A song from Mama

Sing me that song Christine,

Sing me the song!

A song from the deep, where you lay in peace.

A song not of grief, but of hope and a home.

Where God’s love manifests, in loved ones whom you left,

In the hands of our dad, resilient and smart.

He has kept us together, ensured your legacy forever

In the eyes of our children, in our triumphs and achievements.

God has been faithful!

Sing it for Emilly, Mike and Winnie,

Sing it for Lizzette, Desmond and Jimmy,

For in their hearts burns a fire, no water can take!

Sing it for Diana, Christine and Imani,

Sing it for Yala, Kevo and Manuella,

Sing it for more still to come, through blood and water!

Sing it for the spouses and spouses to be!

Death for sure does humble, so that God can restore.

26 years since you left us, but for ever present for sure;

In our eyes, and our laughter,

in our fears and our dance,

in our rebellion and faith,

in our love and kindness.

 

Sing us that song mama,

Sing us that song! 

Death is the shepherd of all,

but morning also comes, with the portion of saints.

This song indeed, is the legacy of Christine,

Atieno,

Nyar Yala

_Mamawa!_

***

21st April 2022

New York, USA

Tired eyes

The tired eyes of a working man

The missing beats from a forgotten drum

The faded jeans in a woman's lap
Old carrots and frozen mangoes

Fallen angels in dark alleys
Mixed noises and a broken pipe

No choices when you drink and drive
Abandoned widows in aluminum beds

Sunken lips in a broken glass
Fortunes tell when it's a wrap

It's life that brings back forgotten jingles
Of time that stood still when you wanted
to wake up

* * *

Lusaka, Zambia 

March 2021 

I Moan

He hid my jacket,

My cloak

My hopes for a dream that once was foretold

He kissed my throat 

My groans

My burnt out feet in a wet tiled floor

He sang my song

My home

My two great mountains in a fold and a groan

He dug my heart

My tears

My six feet fears in a no go zone

He held my arm

My mirror

My only single reason for the bad day gone

He had my flock

My door

My lost little finger in a sugar laced coat

I moan. 

***

Eureka Park, Lusaka

Morning sun

On the day I'll be gone,

Our morning walks, 

no more. 

Kissing, 

the soft morning sun, 

whistling with the birds. 

Soft footprints, 

on white sands, 

Now  a pair, 

Soon to dissolve, 

in gentle waves. 

Keep our daily walks, 

When am gone. 

Even though alone, 

We float in your thoughts 

Kiss our sun,

Sing, 

With the morning birds. 

Try to be early 

Or ill be long gone! 

* * * 

Bamburi Beach, Bamburi 

Mombasa, Feb, 2021 

Twisted

Twisted in a story that no one told,

Going to places that no one named,

Worshipping white saints and a pot of gold,

In a journey that yields while many beg.

The roof is an anchor to a stomach bled,

The crown becomes heavy in another man's bed,

To grieve in absentia is a cure instead,

Live for tomorrow and beg for bread.

A lot still happens in a world constrained,

Lack of movement breeds another mistake,

The walls will regret it when the time betrays,

All the more reason to begin again.

Three little fingers and a pointed face,

Why must it matter when no one says,

Truth gets frustrated in a broken shed,

Just keep on milking, the cow is fed.

* * *

8 February 2020,

Diani, Mombasa

Seven minutes

Twice in seven minutes he went to war,

Pulling out of prison is not a joke.

It's easy to get help when you don't withdraw,

For a man needs forgiveness from a heart on top.

How could he tell it when the net was low,

Catching a new feeling from moods ignored,

In two pieces of silver on a fist in brawls,

With another man's beard on an empty draw.

He kept flinching noises in hope to slay,

Those little voices that the heart betrays,

War is an ally when you don't withdraw,

For after seven battered minutes, you lose control.

***

July 3, 2020

Nairobi, Lockdown

Syrian night

I visited a Syrian village in the night
Mothers in black fading burqas, clutching on to impatient children,
Cats and small boys scrambling for leftovers  carelessly thrown in the trash.

I saw a Syrian girl that night, hawking wipes in a busy night,
Maybe a man, will buy her time to leave the cold, hide her shame in lust.

I ate a Syrian meal that night, grilled chicken and yellow rice, with slices of carrot on paper plates, fat stray cats and thin street boys, winked and kicked, licking their upper lips in turns.

I bought a Syrian necklace that night, tungsten mould, from a talkertive boy, whose goods were smuggled in chains.

She passed the salt with grace that night, dirty fingernails on stunted thumbs, that scrapped the trash with hate.

I saw his eyes recoil that night, the sudden explosion of a tyre burst, memories of a past in pain, love that lost in war.

They talked and ate and laughed that night, people on the move, Migrants and thugs, mingle in bands, following the news online.

A home will be rebuilt one night, the cost of blood that will not bring back, the loved ones who demise.

I saw a Syrian village, in a late Cairo night that's cold and dark, the cats and boys regret.

***
28/02/2020

Rosto, Syrian Cafe
Cairo