34,

I never did love children. I thought they were all selfish attention seeking, insane little humans, I remember when my cousin was born, I kept as far out of reach as was possible, that meant even offering to go give the cows a graze in the middle of the day.


Yesterday I got left by the bus and had to wait another 45 minutes for the next one and as I sat there feeling depressed, I started to go through my phone and was completely lost in it, I saw a figure pass very close to me, then felt someone standing behind me, I looked up and saw a hand outstretched. A young boy of about 10 or 11 years was waiting to shake my hand. He said how are you, smiled and went on his way. It took a while for my mind to register what just happened and it brought tear to my eyes.
One my good friends is a little girl called Pyu li, I’m friends with the whole family, but it is understood that whenever I visit, I went to visit her. She’s wonderful, she’ll draw some lopsided butterfly and write-Cecilia, and give to me. She loves me a lot, that’s for sure and as much I didn’t know it, I love her a lot, the same way I loved a young boy who despite his age spoke a lot of sense and always cheered me up. He’d buy me chapatti and tell me about school, I listened, and replied in English since he spoke quickly in sheng(Kenyan slang)
So when another young girl came over and gave me a card and a lollipop last week, I couldn’t help it when I got home and read what she wrote,she thanked me for being her friend. I sobbed.
It is very easy to ignore children. You think- ah, let them go over and look at some plants or something, or they should go play with other children. I remember when I gave one of my children’s stories to one kid, he said- Sis . Cecilia, why don’t you look for other names for the characters. These names are boring.
I’ll write more for kids, it’s harder but it’s a happier pursuit.

It's got my head firmly buried
Under the sand of my clotted emotions
Numbed by repetitive thrashes
Unfulfilled
A karthic that bites
And I feel it right here.

I’m silent
Perhaps I want silent,Perhaps I’ve been silenced
Perhaps I’m saving my words for sympathy,
For questions that deny their answers.

I’m not speaking
Perhaps I’m tired
Perhaps I’ve been made to tire
Perhaps there is a hint of despair
With these fresh clouds of tears
That want to come out, which better not fall.

musings

I love you softly
I love you quietly
Like a song played on a keyboard

I love you gently
I love you tenderly
Like a mother rocking her child to sleep

I love you definitely
I love you with certainty
Like my first crush

I love you in my mind
I love you in my chest
Like The after taste of a good thing

I love you when I see you
I love you even when I don’t
Like grandparents love young ones

I love you is like a quiet song
My love for you s gentle , tender
I love you certainly, definitely
My love for you is like a spirit within me
I love you all the time, always

........................

Does it only hurt when you're hurt
Are pains a reality only when you're in pain?

Do you dare say my ache cannot match yours
That your mourning period should be extended?

Why again do you now take sides,
Is one life higher than another?

Why again, do you look at me so,
Should I retreat to the corer you try to push me?

Do you now like to watch me,
Do you now observe me with questioning?

Now you find me intriguing,
I distablise your firm foundations of half-wit wisdom.

Keep looking, watching, observing-
I'll be calculating and planning for a come back.

(INSPIRED BY THE DEATH OF SULTAN MUNADI, A TRANSLATOR IN AFGANISTAN, SEPT 2009)

Leaving Home

Once again, I’m on my way
Once again I’m leaving
And it breaks my heart
That my new friends, and acquaintances
Will be my old friends
And text will be how we speak.

Once again, I'm leaving home
Once again I have to cut myself off
It pains me
That things I’ve loved
And people who made me laugh,
And those who laughed at me
And those I loved in my heart,
I'm leaving them...

Once again, I have to learn new things,
Once again, I have to get used to new people
And if my will breaks this time
I’ll never find home
I have found homes, and families
But once again I’m leaving
And it hurts, it hurts, like the first time,
Like my 17th year
For certain, I was leaving.

Once again I have to park my things
Once I again I have to say good bye
And I don’t want to, really
I want to stay,
I want to establish permanence
Not have to leave again.

by Cecilia Gathoni

(pic;www.kaponetwo.com)

poem

by Cecilia Gathoni

when he said his mind was made up-
I said please care you never look back;
he said darling, you're still young in years,
he said his years gave certainity, I thought they gave suspicion.

he could have been a farmer's son
he might have been a chief, NO. he was just a brother not even a son
he said, look Jane, look darling how the sky turns red,
perhaps the sun burned up,
remember the forest fires,
anger and passion burns like frest fires.
his wisdom came out.

he staggered to the seatee
he coughed one last one
my mind is made up Jane
I want to be a firefly, I want to be a ball of fire.

He's character, MY JOhn
my Firefly John



(wrote this last week when my one week fever went down, nvm the drug influence to the inspiration, and please don't ask me what it means, I don't know. Yet.)

My Favourite chizi(mad man)

I have a favourite mad man. He is a beggar stroke madman, according to the rest of the population. Sometimes he’s just a beggar, sometimes he’s a mad man. He has a station near the Tesco flyover, Puchong, that’s where he works between 6 and 11pm. He sleeps on a bench in the park next to Tesco, and recently, he established a living room on the other side of the flyover, next to where the taxi drivers park. He brought a chair, a small table and a glass. He fills the glass with pink flowers and waters them from his drinking bottle. On Sundays he wears jeans and stands near the fly over looking cool. Sometimes he likes to have a smoke as he contemplates the world below of passing cars. On rainy days, he will wear white sports shoes to walk to the sitting room, and when he sits to beg, he removes the shoes and places them neatly beside him.
Sometimes he likes to spread himself out on the fly over, and have the pedestrians walk round him on
the thin bridge. The other day he sat with his arms around his knees surrounded by three purses, a pink one, a brown one, black pouch and his begging cup. I think he probably wanted his donors to just slip the money in the purses and save him the trouble or maybe he was aiming at a certain sum, and when each purse was full he’d take away, I’m not sure.
I was passing by another day with hands full of shopping and I had my afro and serious look on. I stopped to catch a breath and I heard someone say-hey bob Marley, hallo. I turned and there was the beggar, waiting for a response.That left me in stitches. Somehow I had all along assumed he didn’t notice anything going on around him, just concerned about how much he gets.
I had stopped giving him change when I realized he used it on alcohol and cigarettes but when I saw him watering his flowers, I have started to drop a few when I can.
I wonder about mad people sometimes. My friend , Kairu once told me that mad people think it is the rest of the world which is mad.
We had a good share of mad people in my village where I grew up. There was the one who wore a blanket and carried big stones to the shopping centre, and since in his hey day he was a teacher you’d find him addressing a field of grass as if they were his pupils. Then there was Janta, who spoke pure English and dressed up in a suit to go to the market everyday. I remember a young one who sang chai na cocoa from one end of the market to another and liked to eat avocados…..

WISH YOU AWAY

Tell me, boy of my dreams

Where did you come from

Tell me, why did you come

Why now

Boy of my dreams,

Why, at the farthest end of the field didn’t you stay

Why show yourself, boy of my dreams.

Boy, My friend, who I like from far,

Why, do you now come

Why do you draw near to toment,

Me, , she,, them, we-why?

Boy of my dreams,

I Could wish you away,

I don’t wanna share my waking hours

Boy, go back, get lost

Boy, leave this place

Change you name and address, oh boy of my dreams.

For now I have to share my favoured position,
As if on second place,

Boy of my dreams,

Why did you come, why now?