Your Eyes

Why do you look at me so?

Tell me.

Do I have spinach in my teeth?

Tell me.

When you look at me,

What do you see?

Tell me.

Do you see past my physical?

Reveal to me.

When I walk in, you look up, then down.

Do I shame you?

Your eyes I see,

At the corner of my eyes-

Always on me.

Do those eyes work?

Or I’m I mistaken?

Tell me.

What do you see?

Wonder?

Do you look to see or to haunt?

In your eyes I see,

I see pleading,

Please

Or is it,

Is it innocent loss of focus?

Tell me

Tell me what you see.

(Published in the November Issue of KSPS Lately

Kenya School Of Professional Studies)

Dormitory

I long for sleep
But the TV’S blaring-Diego,Rodrigo
And my roommates chat about a shabby supervisor
I sat through Kwani?
And listened to Dennis,to Tony,to Masese,,
Now I wish for sleep
But their voices,and the paid voices
Of players in a soap
And honking matatus
And gate latches
Keep me awake.

Naicity

Nairobi,
Closed galleries and coffee shops ,
9p.m.
Uniformed security guards,
Only thing open is taxi doors
And F2
From where I hear-
It’s! My! Life!
And wonder if it’s mine really.

Late hawkers selling fruit
And green beans
Beckoning the shift worker
Sole singles hurry home
To silent bed sitters
You wish the night was longer
For time to forget hunger
With some matoke and fish at city market
And bones for the dog you left on a leash.

Walking as if guided
With eyes wide and glazed
A whisper would startle,
Would make us no longer dazed
By things we’ve compressed
As we wait for right timing
Right moment.
Drumming on the table and humming,
Biting our nails to the roots
Dreaming up ideas
Castles of sand that last but three minutes.

I don’t want to go away
I’ll sit on this pavement
And dream until dawn-
If the cops come I’ll show them
My I.D is right on me
Child of the street.
1ST May 07

Running Away From Esteem Erosion

When the orange ball rose suddenly,
I tried to give words,
Give and create meaning-
Like when I noticed the river’s constant flow,
As if for the first time

The cars swiftly cross on both lanes
I listen to their engines, and try to make sense
The man adorned in green and yellow, I try,
To determine which tribe he belongs
And that fat girl ,how old might she be?

I continue to sit, unperturbed despite
The fear that a crook could sneak upon me
And steal my bag , my books maybe
Or the phone I displayed
When Dan called and asked when I’d be home.
I snarled and said: Give me time dear,
Time.

My back is cold upon the concrete bench
Yet this place,
This space, is all I want now
14th May 07

Mini Monday

I’m sure you have one of those outfits you bought just because you thought they looked nice. Not necessarily nice on you but good to look at, like a wall hanging or a dried flower. Last Monday was one of those days that won’t decide what kind of weather it wants to have. First there was the dripping rain with dark low clouds, then some sun, then clouds covered the sun… minutes later, the sun was brightly shining. When I removed my overcoat, it started to rain some transparent streaks through the brightness of the sun! You must imagine how hard it was to decide what to wear. If I have problems on a normal sunlit day, how about a crazy weathered Monday?
Marco tells me that in Germany they say-der April macht waser will-the April has its own will. April is over now and to me, May is just a few days slotted into the year. So I’m now thinking of July, when fog hits the atmosphere like smoke from a faulty exhaust pipe.
At first, I had planned to wear jeans and a normal sleeved top layered with several under- things; a scarf and a warm jacket. Then I realized that the dirt on the jean I was planning to rewind was carrying was too visible even to my roommate, who says she can’t see without her glasses. Squinting up from her bed, she said “aaai Cecilia, wacha kuniaibisha”-Cecilia, stop embarrassing me! My black pants were the next choice, but I was keeping those to wear from Wednesday onwards. Don’t ask, it’s an arrangement I have. I do not wear bright things on Mondays as a rule, so my colored pants were out. I looked at the skirts…. nothing... I hate skirts! Nevertheless, I keep buying them “Kama nimetumwa.” -as if I on a mission to get hawkers out of their misery. I bought one like a month ago but wore it only once. It’s insanely short! I have been trying to sell it but my roommate says, “No, that skirt suits you alone.” It’s a cool shade of green, flares out a bit and is made of hard material like the one used for school shorts but harder. It looks very simple and that’s what attracted me to it.
My cousin is on attachment near Lake Turkana. He is a reporter. So, he invited me sometime ago but told me,- pack light these people don’t spend too much on covering. A belt of beads around the hips is enough. In fact, if you come here dressed up you might seem offensive, as we want to be modest, pack light. Therefore, what did I do other than run to Ngara to pick up skirt ya mia (100 shillings skirt)? Gideon, my good friend went with me coz it was after class and he happens to go the same way. That’s when I picked up that embarrassing skirt which makes me feel as if my knees are swollen from my bird’s view. Gideon said, “Yeah, yeah, that’s perfect.” The trader had similar thoughts, yet when the ‘kanju’ was spotted, he fled and left me with the skirt. When he came back, I just couldn’t say no.
Therefore, I wore the skirt to Lake Turkana. I was feeling very strange because all other ladies my age were wearing those ‘Garissa lodge’ style skirts and the only leg they were showing was their ankles, which were circled with anklets, but I walked head high with a camera (my cousin’s) slung across my neck and I was a reporter through and through. Coming back, I dumped it at the bottom of my luggage but remove it severally to look at it and think how it would look in a picture.
I walked out the room in a green mini, the size of a tennis skirt, mid length boots and some top and jacket and my trademark weighty bag.
That Monday I returned to the room, after reaching the gate, to ask my roommate “Are you sure it’s not too short?” .When I played hockey in high school, the coach insisted on very short and pleated skirts. Therefore, it was essential that the bikers were of a good color. Then you did not mind sauntering across the field bordered with schoolboys from eight different schools. That day I was tempted to put on knee length bikers.
The front part of the skirt wanted to make contact with the back piece, and I felt very funny and flighty. Especially when I couldn’t find my school I.D. in my dark bag and had to stand for five more seconds at the school entrance to find my wallet while a queue of students behind me, and the coffee sippers at the cafeteria in sight and I was imagining the wind coming and blowing up my stupid skirt.
I survived the day but at the mess ,Parki,Parklands Campus, a classmate called me princess, nodding towards my skirt and it felt weird, but I later went to the house to change into my normal black hipsters and canvas. The skirt,… I’ll hang it on one wall where I can pin my pictures I like to it.

May 17th 07

Let's Not Change a Thing

Lets not change a thing
We looked to see
How tall the eucalyptus grew
And turned the stone over
To see if moss grew on the other side.
The stick in the stream
Told us how deep the water went
And tiny Kiki ate the poisonous fruit
To see if it’d kill him.

It was home
Where familiar voices proceeded
And the kettle always steamed
The dog barked itself to a cough
Chasing the spitting feline up a tree
The plum tree we and heavy with fruit
Swayed and broke in the wind.
It was the old jogoo that roused me
Now my feet with dew are washed.

Call in the children,
Milk the cow and the goat too,
Today we eat chapatti and ndubia
Father’s gone to the baraza,
We’ll leave some tea by the hearth
Kick the unsightly cat
Away from the ash and dirt
Lest it burns rest’f it’s gray fur.

Let’s not change anything,
Lets be called the backward and shady
Nothing can replace
No thing will compare to,
The thrilling adventure of discovery
That there’s another world
A new thing
Just below us, just above us
If we look.

Let’s not change a thing.

May 18th 2007

Tattooing Dogs

‘Stop the car!Stop the car!.’I was shouting.while all the while staring at the man open mouthed.Well,in my head.All that was coming from my mouth was funny shrieks and ‘oh my God!Oh my God!I can’t believe it.’
The man had just told me he was Luvai’s son.
If you went through the Kenyan Education system,you must know the poetry collection,Boundless Voices by Author.A.Luvai ,Professor.
My friend Evelyn is a nurse.She has a cousin who is a vet,and he buys us lunch a couple of times.We are leeches alright, but, well you know, we are always broke,and it’s not even from buying clothes or pearls. Mine I guess is from all those note books I keep buying-have you ever set free a child in the candy section of the supermarket?Same result you get when I set foot into a book store.Eva likes to go on trips and buy expensive,quality yogurt .
Dr.Luvai had promised to buy us lunch yesterday.But first had a few calls to make.A cow belonging to his friend had given birth,and he needed to tattoo another man’s dogs in Ngong.When I head about the tattooing,I had images of fierce ,grim faced dogs with tattoos on their thighs reading-Snoop doggy ,Jua Kali,Ngummo-Or similarly tough names.So I was crossing my fingers that he takes us for the drive with him.He did,we didn’t have anything better to do anyway.It was long drive and along the way,I mentioned a reading I attended on Saturday,,he knows I write,but not in detail.
When I tell people I’m a student of Business Administration then say,but I am a writer,actually.Many don’t hear the latter part,or just don’t take me seriously.
‘So you must read a lot yeah?’He asked.
Then he said,‘Actually,I also used to read a lot,my father is a lecturer in literature.’
‘Huh?’I huhed.
‘He has published a book,Boundless Voices.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Author Luvai.’
‘Author .A.Luvai!’
‘Aha,’
‘Get serious.’
Then I started my screaming.I have been so ignorant.Where else did I ever her the name Luvai.So that was it.As we drove through Karen,Lavington,Jamu, I came to learn of this great man whose poetry I read all through and after high school.I was thrilled.He then told me about other writers he knows closely,like John Ruganda{Burdens}Francis Imbuga{Shrine of Tears},Ngugi wa Thiongo{Secret Lives and Other Stories}.
When we reached Ngong,even the dog tattooing ceremony couldn’t excite me more than I already was.But now I know they get numbers,issued by the Kennel Club,not crazy drawings after their idols.
I also got to see the Ngong hills in the setting sun and loved it,even as much as I still think The Abedares are the grandest ranges of all.
From now on,I think I will stop judging books by their covers.
Luvai, the vet,also told me a funny story about this lady who came crying to the Vet clinic.She had an ice cream container with her.
‘So I took it and was expecting to see a cat or a bird.But a chameleon!I almost dropped it.It had these frightened eyes and horns sticking out,,{shiver}.It had been attacked by a cat and couldn’t be treated.So we put it to sleep.’
‘She could have just let the cat eat it. Si you charge to put them to sleep ?’I asked, restraining laughter.
‘Well,but you know a pet becomes like a child…’
‘No way,a reptile doesn’t count as a pet.’

I t was great,the drive and now I look forward to meet this great poet,some day,if only to say-I have read your poems sir.

Empathy

Not even my cheery smile
That at times does wonders
Could lift the cloud,
Of unhappiness and sadness
That hovered over him

The sadness written all over
His strained face’
Knew no bounds
The ever glowing eyes
Were grey and hollow

Thought some passion could help,
But as true as the sun;
That rises in the east each morning,
Not even this could help,
For the sorrow ran deep.

The passive farewell,
Just went on further on to
Stress the obvious sadness.
Couldn’t fool anyone,
I was as obvious as the nose.

I shed a tear,
Not a tear of sorrow,
But of empathy,
For that soul,
That was at rock bottom!



Ciss 14th June 2003

The Power In Touch

A soft warm hand,
Gently stroke my hair.
Another soft and hard,
But still it bears the power.

And for the scratch on my back,
Blunt nails smooth away the itch
The open palm wipes it off.

With hurt and despair
The routine of life
My palm upon my chin
A firm hand rests upon my shoulder,
Takes away the pain,
The hurt
The despair
And I stand boldly to face life

And as I descended the stairs
I didn’t miss to feel
The gentle pat on my back
My heart glowed with joy
Felt there was meaning in life.

What joy!
What a world this would be
If we all could learn,
That there is healing and power
In touch.

{I wrote this poem in 2002.It's not much of a poem,but that was the best I could do then.Terence finally typed the articles,his finger is now numb.Thanks Terence:)}
Ciss 2002

Bad Behavior

My granny is a member of not less than five women groups. Her house sometimes serves as a venue for their groups. At such times the rest of the household has to look for refuge elsewhere.
One time I hang around and after taking a bath I entered through the back door into the bedroom. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but they were discussing some interesting topic. I took my time to change. One of members owed some money to the group and she hadn’t showed up for that meeting so they were planning to ambush her! They planned a date….. I continued to listen, as another issue came up. The previous meeting had been held in another member’s house, she had hidden the firewood out of their sight. She was therefore warned against that, otherwise she’d be axed! - She’d be de-registered. I was biting on a finger so as not to laugh.
Later, I asked granny how they ‘ambushed’ inconsistent members. She explained that they simply plan a date, and every one carries a load of ‘maboco’- dry bean plants. These they use to make a very big smoky fire outside the compound of the one who owes them money, “then everyone will know she has done something wrong.” We also do that when a member gossips about the workings of the group and we get wind of it.” He hee heee!... no pity!”

Mic Troubles

Mkono moja, maskanyore, mgongo wazi, ya kwenda dinner, ya kwenda supper, ya kajunior, ya kwenda swimming, ma underwater, mahutyty, mabling-bling…., forget the old – bei ni mia – new comics’ in town! , estate rather. He’s no other than our very own Top salesman of the year. We all know him as maskanyore. Well, his name is not really important now.
He started out slow and subtle, dressing up in the glittering evening dresses and screaming “wateja wangu! Makastoma wangu! Kuangalia ni bure! Yote ni thate! Nausa hata madresi, ya kusimamia arusi, ya best maid, ya flawa gao, yote ni thate!
Ahaa…! Semeni ahaa! Bei ni thate! And we all flooded his place to see, if not ask what maskanyore was. Then we told our friends and they told theirs…..
Utan’gara mpaka jirani ang’athie! Ehee! He went on. We liked him, he never grew hoarse.
Sista yote ni thate! Utan’gara, mpaka watu kwa plot waulize; na huyu, anafanya kazi kwa kampuni gani. We never walked past his stand, if not to buy to listen to him say “-maskanyore! Mabling bling! Ng’ara na thate!” the school children added to the circus, calling out maskanyore and he would reply, Ehee!
Maskanyore has now moved… set up a shop further down the rail. He uses a P.A system. He has acquired a D.J like stance, or a street preacher’s self consciousness. The children take turns on the mic. Maskanyore now sells expensive clothes –fifty bob and above-. The mic stunt isn’t really effective. All the same, I’ve been thinking….. Had I a business and needed a sales person, maskanyore would be in my list. Or if I became a coach and needed a mascot…..or if I wanted ……..

Maskanyore - skirts
Mkono moja –single strapped tops
Mabling bling –labeled shirts
Ya kwenda dinner –evening dress
Ma underwater –swimming costume
Mahutyty -skirts

Distinctions

For a long time now, I’ve been content with carrying my own lunch, packed. The fact that I like to eat healthy, notwithstanding, because going into hotels especially to those which serve real food, has never been a pleasant experience for me. Yeah, if we overlook the chapati madodo{chapati and beans} I used to have at ‘blue line’ hotel, Endarasha. One of the reasons for my dislike of these joints is their slow pace. Then, the fact that you’ll always manage to feel shortchanged and be served last.
One time I waltzed into this popular place in Biashara Street, I was working at a nice muindi’s wholesale duka along the same street, so before I could find a close fast food place, I obviously had to test the ones within my line of view. I still had dreams of being a writer, so I’d spend my lunch creating some intros for stories. That was what I started to do when I got a seat. The waiters were leaning at various points of the wall watching channel-5. I looked around, tried to attract the attention of one and failed. So I took out my –day book- and started to scribble some things. Hmm and I waited…… waited I did! Then who joins me? No other than a Japanese speaking trio. The waiters forgot whatever new moves Ray-c was making on the screen; they were practically pulling chairs for our beige colored brothers. The trio noticed my books and asked to be moved to another table. The waiters followed with menus and complimentary drinks. I waited a while still but gave-up after say fifty-five minutes.
When I worked in Eastleigh, I started to carry my own lunch, after trying unsuccessfully to buy food from the al-wadha, a-lkotha and the al-baraka’s food places. I’d stand at the counter, money in hand, while buibui clad women had their orders taken and quickly fulfilled. Other times (this makes me smile) I’d be told to stand outside as someone brought my food, ya safari –take away-
We hatched a plan with one of my buibui wearing workmates, to try go together and buy lunch, first time I had the money. The ankle-high, pant, flip flop clad waiter addressed my friend, she told him to speak to me. He took the money and turned to my friend for the order. Later he brought the food, a few kgs of pasta and pilau cooked with camel meat and handed the three parcels to me then handed my friend the change…….!
I’ve been staying with friends, who stay in a hostel. You can guess the second question the other sharing the room asked after my name. Yeah! “We ni mkabila gani?” {What's your tribe}usually I don’t answer that. I will sweetly ask “why do you ask?” the person will say
“Just to know.” and I’ll sigh and say- in a sing song voice- “I see, just to know ha?” then add “–well… I don’t go beyond that. Coz really, unless it’s an old woman asking me for directions on the street, so she wants to know if I’d understand her mother tongue, I don’t see the point of digging deeper into my roots. As long as we are in communication, why does my origin matter? After all, my color or my accent does not determine the kind of person I turn out to be. Tell me, say a Taita family adopts a child from the Bukusu community, or a child from the Taita tribe is adopted by a Turkana couple. When the first child grows, atakuwa mtaita ama mbukusu? Will the second be a taita or a turkana? Sometimes, due to students from the same place schooling in the same place, it might happen that ones friends or acquaintances may come from the same tribe, but in a city like Nairobi, anybody can be your neighbor or your classmates. You are all speaking Kiswahili, yeah; you all use the same matatus to go home, shop at Tusker for sugar, Gikomba for clothes and marikiti for food. So surely who’s there to start thinking, today I met with my kao (kamba) neighbor. Or yesterday I saw the child of that msapele (kikuyu) who cooks mandaazis.
When you begin to count: in our estate, there are two Masaais, ten Kikuyus, Wajaka watatu and twelve kaos, well….. What can I say? When you say, “I have two Luhya friends, one Kisii, the rest are all Mbeere like me.” ……umetupa mbao. What does it matter really? Why misuse words? When you treat some specially coz they are of your tribe, or a tribe that you admire or a colour that awes you, well….. What can I say ……?

Feel the Heart Beat

The peace is no more peaceful
I had too much of it
I escaped and drowned

Now you’re gone I’m lost
I need you to direct me
To hold my hand and show me
Show me how to be
How to relax.

You created in me emotions
I never sobbed before
That was a short time
I needed more time
To bloom ,to let go

Why does it ache ?
It aches so bad
Now I’m alone,I never knew
That I fell this far
The way you knew me inch by inch
You took your time
I hurry, you’re thorough.

I weep now
Because I donno
I didn’t know how to love you
Sorry I made it hard
I wept for beauty
Wept for honesty
And mourned to see you go.

If you came back
I’d, you’d , we’d know
What to do

Why is this so complicated,
To me,
Do I love you?
Why I’m I crying?
Do I miss you?

Stay safe liebe,
Be wise meine Liebe
Come close,my love,
Make it easy
Remember ,remember
What made me shine
See it my way
This one thing

Because I love you,
Wouldn’t love you more.

I’m sick,
I fell in love
I’ve loved and didn’t know it
Now I suffer,
In this transition,
Confusion.

Tell me who we are
Do we know who we are?
Who are we?

I miss you, my heart is bursting.

{:D,I didn't write this,.,,,,,ooo.I remember now,I wrote it,every word}

15th April 07

Let's write It a Happy Ending

What if this Character was me?

I'm really curious to see what that character with all that suncream and and aftershave will do next and what`s gonna happen with him- you said something about dying, so,I will tell you what I think.Maybe I find a way to escape from my written destiny. From the point where the story stopped, I still could decide to kidnap the bus from Malindi and start a big tour all over Kenya to demonstrate for a bigger acceptance of the evolution theory. That would be followed by a persecution from the Kenyan churches, which will force me to spend the rest of my life on a lonely island next to Malindi together with one of the hostages, the one I kept after leaving the bus and the driver behind, that lady, who was looking for her shoes and found his suncream instead. These two lost souls end up living like Adam and Eve, happily on that little paradise on earth until the end of time...that would be a happy ending, sindiyo?
{This from Marco,who's impatient that this story is taking too long to continue.Well,relax,It's only that my good friend Terence types with his fore finger and hasn't started on this story :D yet}

When I lived In The Land Of Hills and Valleys

Short Story By Najin
One day, while I was 15 years, I had an issue with my Ma'...I had commited an act of disobedience...I was already a young man, not a big boy, if you understand what I mean. My friend had encouraged me that we go to Honi river, the portion where the Amboni road passes. We wanted to swim, dive and also catch fish. It was a Saturday and I had the duty, on that particular day to milk the cows in the afternoon, which as you know, is a religious obligation. Njagi and I left at 11 in the morning. The waters of Honi were very clear that day, the sun was very blight and very warm. Although I had never come across a heated swimming pool, the spot we chose was working like one! Up the spot, we threw the lines, attached to baits, all improvised. We ended up catching two fish...well my friend did. We resumed our most important sport of the day....I was so excited...we dived, somersaulted and waded in our newly found pool. Njagi was a great life safer and trainer. I never wanted to go home...the experience was just fantastic. Everything else was forgotten...even when we decided to go back home, it wasn’t because I had other duties in mind but the pool heating device had to to take up other duties...it was sunset and the sun, as you know, does not wait for two young men ( never mind the King ) . Anyway, to cut a long story short, we eventually got home at I was ready to start sharing the big news with my siblings..maybe with my mother too....
I was reminded of the milking duty, not by a sweet pleading voice...but by a Mutaathi stick across my back! Before I could take cover or reconcile what had come into contact with my fresh, another swipe across my arm...and another on my back. Then my instincts signaled to my slow thinking mind that a 'war' had already been declared, or counter-declared by my Ma'. Two things saved me from total annihilation...darkness - because I ran into the night, which hid me from her sight. The second thing was my legs...I believe if somebody had timed me with a stop watch, I could have broken every splinting record that existed in all Olympics, both indoor and out door.Well, I never ever returned to Honi river again...my swimming lessons were suspended. Dont ask what happened to my friend Njagi. Every time I would pass by Honi river near Mweiga Town, I could only point at the waters with a finger.
{One of my readers sent me this story,I enjoyed reading it:).Thanks Najin}

Seven Days

Every time I think I say your name,
I weep.
Your sad face won’t leave my mind
And it hurts.
It hurts to see you like that
My life is split,
I believe in love
I believe in truth also.

Love the strongest force,
Coz I love and I loved you
The first time you spoke.
These forces, this life.
With truth I go against my feelings.
My true feelings are that I love you.
I want to love you….
But the life I’ve chosen keeps me away.
I keep you at arms length,
I burn inside,
Coz I love you, coz you can’t know this.

I wish you’d understand
I wish you’d try to, I know you try.
Short time to love, to know, to lose.I want to love you…