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She loves

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Her laughter, it disturbs
High pitched, creepy
Smacks of vice and lust
First impressions…

But when the heart stills
Listens, unclouded
There is pain in the laughing
Tears waiting to be shed.

She loves.

She loves, this feeling, she cannot understand
She loves his gaze, his way with words
His way with her, how comely, is his smile.
Oh, she loves!

How her heart quickens, at his sighting
Her mind fuzzy, his face comely
She builds castles, at his voice
She loves, that which shouldn’t be loved.

She knows she is to be broken
Mind and heart, body and spirit
Tomorrow, her life blues
But today, she loves
Safe and warm.

He loves.

Friends and relatives

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Friends and relatives
It is Christmas; that time of the year devoted to friends and relatives. Memories galore: Boney M and them carols, Atta Mark and Cowboy chapatis, plums and sherries (the yellow plums), new clothes, slaughtering a cock… else, going upcountry to catch up with relatives and the obligatory goat festival at grandpa’s place. But now, we are grown up, cousins have moved and there is Njaanuary to think of, so, I decide to skip shaggz. Plus, there is always that uncomfortable question of when I am bringing ‘my people’ – meaning wife and kids – to meet their extended family; rather, a very minor excuse.

So out of Nairobi
Really though, my shaggz is near Nairobi and I want to get as far away from Nairobi as possible. If I had the wherewithal, I would go down to Zanzibar or South Africa. See, there is the hangover toxicity of the electioneering period which, coupled with the pressure that is Nairobi living, is enough to kill one. My body is screaming to get out of Nairobi as so…

Things that were

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Image by congerdesign from Pixabay

Some nights when the moon speckles
And some nights when the stars sparkle
And thieves prowl, the owl hoots
And crickets chirp, cockroaches scuttle
I wake up with a fervour, or still in bed
Pining for things, things long gone
Pining for things that were.

Of Sandra’s love, young and na├»ve
A loving, for love’s sake
The baby names we chose
Her daughter – Imani – faith, steady
My son – Jabali – strong as a rock
A bad dream again? She asks
Yes, I lie; just as I lied to Sandra.

Some days when the morning is misty
And some days when I am but lazy
My mind drifts to a younger self
When all I had were beautiful dreams
And life had a purpose, riches a romance
Then I die a little, a little more on the inside
Pining for things that were.

Hungry nights, a hunger for glory
Hotblooded, dangerous living
Cocksure, ready to fight the world
Loved promised to many, yet each true
For there are many degrees to loving
And many ways of loving
Yet, I chose one.

So, I think of thing…

Who is the mad man?

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Who is the mad man?
Is he that eats from trash cans?
He that devours that which we refuse?
He that talks to self, and in doing so
does no strife cause?

Who is the mad man?
Is he that eats rivers and forests
He that devours that which we must use
He that talks to multitudes in platitudes
And in doing so, stirs hatred and bloodshed?

Who is the mad man?
Is he that places in the asylum
He that devours that which we refuse
And elects to high office
(while showering him with praise)
He that eats rivers and forests?