My grandmother's Christmas story...

SIKUKUU
(My grandma's story )

The only time of the year we'd eat chapati, rice and meat all at once,
A festive season it was, worth the name ,
Just after the "ebisimba ",the circumcised boys were set free to be men.
They graced their manhood with vigorous dances at the marketplace, adorned with ornaments.

Well it was that time of the year,
When my father would walk in from the white man's house,
Dangling some goodies..
We would all run to him,
Chanting "thatha Ochire beka ethwani nse "
Father is home, slaughter a cock.

Amazing beautiful time it was,
On the specific sacred bright Morning,
We would all go down to the river and have the scrub of our lives,
Get back home and smear some milking jelly,
Shine like a thoroughly cleaned sufuria!
We would then all excitedly put on our new clothes,
"Nguo ya sikukuu "
They would range from the well tailored "amasungora "cotton clothes, to the "amachabani "that's for the lucky ones,
Ready made clothes from Japan,
If it was too bad, hand-me-downs we would proudly wear,
Like Who cared? It was Christmas!

Our mothers would get their cornrows neatly done and align us all to church,
Where the village pastor would boom about a God,
A Messiah born on that day,
We would religiously chant hyms
While our minds wandered to our grandmother's hut
Where goodies especially the chapatis, rice and "mandas "
Were being prepared by the special experienced village cook.

After church,
We would all gather and have a proper fulfilling meal,
The women danced,
The men enjoyed their busaa,
There was plenty of milk, water and busaa to go around,
laughter sparkled,
Many goats and chicken were mercilessly brought to death,
Lots of chapatis,
Not forgetting new clothes for everyone!
The Messiah was born!

It was "siku ya furaha "happy day,
The much awaited SIKUKUU,
I remember the joy and homely feeling just like it was yesterday,
Well it's been 60 years,
Some of my grandchildren went to Mombasa forget Christmas,
My children only M-pesa me,
Some will call to wish me a merry Christmas,
They will send images on this thing called whatsapp that my granddaughter has!
Ah! Technology.. after all what is Christmas to them?

I miss the good old days.
When Christmas was Christmas!
Eh! Sikukuu.

my female pains..

BEAUTIFULLY BROKEN.

I tend to think I'm the sperm that won,
But sometimes I'm just the ovum that lost.
I wish I was one in a million, 
But in a million none could choose me.

I wish you could see my beauty beyond my scars,
Or the smile behind my braces,
Sometimes it hurts so much,
I can't even tell it's paining,
Sometimes I cry so much,
I don't realise it's raining,
Because I am a woman.
I bear it all.

I give big smiles at work,
Just to go home to a battering husband,
I feel so alone,
I loose myself,
I give up everything to you, to the world, and end up a beggar.
I get lost, confused,
When there's a big contrast from that rush of the first kiss,
And the agony and sharp pain of the first slap.

How did we get here?
How did I lose you?
When I tell you I love you,
You say you'll find some time to do,
When I say I need you,
You mockingly laugh it off..
You used to be a saint,
More of like everything at the same exact time.
I try to be that woman, that girl,
I wish you could see.

There's more to me than makeup can ever conceal,
Just one word can fix it all,
One gesture can make me whole again.

The razor cuts don't help anymore,
And as I hold this gun to my head,
I remember everything,
Beautifully broken.

freedom right..

LIBERTY CHANT.

If only we could learn not to hide but flaunt our light,
To let it light up the world,
So many times we resent our own with the desire to be like another, 
Just why do you want to Be a copy, a sample when you are the original?
If we could let our inside free,
Let our brightness be,
Because most of the times the little we think we are, is the more we seem to be.

Don't be too shy to believe in yourself,
Or too naive to let others put you down,
It doesn't matter how broken and hurt you are,
Smile because one day you'll get past it.

Freedom is not actually walking unbound,
Freedom is letting the being in you become you.
Yes, you are smart, beautiful intelligent,
Lift the veil and let the whole world see,
Let it shine so bright, relish in the moment,
Because there can only be one only you,
They say you can only live once,
But what is life without a purpose?
Life without a cause?

Live a life you are willing to die for,
Every smile counts,
Don't be too focused on others,
Till you forget the hero within.
The first step is to always trust and hope,
Live the moment and have it for life.

secret stares..

SECRET ADMIRER.

I stand here all day,
Against this pretty pink wall with patches of white,
I watch you as you sleep, 
So perfect, angelic!
I've shared and experienced in all your emotions,
From how excited you were when you got the promotion,
To the terrible break down when you caught him cheating.

I love how you stare at Me, mostly in the mornings,
You always were walk in worried
I always assure you that you truly are beautiful,
I make your day just as you make mine,
Your burning eyes explore me
With some wild desire threatening to tear me apart,
I wish we could speak,
Though we do it, it's pretty much a monologue.

I watch as you wake up every Morning,
The gorgeous smile follows as you move closer,
After the bathroom too close,
I glare at your beautiful naked body,
Sometimes you kiss me,
Sometimes you don't,
What makes me happy is that you're back and faithful to me,
just hoping that someday
When I become just a broken mirror in the trash,
And not on this beautiful wall,
You will still love me.

Because it's true,
You look good even in a broken mirror.

Guilty pleasures,,

CANDY DADDY.

They say life moves too fast,
I replied; for the weak and meek,
Well I take mine at my own pace,
It's more like poker,
He dangles the candy,
And I play the dummy.

You see life ain't fair,
Never was, never will be,
A bastard I am, not that I really care,
But now I dine and wine with the mighty.

I have a thing for big stuff,
Big cars, houses and of course my BIG DADDY.
Y'all know there's more To candy than just taste,
More to money than just haste.
Call me love, call me babe, call me whore.

So what if I miss my classes and some periods too?
He's my candy daddy,
I have it all,
At his Beck and call,
Spoils me with his Money,
And I spoil him with my cookie.

My candy daddy,
Dangles the candy,
And I really don't care.

my dear oluoch..

"SWEET MANGO"

When you see Oluoch,
Please remind him of his sweet mango tree,
Please tell him it's been three years past, 
And not a single night did it pass,
Without the tree yearning for him.

Please remind Oluoch,
That the tree did bear fruit,
And the village women now mock it,
They call it "whore" and other names it tries hard not to hear.

Please remind Oluoch,
That this is not it expected three years ago,
When he ate it's sweet mango,
Please tell him,
It was only with him that the grass was painted red with it's sweetness.

They now tell he's tree,
That it wasn't sown right,
It wasn't watered right,
It wasn't actually his favorite,
That now his tongue can not stand the taste of the sweet mango,
That he is now into the modern city fruits,
Apples, peaches and so on..
That he doesn't enjoy solo fruits anymore but only takes rich fruit salads.

But tell him,
The tree remembers who planted it,
No matter how the seasons are,
It will still be rooted on his land,
The tree still yearns for his tender care,
And it is not right that his fruit,
Be named "bastard " when it is a love child.

Please ask him to remember,
The days he would not move from his sweet mango,
Days when he would tenderly care and sing to it,
When in his garden it was the only tree.

When you see Oluoch,
Please tell him,
The sweet mango still hopes he'll return,
That he will not abandon neither it or it's fruit.
His own words it holds on to,
"Nothing is sweeter than my sweet mango! "

my other side..

STRAY THOUGHTS.

If life was a maze,
Of lilies, roses and all pretty flowers,
Just which species will you be?
I once heard,
"A rose in another name will smell just as sweet"

That if humanity could get humans,
And knowing animosity is just for animals,
Why we're one yet different,
Why love is so close to hate,
And why a heart can bear both.

What makes you, you?
Are you part of the solution or the core of the problem?
If only we could see beyond ourselves,
Beyond our weaknesses,
To realise that even when lost we can actually find who we are.

A heart can be pure of all evils,
That a heart can love yet let go,
Like a young mother giving up a child for adoption,
These are just but my stray thoughts.

African wife..

SOMEONE'S WIFE!

Kwamboka,
My daughter do you want to kill me?
Is sending me to an early grave your intention?
Ei! Do you think I can live past the mockery of my fellow women?
Do you want to be the death of your father?
That we did not raise you well is unbearable!

The whole village knows,
That your house stinks,
Your children are filthy,
Your land remains untilled,
And your new scent is liquor,
Your husband eats from another man's pot!

My daughter,
Did I not teach you,
That a husband should be treated like a king?
That a married woman keeps her things in order?
Why do you ashame me with these strange traits?
Do you enjoy it when I am the village's laughing stock?

Kwamboka,
That you can not cook for your husband is a shame!
That you pay a fellow woman to wash your husband's garments is an abomination!
Ahah! Did he not marry you to be his helper?
Ei! You amaze me my daughter!
Did you ever see this monkey business in your fathers house?

Answer Me Kwamboka!
Did I not teach you the responsibilities that come with being someone's wife?
Don't you know it is a shame, a taboo for a man to see your monthly visitor?
Yet you let her sit anywhere anyhow in your house?

My daughter,
Stop wasting time gossiping in the marketplace,
It is a woman who breaks or makes a home,
Don't you dare raise your voice to your husband again,
A woman is to be seen not heard.
Now Please leave my homestead,
Rise up and make your house a home!
Po! I do not have money to pay back the hefty dowry paid for you!
My daughter it's time you realised you are someone's wife!

‪#‎Chroniclesofadeadpoet‬.

Lustful nights..

LAST NIGHT IN THESE SHEETS.

There was a moan

A battle that was already lost,

She fought for what she thought was hers,

Something he knew he had already conquered,

They could not see eye to eye,

But the body connection they couldn’t deny.

A cry, a groan,

So lustfully pure,

Not much words were said,

But a silly curse here and there,

Pain and pleasure alike,

Both in the very same measure.

You see, if sheets could talk,

These ones had quite a lot to say,

She called out his name in perfect poetic cadence,

And he did not disappoint,

He rose to the occasion,

First tender and gentle,

She gained the experience he gained a little more.

As she cried and choked with emotion,

He pursued her to the gates of earthly heaven,

It all started with a little kiss,

A caress that matured to a rough clutch,

And the rest well ask these sheets.

The beautiful panting graced with lustful moaning,

These sheets did bear a tear or two,

She really didn’t care and he neither was he afraid,

The beauty of nature fully expressed in her precise flawlessness

Where need meets grant, supply does demand.

Last night in these sheets,

The beauty of life came alive!

Together they made a passionate pair,

So beautiful, proficient that it turned the sheets scarlet,

Defying innocence to create fault

For a moment the world ceased

It didn’t really matter whether the love was real.

Last night in these sheets,

Came a moment that she would hold on for life,

But just another one of his daily routine.

Love and lust met in pure disgust.

Future lover...

LOVE AGAIN.

If I could love again,

I want it true, deep and beautiful,

I want a love so rare, yet so real,

Knowing that one person is the antidote to my venom,

Knowing that I will be loved solely for all I am,

My complete silliness, my perfect flaws, my weaknesses,

Yet beyond all that he sees my strength, my beauty

He sees me.

It’s not just the empty tons of air saying “I love you”

Neither is it the crazy spontaneous love making,

I just want to be loved,

A love so precious, something I can actually hold on to,

I do not need flowers every day,

Neither do I covet expensive gifts laced with lust,

I want love,

A love that is not ashamed to show off,

Neither too shy to showcase.

I want to be sure,

That with my broken heart there is hope,

With every sunrise I have a reason to wake up to,

And every night a dream to hold on to,

And every minute a person to look up to,

I need love in my life,

Because it is so beautiful when done right.

I want to smile because he is next to me,

Hug my pillow because he is away.

If I am to love again,

I want the pain of an argument, a misunderstanding,

I am ready for the bad days too,

I want that one person,

Who is perfect in his imperfections,

Complete in his own incompleteness

He who won’t only love me but himself too.

True, there is more to a rose than its thorns,

More to a rainbow than just color,

More to a cheetah than its spots,

More to a bull than just horns

And more to love than its flaws,

I do not want perfect,

If I am to love again I just want it real.

                                                                             

When the urge dies..

DEAD POET.

A poet never dies,

But what am I without my pen and paper?

What am I without the surging emotions of art?

The frustrations that come with a mediocre mind,

Days when I actually wonder,

Am I a poet?

When the heart is willing,

Yet the mind is rebellious,

Yes, I am poetically flawed,

The disappointment of rioting hormones,

I want to be a pastor, rapist, drug addict, a free bird

The redemption of pen and paper.

It’s like trying to enjoy the strumming of a stringless guitar,

And enjoying the tap of silent tunes,

Straining at the very verge of lost poetic sense,

I want to create wordless words,

After all whether dead or alive,

I am a poet.

It’s like having sight but not being able to see,

Or touching but not feeling,

Having the idea but not words,

Pain that doesn’t hurt,

Or rather joy that doesn’t exhilarate,

It frustrates the heart and drains the mind.

A nightmare so real, so intense

The real pains of being a dead poet.

Pen and paper do not fail me,

I seem to always have the right words

But when the mind becomes too mediocre,

Please pen and paper save me,

Relieve me of this shame,

I want to be alive again,

Bring back the glory of great masterpieces,

I need life and hope beyond this.

Please pen and paper,

Hear my plea,

For I am just but a dead poet

Hoping this time when I write,

You will give me life,

Pen and paper, all that I hold on to.

proud murderer...

NECROPHILE’S SENTIMENTS.

A thief comes at night,

While I strike whenever I feel right,

Time isn’t really my measure

I’m coming for your blood, I love it stale,

The pleasure that comes from your fear stricken face,

Yes I am your reality horror.

I love the beauty in your pain.

Why be alive when I can have you dead?

I am your worst nightmare,

While to me you are my dream come true,

My deadly satisfaction,

My heart beats rhythmically to the silence of yours.

I kill,

Not because I want to but because I have to,

You really are attractive when dead,

Don’t get me wrong,

I like you alive but I love you dead,

The bliss of your cold lifeless body,

That is real turn on to me,

The perfection of your motionless love making,

Not a sound, not a move you make,

That gives me all the pleasure I would ever wanted.

Why are you afraid of me?

At the mere mention of my name or rather condition as some scientists’ term it,

You all shiver in disgust,

I walk in the shadows for I fear the light,

Silently preying, the very merchant of death,

Yes, just the thought of your dead body turns me on,

The smell of your blood makes mine boil.

Please do not judge me for we both have this repulsive urges.

I am human, just a little beastly,

Everyone has a different taste right?

I prefer mine lacking of life,

I get so much satisfaction from corpses, bloody corpses.

I did not ask to be this way,

They all say do what makes you happy,

Well you are next on my list.

I will hunt you down.

They call me Earl, the crazy necrophile.