MOSQUITO IN THE NIGHT

I am peering into the celeinged sky

hunting for amosquito i thought flew by.

I want to smash the buzzing out of his life

and into the walls of my bitter knife.

I have heard the sound of the insect in my ear

hypnotizing and dizzying my eyes in fear.

That is no butterfly in beautiful flight

but a diseased dragon that i must fight

an enemy stuck in the borders of my room,

sucking the blood from my ancestors loom.

I want to smash his heartless body in a thud

and take back what little he's taken of my blood.

I crave revenge for my father, now under

For my mother's tears that wont make her sadder.

This merciless insect wont let me sleep

with his warrior songs piercing the night so deep.

His eerie chanting trails my eyes from texts and books

yet the song in my heart, only earns me pitiful looks.

When can i return under the safety of my mosquito net?

i tire of looking for mosquitos and begging fate.

There on the ground lays my butchered arm in my blurry sight

AS KENYA BLEEDS

Monday, January 7, 2008

The mouth of my pen is dry
The ink is shy and the paper untempting
The tears of the nation have drowned my spirits
The fires and fears have imprisoned most
The bullets ringing in the night ushered in the new year
Screams of pain and death rang through the midnight hour
And As Kenya bleeds, as our motherland burns
The powers that be dance on our heads and emotions
The powers that be call on outside mediators
While the problem lays within the very soul of Kenyans
The fire burns from regimes past and those long forgotten
The pain soars higher than our smoke filled skies
And the children watch on in innocent bewilderment
At the loss of their simple homes
At the helplessness of their crying mothers
and at the mercilessness of their angered fathers
...at the despair of their disillusioned brothers and sisters
they queue in line for entrance into temporary shelters.
Our choice of men how erroneous and regretful
Their hunger for power strangles our very core
Women and children scurry for shelter at any corner
Away from flames that have engulfed a nation of brotherhood
Brothers and sisters poisoned to hate those not of kin
Poisoned in history, past and present.
The newly homeless refugees hold out a hand, for a loaf and cloth
Yet the puppet masters smile into the cameras
Ironically wishing us a prosperous new year
Calling for mass action and peace on earth
Waltzing with the mighty and holy from lands afar
Yet the locals dare not go hunting for basic essentials
For fear of what lays in that looting jungle?
Or the indiscriminate bullets that scatter us like rabbits
Some even sing and chant in hope of more glory and fame
Singing of peace and praying for salvation
In stiletto shoes and low-cut halter tops
camera-lights-action, we sing for peace!
And like bees we flock to the nearest shelter in jamuhuri
But safe and secure it must be, unlike mathare
To lend a hand and wait for a shot in the evening news
and maybe a model snap, in the Daily Nation
What is this fire that burns in the heart of our motherland
What is this fear that turns one community against a another
Who planted the seed that blooms an evil weed
That weed that chokes the harvest of our forefathers and mothers

HAVE YOU SEEN THE GHOST IN KISUMU

Have you seen the ghost in Kisumu?
He has covered the town in smoke and soot
He has soaked the people in fear and anxiety
This ghost has wiped the faces off the streets.

Have you smelt the ghost in Kisumu?
The ghost is burning bodiless tarmac
The bodies of the lifeless lie in stinking silence
The limbless are grateful for breath without gangrene

Have you seen the ghost in Kisumu?
He resides in the hearts of the hopeless and helpless
The ghost has swam through the fishless lake
And blocked the passages of life and love, in or out

Have you heard of the ghost in Kisumu?
I heard his whisper in the still of night,
of doom yet to embrace the town
Of animals and monsters creeping into the land
Of haunting existence and bloody resistance

I have touched the hand of the ghost in Kisumu
It is cold and hot in its grips of the children’s smiles
It has slapped the love and faith off the faces of our mothers
That hand holds back the flow of life into oblivious stagnation.

Have you seen the ghost in Kisumu?
He’s sun bathing in the heat of the tensions underneath the surface
He has taken the food from the mouths of our people
He has driven the people from their homes and hopes.

The ghost of Kisumu is hovering in our minds
The ghost in Kisumu s waiting for the devil’s dance
Whiling the moments in the cracks and creases of our paths
Enjoying the scenery of our waterless boat-free lake.

13. Jan.2008

No Rest for The Wicked in Poltics

26 Dec 07

There was no Christmas for the wicked in politics
The tension and jitters were high
The sleep was nigh
Agents filled every nook and cranny in the homestead
The hope was to keep them intact
And make sure they’d be back on the day of work
Especially with their pockets lined with cash for their pay
The pay was made before a mistake later regretted
Late into the night till the midnight hour
The agents consulted with their parliamentarian to be
With each other the discussed how work should be done at the polling stations
What to read and how to take note
Of any successes and any abnormalities
After midnight they slumbered,
Some in their drunken state stared as we worked through the night
Making tea and chatting of the day to come
We chatted and dozed in the cold darkened night
Now the wee hours of the morning are drawing near
Scared to rest any head on the pillows
Lest the day passes and leave us behind
So an hour and a half later we woke the workers
We served tea and mandazis at 2am
Some complained, especially the ‘empowered’ women
Who slept in the warmth of the living room
While their male counterparts crammed the vehicles
And the crowded office
Others sat up and finished their hard drinks
Drunkenness keeping them afloat
And their eyes ablaze
He commented on how he saw mum and I
walk back and forth through the kitchen room
he asked for ugali and not for tea
at 2am the drop offs begin
each handed a container with pilau and a bottle of water
some were pleased some were pissed
but there were always the ungrateful so and sos
“where shall I carry this, I have no bag”
“is this enough or will it be over before I reach the station”
“don’t you have a plastic bag for me to carry to our destination”
But by second trip we went along too
Eyeballs nearly popping out, and ready to drop
No amount of coffee could trip me into the wake up zone
So off to the constituency, in our anxious sleepy state.