say was “Jesus!”

How they took you aside, like chaff

Because they thought that they are the wheat

I imagine their boots on your back
Sending you to the ground

Your face hitting the dust

Your mouth and sand filing with sand

In a row, so you laid facedown

Waiting

Waiting to die

I imagine the terror of the moment

With your eyes closed, as you waited

The exploding gunshots tearing the cold still darkness

One at a time, coming down the row

Coming to you

Heads bursting like pumpkins fallen on a hard ground

Blood, warm and innocent, spilling and soaking the desert sand

The yelps, the mourns of mercy that go unheeded

Your comrade wriggle and kick and die

The flame of their candles snuffed out

As you wait . . .

I imagine the tears in your eyes

As you wondered why you had to die like that

I imagine the terror

Hope you died of the terror alone

Not the head-splitting gunshots

Yes, I imagine how you died

How horrible, how painful!

Dying in the callous hands of deranged dogs

Dogs out on the leash,

Answering the call of their misguiding masters

Who confuse God for the Devil

And mislead generations of hapless men

To kill and maim and plunder

And die for a worthless cause

I imagine why you died

For me; for us

Somehow I feel so sure

That your death was not in vain

Still Me

The oceans breathes and moves towards our shores
Her breeze is calm, to wounds quite sore
Her memory, huge, I can’t store
Yet here I am, heading to the fore
Even if I can’t breathe, I’m still me

I’ve once gone astray and stepped on thorns
I’ve lived on saliva, Ive starved to bones
I’ve danced with snakes, I’ve drunk blood from horns
Both left and right, so has my life been torn,
And even if I regret sometimes, this is still me

One day I will come to that place
A huge, a deep space
From whence I can only trace
The white depth of my divinity
But till then I am still here
Still me!

Country Man

Give me a bottle, Country Man
Our usual hard stuff, fiery and numbing.
My fifty bob is here, sir
It's all between me and Jesus' coming
So don't mess with my change
I want it now, before I forget remembering

And listen to me good, Country Man
When we come to you, be the sponge that can sop our sorrows
Hurl us across this valley of torments
Give tomorrows, we borrow!
Instead you have quickly turned us into stiffs
And those you can't kill, you trap them to walking sticks
It's not good, Country Man, its not good!

Stop saying am raising my voice at you, Country Man
You don't know an inch how hard it is to be me!
To hustle in this country where my name tells it all
In this country,
Where a festival of road carnage is going on
Where a season of blasts is in earnest
And you, Country Man, you won't spare my brother still!

You've poked fingers deep into my nose, Country Man
So deep, I can't breathe
You want to tax me even on rights so conjugal
How can I ever trust your smile again?
When you are here busy, beating drums for those that suck our blood?
At noon you call yourself our savior
At dusk you sneer at our trusting patience
And then join the strides of those that mark our mass graves.

I go to bed with a millstone of debt around my neck

Tomorrow I wake up, the debt is even huge, I can lift myself up

Whether you turn us East, away from the West

We are still slaves, worse off even

Where are our rhinos, Country Man, our elephants?

You have sneaked their goodies to friends in the East

Those that give with one hand and steal with the other!

Oh stop it, Country Man!

Don't put out the light on me

Even if you do so, I will still find my way to my mouth

And give me my change, its my right

You've always promised me change

No wonder you poison and blind us

So we can go and forget about it

Damn you, Country Man!

Sometimes in August

Twas some times in August 
When we met, over three decades ago 
I was just a faceless tiny red thing, yelling my way into the world
Clinching something in my hands 
And you were just beginning life, on the cusps of your forties
Then sometimes in August, nine years ago 
You boarded that bus into the land of no return 

Sometimes, I miss you sometimes 
Especially when an old songs wafts through the radio
And drives me back to eighties when I was still a little boy
When you would unwrap your LP in the sitting room
There, when we used to live at Government Quarters, Mbotela
And you would slide those ‘plates’ on the LP
And Franco and Ongaro would fill our house with life
My brothers and I would sit there and watch you nod
Just sit there and watch, afraid to dance but loving it
Because it was Christmas
Because this was rare

Yesterday I heard one of those songs
And like a bridge it took me back to you
And I missed you
Yet you’re so far away
On that other side of life
Away, oceans away

You were here with us once
And it seemed it would last forever
It seemed too early to say ‘I love you’
The words wouldn't come even in our happiest of times
Then destiny began to snatch you away
And we could do nothing but just watch you go away
Sometimes I feel it was a lost chance
But I know you understand that I cared

Our years apart have been full of silence
And memories that I cannot rearrange
Your silence in life taught me that not everything is worth saying
Your silence in death teaches me that every moment is worth everything
That today I should live it to the full
So tomorrow there won’t be no space left for small sorrows

He Is A Good Man

We eat ugali and salt; our only meal each day

And skimp on other basics

Just to save enough for his private jet to take him picnics.

We pay thrice to have some cloths on our backs

So the taxman can collect enough to fill the coffers

And raise some cash to service our man's debts.

Through the bushy paths we trudge

Surefooted, beating down the freezing dew, as we head to the market

Here, muggers and rapists lie in wait, sometimes

Hunting us like starved lions

It doesn't matter if we get hurt, even die

So long as our man lives behind high perimeter walls

And walks behind another wall of neatly dressed, mean looking armed body guards

It doesn’t matter for he is a good man.

Don't talk rubbish about our man; he is our hero, our savior

They call him corrupt, a murderer

Why do these animals like to blasphame his name?

Don't ask me if he knows me; or knows the smell of my tatters

Yes, I won't marry his beautiful daughter even if I wanted

That I agree; am too poor for that  

But I cannot marry any of these animals either

They who want our man gone to the grave.

Don't remind of me how I broke my leg

When rioting on the streets, fighting for our rights

Yet our man couldn't even come to see me in hospital

And I had to request some of these animal friends to help me pay the bill

Don't remind me of that animal orphan who died a bloody death

When our man's goons descended on her with hateful lust

And punctured her dignity with overzealous manhoods

You can't even say that was our man's work

He wasn’t there in the first place; he wouldn’t do that!

Don't remind me of my Aunt, Lizy

Who has lived in a leaky tent, all these five years

Do you think our man has forgotten her plight?

That he used her vexation to bargain for power

And then turned his back on her wounds and tears?

Don't remind me these things

I know our man

He is a good man!

Last month he came

On a convoy of huge black cars, mammoths of the road

He stirred the village awake, gave us an instant holiday

We abandoned our hoes, to go sing his name and praises

We sprinkled our scarce water on the bumpy dusty road

To spare him a bout of sneezing

Out in the scortching sun, amidst the surging crowd, we craned our necks for a better view

Our man talked from the cool podium, with a mike in his soft hand

The voice of our people, the lion of the tribe of our land

We listened and cheered and clapped hard our callused hands

Just to make light his heart; just to make him leaves us something small

He will come back after a few years, to ask for our votes

It will not matter if he has delivered on his past pledges

He is a good man!

If we don't mind paying the mortgage

For his third palatial home; while we live under leaky thatch

If we pay extra for food; to help him maintain his numerous mistresses

If we will rush again to his rallies

To swallow his lies without chewing!

If we will vote him again; just because he is our man

Then he is a good man!

There is A Plane Missing on Our Sky

There is a plane missing in our sky
We are not seeing it, everything we try
One hopes the end of this search is nigh
We keep searching, even in tides so high

There is a plane missing in our sky
Hundreds of souls gone, yonder than we can spy
A couple returning to Beijing
after an invigorating beach get away
headed home to their little two sons
A construction worker making his trip home
the first time after an year of longing
A whole clan of Chinese calligraphers
the most esteemed of them all
gone missing with all the wealth of their art.

There is a plane missing in our sky
Leaving questions piled on our minds
And sorrows untold, boiling in some hearts
An American girlfriend holds a white rose
she takes a wistful sniff and holds
the green stem closer to her dark blouse.
"may be, he is alive," she says
"may be, he is dead,"
yes may be
for who will help her reconcile
these thousand, thousand doubts within.
A daughter tweets her dad
wondering if he will make it home in time
to relish his favourite Liverpool
mauling Man City.

There is a plane lost in our sky
There are no clues, no debris to still our vexed nerves
The skies are silent; the oceans spit junk at us
Another day passes
And there, the strength to command miracles fizzles out.
Perhaps a prayer; another minute of holding on
Is all there is to do now