Sunday, June 11, 2017

The struggle

I struggle
I struggle to convince my mind-; to not think 
To not think of you,
I struggle
I struggle to get my body-; to not feel,
To not feel your touch on my body,
I struggle
I struggle to get my heart-; to not beat,
To not beat so loudly when I see you 
I struggle
I struggle to get my eyes-; to not see,
To not see you see me,
So I look away when we cross paths,
I hold my breath so I don't inhale your scent,
Because then I will pause, and remember 
Your body on mine, your body in mine,
And with shame of such silent sin my stomach will twist and turn,
When my mind wildly runs through how last night I twisted and turned,
When as you kissed me you went ahead and put those two blessed fingers inside me,
Then looking direct into my eyes, you moved them like a rock star and I were your guitar in song that only I knew it's rhythm,
And I sang along, demanding for more, mourning for more, begging for more
I struggle, 
I struggle to get my face-; to not reflect,
To not reflect how my loins are aching for you,
I struggle
I struggle to get my heart-; to not feel,
To not feel tight and yet so exposed to you,

Like I clasped my thighs together when I came to the end yet I prayed that you would never stop....

The end....

Note; this piece is work of fiction or not; the reader's choice

Saturday, December 31, 2016

10 seconds to midnight

There is that emptiness,
that comes with the eve of a new year,
This emptiness lasts a lifetime,
Ten seconds,
This emptiness is full,
Floods the stomach, still as a pool,
This emptiness is blunt,
Pierces the heart like a sharp sword,
Sways like a weak plant,
Playing on your mind like insanity.
This emptiness is generous,
Its harsh and mean like business,
This is that emptiness,
That lasts only ten seconds,
It wonders if in the year you have treated your parents right,
And your heart sinks,
It reminds you of your unforgivable mess,
And your heart pounds,
It remembers your forgotten siblings and friends,
And your head feels dizzy,
It regrets unrequited love,
Makes you feel unworthy,
Repents a lost mistreated love,
Reminds you what comes around goes around,
You wonder if your job is right,
You think about your worlds fight,
You wonder if the goddess of love walks on earth,
And when she will light your path,
Its an emptiness that rejoices in your fears,
Laughs at your pain,
Mocks your thoughtful mind,
crashes your day dreams,
Bruises your ego,
And brings you to your knees!
Then just about when you're about to give raise a white flag,
To concede to your enemy,
you hear yourself scream,
It's exactly midnight!
It's over!
The old is gone and the new has come!
You pray, you dance and you give thanks,
Like Cinderella you run,
Away in thoughts,
but not back in actions,
Your past still hovers around you like an unwavering 3 headed shadow,
You curse the night sun,
It's a new year,
Happy happy new year.

Warning; Do not drink and drive in 2017, what did you think I was going to warn you about?!!? 

Sunday, December 25, 2016

This is not my story

This is not my story,
But your story in my story,
It's that time of the year; the holidays,
That time when family comes first,
Yet noone wants to arrive home as the very first,
So you call your siblings so that you can have a roadtrip upcountry,
Huge shopping in the car boots are the only sign of unity,
And facebook updates hashtag family times, all vanity,
Such a pity,
But we; we the spectators are convinced,
That you are actually happy,
Again, this is not my story,
But your story in my story.
Your mother is emotional as always that her sons and daughters are home,
You can tell by her morning hymns of hope,
But your father is unmoved,
He can read through the pretense,
A penny for his thoughts?
He would rather play the silent witness,
Than bring your mother's walls down.
Again, this is not my story,
But your story in my story.
Every family has one; that successful one,
The one who takes all your mother's love,
And every family has one; that not so successful one,
The one who takes after your father,
According to your mother,
Then there are the other siblings,
Noone knows what into the family they bring,
They sit in the corners,
Silent as ghosts; they're loners,
They laugh at the old jokes,
But they never remember any old yokes,
They say they work as accountants in the city,
But you could bet they are too witty,
Though unmarried, they are the most loved by the kids,
They answer questions with a yes or no, yet they will never ask questions that answers yes or no,
They like not to tell stories but to listen,
Nonetheless they never hearken,
Their spirit roams far away from their bodies,
Your mother says they take after a dead uncle 3 generation ago,
Somehow you believe that,
Again, this is not my story,
But your story in my story
It's an amazing time of the year,
Everyone smiles ear to ear,
Old classmates praise your success in the city,
Right after you part with Kes 100 for "Christmas"
You shamelessly slay your grandmother's goat worth Kes 4,750 in the spirit of celebration,
And she happily receives your worthless Kes 2000 and spits blessings on your shameful hands,
It's no wonder the following year your grandma will give up the ghost,
And then you will selflessly give Kes 10k for her decent send off,
Again, this is not my story,
But your story in my story.
On the 27th I prepare my 2 beautiful children,
You will be coming to pick us and drop us at my parents,
Leaving your parents behind, i wonder what's more sadly painful,
That a 3 day re-union can resurrect a 362 days death,
Or the fact that we believe it actually can.
Again, this is not my story,
But your story in my story.

Warning: This piece is not written to mock any family set up; on the contrary it projects the similarities in our ways of life

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Of Dreams or the wild

This is not your bed, how did you get here?
So you turn and try to fall asleep again,
But your heart won't let you,
The pounding is fast and hard,
You turn to look at her,
and she lay there; silently
Your heart skips a beat,
For she looks so beautiful in her sleep,
Your mind hates your heart,
Your heart hates your mind,
You curse deep inside,
You move your hand to touch her soft face,
She sighs in a distant, but she keeps her eyes closed.
You could eat her alive;
But there is that turning feeling in your stomach,
Water floods in and drown the butterflies,
You feel them scream for their last breath in your throat,
You can't let them out, in hope you swallow them back,
And in shame you turn and face the other side,
Afraid, but not of her, afraid of yourself.
This is a just any other woman,
This is a woman,
She is not afraid of you, and she scares you,
She doesn't know you, yet she understand you,
You have it all, and yet you only want her,
Yet you can't have her, it's not right,
So you just lay beside her in the moment,
And when she turns to hold you, you lean behind to feel her
When she touches you, you turn to kiss her, And when she wants you, you have her in your mouth,
This is your first,
So you want to take your time, but she rushes on,
Moaning your name,
Pushing you to want her more, to need her more,
when she is ready, you let her all in,
Slow, fast, and it's over.
You wake up,
"Mama, Mama, it's Christmas, and Santa is at the door"
You can hear your kids play downstairs,
Your husband lay on the other side of the bed,
But today you don't smile at his tattoos,
You think about the dream,
And remember her,
Of a dream or the wild

The end

Note; this piece is free from any prejudice of sexual orientation

Friday, July 8, 2016

Don't scatter Roses

As a child I sang along the tune "don't scatter roses after I am gone" sorrowfully, slowly and as sadly as I could be,
trying to match the perfect alto voice since soprano don't work well in such deep tunes.
That was when I discovered that music doesn't always need to have instruments, that accapella were best done by a group of men, sexist? maybe,
that death wasn't as scary, horror movies were.
I was 17 years old then.

Twelve years later, I hear equal stories of deaths to the baby showers I attend.
Last month, my friend's friend passed on,
Every Facebook page I opened that day had his happy photos, re-shared photos from friends who had no time to like his original share.
One rose scattered

Another friend had changed his profile picture to the late's profile picture
Another rose scattered

In disbelief of the level of hypocrisy in men, I closed down my page,
In deep thoughts I felt his pain; the deep pain of the bloody knife drilling through his ribs. It was horrifying.

I get interrupted, it's a whatsapp message. I have just been added in a group " friends of Lee"
I can't believe this! Another freaking rose.

By now I am sure Lee's spirit isn't feeling honored at all,
It's feeling sick,
Sick to death.

What is death?
Scientists say death is to cease to exist
Reincarnation fans say it's a passage to a new birth,
Optimists say it's an awakening, while
Christians say its an never ending sleep.
Confused? Me too,

Death is pain.
Brutal, unexpected hard pain
Especially for the dead.
The dead in spirit like the immediate family of the deceased,
The dead in mind like the real friends of the deceased,
The dead in heart like the love of his life,
The dead in soul, the dead himself
So, spare them the scattered roses,
They can't hold them,
They can't lift them towards their noses to feel their scent,
The can't miss that thorn that always pricks the little finger,

Gone are the days one died at 101,
Gone are the days one died in their sleep,
Gone are the days children buried their parents at old age,
Gone are the days fires, floods took away lives and we held national prayers.

Now, death is brutal, disfigured and prejudice

Road accidents are our daily news,
Parents are molesting their children to their death beds,
Children are killing their parents in maternity wards,
Gun related crimes have evolved to sexual orientation crimes,
Bombs are now in countries with no gold and with freedom of worship.
And we have programs on TV about 1000 ways to die

So, a paragraph narrative on how I died is a rose,
Don't pluck it!
your miserable RIP statement is a rose,
Don't start the scatter!
Your like of that old of me now while am gone is a rose
The whatsapp group is a thorny rose,
And your black dress on my important day is a ugly rose
Your fund raising committee is the bunch of roses.

Don't scatter them!

I beg of you to restrain yourself
Just don't
Give them to me when I carry on....

Friday, November 27, 2015


If you asked me this morning if I wanted to get married, I would have not only said yes but added in a garden carpeted with red and pink roses and we would have three beautiful children.
Just go ahead and ask now when I have washed my face; I will shout a hell no. 
there is no time to play wife. 
Working 8 to 5, living fifteen miles from my work place, there is no longer ample time to clean for him, cook for him or even make love to him.
Men will always be polygamous,
Isn't it ridiculous,
how our modern African society still embraces this school of thought,
even with the inflation, a man is still able to sustain three homes above poverty levels,
makes me wonder where the line cuts, our men can't settle for only one,
one is weakness,
two is normal,
but three;
three is optimal; his wife, his other woman, and the new one he will string along for a few weeks.
Maendeleo ya wanaume failed a long time ago
Whereas in 1990s women were empowered with education and free nominations to public offices,
alas the boy child was forgotten,
as the woman grew stronger,
the man grew not
and so Delilah beheld Samson eyes and blinded him,
beheld his manhood and crushed him,
beheld his stature but behold there was none!
such that a man today will not pay dowry upfront like the days of my father
as the clan will count my education, my career, my car, my house as success quantified as thousands of shillings
throwing him off the wagon with his same equal scores as mine.
So he will trick me into pregnancy and escape the wrath of dowry; the first allowable cheat!
My husband will successfully cheat.
This is not only because I have no time to master his behavioral pattern change,
but the economic development of my country has fueled this arena.
Nyumba kumi initiative will not help as his number two will be in flat number two and unlike the days of my mother, there is no society left to reprimand our immortality, no one knows the neighbor, more than that; the neighbor. 
So I know by now the judges will judge my poem as a judge for the cheaters, but am gonna bring it back.
It will simply not work.
Not because right were neither our vows nor intentions,
but because I am dating a married man,
and I have heard we reap what we sow,
and as guilt builds brick on brick,
I live in fear that I will not go unpunished
maybe now or tomorrow.
yet if you asked me if I will get ever get married, I will not just say yes but add it will be in a garden carpeted with red and pink roses and we would have three beautiful children.

The end 

NB/ This poem is not written to insinuate that all marriages have failed

Friday, October 23, 2015

SEXUAL ADDICTION; BROKEN FALLEN SIGNS/ as edited to suit 58th Poetry Slam Africa

Look right,
Look left,
Look right again,
These are laws I don’t bargain to gain,
So go ahead and run me over

I stand at a dangerous round about,
Broken fallen signs scream and shout,
Or is it to mumble,
Hearken damsel,
You would think I would heed such words of doubt,
Or my pastor’s words worth pounds,
He calls it lust,
The morning after it corrodes worse than rust,
Whatever dark shadow on my way you have cast,
It heavily clouds more of my future past,
So just go ahead and run me over
Ram me,
Slam me,
Just go ahead and....

Flash forward,
Come morning I will be three doors down,
a torn broken heart from a yesterday’s body pawn,
a soul as empty as a ghost town,
Fear shall actually walk into my own wake,
Hurriedly I shall put on my little black dress,
Tiptoeing I shall leave the room holding my six inches heels,
The walk of shame,
Should actually be called a run from shame.
Damn it! Did we even use protection?
My mind hates my heart, my heart hates my mind 
whichever I don’t know anymore.
But as I press the elevator button I behold the clarity of my disease,
Again I have fallen,
It was just the day before yesterday that I sat in a circle with my support group,
And I could swear I heard Katie say fell of the wagon again and we all gave her a tap on the shoulder,
Mark the newcomer said he recognized he was an addict and he needed help, and we all clapped,
But I sat through it all wondering if I was really one of them.
Maybe they are right I should have looked right and reached for my phone,
Left and dialed my sponsor’s number,
And right again and she would be here with her usual lines ‘I am glad you called, let’s get you out of here’
But these are laws my dark third shadow that does not bargain to gain,
She the demon that awakens in the night,
And kills the angel that walks in the day,
So ye on my right, go ahead and diagnose me, treat me or rehabilitate me,
While ye on my left I beg you to put me on the stand and judge me, crucify me or stone me

For if not, I am afraid that tonight she shall resurrect and take control,
And I will surrender like a pet,
A slave with a master’s debt,
Only one picture in my mind,
How from across the bar your stare paints me naked,
Your handsome face chains me for the forsaken,
And your dark complexion makes me lose all my bets

Look right,
Look left,
Look right again,
These are laws I don’t bargain to gain


all rights reserved

the end