AT WAR

source: www.psywar.org

 

We are at war;

All of us.

Soldiers, warriors, victims, citizens.

With blood on knives, arrows, blades, blood on our minds.

Trapped in the cages we call minds,

Bound by chains of false promises.

We slave,

We hope, we wait.

As Buildings go up in smoke.

We hear guns and bombs…followed by silence and sobs.

We fight as they steal our freedom,

Sinking us deep in the sea of blood and tears,

“our bloody enemies are so close, they are in our ears”.

We are at war.

Black trenches...black coats,

Black as their souls;

Black as the skin on their bodies;

Black as the burning blood they spill;

Black as the hands that carry the weapons;

Black as the people they kill.

We knew,  we knew all along

Yet we shut our ears.

The cry of the orphan; we ignored.

The widow, the widower; we created.

The soldier, the child; we killed.

Dreams haunted by the oppression of war.

Violent men welcomed with pomp and glamour,

Celebrated.

Peaceful men, who wore compassion as their amour,

Disregarded.

We were at war.

Befado

Source: www.digitaljournal.com

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Are You Man Enough? by Kelvin Kaesa (@KelvinKaesa)

Who is a man?
Mwanaume ni?
Mwanaume ni wallet?
Mwanaume ni effort?

Men are all that
And double-caps bold highlighted headlines on the front page of a best-selling magazine, 
you can find 10 tips on how to know if he is the one,
Six more on how to keep him;
And 5 secrets on how to make him good in bed.
So go on and get yours while stocks last, get him while he’s still tall dark and handsome.

This is branding
The idea of manhood has now become commercialized
turned into a pop culture trend
the principles defining manhood can now be found copy-pasted onto newspaper lifestyle columns,
cut-out and pinned onto the walls of high school dorm room cubicles filtered into man-crush-Monday Instagram hashtags

“you thought it was hard being a woman?

Try being a man on a Monday morning when your crush posts a man crush and it’s not you…” 

it’s hard out here for ninjas like we
society is forcing us to evolve
we no longer stand straight and cannot hold up our heads backs bent typing away on google trends
a man has to make sure his personality traits are tagged just fine to show up on the first page your search results go on, take your phones and google “how to be a man” you will find more than 2.4 billion results in about 0.79 seconds
Now that is fast
Fast enough to teach man how to bend into a consumer sized package wrapped up and delivered to your door step
waiting for you to let him in
his heart now bends in ways that won’t let him feel
and whatever else is left standing straight, has stereotypes to fill its place the bits of human left in him are trapped inside a hard heart
hard as a clenched fist holding on to trends, and needs he needs…
he needs more morphine for the state he’s in
more dope to lace his lips so they get hooked to what he says he needs more bass for the chiqs he wishes he’d win
he needs more chisel-chipped abs for the freeze-frame photo-shoot photos his followers want to see
They want to see more smiling… less frowning
“smile wider… don’t let the world see your frown. You are atlas go on hold your head up and don’t get your world off-balance”

I wonder, how many of you ladies take time to make sure you go out with the right guy?
I mean a crop-top, high heels and classy clutch bag need a fine brand to accessorize I wonder what skin tone of a man will match your dress tonight
There is a saying that goes
“teach a man to fish and you save him for a lifetime”
but, teach a man how to hunt like a dog and all he will ever know is to follow commands sit…he sits stand…and so he does here have a bone for your efforts
now wag your tail, roll over and die
whoever said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks forgot to mention that survival is a basic instinct so old dogs can learn to adapt and humans…well humans are not far off from the rest of the species keep repeating a slogan and see if he does not adapt… even bone of his bone can be made just that…a bone that… that is how you identify awesome branding!!!!

Now, how many guys here today think they are man enough?
How many of you are sure you are not just brands?
Go on. Think about it. Look into yourself
Look keenly, look closely
Because I can bet… that all you see are blurred lines
Your blood line has become so twisted you can form jungle-gyms inside your heart You cannot trace down your ancestry
In order for a man to find the true definition of manhood
We have to go back to the beginning
Hebrews 1:3 “…the son is the radiance of the father and he holds everything by the power of his words”
The son is the radiance of the father
The sun reflects the light of its father
The son is a perfect image of his father…like literally
He was made in his image and likeness.
Life breathed into his lungs, heart pumping he speaks things into existence

Now, you need to realize this is why God intended that man become head of the family
Because in him he holds the power to hold things in place, be a provider and sustains those close to him. He reflects good character that defines hiss offspring’s well being
So, do you still think you are man enough or just a brand?
You can wear your snapbacks, saggy pants and cool hairstyles. But that…that is just branding. Be a man

This piece was originally posted at Story Zetu. All rights preserved to Kelvin Kaesa. Read More of his works and projects #OfSmallBoysInBigCities and #MadeToRise here

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MAKE ME NUMB

Mirror mirror on the wall,

Who’s the bravest of them all?

His image fastens on him,

Its piercing eyes, its mouth opens;

Jeers at him.

“Make me numb God, make me Numb”

He whispers

“my face is red with weeping,

Deep shadows ring my eyes.

Make me numb.”

This fear shatters him,

Seizes him by the neck; crushes him.

Without pity, it pierces his kidneys,

Spills his galls on the ground.

It plunges him into a slime pit,

Even his clothes detest him.

It sews sack-cloths over his skin;

Buries his brow in the dust.

Each time he gets up, he goes down.

Deep.

Deeper.

He knows the foundations of hell like his first name.

“Make me numb God, make me Numb”

He whispers

“My face is red with weeping,

Deep shadows ring my eyes.

Make me numb.”

He is but a byword to everyone;

A man, whose face people spit,

His whole frame is but a shadow,

As water wears away stones,

As torrents wash away soil,

He lies down thinking

“How long, before I get up?”

For you see, the night drags on,

And the days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle.

He is a slave, longing for evening shadows,

Like a hired man, awaiting his wages.

So,

“Make me numb God, make me Numb”

He whispers

“Make me numb, till I feel nothing

For fear is but a feeling”

Befado

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SO LOVE by Gufy Dox

The things we do
The things we say
The smiles we make
The bills we pay
This is us.
This is me
This is you.
Believing that
Love is in the air-
at least that’s what we say
But is it true where you come from
Beauty is determined by curves and size of ass
That
Emotions and love are measured by short flings,
short dresses,
short conversations,
and short relations
Circling around custom made likings
that short women are more beautiful-
and tall women are hard to curve

We have reduced the power of feel
to
Fights between light skins and dark skins
Not knowing that’s definitely and intimately-
21st Century racism

Is it true that
We have boxed love the same way
the opposite sex has?
Emotions sent in chocolate bars-
boxed
Feelings travelling in electronic phones-
and buzz-
boxed
Have you ever stopped and wondered?

Maybe in the world of emojis
They laugh at our ignorance
every time we send smiley faces
with sad intentions.
We no longer laugh like humans, we
just imagine laughters.

So next time you meet your loved one
Smile a second longer than
The recycled smiles on your phone.
Hug an inch tighter to trigger warmth
that will walk you through the cold times
Because these boxes can’t store
the shapes of love our heart makes

Because…

We are big
I am big
you are big

So stretch, close your hands
to the things we do
And open your hearts to the things
ought to be done since
Beauty and killer looks shouldn’t be boxed
In aspect ratios
That rely on another user to ascertain
our real worth, but
That’s how low we are
In a world where self opinion
should be the bench mark of who we are
But who are we
To find love when we are lost
Who are we to hold love
When we let go too soon?

I haven’t been kissed with lips that lack lies
And for every hand that held me
spoke of how loose I am
I have swam in oceans of ‘it’s not you,
it’s me’
‘You’re too good to be true’ and
I have tasted the excuse of ‘I need more-
time to know you’

My heart has had more breaks than school gives
My eyes have seen more beauty in
phone screens, but
Average people when met in reality

I have learned that tears cry too
that hearts fade away
with every rejection
And souls bend to breaking points
with every assumption

So dear lady,
If a man takes long to show his emotions
Go grab his hand,
Steal a kiss
And when he is breathless
Let him know how you feel

To everyone who is hurt,
this is how we heal,
this is how we rise
Schedule your pleasure everyday
for your pain has already scheduled itself

So today, put people first
And tomorrow, when they’re difficult,
Put people first
And when you get to itch for something new,
Put people first
And when you think your pain
Necessitates giving up everyone you love,
Put people first,
and,
Open your world to other worlds
Gift your hands the textures of different people
Feast your eyes to shades of
different colours and fly your minds to
clouds of
How other people make it rain
in their own world

So today,
Learn that we are big
I am big, and you are big
So love
Love like hate has powered you
So love
Love like a heartbreak is chasing you

So love.

All rights Reserved to Gufy Dox. See more of his works here

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NEVER DATE A POET DEE

“Never date a poet Dee” he said amidst bites of some chicken barbecue flavored crisps I had shared with him (I have special attachment to this flavour). We were waiting for a mutual friend at a bus stage. I was to give her a novel in exchange for another; they were headed for a date. I assumed I had not heard him.

“Dee”, he paused to make sure I was listening to him, “never date a poet”. He repeated. I didn’t know how to take it. I mean; did he know that I subscribed to the religion that is poetry? That once in a while, I became a Levite and would step up to the altar with incense and offer a sacrifice of literary works written in verse, in particular, verses of high worth, great beauty, emotional sincerity, intensity and profound insight (Isn’t that what poetry is?); and at times words with rhythmic grace and imaginative proses?  Did he? Did he know that our mutual friend sat in the council of elders in this so called religion? Did he know that I frequented the likes of Fatuma's Voice, Upgrade Poetry, Slam Africa and Poetry Spot among other poetry forums?  Maybe. Maybe not.

Poets are a heartless lot. He said. Make a blunder and you will testify to this with a bible on your right hand. Make them doubt what you have and they will never make you forget. They will write pieces about you. They will paint their words with the pain, in a way that you will hear and read the words and know they were directed to you. Poets will stab your soul while reciting a love poem to you. They will hurl your heart into the depths, like a stone into mighty waters, and hug you like nothing happened.

Photo Credit: www.cdfstlucia.org

 They will stitch together parts of their verses with blood from the heart of a love that you once shared; and do it wearing a smile. They will make you think twice about anything you ever did without even saying it. They will perform these pieces to audiences that you are part of; people will praise their prowess with words. They will make you sit through the agony of listening to words that you once said; only this time they will sound so different because they are meant to crucify you. They will make you wonder out loud “was that about us?” and instinctively they will say “that was not about us by the way”. And you will know it was.

Photo Credit: www.p4cm.com

They will make you regret ever meeting them; ever falling in love with their hearts and souls. They will speak in parables that mock you and your mere existence. They will make you be cautious about love at first sight; you will always want to have a second and third look. They will make you read through their pieces first before they show them to the world. As if to make sure that the impressions of the words are engraved in your mind. And every time they are up there performing the piece, the words will hurt you one more time. And you will have to smile; because you are dating a poet.

Unless you are a poet as well. He added. Then you will be able to read between the sweet words and see the emptiness they carry. You will be able to see through the irony of the praises in proses. You will understand the meaning of the adjectives they use. You will see that one black sheep in the white sheep lines of a romantic poem. That masked truth that was not supposed to be there. That line that makes the whole piece a lie. And you will smile about it and say “great piece”. You will know the depth of the sting in that offensive line; because you would write the same to them.

Photo Credit: www.p4cm.com

He didn’t say more; he didn’t have to. The expression on his face, the way his face distorted with a foreign emotion as he talked; the emptiness in his eyes and the smile he gave her when she arrived said it all.

“Never Dee,” he said as he hugged her. 

“Not all” I whispered back.

Facebook:  Njeri Kareithi

Twitter: @deekareithi

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OF SIGHS AND WORDS

Speechless

I am speechless,

When I think of you;

I go mum,

Dumb, damp, with every pacing heartbeat,

With every gust of blood cells from my heart,

Cells paint your name on my veins,

All those impulses of love,

Softly whispering your name,

Softly killing me inside

*Sigh*

In my mind I see you,

Kneeling before your maker,

Pouring your heart, your life, your tears in worship,

Weak enough to submit to a higher being,

Strong enough to give your all to Him,

It turns me on,

So much that,

When I I’m speaking to Him about you,

I just smile in silence, sighs and face palms,

Leaving it to my heart,

To tell Him all that you are to me,

Thanking Him for you,

For your past, my past,

Our present, Our future.

Befado

Photo Credit: Kari Jobe

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THE ORPHAN

The orchestra plays

The choir softly chants

“Benedictus qui venit

Ni nomine venit”

I sit at the edge of my bed

My soft well padded bed

Swaying my mind, nodding

To the choir’s soft chants

Lonely I sit there,

As I have; daily

Since my parents died

I have no friends,

I have no parents

I process the pain inside,

Softly nursing my inner sores

I tell myself jokes

I chuckle at them,

Tell myself how funny I am.

At times I scorn myself,

For  not being able to do it; to overcome it,

To grow up.

Joy, roy, mackoy,

We laugh, we chat, we coil

I walk with them, everywhere

They are omnipresent,

Immortal, invisible,

My little gods

They are all I have.

My parents were stolen

My only friends taken

Now I have no parents,

I have no friends.

Befado

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MAYBE, MAYBE NOT

Will the movie end?

Or will the road have a bend?

Will the earth keep rotating?

Or will it keep the sun anticipating?

Will the wax melt away?

And make night from what was day?

Will the chocolate melt as well?

Or will the fireplace be where I daily dwell?

Maybe, maybe not.

Will the heart keep beating?

Or will it keep bleeding?

Will the blood keep flowing?

Or will it stop without knowing?

Will I forever resist you?

Or will I forever love you?

Will there finally be us?

Or will our love suffer from a curse?

Maybe, maybe not.

Do I still love you?

Do I still care for you?

Do I want to spend my life with you?

Do I believe in us?

Do I? Do I? Really?

Maybe, maybe not.

Befado

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A LETTER TO MY SOON TO BE WOMAN by RixPoet

When I first read this; I was taken aback. The articulacy, passion and wisdom in it is just over and above.  This piece was written by a friend and someone I look up to; a great man, an inspiration and a star in the rising....enjoy

Dear You, 

I've been having funny dreams lately. I see you walking into my life with parachutes and lots of bags - baggage. Yes, I know we are about to fly, but are you ready to carry my luggage too? I've been born and raised in closed boxes and where I am now is a place of retribute; I'm paying tribute to past pains by living in an ocean of good things - happy deeds and poetry.

I'm not sure if anyone taught you how to love. But the man in me is a boy who loves to child. I love playing with mud and dancing to Awilo Longomba in the middle of the quietest nights; the gloom of the earliest mornings. I will sing to you on the first phone call I make you in the morning because life is music and I'm the lyrics. I pray that you are a good dancer. You don't have to know how to shake your African treasures but at least know how to dance to words. If you could listen to the tunes in my speech, and I, the vibrance of the sound that comes out of your expressions, and laughter, then we are going to Rome together. No, Nairobi; my home. Do you have a home?

I've been to many relationships; met bold and beautiful girls and women. It's nothing to be proud of. Through it all, I learned that there is a selflessness that is needed in order to give someone your heart. Emotions are expensive. To sell them to anyone takes lots of nerve and risk. We love wearing clothes and masks that cover our souls so as to create false impressions of a life we do not own. Well, I don't want to wear clothes around you. I want to be as naked to you as I am to God, woman.

Please take note of this, that I do not know how to cook very well, but I can survive on my own. I can try hustle a fish inside a pan with a little oil and savor a meal though. You'll teach me the rest lest I burn our kitchen someday. But God knows I love food. I love ugali and mbuta, with soup. I love rice even though some African men often suggest that it is not food good enough for a man from this continent. Where I come from, there were no puddings and desserts, but once in a while mother pushed in some pawpaw and pineapples after meals. She is a great cook to date. Always reminded us that you must clean your cooking area after you finish with the stove. She should never find any clumps of ugali around the gas if you are the one who did lunch. The consequences were dire.

I love taking long walks. Sometimes when I'm quiet around you, it does not mean that I'm sad about anything. Just be wise enough to read the words of my silence. Sometimes I just want to be looking at you while talking to God in my head, wondering why He had to make your eyes so beautiful. I'm a quiet man who loves his peace and space. And when I'm jumpy and naughty, it is me eating the other half of life.

I'd like to be praying with you. I'm eager to listen to the words you tell God when you are angry with me. Or when you're happy or sad. Your walk with Him matters to me, probably more than anything else. I haven't figured out life to its totality myself. No human being really gets there. But I'm hoping to learn from you things that the world has not taught me. So love me like a teacher loves his students.

On some weekends, I will be out with the boys, watching football or making boyish chatter in the streets. I will not be in a position to reply your texts as fast as I'm used to during such moments. At times like those, please don't think that I'm out with other women. A little jealousy is okay though.

Do not be swayed by my words; I'm stubborn. My tough head will drive you nuts occasionally. I'll be the last person you want to see or talk to on some days. I have a poor memory and could have the tendency of forgetting some things you tell me, though at least not your birthday. But I'll forget the date of our first kiss.

I cherish the idea of chivalry. It's the same way you feel like a woman to serve me food. I'd like to live in your world; plant flowers and make dams on your soil, so I could have a garden to come back to for heavenly fragrance, and a place I could come quench my thirst when life gets me so thirsty. In my mind and heart, there'll be a fountain of endless waters that wait for you to draw them whenever you feel like. Things won't always be rosy, I know. They shouldn't. We haven't the right to heaven yet.

I'd like to know your language, so I could fathom the best diction to write you poems that would make earthquakes in your heart. I'd like to listen to your many words, and questions, even though I will not have answers to a majority of them. What I want to enjoy is seeing you comfortable in your skin; awashed of insecurities that hinder you from being the best woman alive.

I be brave, you be brave. One of us falls, the other picks them up. God is the center of our crimson chord. I know you want this like I do. Let the poetry begin.

Yours,
Eric 

For more about/from Eric, subscribe to his blog , find him on facebook or contact Kenya Poets Lounge

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THE SHADOWS by @wanjiru_wanjiku

The shadows in here converse;
Low grumpy conversations,
Gesticulating and pacing,
With their fingers growing long each passing minute,
Embracing my neck-
Squeezing and soothing.

I had known how to silence them,
Let them watch in awe as I practice a smile,
And a gait so blissful when I carry the wind on my shoulders.

Now I observe them with tight lips and a heart so torn that the sun rays go right through it,
Let them dance on the chandelier of hope laying somewhere in the room,
Gaze as they squeeze the very last ounce of light from my eyeballs.

What I know about living
is that pain is never just ours,
After a while we learn to dance to the music of our hearts again,
Wishing on porch lights like they were stars on cloudy nights.

But they wake me at night,
Howling again and again
that my heart has just skinned it knees...
A worse day is yet to come...
That maybe tomorrow...
is just an illusion.

So I toss forcefully closing my eyes,
Mumbling to the darkness that girdles me,
To the voices in my head...
To my soul hovering somewhere...
To these walls that have become friends...
To the spirits in here throwing stones
forcing me into an introvert's shell.

I had mastered the art of sealing lips and ignoring pain,
But the sea inside me is so full of bottles it no longer tides,
The messages taking on bipolar tendencies-
Some read "live"
Others " just how much water do you need to keep the pills down!"

So if tommorow really is an illusion
Let the world know I tried
But when I thought I had hit rock bottom
It hit back so hard
That the thread holding hope together snapped.

All rights reserved Shiru Wa Mum 2014 

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TO HELL WITH YOUR DONATIONS.

“Let’s go to Africa, salvage our slaves,

Let’s donate money, make names for ourselves,

Call local and international media,

Let Africa rejoice, here is their redeemer.”

Well, to hell with your donations!

Oh come fellow slaves, come let us rejoice,

Let us sing, dance, write and recite poems,

Let them take pictures and videos of us,

Playing around with our hopes and dreams.

But I refuse to. I refuse to join in the applause.

See, today I am here, raising my hands to feed my stomach,

With new shoes and new clothes, bales of flour and cooking oil,

With smiles and great high spirits.

Tomorrow, back to the same shack, taking beer and spirits,

The shoes you gave will be sold; my feet know not how to be sole-d;

The clothes will be sold, for my body knows not how to be clothed.

So go, go back to your filthy rich homes, rich and filthy homes, be out of my sight

Out of sight, out of mind, you make me wish I was blind.

Every donation you make, I feel you dancing on my grave.

Without you I will still I see myself together,

Through the holes of my tattered sweater.

I will sew myself together,

Mend my broken and torn life together.

To your face I say; to hell with your donations!

But then again don’t go,

Keep donating food, money and clothes; dig a well.

We’ll take and sell, use to pay bills and settle debts  as well.

But what would be better,

Is if you would make us better,

Empower us with skills and knowledge,

Show us how to make the clothes, how to grow the food,

Then we will make money.

But till then; to hell with your donations!

Befado

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I SEE YOU

I see you,

Crying at the street corner,

Tears that no one will see,

With a story no one will believe.

Passers-by pass you by,

With judgmental glances,

Peeking under their glasses;

“She’s one of them, swims in pangs of pity, She knows not the mystery that is purity”

They hiss in hushed tones.

I see you,

You went to the gym each day,

Thinking if you stayed thin, he would stay.

But then these lasses,

With judgmental glances,

Peeking under their glasses;

They could go to Katmandu overland,

On a limping camel for all you cared;

But your life they stripped!

I see you,

Misery emanates from you,

Like radioactivity from plutonium.

Waiting to die, sitting alone,

In your own cell, regretting all you’ve done.

Daily you huskily howl, from deep inside your soul,

“Help me, I want to go home”

I see you,

Longing for someone who mends; heals,

One who feeds; gives meals,

One to clothe; tops and heels,

He who owns a thousand cattle upon hills.

“Come to me, with your heavy burdens;

Lay them at my feet”

I see you,

I will take you, feed, clothe, mend you,

I will not judge you, for what you’ve done

Or what you have become,

I will love you for you.

Come; my child come.

Befado

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THE STRENGTH OF A MAN by Anonymous

It is still the month of love and it is in that same mood that I post this. I came across this short piece and thought is should share it...  :-)

The strength of a man isn't seen in the width of his shoulders.
It's seen in the width of his arms that encircle and protect you.
The strength of a man isn't in the deep tone of his voice. 
It is in the gentle words he whispers.

The strength of a man isn't in the words he speaks.
It's in how he keeps his word.
The strength of a man isn't how many buddies he has.
It's how good a buddy he is with his children.

The strength of a man isn't in how respected he is at work.
It's in how he is respected at home.
The strength of a man isn't in how hard he hits.
It's in how tender he touches.

The strength of a man isn't in the hair on his chest.
It's in his heart....that lies within his chest.
The strength of a man isn't in how many women he's loved.
It's in whether he can be true to the ONE woman he's trying to love.

The strength of a man isn't in the weight he can lift.
It is in the burdens he can understand and overcome.
The strength of a man isn't in the weight he can lift.
It's in the effort he puts forth when you are unable.

The strength of a man isn't in how he makes love.
It's in the understanding that there is more to making love..than making love..

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JUST BECAUSE

Just because you can sing in church,

Just because you quote the bible much,

Just because you plant seeds, good deeds, don’t do mix and match,

Doesn’t make you more of a Christian,

Let God be judge

Just because he calls you daily,

Just because he takes you to parties, buys you panties, makes you smiley, daily,

Just because he says he will pay your dowry,

Doesn’t make him a better lover,

Let the heart be judge.

Just because you perform in gigs,

Just because in you mix English, Swahili, sheng' in your jinx,

Just because I’m quiet, perform in syncs,

Doesn’t mean you are a better poet, artist,

Let the words be judge.

Just because you live your dream,

Just because, it seems like I dream my life,

Just because I day dream, and insomnia works on me at night,

Doesn’t make you a better dreamer,

Let tomorrow be judge.

Befado

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THE SON OF AN AFRICAN MOTHER.

At dawn, I rose, and headless we were.

Mother said he ditched us,

Went to look for greener pastures,

Pastures greener than the green card he had;

So manly of him!

Leaving his seed as well as the whole farm,

Giving up what he called his fam.

“You are the first born” he said

“A boy child, proof of my manhood;

Don’t ever shed a tear, African men don’t cry

I never did, and don’t ever ask why”

Pooh! Please!

“In my absence you are the man of the house”

You're damn right I am!

I will never leave my village,
I love my village,

You live with dignity, though your pockets are empty;

To hell with the city!

Its people are poor and backward,

Pulling each other down so that no one moves up!

I will find myself a girl, a woman.

A village girl, a village woman,

I will marry her, make her my wife,

Be the man my father never was!

I am the son of an African mother;

The man of the house;

They look up to my hands, huge rough hands,

Hands that polish handles of spades, knives and hoes;

Hands that dig yams, carry bunches of bananas, handle foes.

Hands soaked with sweat, hands full of tenderness.

Hands that provide; manly hands,

Hands of the son of an African mother,

The man of the house.

I work at the farm, as the wind moans, 
As the moonbeams cast shadows,

I work to feed my family, our family.

I feed, I keep. I protect, I own. I discipline;

Things a man ought to do.

Things my father never did.

I am the son of an African mother,

The Madiba of my Africa,

The man of the house.

 Befado

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YOU SAY, YOU DO

You say you hate publicity,

But when a bunch of girls call,

You drive all the way to meet them.

You say you love indoors,

But each evening, each afternoon,

You can’t talk coz you’re driving.

You say you love chatting,

But when in my excitement I text you,

You reply one hour later.

You say you love spending time together,

But when I’m in town,

Your phone goes off.

You say you love me,

But clearly,

You’re in love with another woman.

You say many things, many promises,

I hear you, but no longer believe you,

Because what you say is not what you do.

Befado

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I STOPPED WRITING by @wanjiru_wanjiku

I stopped writing
when you left my world,
For how could i write,with my world
crumbling...

I stopped writing,
when on your face fell a frown,
For what would my words play with,if not
your smile....

I stopped writing
when your back is all I saw,
for what would I scribble,when the radiance
of your face was gone.

I stopped writing
when all I saw was anger in your eyes,
for how could I write,with guilt saw-milling
my heart.

I stopped writing
when there was no longer you in us,
for even though my hand held the pen,my
heart wrote the words

 

©MaggieWanjiru2013. All rights reserved

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