The single mother

To the single mother with two kids,
Raising hope with adult needs

Crying infants and bottled meals
Rushing home to late feeds

Begging more from drained tits
Closed taps and late bills

Making promises to those kids
Love comforts when fear bleeds

Why rejoice and borrow still
Bring me those children and don't kneel

Bended knees won't bring gifts
Yes you are a fighter so don't quit

Don't be surprised when friends leave
Marriage sermons and lost dreams

To the single mother with no peace
He is just a silly man whose nose bleeds

... of broken promises and two kids.

***Lindau, Germany
24/8/19

She wasn't singing

She wasn't singing much,
really 
But they kept on cheering, 

leading,
her to do more of what,
she wasn't doing.

There was a certain hope in her presence,
something sublime in her voice.
Perhaps it was the guitar guy.

We murmured in small conversations and everyone else
competed, with her vocals,
made her singing less accommodative.

She wasn't singing much,
but the crowd somehow knew, 
the song had reached the end.

We kept on waiting for her to start 
singing,
but she wasn't singing much.

Then we realised it!
The way she stroked her Brazilian weave
at intervals, is what we liked!

Covered in a red Che Guevara beret,
split in the middle so that her small face 
protruded, from the mass of hair.

The way she stroked it with her tiny fingers,
her tiny hand,
we assumed all her fingers were of the same size.

That thing, that was the thing!
That made me order more drinks,
in a bucket,

As I perched on my stool
and waited
for her to start singing.

Cos she 
wasn't singing 
much!

* * *

Speakerbox, K1, Nairobi
Karun Mungai, 24/7
July

Forsaken inheritance

She never used to write so well,
but her strokes were precise and felt, in pain.
Rubbed her kitty like a bag on sale,
to furious suitors that never rung, her bell.

Indeed she was one whose fate you could tell,
gave me hope that indeed I could sell,
twenty short verses, for the price of ale
to abandoned groupies, now crowded, in a cell.

Mama didn't know how hard we fell,
lost opportunities now wrapped instead,
on borrowed paper that rusts, in beds,
of jilted lovers, whose fate we dealt.

We knew she was a keeper from files we read,
and virtual comments she made, from jail,
while serving a sentence to redeem, her claim,
on a forsaken inheritance, now bought in shame. 

* * *
Rabbit Hole, July 2019

Stolen guitar

A stolen guitar for my cousin
Foyo's talent should scare the crows
Rising clouds from our motherlands bosom
Emotions fulfilled in mixed assignments

Its time to heal, then we reap
The tunes, definitely, will show the roots
The crack of dawn the cock will roost
Sharing idols we worshiped and begged

Milk these chances, browse and bring
Those who bleed pretend to clean
Scare the puppets, go and pray
So it seems we've got a few trinkets

She stares the moon then throws the bait
To manage the time you borrow blindly
Even thugs shed tears as love draws nigh
The gifts of nature are not planted in fear

I asked for time,She led me to hear
Vibrations from the womb, in life its clear
We glide and ride since friends are near
The family is here, to wince and cheer.

****

To Foyo

Drifting without sugar

12/05/2010

Scavengers Yard

I saw scavengers reaping other peoples harvest
Forfeited memories will create new ones

Bidders by the hammer haggling for more
Carting away salvage from distressed dreamers

Merciless banks exploit then subdue
Licking their lips with fortified glee

Scrapping off the harvest from fields already dry
Marauding agents with files and injunctions

A chain so vicious that trades in tears
Of abandoned dreams and subdued fears

Its a sorry sight the auctioneers yard
Resurrecting hope in exchange for a song

* * *
Pangani Auction Yard, Nairobi
May 2019
For George and Denis 

Built a City

I built my city based on chats
Licked my fingers split my heart
Made some winners loose their pacts
Of what use is a city that floats on a raft?

I lost my mountain before my trust
Gave her a glimpse then took it back
It's never that obvious when fate hits back
Is it still forgiving to hold ones hand?

I brought my harvest back on track
Paid my debtors but lost their trust
Sold my lady for half her worth
Is it still freedom when the chains never rust?

I found my healing still intact
Stitched my wounds on empty cracks
Met those voices that held me back
Is it still a cure if it drains your bank?

I saw my freedom being fought back
Took my chances bled in turn
Shed quiet tears that gave me love
Is it still morning when the night is black?

* * *

Escudo, 106S
June 2019, Kiambu
Farewell

When no one is watching

When no one is watching, 
I walk without showing pain.

When no one is watching,
I fake being well.

When no one is watching,
I struggle to get some sleep.

When no one is watching,
I get lonely.

When no one is watching,
I detest my medication.

When no one is watching,
My own body fights me.

When no one is watching,
I can barely get out of bed.

When no one is watching, 
I curse those damned flares.

It takes strength to fake being well,
Learning to walk without showing pain,
Knowing that it won't get away,

So I fight my way, a day at a time,
Worried if I will finally be able to get some sleep,
When no one is watching.

* * *
10th May 2019,
Lupus Awareness Month.
For Krabbo
Solidarity. Resilience. Faith

Come to Fathers'

Come to Fathers',
We'll find some use for you.
Pick a plastic seat, pick two
Plant yourself bro, we'll sort you out.

Economy Class is where the noise happens,
Experts on anything and everything
Grambling insiders, generous to the last coin,
Inseparable from their drink.

Business class amateurs, thumb pinned to the phone,
Spitting khat residue and slapping dodgy Mosquitoes and gossip,
Issuing disposable orders to an arrogant caretaker-Waingo,
Clever betting investors, never announce when they win.

First class hawks, those who come to see the boss
Long time allies, gobbling single malt softness, fast
Under a sky so clear and fine
Boss will sort them out

The House of Commons, the Common mwananchi
For those mannerless or broke, but not both
Occasional skaters, in-house scams
Makes you laugh at your folly

Welcome to Fathers'
Pick a plastic seat, pluck some twigs
Frolick on free drinks and roasted goat
Boss will sort you out.

**

Fathers Yard, 25th Feb 201o

My wings

Today I left my wings to fly,

broke my rules to glide beside,
free.

I had to sing a song to try,

on flames so purple, my lips would buy,
time.

In haste I moved so free and fresh,

I mapped my throne and rose at will,
certain.

Mischief gives a woman the edge then drive,

a gaze so intense it distracts, it pins,
dark.

Lost in thought, I flicked my head,

afro still fresh his fingers would mess,
crisp.

Its good I left my wings to fly,

if his feet will rise I won't be dry,
wet.

Its good I left my wings to fly,

for I have seen his heart, so wild,
again.

* * *

Contents of my gym bag, For Ladybird

Jan 2019

Gifts from another man

She gave him stuff stolen from another man,
gifts of love tainted with passive guilt,

She longed to be a pair, sealed and fast,
for years of abuse teaches a woman where to scout.

Love is never found in places its never kept,
perhaps it is concealed in tears that mama bore,

Its not stealing when there is no one to claim,
its not cheating when there is no one to shame,

A good workman knows which tools to lend,
and accepts guilt offerings, especially from a wounded heart,

The lost and betrayed find comfort in this confusing altar,
giving sacrifices that nurture hope in times of despair,

She had many pieces to pick in times so constrained,
He had scattered choices to make that chance never gives,

but it won't be long before mama finds out,
that she gave him gifts stolen,
from another man.

* * *

Skyfall, Buruburu, Nairobi
7th Jan 2018

The April Sun

The shallow tears from scars now healing,

and the forgotten fragrance on tested nostrils,

now back.

The last episode of a never ending story,

or the sunken shoulders from a head so heavy,

in debt.

The slippery grip on a moistened skin,

with the silent moans from a groaning man,

that taste.

The warm December nights on hills so gentle,

or fresh yellow rays from the April sun,

will sing.

The melting taste of dark chocolate,

her simmering gaze and many lessons,

or fate.

It is these that bind the soul of a man,

Sounds of a furnace in a woman's heart, 

on Fire.

* * *

Est.Mok, Jan.3.2019, Nairobi

Sounds of silence

The crackling growl from the wobbly bed,

The silent moans from a groaning oven,

Tasted.

The inverted tears from scars now healing,

The forgotten scent of burnt onions,

Gone.

The last episode from a binding story,

The sunken shoulder from a head so heavy,

Loss.

The warm December nights on hills so gentle,

The fresh yellow wings from a ladybirds anthem,

Sung.

The melting taste of dark chocolate,

The simmering gaze and many questions,

Pending.

Its these that bind the sounds of freedom,

Sounds of silence, to the heart that's brings home,

Hope.

* * * 

27 December 2018

Fathers, for ladybird