Scars

I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
And my scars remind me that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel


I started to write a story for the above,and ended up writing something totally different.It's fun when that happens.When even the writer doesn't know the ending of a story?Yeah.
Av been sort of involving myself in activities thta will distract me from my own life.School is almos' starting and ,man,the rush!I don't like the first days of class.I can't write in peace,and there's always these new people to study,observe,rather.And make up stories about them,ha.
The cybers were closed,but av written a lot.Jackie---can I bring some work?Don't tell Yo boss.
Today I watched a sad movie ,Simon Birch.It gave me a running nose for a min of so.I'd love to read the book.
By the way I'm reading a very well written book.Set before the 1st World War.It`s great-The Station Master's Daughter-
Don' say-typical!There is a writer in it,but ti's one of those books that I read very slowly,to take in every line.Though it's not hard like-The Little Drummer Girl-John Le Carre'.

Rules Aside

But I’ll cry,
When the tears come.
No need to close them in-
That only scorches the inner being.

When laughter comes,
I’ll laugh,
Enjoy the moment,
Relief my hear from worries.

I will jump,
To get a stretch.
And skip away,
When my hips need a jig

To the sound of music
I’ll give a bop.
And do a jig,
Shake it all loose.

A smile.
For the stranger child.
A coin.
For the beggar.

I’ll not increase my pace,
When the rain joins my walk,
I’ll stretch out my palms,
And untie my hair for the wind.

The bird that sing,
Its tune I’ll keep in mind,
To sooth me on quiet days-
Guku guku guku,gukuu.

I’ll not go to bed,
Just because its 2.a.m.
Nor get into the house,
For darkness is nigh.

The served meat I won’t touch.
The vegetable soup I’ll hold onto.
Cake and lollipop my treat-
And of course I do brush the teeth
(PUBLISHED ON 23RD DEC 2006,The Saturday Standard)

What If I said:

I miss you because,
When I put the kettle to boil, I wish it was for two.
When I cuddle with my cat in bed, I wish it was you.
When I rub mosquito repellant on my legs, I remember;
How well you did the same, they never touched me.
When my throat pains ,I miss your fingers rubbing in
the garlic.

I miss you because,
This room is a hall without you.
This place is a mess since you left .The clutter.
The clothes are unwashed.
And so is my hair, it’s no longer brushed,
Your strong arms were real useful around here.

I miss you because,
Your companionable silence kept us sane-
The way you walked behind me like a bigger shadow.
Your secret look which you thought I din’ notice,
Which I now miss.
And your hearty laughter that came suddenly but rarely.

(published on 23rd Dec,Saturday Standard)

Figuring It Out-

22nd Dec 2006
Jana was one of –those days- in my life.I woke up early but coldn’ get out of bed because there was a story in my head that I needed to write.Not in paper, in my head,and it was in kiswahili.So I finish it,rephrase,correct and re-write it,then get out of bed.My palate is bursting with sores,the after effects of a fever I had las’week,which a quack I went to see had warned that it could malaria or typhoid.As if.
So anyhow,as usual when I wake up with a story,the day is normally filled with others that want to come out.A second story,a very sad one,which makes me walk aroud all day with a screwed face and misty eyes was being processed.

As if out to upset me, when I tried to post something on the site the link was depressingly low,so there is no knowing if the posting goes upSo I’m headed home feeling deflated,almost miserable and there are these thoughts that want to turn into a poem.a poem about pain that has materialised,taken form and substance,and is so bad it’s worse than losing a loved one in death.Like something is really strained and might snap,between the stomach and the chest close to the heart. and the pain is not in the head at all,it’s worse than a fever,it’s like blood replaced with a fluid squeezed out of a bitter oval forest fruit and boiled in chilli peppers then poured into the veins while still hot.I’m telling myself-you shouldn’ do this to yourself,you shouldn’ torment yourself…I pray for an extra skin,a hide ,even,and padding for my heart.
In the mat I try hard not to sob but clear tears come out of my nose,drop to the open book I’m looking at,staining it with big cream spots..

I get home and first thing I do is fall flat on the bed and heave with loud sobs.My cat is watching me with concern…
But later,I pass by my friend ‘s cake shop-Masyiku’s Bread Basket,at Fridge Clinic,J.I was waving,so she calls out to me to across the road.She tells me she read one of the stories on my site and was felt very lonely and sad.She identified with it,and even even recommended it to her husband- -
That made me feel a different feeling inside me.
BecauseI wish that my stories reach the heart.Though av realised that now that I know people actually read my blog,I’m not so free with my postings-feeling as if they aren’ good enough-
It’s great though,coz as Ken-ngishili.com-tells me,writing goes through various stages.One of them is when it’s given life by a reader,or a performer.
Writing a sad story is no fun at all.Once a story wrung me out so much coz every time I started to write I’d start to sniff.I lost appetite,started taking long walks,and didn’t even watch T.V.Had to keep the story aside for a while I later finished it,and one person who read it had similar emotions.I read it again after a while and wondered-wow,did I write this?It’s yet to be published,along with other-long short-stories av’ compiled,but are not with a poublisher coz one of long short story is yet to be typed.
I love writing,and I hate it when I cant be calm enough to sit and write.It’s like tiny bugs that crawl inside you and won’t let you settle until you release them.There were times I’d get writer’s block,then,it’d feel like when I’d go to the salon,with a head full of hair to have it tamed with-lines-for school the following morning.I’d feel like I was bound very tightly and as if my tongue had been chopped off,and felt the urge to pull out my fingers…yeah.
Now that I have a lot to write and won’t write it coz-it’s all in m y head and no one can wipe it off-I feel annoyed with myself.But av’ been very restless for some time,figuring it all out.

Dear Cecilia,
you may have an idea of what I am about to say.If you don't let me tell you.I am the thief who stole your cocoa during the period you had gone for your group discussion in Chem Lab.I had seen you taking some during break time.My reasons for stealing were that I cleared my sugar and cocoa/I was really idle at that time.You may have been told by other people that I was the only one at our place all along.Sorry for doing that.I tried to repay back what I had taken by giving you a piece of meat and the flower pin..It is your decision if you will tell the others or not.But all I am asking is for your forgiveness for all I haever done to you.
Thanks for your friendship and motivation.
Written by----------

[I found this note among my things,my highschool things.There was this craze going on,,writing notes to about everything.But this one made me laugh,although then,it wasn't so funny.It was the middle of the term and my cocoa was kwishd!}

Sand In My Shoes

Two weeks away feels like the whole world should've changed
but I'm home now, and things still look the same
I think I'll leave it till tomorrow to unpack, try to forget for one more night that I'm back in my flat
on the road where the cars never stop going through the night
to a life where I can't watch the sunset, I don't have time, I don't have time

I've still got sand in my shoes ,,,,,
Dido.

It's not sand,it's soil I got.

Room Mates

I asked a question
All I got was a grunt
I suggested something
She snapped
I tried to explain
But made her burn with anger

My eyes stung with warm rivulets,
Which threatened to burst forth.
I rubbed them with my knuckles,
And the wells over flowed.

My head burnt,
Like a thousand pins-
Piercing through my nerves.
A hundred drummers,
Beat the tom-tom in my head


A lingering pain shot through my nose,
And wriggled its way into my head,
Through glassy eyes I looked at her.

A surprise it was to me,
For the angered face,
Was now contorted in pain
And inward suffering.
The heart bleeding for the harm done.

Through my curtained eyes,
I looked again.
Pity and yearning overwhelmed me.
The desire so strong that-
I could taste it.

I longed to hold her hand,
Embrace her and tell her
That all was o.k.

I stood up,
But instead of the embrace,
I turned and walked out.
{this poem,I wrote it in the year 2002,March 2nd.It was published along with /Getting it Right /Below,in the Saturday Standard,9th Dec 2006}

Getting it Right

Getting It Right

You’d never hurt me, I know baby.
Though I hurt you as deep as hurting can go,
It was not with pleasure know this,
Even though with flourish the letters curved.
I thought of it long and hard,
But with blankness my mind rewarded,
For my heart sep’rate you it didn’t,
Even where afar you sojourned,
Left this soul forlorn.
It was never intentional my beloved,
But seasons bring along plains of possibilities,
What if ?How about? Should I?
And trying such a common deed.

Comparing you was the last weapon.
When excuses and half delivered reasons failed.
‘You know I have moved on’, I explained.
‘This is not working’, I stammered.
Then I pulled and grabbed for conviction,
For even I was not convinced.

Even with five stable reasons,
I wanted out, I wanted an end,
To all that was you and me,
I wanted to be lonesome again.
The timed meetings,
The unsure groping,
The blank eye contact
That were-oh so dear to me.

I loved you for you speech,
The way your words caressed,
You standing aloof, your eyes…
But baby you took that back.
You voice I missed, yourself I didn’t see.
I missed you, my heart ached.
I thought, maybe this was bad timing.
You didn’t see this did you?
I wrote you read, I talked you listened.
Deep inside I searched, looking for reason;
The reason for you.
To take my mind on a break.
Then you floated away
I thought you died, I grieved.
I thought you shifted ,I blocked my heart.
I thought you got broke, I wished I had cash.

Then you called, and brightly said you missed me.
Another long silence followed,
And I knew this was the end.
Acquaintance would rhyme better.
I told you - let’s part,
You said you had been ill.

Baby, if I said my heart,
If I said my heart is a new age cave,
Would you understand?
Would you believe if I said,
I am of one wet season?
My person is easily swayed, beaten and frightened?
That I don’t mean to hurt ,I hate to cause pain?
That I cause it more than I can account for?
That I stretch out gestures, that I fear.
That I’d rather escape before hurt come in?

This person I am doubts,
Is unwilling to trust,
Wary of positive gesture,
And is hardly ever sure?
Would you believe me if I said,
That I suffer verbally; even though this time,
This time baby, I really was sure.

Blogger

I am trying to post some poems but blogger is displaying them as prose.How is that possible?

Half A Day and Other Stories

The villager stood and stared in wonderment.’This is too much to believe!Do these men wake up in the morning and tell their wives they are going to work?Look at them,all shouting their heads off.What a way to earn a living!’
-The Town,by Eneriko Seruma,Uganda

‘Well-yes-no.I mean,nowhere in particular.’
John saw his father look at him hard, seeming to read his face. John sighed,a very slow sigh.He did not like the way his father eyed him.He aways looked at him as though John wad a sinner, one who needed to be watched all the time.
-A Meeting in the Dark by Ngugi Wa Thiong’o ,Kenya


I’ll take you to The Matumbi,’he said when they met later that afternoon.The Matumbi was as tea shop under a tree,half a mile from the campus.It had a thatched roof that only partly shaded it,and no walls.She went in hesistantly,feeling a little shy and out of place,but apparently Akoto was one of the regulars.He motioned to the owner who came up and wiped a sticky table for them, and then he pulled up a rickety chair for her, dusting it with a clean handkerchief.
-Breaking Loose by Moyez.G.Vassanji

These are just a few excerpts from the wonderful collection of short stories,Half A day, published by Macmillan Kenya.It is among the set books for the secondary schools this season.I have loved the book.Every single story.The stories cover relevant themes like poverty,racial discrimination,female circumcision{fgm},civilization,change,and religion,and the simple lives of ordinary people.A little deep,but it’s all dood.Although I wonder how well I’d have performed in my literature had I done this book-I did-Looking for a Raingod.
Being a shortstory writer myself,I have enjoyed this book.A school mate{www.rimitasites.blogspot.com} lent it to me.He has written a guide for it,published by Jomo Kenyata Foundation,in stores next year January.I am returning it today.
The book has a total of 14 stories:

Half a Day-Naguib Mahfouz,Egypt
The Town-Eneriko Seruma,Uganda
Moneyman-Peter Nazareth-Uganda
The Matryr-Ngugi Wa Thiong’o,Kenya
A meeting in the dark- Ngugi Wa Thiong’o,Kenya
Letter to my sisters-fatmata conteth-Ethiopia
Solitude-Nawal El Saadawi,Egypt
Against the pleasure principle-Saida Hagi-Dirie Herzi,Somalia
Government by magic spell- Saida Hagi-Dirie Herzi,Somalia
Who cares for the new millennium?-Hama Tuma,Ethiopia
Heaven and earth-Wangui wa Goro-Kenya
On the market day-Kyalo Matvo-Kenya
The hands of the black-Luis Bernado Honwana,Mozambique
Breaking loose-Moyez.G.vassanji,Kenya


I felt sad,reading-On The Market Day-I laughed reading-The Hands of The Blacks- a,d –The Moneyman- an d-The Town-I felt angry towards those who practice fgm when I read –Against The Pleasure Principle.
It’s a book that will show you that in truth,all of us are the same,inside.Whether,Ugandan,Kenyan,Somali,Ethiopian, or Asian Kenyan

When Grandma Cooks

I wrote this poem a few nights ago.I had to wake up and switch the lights on to write it because I know myself well. If I don’t note something down immediately .I forget it in the next three minutes.My friend Lewis - Electric Supermarket says my brain needs upgrading,a new software.Anyway. I was missing my grandmother so much.You’d love her too if you met her.She doesn’t speak much,but she encourages me to be tough.She hasn’ had it smooth in life but she manages.I am one of her fav’ grandchildren-a reason for bad blood in the clan.
So this poem was published last Saturday in the Standard’s Moment’s Magazine.My gran was in the house,washing my clothes.Her feet were beginning to swell for sitting down for long,she wanted some work,and what better work could I invent.I emptied my basket of dirty clothes. I was so happy.
She came for he presence was needed in a family matter{Her nephew’s Rurachio}

I liked the way it was edited,in the style of 3,5,1,4,but this here is in its original Ciss format.

When grandma sings,
You want to run and hide.
No ,her singing is not bad,
It’s what it represents-
Terror, anger, revenge

When grandma laughs,
The walls shake,
And every one laughs too,
Infectious, that’s what her laughs is.

When grandma cooks,
No one leaves the kitchen,
Until the plates are served.
Then we lick fingers,
And the neighbors come a visit..

When grandma smiles at you,
You feel like you own the world,
You want to skip and dance,
And give her a hug.

When grandma gives,
Its not with view of insurance,
Grandma, she gives,
More than you asked,
She gives to help.
.

When grandma works,
All supervisors go to sleep.
For she knows her work well,
She values the use of one’s strength..

When grandma says you are O.K,
Know that you are O.K for real.
When grandma says-nice dress,
Believe her; she tells no lies.
She doesn’t give empty praise.

When grandma talks,
you listen and nod.
She spews wisdom,
And counsel from experience.

When grandma scolds,
Your ears tingle.
But one thing is sure-
You’ll be well advised,
To never repeat the error.

When grandma weaves ,
Her fingers become spiders legs.
Colors come to life,
And our luggage is easily carried.


When grandma loves,
It’s with smiles and coos,
And gestures and winks.
It’s with tears and hugs,
She really doesn’t have to say it.

I Won't Tell No One Your Name

Dear Pirowska,
I hope you are keeping well, I am too, my parents are having a dinner invitation at sir.Yul’s carriage, Kizac,my younger brother went along.So I have this old place all to myself and can collect my mind together and think what to write to you.I’ll give the letter to Andrea to give it to you when they pass your way.They are moving tomorrow.We would also be out of here but one of our horse, Mos, the brown one, hurt his ankle and he has to take a rest.The rains are coming you know,so we have to be careful with him.Father says we don’t wan’ have no more hurt on him.
i am still writing, poems mostly, though for the past week we have been practicing a new kind of dance,so I haven’t been writing much.
The dance is mixture of our usual roka dances,but faster,like a graceful bird.Scia suggested it be called –flamenco.It has a beat that goes with the foot rhythm.I am loving it.Jaaze from a neighboring carriage is a fantastic seamstress.She is making these firely dresses and scarves and stockings,out of pure red satin!We sure are gon’ blazing next time we perform.They say this time we can let our hair down.
I am fit to burst Pirow,I can put a big red flame bloom behind my ear!
There are lots of them here.I even learnt their name-red flame-a flower so big you could put in a wood glue tin in it.
Although all said, I am not so well.
My eyes smart from weeping.I would want to say it’s for no reason, but I am not so sure.
It is for a reason.
You remember Sam?I’ve mentioned him in my letters severally.He lives here,in a beautiful house near the sea.The house is wooden and has upstairs and down stairs.It has big windows that are as huge as gates.There is a staircase leading into their door-the front one.They also have a dog,Sca.She has long hair/fur[does a dog have hair or fur?} that falls to the legs.She looks like a head full of hair.A tough one too.Barks like a mongrel but won’t let anyone new into the compound.She birthed five puppies,Sam told me .
I want to tell you way Sam and I met.It was when he started coming to work in the same building where I supplied coffee grains.I used to take a fresh kilo every two days.First time I saw him, I really wanted to see his face but didn’t he kept turning away. I saw him when I went to deliver the coffee. I would just pass. He was always with a group of other citizens.After a while I started to notice way he interacted with his peers. He always stood off from the seated group, and seemed to be in deep thought. I once greeted them, he replied, and smiled. Another time,my customers were a bit late, so he came to stand with me as I waited. It was very easy to speak with him. We became good friends, and I loved him a lot.
We spent a lot of time together.He even came down here sometime. I never went to their mansion.Although I never asked if I could go, and in any case nobody invites roms as much is there?We are the ones who do most of the inviting-what with our home crafts and fortune telling women.
The customers at Sam’s building cancelled their orders and I stopped going there mother also took up some crafts which we sell from the carriage, I don’t have to go into town to sell anymore.
Me and Sam didn’t see much of each other.During that time, I also came to learn of some laws the guide us. I decided to take a stand for them, and for the community. Yes Pirow, we will soon have a government of our own, despite being scattered and unaccepted all over the places we dwell,and not being recognized.We will soon have a standing.I learnt that it is important that we remain together and by al means, avoid getting attached and even absorbed into the established nationalities that we find as we move along.A kind of an unspoken patriotism,for a coming government.Don’t get me wrong Pirowska,you are married to a citizen, and I respect your choice.------.
well, now both belong to that nation,and we are in your past,you say it not as smooth as you hopped. Didn’t solve the issue of pure patriotism it seems.I was thinking of that yesterday.When Sam took me to the city theatre,It was a public holiday in this country.We went to watch a musical -Fiddler on the Roof.I hadn’t seen him I such a long time,but he used to send letters.When I saw him I wanted to throw away all my convictions and go away with him.He said he didn’t care that I belonged not to his nation ,and as it is he is expected to find a girl of his own state-what use do I have a girl for our girls Chias? I want you.
He didn’t care that I looked different and spoke with an accent.He didn’t care that the other citizens saw him with a red haired girl from the carriages.
He said—he wanted to marry me and our differences will cease to matter.
Because we would be one flesh,and he would take care of my affairs.I laughed.
He said he was serious,he wanted to be with me.I asked-are you sure you want a wife Sam?He said no, but he wanted to be with me-he looked sad.I told him I couldn’t get married, not -because I wanted to learn how to cook selaa and nepsa-their tribe’s traditional dish. He said it wouldn’t be necessary, he would cook for me.I said I wanted to perfect my dancing skills and my poetry writing.He said his sisters would teach me what I needed to know.
He would build me a house, and re-direct a stream to cross the front yard.He would make a little perfect place ,just for us, and even buy be a few ponies for me to raise.
He said he wanted me because,incase he died,our children would be well taken care of—ha.
I said that was not possible I told him of our customs.Of our family ties, of our dances and celebrations and free mind living.I told him of evenings by a big fire sharing fables.Of our nomadic lifestyle, and how much these are part of our lives that living in the same place for more than six months would have me stark raving mad.
I talked of the government that we are hoping shall be formed,that we also, the Roma, may become a nation.How we love to talk of all that.The benefits that that government will bring.
I said-we meet with the entire clan every week,that we may report any indiscipline-would you attend them?Since once you marry me you’d become family?
-I don’t believe that what I do is anybody else’s business apart from mine-he said,and added,are you that into superstition?
I told him I didn’t agree with the citizen’s custom of wishing on the kissing stone at the city square on wedding days.I wouldn’t come with you to make a wish on our wedding day-i assured him.
The musical was great-like something I watched in Egypt when I was younger. Sam kept humming a tune, which made me sad,and is making me sad to write it.It is the song Iris by Goo Goo Dolls
and I don’t want the world to see me,
coz I don’t think that they’d understand,
when everything is meant to be broken
I just want you know who I am,
and all I can taste is this moment,
and all I can breath is your life,
for sooner or later it’s over,
I just don’t want to miss you tonight
he walked me back into the carriages and didn’t say a word to me.
He was aloof.
I was regretful.
He removed a note book from his jacket pocket and said it was for my poetry.I wanted top hold on to his hand,but I knew we were being watched.I wanted to hug him,to tell him- take me with you-
I wanted to forget all about the government that we’ll soon have.
He left.
I went into the carriage.
It was dark, elder’s evening,and my brother was asleep.I sat on a stool and started to hum a tune that started far,and reached me late;
-you could hide beside me,
maybe for a while,
and I won’t tell no one,you name,
I wont tell ‘em your name,
I won’t tell your name-
Sam gave a note to kizac this morning.He says he wishes me well.That he loves me and that may I find what I’m looking for,then some big words in his mother tongue which I didn’t understand and I felt insulted.
I sent him a note- I am not looking,I am waiting-
I have been thinking a lot.Feeling totally deflated.Wondering,did I just lose the love of my life?Thisman who loved me,who wanted to give me citizenship, who thought I was fair.Who saw me for what I am and not what others suppose? I’m I a fool to believe that it’s best to,just wait?Sigh.
Please write back.
Chias.

Diary Snippets

Sat25THMaRCH 2006


To find myself,
Once again-
For looking at that face
Looking back at me,
I don’t recognize it.
I need to find out
Who Iam, and where I am,
And how I feature in this,
In this current life I live.
For I find no joy,
I find no inspiration,
Or desire to be.
Like a pilgrim, a pioneer,
In an already settled ground.
Pushing, groping to find my place.
The sameness of my emotions,
The lack of excitement-
Indifference scales high.
Have I lost all sense?
Did I die?