Testify to the Wind

"Oh no! Not again!"
We cry, curse, and convulse
The culprit among us too,
God bless his ileum, is
Shocked as everyone else.
For how long, I wonder
Shall we testify to the wind
Of yesternight's leftovers,
And loadfuls of dinner
Gone so fowl and pungent
Than the proverbial rat?
Who'd dare shake the trees,
Blow the whistle of fresh air?

In the Dawning of Freedom

I heard a call like thunder

Tear through the dark clouds,

In the misty fog of the summer

It was the roar of Judah’s Lion

I heard His footsteps like drums

Tread on the dried forest leaves,

In the mucky waters of the Sahara

They were footsteps of the King

Then I saw a face like lightening

Flash through the sightly skies

In the sunny days of the winter

And it was the face of the Saviour

So I stood there, dead in my tracks,

Stark naked before His eyes, yet

Unashamed and glad to be found 

The Maghreb Wanderer

Had I not broken into silence,

As she hang on waiting, anxious

Clinging on the last drop of hope

As she did-- with her fingernails

Maybe she would have been still

Kept her faith till my 'homecoming'

 If I had broken the dead silence

And stormed into her forlorn soul

In the thick of those cold nights,

Enchanting her breaking spirit
With my soothing strokes of love,

Maybe I’d still be her shining knight

The Beautiful Ones

It’s been so long a wait,

For this breed of little beings

“Will they ever come to birth, or

Was it yet another metaphor

To tame my teenage angst?”

I wandered and pondered.

Sometimes I used to think,

“What’s keeping them for so long?”

Aren’t we beautiful enough or,

Are the poor little things flushed

And washed down the gutter already

Wrapped in our elastic rubber suits?

Today morning I heard one,

Reaching out for my affection

Crying softly by the roadside,

Along the windy path of life

Rejected. Suffocated. Dumped.

Who will bear the beautiful ones?

Bleed my black

“A pound of flesh,” you insist,

Isn’t it? Thou shalt have it sir.

Chop off my hinds first, will you?

Well, amuse yourself officer.

Let loose your hounds of havoc, and

Wreck my sack of ghetto bones.

Bleed me out of my misery.

Immolate my remains too, will you?

Well, have it your own damned way!

Still, all there shall ever be is black.

The Franc Phoney

I said to the black lady,

"Excuse me Madame"

"Ce qui?" She said apathetically.

"Err, sorry to bother you ..."

"Je ne pas comprends,"

"Do you know this address?"

"Désolé, Je ne Parle pas anglais."

I turned away disconcertedly.

As the train slithered away

Deeper into the dingy tunnel,

I wallowed in nostalgic reveries,

Swamped by memories of home,

Awoken by the hissing engine

Now, looking back I wonder

Who, between the black Madame

And I, is truly, truly lost? 

The Smile of Color

Disenchanted and haggard,

I squeeze into a busy station

Against the mighty waves of folks;

A swarm of passengers of all kinds

Hurrying in all directions.

I conveniently plant myself firmly

In a tiny spot on the waiting train

I sit at the edge of the pew,

Surrounded by odd-looking faces

You know the penetrating eyes,

Yes, razor sharp eyes of strangers

Daggering, piercing, and poking?

And what of the long, straight faces?

Oh, what a terrible scare it is!

I crane my neck across the cabin

And, oh! I'm not the only one.

Grinning at me from the back is

A true son of the soil. A brother.

Suddenly, my heart warms up inside,

And I smile back at him instinctively.

It was such a colorful smile!

The Last Bow

My paint brush is dry,
Sucked all its lifeblood
By the luscious pages
Of her vast bare buttocks.
Oh how I'd paint,
And paint. And paint again.
Long were the nights
That trickled down into dawn,
Awash with my psychic urges.

I remember how on this night,
Under a moon sky full of stars,
I drew her body in  raunchy  contortions
And with every stroke of my paint brush,
Created the perfect picture of myself.
Out of the folds of her blurred lines
Came my most valued work of art,
A priceless masterpiece.

Looking the other way

I see you fret and scatter

Recoiling to your guilty skin,

Unnerved by my grand insignia

A little poking and bantering

With the butt of my irate cannon

Leaves you scuttling out coyly,

Entreating for my absolution

Enchanted by your juicy carrot

I look the other way, indifferent

Like a “brother’s keeper” would

Your misdeed’s wholly expunged

Things that dangle

Oh, the things that dangle!

So heavy and low they hang,

How so often they bear down

Upon our wretched souls,

Always yanking us back

O'er the angelic train,

Slaying our little faith 

Our only hope of salvation

Whence else shall it come?

The Untold Love Story

Truly, many a women,

Alike in fair and flair

Did catch the ball of my eye

There was nothing telling

About any of them yet

And I, spoilt for choice

Confessed my undying love

To all but one that in time

Bore the fruit of my loins

She was crafty with her noose

Hanging o’er my head

And as fate would have it,

Time was nigh for the chickens

To come home to roost

A choice had been made and I,

No longer the eligible bachelor,

Still bemoan, to this day

My dearth of choice

When my teenage daughter

Nudges me in years to come

About how I met her mother,

I’ll have the perfect fairy tale

Of a damsel in distress,

And a one-horse-open sleigh

 “I rescued her from her pursuers,

Then she collapsed in my arms…

I knew she was the one”

The Sojourner

Journeying to the deep,

I lingered in the brook,

Dazzled by daylight visions

My thoughts hovered,

Awash with swooshing waters

I gazed at the blinking stars,

Engulfed in the moon walk

And journeyed home

Age of the Vanguard

Was I not there,

In the prime of my youth,

When the art of wooing was

No uncircumcised boys’ business,

In my remote emusembe village?

Wasn’t I there?

Was I not the village cock,

Conqueror of all hearts

That charmed all the girls

Into my grass-thatched lair

With the sweet-little-nothings

Of my smooth tongue?

Wasn’t I?

Was I not there,

In the era of the night discos,

When Sukuma Bin Ongaro blared

At ear-deafening volumes, and

Girls would sneak out into the dark night?

Wasn’t I there?

Was I not the knight of the night,

The unmatched conjurer, that

When unbearded boys fidgeted

Unable to locate their balls,

Would ensnare all the disco girls

Like a flame does the moth?

Wasn’t I?

Now, I watch from afar,

As my unbridled son,

A chance occurrence

In the thick of my hay days,

And his counsel of “hyenas”

Double tap on “Instagram”

And snooze on “Twitter”

Trailing skimpily garbed lassies,

What a travesty of manhood!

Whatnot became of

The fine hoary days,

Before the “e” craze left them

Bereft of their manhood?

Travesty of life

In this grimy gaol,

Where hopes ran dry, 

And forlorn souls rest not,

Roaches dance into the dark

In tune with my tattling bones

As I cuddle the cold,

On this concrete floor

My blistered back,

Lain in gore,

Is on fire.

But what isn't?

My hands are sore,

And my legs are numb.

But my soul is whole.

Darkened and dimmed,

But alive nonetheless.

In the Sunset of Dawn

Indulge my farce,

Oh dear mirror—

And bald my contortions,

—with the grin of a scorned belle.

Whatnot be I, trust I pray thee,

Never once was. I swear.

Such is the fleeting memory,

—of days fast gone into nights.

And sorry nights gone by so fast.

The past is fogged. Buried.

A blissful teenage angst, isn't it?

                     

Flying High

“Fly, will your career,

High with aviation, Nairobi?

So bold they held. And so it did,

So high fly it fled.