This piece is probably a paid tribute to all those Congo women I have just seen on the news; child on back, household on head and mind, threads of hope in heart, running away from the ear piercing, adrenaline pumping sound of invisible gushing bullets. This piece is probably dedicated to those like these women, baggage upon baggage, running away from the harshness of life in search of a safe haven. And these women are much like us all, living the hard way just like us, even though sometimes it seems like theirs is much harder. But think about it. This stranger called life calls on us with every waking moment. 99 per cent of our awake time is spent trying to relate wit this stranger. Its issues we bear, they become our issues. And just like the frightened Congo mama holding to feeble hands of her young, we hold on to feeble hands of the future. Child on back for me, you wonder? The struggles, the wins, the losses, the ups and downs that are meant to make us better people. If it don’t kill you, it just makes you stronger, that’s what they say. But even as we run, do we really? These ‘children’ finally get a place in our systems, tightly and safely buckled to our backsides, sort of etched marks on our footpaths, indicators of where we have been and sometimes where we are headed. Constant reminders of that we carry, so close yet sometimes so heavy, yet we just can’t seem to let go. We just can’t seem to detach ourselves from this ‘load’.
But the question still begs, with this child on back, will we ever get to the Promised Land? When will the journey ever stop? When do we get to the cross roads, how much harder, how many more long treacherous days, blood-hungry nights, how much longer? When do we finally get to breathe, let out that air that we have so desperately been rushing for? I mean, when do we get the children off our backs and let them walk? When do we let go? When do we get to listen to the lovely symphony of the avian chirps and just flow away with the music? When do we get to see the rhythmic harmony coloring of the rainbow? Just when do we let loose? When do we let the child down?
Maybe the courageous Congo mother, who has to be strong for herself and her household even more, has the answer.
Maybe we will never know.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Yester tears
You walked in. Face butted, dusty, dirty; needy. Your hands stretched out, reaching to someone, a ‘Good Samaritan’, for that extra coin that is malingering in their able pockets; what they do not know is that that coin coins out your life.
And you stood there, waiting, wanting; needing. Some gave, someone didn’t.
But someone said something, or they didn’t. But they ripped you apart, injuring your already broken heart; hurting you.
That’s when the diamonds fell. You cried. As if dreading what awaits. ‘How can they not see?’ you probably asked. ‘Don’t they know am in this life not because I want to, but because I have to?’ ‘And now you make me cry.. I know I am thousands of steps behind, but why leave me in my own perish? Why not save me from this animal called life?’
You walked in again, trying not to sink in the depth of your tears. You quickly wiped the gems from your cheeks, those gems that they didn’t see.
Again, did your rounds, stretched your hand. Some clutched their bags, others saw your ghost. She then came, held you apparently oblivious of your filth.
She gently but firmly escorted you out, saying you had had enough. Taking one look at us before your exit, as if to catch a glimpse of what ‘life’ supposedly looks like.
Then off you went, swallowed into the pit of the night, the dark streets aligned with other walking forms of life.
I stared at you as you disappeared. And in my mind you were blackened out too. But I felt this hanging cloud over me; I just couldn’t tell what it was. Then it dawned to me, when I told your story to another.
It was you. My heart went out to you, and I didn’t see that coming.
And now almost 15hours after that priceless spectacle, I still see you.
Clearly.
I remember your face.
I see your eyes.
I see your strife.
I hurt silently from afar, for you, with you.
I just wish I would have capture yester’s tears. Somehow.
Just for you.
Then maybe you wouldn’t cry.
Maybe yester’s tears might have been a façade.
And you stood there, waiting, wanting; needing. Some gave, someone didn’t.
But someone said something, or they didn’t. But they ripped you apart, injuring your already broken heart; hurting you.
That’s when the diamonds fell. You cried. As if dreading what awaits. ‘How can they not see?’ you probably asked. ‘Don’t they know am in this life not because I want to, but because I have to?’ ‘And now you make me cry.. I know I am thousands of steps behind, but why leave me in my own perish? Why not save me from this animal called life?’
You walked in again, trying not to sink in the depth of your tears. You quickly wiped the gems from your cheeks, those gems that they didn’t see.
Again, did your rounds, stretched your hand. Some clutched their bags, others saw your ghost. She then came, held you apparently oblivious of your filth.
She gently but firmly escorted you out, saying you had had enough. Taking one look at us before your exit, as if to catch a glimpse of what ‘life’ supposedly looks like.
Then off you went, swallowed into the pit of the night, the dark streets aligned with other walking forms of life.
I stared at you as you disappeared. And in my mind you were blackened out too. But I felt this hanging cloud over me; I just couldn’t tell what it was. Then it dawned to me, when I told your story to another.
It was you. My heart went out to you, and I didn’t see that coming.
And now almost 15hours after that priceless spectacle, I still see you.
Clearly.
I remember your face.
I see your eyes.
I see your strife.
I hurt silently from afar, for you, with you.
I just wish I would have capture yester’s tears. Somehow.
Just for you.
Then maybe you wouldn’t cry.
Maybe yester’s tears might have been a façade.
Mr. Mkubwa
Last night my four kids and I
Slept hungry, on the aisle
Yes sir, that aisle that your Passat passed by
You dint see me, your tints hid my crying.
Oh and did I tell you my son goes hunting
Yeah, he just turned 13
Hunting? I meant fending.
You see I still use this language
That my mother taught me in the village
Sons went hunting, girls stayed cleaning
But I heard a word that you had invented machines
And you needed people to be working.
Problem is a thousand and more beings
Ran from all over, for your one machine.
Who was I to be left behind?
I carried what I could find
Child on back, hope in mind
I had to work at the machine
My children needed to eat.
I came here and the tall buildings caught my attention
Shifting focus for a mention, ‘What a construction?’
Then my babe burped, I shook, had to continue my mission
My daughter, on the glass, fascinated by her reflection.
My sons taken by your automobiles’ emissions.
Long short, I came short
No machine, vacancies fort
‘Mama, wewe taka nini hapa?’
‘Kazi hakuna, kazi kwisha, kwenda kabisa.’
You have to be kidding me
‘Unajua nimetoka wapi?’
So here I am, here we are
My sons, my daughters and I
Fathers of my sons and daughters of my mothers
We still sit by the aisle
Waiting, just waiting..
Maybe one day you’ll roll down your tints
And wink at us.
Throw us your ‘bakshish’ cuisine
How we will rejoice!
Ama I send you an sms Mr. Mkubwa
I heard u have just zero rated mobile phones
But wait, how do I get you number?
07.. ama +44 ending with a saba?
Aaii, lakini Mr. Mkubwa, onge bamba
Access denied!
So meet me at the aisle
Today, tomorrow, next and next..
I promise, Mr. Mkubwa, I’ll be waiting.
Slept hungry, on the aisle
Yes sir, that aisle that your Passat passed by
You dint see me, your tints hid my crying.
Oh and did I tell you my son goes hunting
Yeah, he just turned 13
Hunting? I meant fending.
You see I still use this language
That my mother taught me in the village
Sons went hunting, girls stayed cleaning
But I heard a word that you had invented machines
And you needed people to be working.
Problem is a thousand and more beings
Ran from all over, for your one machine.
Who was I to be left behind?
I carried what I could find
Child on back, hope in mind
I had to work at the machine
My children needed to eat.
I came here and the tall buildings caught my attention
Shifting focus for a mention, ‘What a construction?’
Then my babe burped, I shook, had to continue my mission
My daughter, on the glass, fascinated by her reflection.
My sons taken by your automobiles’ emissions.
Long short, I came short
No machine, vacancies fort
‘Mama, wewe taka nini hapa?’
‘Kazi hakuna, kazi kwisha, kwenda kabisa.’
You have to be kidding me
‘Unajua nimetoka wapi?’
So here I am, here we are
My sons, my daughters and I
Fathers of my sons and daughters of my mothers
We still sit by the aisle
Waiting, just waiting..
Maybe one day you’ll roll down your tints
And wink at us.
Throw us your ‘bakshish’ cuisine
How we will rejoice!
Ama I send you an sms Mr. Mkubwa
I heard u have just zero rated mobile phones
But wait, how do I get you number?
07.. ama +44 ending with a saba?
Aaii, lakini Mr. Mkubwa, onge bamba
Access denied!
So meet me at the aisle
Today, tomorrow, next and next..
I promise, Mr. Mkubwa, I’ll be waiting.
Monday, December 15, 2008
The New Road.
The blind has finally been lifted. I have decided to open my eyes. Savor the scenery, live the viewpoint, rise with the horizon. The pleas have been heard, the tears wept. But the fear still lingers as we start this new road. this road that we have no clue where it leads. This new journey we are taking.. Together. The fear still lingers.
The past has robbed me of hope for the future, my tomorrow drained in the rain of today. I dont doubt, lovely times i have had, and i have also been under he weather. But this fresh air i now breathe, is totally refreshing. In fact so refreshing that i am scared of liking it too much. I just might get hooked and that would be the beginning of the end. I just might get hooked and when i can breathe no more.. I'll die.
So i give you my hand as we approach the cross roads. They say we live once and truly we do. So i won't hold back, i'll water our seed, grow our flower until it blossoms. Until the petals wing out,plant themselves on the ground, bear others.. Signs of our seeds. We try, however far we get, we tried. It's going to be a long road this one, but as long as our feet can carry as and however far they do, let's make it happen.
This one's for you, Onduks!
Now yours.
Me.
The past has robbed me of hope for the future, my tomorrow drained in the rain of today. I dont doubt, lovely times i have had, and i have also been under he weather. But this fresh air i now breathe, is totally refreshing. In fact so refreshing that i am scared of liking it too much. I just might get hooked and that would be the beginning of the end. I just might get hooked and when i can breathe no more.. I'll die.
So i give you my hand as we approach the cross roads. They say we live once and truly we do. So i won't hold back, i'll water our seed, grow our flower until it blossoms. Until the petals wing out,plant themselves on the ground, bear others.. Signs of our seeds. We try, however far we get, we tried. It's going to be a long road this one, but as long as our feet can carry as and however far they do, let's make it happen.
This one's for you, Onduks!
Now yours.
Me.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Simply...
‘I am a simple man, I dream about loving you
And my simple mind is filled with thoughts of you
You will be mine…. Someday.’
As I sit here, listen to you
Your simple simplicity me, consumes
I exhale; what to simply write?
Simple, simply; Simplicity.
Said who simplicity simplifies?
Says who sheer vulnerability of soaring with a dream
Sheer vagueness of smiling at distant sighs, signs
Say who that this simplicity is… Just is.
My dream, is to simply live
Maybe not often in a simple way
But with each passing cloud that births day
My simple mind wishes not clueless naivety, but wise hoping, living… Simply live.
Yet these words, honestly, me they confuse
So how can I expect this writing in wanting to you sense fuse
Cross my fingers, maybe you’ll perceive, somewhat understand
That which in me is deeply diffused.
But hang on, this feeling I feel
My tongue rolls, sliding sound, tickling syllable turns word
The tips of my fingers peck on the board, I got it
This tongue, these fingers I use to simply speak.
There I go again, that word again; resonance so simple
In such a vicious complex circle called life
My simple dream, I suggest, I insist
My simple mind dreams of simply living.
Simply living… Someday!
And my simple mind is filled with thoughts of you
You will be mine…. Someday.’
As I sit here, listen to you
Your simple simplicity me, consumes
I exhale; what to simply write?
Simple, simply; Simplicity.
Said who simplicity simplifies?
Says who sheer vulnerability of soaring with a dream
Sheer vagueness of smiling at distant sighs, signs
Say who that this simplicity is… Just is.
My dream, is to simply live
Maybe not often in a simple way
But with each passing cloud that births day
My simple mind wishes not clueless naivety, but wise hoping, living… Simply live.
Yet these words, honestly, me they confuse
So how can I expect this writing in wanting to you sense fuse
Cross my fingers, maybe you’ll perceive, somewhat understand
That which in me is deeply diffused.
But hang on, this feeling I feel
My tongue rolls, sliding sound, tickling syllable turns word
The tips of my fingers peck on the board, I got it
This tongue, these fingers I use to simply speak.
There I go again, that word again; resonance so simple
In such a vicious complex circle called life
My simple dream, I suggest, I insist
My simple mind dreams of simply living.
Simply living… Someday!
In sheer Ambiguity.
So there she lay. Hand to her back, hand on her left breast. Was is she pain? Was she hiding her feminine nudity? Was she proud of what she had to offer as a woman, a seductive pose maybe? And her head lowered, almost kissing the ground, thanking her for making her who she is. Or is it whispering to the earth to swallow her up? Her face is covered up, she could be ashamed, she could be blushing...
Then beside her stand three of them, tall, slender, striking males. Their hearts worn on their sleeves, portraying outside what they inhibit inside. Their colors, their culture, them! But their faces have a lingering want,a longing. Their sunken eyes maybe because they are starved. Maybe because the light is to bright... their future is too bright perhaps? Or maybe they have come to the end of the tunnel and the proverbial light has shone.. Just who knows?
Yet these two, the bare woman and the covered men, all have stories to tell. Yes stories because their definitely uncertain paths seem to be imprinting more than a set of footprints.. And such are we all. In sheer ambiguity, we grope in the dark, looking for our place, our perfection, ourselves.
But this sheer ambiguity holds such meaning, that we never are willing to let it go. "The thrill of the chase", 'hope for a better tomorrow'.. symbolic of the much light this darkness holds. Like the MonaLisa, we are trapped in our own conditions, our own expressions, almost comfortable in them, that no other can really know what they are, who we are. We take cover in our smear cloth, our experiences, our plans, just us. The people we know best!
Are we afraid? Like hell we are. Of what? Everything! Everything? yes, EVERYTHING! But all this everything we so dearly hold on to really does amount to nothing in the long term. When it's time and dust recalls each of us (by name)to its bowels, we leave it all behind. Yet the young and restless, the old and even more restless have ran all their lives in a marathon called life, with no winner really. Because all the prizes weren't taken home, to the bowels of dust from where we came.
Amazing.
Such meaning in sheer ambiguity
Then beside her stand three of them, tall, slender, striking males. Their hearts worn on their sleeves, portraying outside what they inhibit inside. Their colors, their culture, them! But their faces have a lingering want,a longing. Their sunken eyes maybe because they are starved. Maybe because the light is to bright... their future is too bright perhaps? Or maybe they have come to the end of the tunnel and the proverbial light has shone.. Just who knows?
Yet these two, the bare woman and the covered men, all have stories to tell. Yes stories because their definitely uncertain paths seem to be imprinting more than a set of footprints.. And such are we all. In sheer ambiguity, we grope in the dark, looking for our place, our perfection, ourselves.
But this sheer ambiguity holds such meaning, that we never are willing to let it go. "The thrill of the chase", 'hope for a better tomorrow'.. symbolic of the much light this darkness holds. Like the MonaLisa, we are trapped in our own conditions, our own expressions, almost comfortable in them, that no other can really know what they are, who we are. We take cover in our smear cloth, our experiences, our plans, just us. The people we know best!
Are we afraid? Like hell we are. Of what? Everything! Everything? yes, EVERYTHING! But all this everything we so dearly hold on to really does amount to nothing in the long term. When it's time and dust recalls each of us (by name)to its bowels, we leave it all behind. Yet the young and restless, the old and even more restless have ran all their lives in a marathon called life, with no winner really. Because all the prizes weren't taken home, to the bowels of dust from where we came.
Amazing.
Such meaning in sheer ambiguity
What For Again?
So an eventful weekend for me doing nothing really...don't you have those ones too? When you're just busy chilling or doing nothing much with yourself. Then at the end of the day, you're the first one to yawn..ati nimechoka!!!
Anyway, such is life. Such is life when the doves have cried and they still bear tears within. Such is life when the moon has crashed the waves on the shores. When the stars have shown and it's light again..
But how do you go on when the writings on the wall have been erased? Then your hints are no more? When you have no idea how to start all over again? When it\s time to move on but the step is taking longer than you expected? Or the strength for the step itself is lacking? How do you even come up with the decision of crossing the roads in this circle called life?
You see i am a poet. And poets are more or less observers. You look into your life or that of another, put two and two together then come up with some catchy lines... Rhythmic shit if you ask me but hey, we all think poets are deep peeps??
And so as a poet, i say all this doesn't make sense. All this bickering of oranges, (or one and halves), or kazi iendelee, all this ish of the NSE running like a fish market or any other market that has no IPOs for that matter, all this hullaballoo of the highest paid CEOs. All this crap of get yourself a good education, get yourself a good job, get a good family... then what?
No sense at all... unless you soar with the eagle called hope. Who knows tomorrow? Even the next 5minutes? Who knows anything at all apart from right now? How will the human-designed tangibility be intertwined with this absurdity dubbed entirity in futurity? Told you, educated rythmic shit!!
Still, despite all this confusing jargon, we refuse to be defined by our present and fight with space, for space, to secure a better unknown. The unknown is always better for some reason. Always more promising, more fulfilling, more real, more tangible. Then when future becomes present, it's wanting..most times you have to look at the past.. You find yourself fighting on for more. Maybe a better idea, clearer path, wider range of options...
Maybe in the next lifetime...now thats scary!
Anyway, such is life. Such is life when the doves have cried and they still bear tears within. Such is life when the moon has crashed the waves on the shores. When the stars have shown and it's light again..
But how do you go on when the writings on the wall have been erased? Then your hints are no more? When you have no idea how to start all over again? When it\s time to move on but the step is taking longer than you expected? Or the strength for the step itself is lacking? How do you even come up with the decision of crossing the roads in this circle called life?
You see i am a poet. And poets are more or less observers. You look into your life or that of another, put two and two together then come up with some catchy lines... Rhythmic shit if you ask me but hey, we all think poets are deep peeps??
And so as a poet, i say all this doesn't make sense. All this bickering of oranges, (or one and halves), or kazi iendelee, all this ish of the NSE running like a fish market or any other market that has no IPOs for that matter, all this hullaballoo of the highest paid CEOs. All this crap of get yourself a good education, get yourself a good job, get a good family... then what?
No sense at all... unless you soar with the eagle called hope. Who knows tomorrow? Even the next 5minutes? Who knows anything at all apart from right now? How will the human-designed tangibility be intertwined with this absurdity dubbed entirity in futurity? Told you, educated rythmic shit!!
Still, despite all this confusing jargon, we refuse to be defined by our present and fight with space, for space, to secure a better unknown. The unknown is always better for some reason. Always more promising, more fulfilling, more real, more tangible. Then when future becomes present, it's wanting..most times you have to look at the past.. You find yourself fighting on for more. Maybe a better idea, clearer path, wider range of options...
Maybe in the next lifetime...now thats scary!
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