Arsenal, Culture, Life, The Teenage Years

JOGA BONITO: MORE THAN A GAME

The Divine Bandit

I was meant to write this post on that Tuesday, May 19th 2026. Even with a little bit of delay for the celebrations, I could have at least done it by Sunday May 24th 2026 when the actual Premier League season ended. With the most gentle of nudges I could have managed to do it by end of May, end of June, end of July but well…what defines procrastination best than rushing to complete that same task a few hours to the commencement of the new season on 21st August 2026?

Now that we are through with that boring introduction, let’s step into the first and main inspiration behind dribbling down this memory lane: ARSENAL ARE THE REIGNING PREMIER LEAGUE CHAMPIONS! Now, I know that statement alone probably led to half my readers pausing or closing their reading tab instantly. However, for those who have remained, I promise you that you are in for more than stories about the red and white gunners.

I was discussing football with a friend’s dad a few months back and I was surprised to learn that he had never played football growing up and could not even accurately aim to kick the ball presently. To me and probably most African kids from my generation, this was truly shocking because to us anything that was on the ground could be converted for footballing purposes. What I mean is, whether walking home from school, working around the household; our generation dribbled rocks, fruits, plant seeds, cans, bottles…the list is endless. When we got really serious for a match, using left over rags, string or sisal and a paperbag cover would produce the original jabulani which had a maximum speed of 20 KPH, a spin rate of 1 RPM and zero chances at curving past another player or the goal post. Once in a while though, someone at school would procure a new/new-ish paperbag, perfect stuffing materials like light old seat sponges, left over tailoring materials and most important of all, a long enough woven nylon string. They would create the best version of a handmade football that was possible then. Done properly, this ball could even bounce and change direction in the air (just like the World Cup 2010 Jabulani) until it got rained on or fell in a ditch for then it would become a weapon of facial distortion if it hit you. All the weight of soaked up water, the braided nylon strings and a bare footed super kick could leave you with the nylon boxed design perfectly imprinted on your face for days.

You now fully understand the kind of environment we grew up in as far as football was concerned. Yet, thinking back, there was no particularly special reason to be that obsessed with the sport. First, club football was not available to be watched live on the few TVs that existed in the villages in Kenya. This would leave sports news highlights, Gillette World Sports Special programme and live matches during the World Cup and AFCON as the only time one was around continuous live football broadcasting which would mostly be on radio. In addition, these happened/happen every 4 years, it was again not enough reason to become so attracted and fall in love with the beautiful game. Therefore, as I tried to find a strong reason for this level of basal affection for a sport that most kids wouldn’t have managed to watch much before playing it, I came across the idea of family and community. I played football because my elder siblings did, I played it because my cousins, my school friends and even my village mates played it. They played it because someone else they knew played the game too. In essence, most people seem to have been around football because they found a place to belong, a cheap activity to share with friend during daily school breaks or even on holidays. Some young fans were a tad more exposed on the basis of having some regional clubs that played in lower leagues entertain us on local half grass, half murram pitches during game weekends. At one point after high school, my eldest brother played for one of these clubs and not only would I get to attend the matches but also follow him to week day practice sessions, but then he was swiftly whisked off to college. That same brother who would end up being the reason I had to suffer the misery of 22 years without a premier league trophy. I will tell you how…

The year is 1994, the world cup is going on in the USA and Jojo Sweets or whatever the full name was had just discovered the perfect marketing gimmick; wrapping the gum inside with stickers of footballers at the world cup in their national kits including their name and kit number. My middle brother and I started a hobby of collecting the said stickers with the hopes of creating every single team’s first 11. This meant going as far as trading the stickers in school just to get the missing pieces. In the end, we couldn’t manage to get all full teams except one, the Brazil team led by Dunga as captain while Romario and Bebeto led the line. Now as young as we were, we already had our favourite teams and by then Brazil led in that list amongst family and friends. The final arrives, goes to penalties and Roberto Baggio misses the famous spot kick for Italy. Brazil are champions!! We make sure everyone knows we supported Brazil, we make fun of those who supported Italy at the final. We talk like fans who plan to never move their support for a national teams’ competition. It was the only thing we knew by then, not even a peep about club football, at least not much about the premier league.

The next 4 years before the 1998 World Cup were spent slowly getting used to club football news. I could recognize more names because of the just concluded world cup, I could tell the difference between the different leagues and was slowly getting used to the idea of “selling” and “buying” players. I was also slowly getting used to the names of clubs that the then stars played for when there was no world cup. However, I was still too young and deep in the 8 before 4-4 to care that much, to actually have my emotions affected by whatever happens on a football pitch. Little did I know what was awaiting me. When the 1998 World Cup comes around, it finds me grown enough, but not as grown as my eldest brother who’s in form 3 by then. He insists he has shifted teams and now supports France, I am flabbergasted by the betrayal and trying to understand. Why would you leave our team for another? No loyalty for Ronaldo, Rivaldo, Roberto Carlos, Cafu? I couldn’t understand it when the tournament started but it sank like a hot knife during the final. I watched Zidane dismantle Brazil as France won 3 nil while my brother taunted me about my life choices. I cried. I was slowly realizing he had information I was not paying attention to. He knew players from watching club football in high school, he knew about game day line ups not just overall squads and he had used that information to choose France as possible eventual winner. This is while I was still riding the high from 1994 and believing it enough to win as long as Brazil got to the finals. In later years we would find out Ronaldo was unwell for the final but in that moment then, it just made my brother look like a genius. This is why when I asked which club he supports and he said Arsenal, there was no talkback or arguments. Arsenal had won the World Cup. This would be further cemented by 1999 when the young exciting forward we had seen torture teams at the WC was signed to Arsenal; the one who would soon become The King, Thierry Henry. Everything was falling into place.

In 5 years, the French contingent of manager and players, plus others of course, would deliver doubles and win the league undefeated, a feat unmatched to date. But then, as loud and quick as the success had been, it suddenly all went quiet. Belief propelled the fans and players forward, to a Champions League final when I was in college in 2006. However even that belief would start cracking as the all trophy drought from 2005 hit year 5 and then seemed headed for 10. That is until that carpet football group that had Ozil, Santi Cazorla, Rambo won that FA cup against Hull City in 2014. Then they added Alexis Sanchez and won 2 more FA Cups in quick succession. We started believing, we became the Next Season fans every time the current season did not materialize into a higher trophy than the FA Cup. With that group of players, we would end up losing it to Leicester in 2016, Wenger had to go! The professor, the one who’d won the league undefeated and multiple doubles had fallen off in tactics and there was no light at the end of the Emirates tunnel. The fans revolted, they even hired a plane to fly a Wenger Out banner during a game. It was one of the lowest moments for most Arsenal fans.

Wenger is finally out! Bora Unai! After 22 years (ironically), Arsene Wenger would leave the club that almost shared his name. Those who wanted him out (most fans) thought they were finally free of the shackles of football past its time. We would buy differently, we would play differently, we would definitely win and make a difference. Fast forward that faith to that night in Baku 2019 which would end up serving to us a not so Good Ebenin. Sure, the trophy was 2nd tier but it was highly anticipated by the fans so they could build belief in their new manager and the team set up. After a season and a half, Unai is shown the door and a novice manager, a former Arsenal player, Mikel Arteta is given the reins. Some fans rejoice, some give up immediately, most have learned to be patient and just wait.

1 win in 10 games! Arteta’s team wins only one game in a 2 month period at the height of Covid-19. Fans are confused and are arguing amongst each other online and in Whatsapp groups. Some point to the recent FA cup success with Arteta while others point at his short CV and the continued losses. We finish 8th for the 2nd time under Arteta’s management.

While all this is going on, time and life edge forward for both fans, players and staff. This is the reason I said this post may be Arsenal inspired but is not about Arsenal alone. It is about the community that this game creates and the relationships it has fostered over the years. In January 2019, I would find myself in the 14 Riverside compound as the terrorist attack happened. The next day as I tried to get my phone to start working due to hundreds of calls and messages that had come through as we hid during the event, I would find that football fans of all clubs, rivals we had argued with in Whatsapp groups for years had been looking for me. They texted and called including offering avenues for PTSD counselling and therapy. I was getting to know doctors, psychiatrists and even those in the armed forces as they reached out to offer a helping hand. Football had been shelved, rivarlies broken, it was time for a community health check. And we needed it, because a few hours later, messages of Odu Cobra’s passing while he saved lives would reach the football groups and a communal heartbreak would envelope all of us. Most of us who had not met him knew him as a Man United fan, vocal, knowledgeable and most importantly kind in his words and presentation. The groups would contribute for his funeral, attend events to honour him and would keep his name alive through stories and memories.

Do you know someone who likes a certain player for no reason? And acts like that player is related to them including being overly concerned with their success? That was how my friend Steve Ashers was when it came to Matteo Guendouzi. Even after years of Next Season F.C., he still held the belief that the team that would have Matteo as a mainstay midfielder would lead us to success. My friend would leave this plane in August 2019 while Matteo would head out on loans and then leave Arsenal some time after. To date I still find myself looking up MG as he was affectionately known amongst his fans just to keep an eye on his career because my friend didn’t get his wish. That’s why when we finally did it, without Guendouzi, without Auba and most of the players my friend left at Arsenal, I pointed to the heavens, to him and since that world cup final in 1998, I found myself shedding tears. We had done it for those who had left us and as I would soon find out, for those who would leave us soon after like one Dr Magubo did a few days after we won the title and missed out on the Champions League trophy. His last message on the group on June 1st 2026 – Nxt season tunabeba champe!

So as Arsenal kicks off the 2026/27 Premier League season in less than 30 minutes, as they defend what took 22 years to achieve, I’m reminded to share about this community that will be at each other’s throats for the next few months. That we may bring the fight but we really just came to play, we may shout spiteful chants but it’s all love, some scenes on the pitch may get ugly but this game will remain beautiful.

Deep and overstood, Hip hop, War

Recipe for Poetic Beef

The Divine Bandit

I own the stage with my first step while you approach it clutching paper like it’s a shield.

While you sound off words laced in cotton, I bleed razors dipped in iron.

You find divinity in rhyming tropes like love and dove. 

I rhyme silence with your grave and make the bandit eternal.

Poetry makes your lips tremble like it’s a confession. 

I take the stand to execute the jury that dares deliver my judgement. 

Verses shouldn’t be served like weak tea that you hope someone sips.

It’s top barrel rum that you force down their throats as they beg for more. 

Applause and finger snaps disappear under arms becoming your crutches. 

The blood and bone in language I find and snap is the only thing I lean on. 

You force metaphors into your gaps, it’s no wonder they wilt like sunburnt roses. 

Mine arrive scarred and missing teeth from the wars they already won. 

My art was never about sharing feelings, this poetry doesn’t seek to examine my heart. 

I take a sharp blade to the memory of the world and carve my initials in its spine. 

You ask for permission to be heard, politely voicing your concerns.

My voice storms the room, blowing hinges off closed minds and ears. 



You define poet as a manipulator of killer words.

I define a poet as the assassin of any word that defies truth. 

You shrink to the microphone like it were a pious priest.

Mine bends towards me seeking to serve a true king. 

You whisper to it, praying your lines survive the night. 

I know ghosts that envy my tongue, will whisper mine into centuries. 

You note death every time you open your rhyme book. 

I slay the delighted audience with my opening rhyme.

The difference between us is you name your fears into words.

I scare letters into being and words fear that I even know their names.

Your dream ends in an unread book that still smells of printers and publishers.

My dream will be carved in stone so sharp that even gods cut their fingers.

Writing is a comfort for you and your audience.

I write to conquer the time and destroy your ears. 

I don’t want to be remembered, I want the world to regret teaching me how to speak. 

That is the art in which I stick and sharpen my blade.

That is poetry.

And that’s why I will announce my entry…

While staging my exit.

Culture, death, Deep and overstood, Life, Love, Politricks, War

WHEN MISSILES FLY

The Divine Bandit

Genetics…
Genesis…


Go ye past the borders and divide

I annoint you in holy fuel

Flies gather on either side

Sipping the unholy duel



Are these the end times?

Prophecies and man’s plan

Abstain from files

Dear …stan 



Position a missionary

Intentional combat

Assassinate a revolutionary 

Deliberating cobalt



iSuck…
Isaac…
Ishmael…
iSmile…

Dad, death, Life, Love, Prose

OÙ T’ES PAPA? – A DECADE OF LOOKING FOR YOU AND FINDING MYSELF

The Divine Bandit

“Knock, knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door”, before the Devil is done greasing his gates.

2237h, February 16th, 2026. Would it even be appropriate if I wrote this homage any earlier than a few hours to my personal and your anniversary’s deadline? This is despite writing it in my mind for these last 6 months or so. I have imagined sentences and lost them, I have recalled memories and kept them. Tonight, I recreate the past and immortalize you.

Hi Dad, Wakia Awa,

Time really does make good use of its wings and dashing feet doesn’t it? Passing faster than my grey hairs can pepper my mind as well as conversation. I was just updating you yesterday about the family was I not? It’s hard to imagine the 5 year salute has now doubled for the sum of years you have been away. I apologize for being so long gone. That half decade arrived like the flu but left a memory gap for which the CDC is yet to find a vaccine. All I possibly remember is that J&J became famous during the Covid pandemic but when Big Bad Boy Diddy huffed and puffed, the reasons were no longer as academic. That probably gave you a chuckle didn’t it? If not, I don’t claim to be the natural stand up comedian that you were.

Now that we are past the chipping of the ice or as I call it aligning my thoughts using filler drivel, allow me to get to the realness as you liked it. I have known you all my life as one never to waste words unless they made others smile or exuded well thought out ideas or responses. Something that a noisy child like me could never understand till I grew older. The quieter I grew, the more questions that arose especially from dear mum. I don’t believe she will ever reconcile that I am the same person and that in my change I have found my rest. In my solitude, I create and release the cacophony of ideas clashing and banging in my head. I get to rest when the internal noise dies down, even if for just a day.

Today, that noise threatened to overwhelm me. Here I was, anxious over a new project, excited to write about you later in the day and then mid way through the morning, I learn that a dear friend of 20 years left this plane to join yours over a year ago. I couldn’t figure out which emotion to feel, which feeling to express. On one side, I had lived long enough since you departed to talk to you or of you with a smile on my face. On the other, the idea of you also meant the reality of my friend’s exit. In the end I chose to compartmentalize, I owe you today. I apologize in advance because this note is also coated with grief deferred. I will cry tomorrow.

My first memory of you is probably not real but the amalgamation of years seeing that photo of you holding me while seated on the stones that would become our home to date. To be truthful, the memory begins not with you but your leopard print hat. I don’t even know whether it fits to be called a hat or where it had originated. All I know is that I was obsessed with stealing it off your head and wearing it. It covered my entire face and half my body. It also smelled like you and Sportsman. Though in retrospect, I thought of the combined scent as just you. The other half of that memory is me tripping over those same stones as I was prone to always falling over. It could be the same memory or a similar one as falling over was so regular that I also sat on a hot cooking stove or jiko at one point. This is besides the point but I also remember the last time I truly fell, in a ditch while jogging in the first week of high school. Soon after I would learn dance and grace, even though to date I still say my toes curl towards the ground because of how long I’d been trying to grab at it.

“Most of what I know I’ve learned from falling, from placing the brighter side of my hands against the earth and pressing until vertical. The ground has taught me more about flight than the sky ever could.”
― Rudy Francisco, I’ll Fly Away

From hereon the memories flow haphazard, complete and in pieces. For some reason, just like all African dads, you were to be feared. I played along and I think you always knew this. Especially how the entire family seemed taken aback when I would decide to keep prodding at your stomach and asking why it was round and still firm. I was almost a pre-teen while doing this so being a child was not my excuse or yours to errrm stomach it. Dearest mother was the disciplinarian, sparing no cane at school or at home. But again, just like most African homes, the least feared. If a cousin said they’d seen you at the shopping centre, a day’s work would be completed by all hands in the 10 minutes it took you to cycle home. If the front gate banged shut announcing your arrival, the chickens would be forced to roost and the dogs chained for the night acting like they’d eaten their dinner a few hours earlier. It is thus quite interesting that 1 of the 2 times you actually caned/whipped me or us (the hardened boys) had to do with not feeding our “pet” rabbits on time. I was slowly understanding that you could never stomach seeing an animal abused. This was why we had the lesson lashed quickly that whether it was pets of our own acquisition as the rabbits were, they would receive the same attention and care once they arrived in your homestead.

The 2nd time you would whip me with what I very well remember was a bicycle rubber strap was truly so well deserved that I almost thanked you when it was done. I was disappointed in my own decision making but also mostly in my creation. What incidence is this you ask? To those alive in Kenya in the 1990s, you remember a show titled Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman. Now her love interest Sully, whom we called Selly all our lives because there was no Google to prove us wrong, was known for possessing a native American’s tomahawk. Genius me decided that one of the old office seats in the store full of cobwebs and past use items was going to sacrifice a leg so my battle axe could gain an arm. This might seem crazy but I blame the fact that I’d already received a home made spear to the head before then. Boys! After a day’s toiling, my resulting weapon could neither fly in circles or stick to its intended target. My disappointment hurt than the beating but at least the lesson that nothing was ever truly useless stuck.

Fast forward to a few years later and I would soon learn that men are boys and boys become men through practice than the passage of time. You loved attending the ASK shows, bringing in various pamphlets on new age farming practices (Supa Money Maker pump comes to mind), all manner of new gadgets and gizmos and on this occasion you had brought a football or as we called it ball ya pumsi. Now, we had already broken enough windows with our home made sponge and polythene footballs playing one touch right in front of the kitchen, so it was a 100% risk to bring a real football into a compound with 3 boys, their cousins and family friends. Little did I know that on this day I would be suffering a similar fate to that of the long forgotten (ok, not by mum) window panes. You found us playing football at around 6 pm, darkness was creeping in but one could still make out the white bits of the football. A loose ball found itself at your feet and with the legs that had played football for ages when young and ridden a bicyle for decades, you unleashed a Granit Xhaka like shot for the goal post (the house wall and the water tank), only it didn’t find its intended target but my stomach. As I fell over, you turned into my big brother in seconds (our age gap is 40), quickly rubbing my stomach, declaring the game over in hushed tones and saying we should get inside without raising any suspicion. All this to escape the ire of dearest mother. As all this transpired, I realized you expected no tears from me and that kukausha was about to become my new reality. Men!

I cannot speak of you without bringing up your type of education and wrestling (WWF not WWE). Every Tuesday when the car battery powering the black and white Greatwall TV would have enough power, you’d steal me from the study room so I could explain what the current storylines were since the previous week. Mum thought you were pulling me from studies but I was learning new things through different mediums. On the Tuesdays, KBC would decide to disapppoint me, I would sit and listen to programs like Face to Face, In Search of an Answer and Professional View as you snored the day away on “Dad’s seat”. Also let’s just face it, I was doing no studying when in the study room as I’d never found anything worth revising for in primary school. My absence probably gave my siblings much needed silence to actually do serious work. As I came to learn about your past, especially your career, I started understanding why you viewed life as the teacher. From accompanying surveyors as a kanda ya moko to learning the trade through observation and questioning till you acquired your own instruments and licences becoming Mukabi Surveyor to many from Kinale to Gatamaiyu, from Ndeiya to Thikimu. Most of your lessons came unspoken, unwhipped, just you saying, watch me.

In the article about you in February 2017 I mentioned the phone call you made when I was 24 and convalescing from clinical depression. I do not know whether you even understood what the ailment was but you did not need to. I had a job but one day I woke up to an Mpesa message from you of Ksh 8,000. Considering I had once made you look for me for an entire day, (legitimately because I thought it was fun since I still had your money ready to send back) including through my siblings, after you wrongly sent Kshs 20,000 instead of Kshs 2,000 when I was in campus, I called you and asked the reason for the cash. I tried explaining I did not need money and the medical was covered by the company’s medical insurance. In very few words, you said that you knew that. You said I needn’t worry no matter how old I got, you would always have my back. Hearing ndukamakio nî thî îno (Don’t let this world worry you) coming from you hit like a shot at new life. A high that I carry to this day especially in these recent years. I have needed you and even when away you have remained available and accessible in my veins, my blood, my nurture and my memories of you.

As I bid you farewell for now, I find myself wanting to tell you more stories of how you made me and who you made me become. Several people have found me too rational in situations that demand full blown anger, asking how do I manage to do that. On this through you and your sons, I learned to never start a fight I am not willing to see to the end. Most situations are simpler or non essential when you take a step back and a full breath. I also learned that family was the line. When a high school going bully would attack me on my way to school and smash my books into the ground, you turned up at his home, sharp panga in hand to have a stern talk with his parents. When I changed primary schools, I would learn that the reason no one wanted to even have the newbie fight with me was because no one was going to start a fight with Dave’s brother. They had already learned this lesson first hand when he’d changed schools earlier. And when older, grown adult bullies decided to waylay me and some other new initiates on the way home, your eldest son, sharp warning in tow delivered a similar warning as you had in another homestead 3 years prior. Through you and them I learned to conserve my energy, to deliberately direct it only where it served a true purpose that I believed in.

Awa, I miss you. Your rough hard-worn palms whose cold touch as you lay gone from this life finally broke me on that fateful morning. I have never told anyone this but I lost you twice and then some few more times. To date I have never known whether it was lucid denial, but I would still get confused whether you were still alive on certain mornings years after you were gone. A few months after you passed on, I had a dream, an event spanning a whole 2 years but in one night. In the dream, you never left, you had survived what had taken you away in reality. We lived another 2 years together then I woke up, lost you all over again and kept losing you every morning after when I had to remind myself of reality. The reality in which you no longer existed.

Thank you for the lessons, thank you for having my back, and thank you for making me, me. Sending some greetings for Alex and Wanjiku who travelled before you. Some further greetings to your own dad, Njoroge Mahinda whom you always made fun of as using Njogero Mahindi as his signature. I can’t forget how it tickled me to the point of tears the first time I heard you say this. Once more, you were the comedian and I your willing and receptive audience. Jusqu’a la fin.

Koma thayû Baba

#IAmKenyan, death, Deep and overstood, Kenya, Life, Politricks, War

FAREWELL, JAKOM

The Divine Bandit

Friends, patriots, children of this Kenyan soil, lend me your ears.
I come not to praise Raila, nor to curse him.
But to lay wreaths of truth upon his long, arduous road.

He was Jakom, the people’s leader.
Son of Odinga, heir to the unfinished dream.
When Moi’s shadow fell like a drought upon our tongues.
He rose, flame in hand, with Matiba, Rubia and others beside him.
Their names carrying in whispers within cells that had no light.
He fought for our voice, when words were contraband.
When to speak was to disappear, he was my hero then.
Freedom arrived, laced with the smell of tear gas and the scent of hope.
As the second liberation marked our warriors in bruises; mental and physical.

But tell me friends, what becomes of heroes when they sit to dine with the kings they once defied?
When he clasped Moi’s hand, I felt my heart stammer between betrayal and belief.
For I had learned resistance from him.
How to endure, how to dream, how to dare.
I was dumbstruck as I watched his iron will bending into hot negotiations.
Disillusioned by freedom’s father, a child, I lost faith in the breaking dawn.
The people grew up to love and hate him as these words will be.
But just like a work of art, he still hang around as the public’s mirror.
To some, the fiery fire of freedom; to others, ambition’s smoke.


They tried to read his soul, see all the cards Agwambo held.
Liberator, dealmaker, the proverbial prophet.
But how do you predict a storm that keeps returning, even within the calm?
Villains only rise when people view once through hero-stained glasses.
When they confuse mourning all the memories with worship.
That’s why I dare to embrace him and still confess his undoing.
He who won wars without a crown, routed regimes with rallies and resolve.
He who left footprints where presidents feared to tread, from the ballot to the barricades.
Always a breath short of power, always a heartbeat away from victory.


His last walk, his last stroll, he fell into his last deep sleep on foreign soil.
Another Kenyan son lost abroad, as her womb labours under broken hands.
So today I weep not only for Baba but the national dream that limped beside him.
I remember him as our fight, our fault, our forever flawed argument.
He changed the shape of power, even when it refused to wear his name.
What is his legacy?
Perhaps it is the loudness of this silence we now share.
Half gratitude, half grief.
Perhaps it is the knowing, that we may never see such defiance again.


Go well, Jakom.
You walked through prisons and parliaments alike.
And though your crown was made of promises unmet.
You wore it with the dignity of a statesman.


Sleep, son of the soil,
For even in contradiction, you were ours.

#IAmKenyan, Culture, Dad, death, Deep and overstood, Kenya, Life, Politricks, War

SWEPT UNDER THE FLAG 🇰🇪

The Divine Bandit

“They buried the bodies.
Then waved the flag.
But the soil remembers.”

REX:

Albert, it feels weird waking up and opening my eyes not to screams or smoke, but to songs.
Melodies that arrive through justice not tear gas scented winds.
Without a need to run, I was lazily strolling this morning, digging my toes into the wet grass.
Here, where no toy soldier lurks ready to make the air sting with sound.
Calm, my heart no longer beating as a countdown to the next stray bullet.
And just as I started feeling homesick, there you were, smiling like the Kenyan sun we used to bask in.

ALBERT:

Behind you bright-eyed and full of life, came all the ancestors.
Wangarĩ stood like a mountain, arms open and ready to embrace the giant you are.
JM proudly patted your back as Mboya’s voice boomed out warm praises like a firelight.
Ouko laughed and whispered to me, “You came too soon, but you came right.”
Father Kaiser holding my face, hands heavy with unspoken truths.
Matiba and Were chose not to speak at first.
You could tell that they had been waiting.
Waiting to see more names carved as a national sacrifice.

ALL:

We ended up breaking bread on the tables forged from blood and broken dreams.
We listened and drank heavily from stories aged in prisons and protest.
For the first time in a long time, we felt honoured not hunted.
Dining away from the prowl of death squads and tribal division.
We not only witnessed but understood the legacy that should bind.
We knew what it meant to become part of the sky, not just lost in it.
For a brief magical moment, heaven tasted like our vision of home.

ALBERT:

That sweet moment barely lasted, our joy curdled when we hazarded a glimpse down.
Piercing cries going past the ear to sear the brain and not from memory.
Visible fresh cuts and bodies still getting dressed in flags.
I saw parents still asking for their sons back.
The bodies of their daughters picking up the political slack.
I saw tribal gods rising from new and old graves we helped bury.
Worshipped by those who profit from our collective pain and misery.

REX:

With 6 foot chains, long enough to link our souls to the soil.
I saw the puppeteers in new tailored suits but same old threads.
Countering suits and whispering poison into hungry ears.
I saw them still peddling salvation by tribe, but ignorant to the signs.
Only familiar with airlines, their 5 year tickets forgotten at the front lines.
I witnessed poverty still being planted then fertilized like a seed for loyalty.
Where there was no prison for the mind, I saw entire counties turned into cages.

ALL:

Are we just dead heroes, martyrs or the silent messengers?
Meant to dismantle their play at the tribal theatres?
Should they still die for men that won’t bury them?
Leave through a nightmare disguised as a dream?
Can freedom be found on flags raised by liars?
Or does it germinate in clarity of resistance, their refusal to forget?
We are their past, presently, their future is still dying.

8th July 2025

#IAmKenyan, Culture, death, Deep and overstood, Kenya, Life, Politricks, War

NOT LIKE US – SNAKES

The Divine Bandit

Intro: 2024

Sssss, I saw dead people.
(Massacred the streets, no?)

Verse 1: 2024

Aye, massacred the streets, so
No real leaders around, just a pony show.
State clowns, punch their timestamps, tell ’em “Leave bro.”
Raise a finger then a coin toss, then walk around like they know.
What’s up with these slave masters trying to get their laugh on?
The government can hate me, dust ’em off and they drama.
How many cops you really got? I mean, it’s staged corruption.
Ain’t gonna pass another body, seen enough stacked on.
Hit a pass and find the tribal it’s earth scorchin’.
Such times you run out to slow the triggers.
Satisfied journeyman, mileage about to outscore him.
Get him down, up on a pedestal and he still missing the rim.
Souls on him, export hits, jury, dethrone him.
Say, snakes, my Apple costs a lung.
I’ll soon barter or sell my blocked one.
I pray you snitch and lose everything you have.
Just to make sure the king has nothing on him.
They tell me for once you shall work just to pull this down.
All party to the nasty, you playin’ with us now.
It used to be our X space, why are you around?
Certified Lawmakers? Certified copycats!
Grab, grab, grab, grab, grab, we lock em’ up.
Grab, grab, grab, grab, grab, they steal your stuff.
Why you coding like a switch? Ain’t you fired?
Trynna strike accord but you’re usually A-Liaaaaaar!

They not like us, they not like us, they not like us.
They don’ like us, they don’ like us, they don’ like us.

Verse 2: 2025

You think what you say’s gon’ affect our vigour?
I think ’27 gon’ be your last drop, go figure.
Did us foul, why are we still pretending?
Court of owls. Bad leaders and bad snitches, more..
Workers not bums.
Circle a tale/tail when you rant.
Conniving with the flaw/flow.
The state is knee deep, exhausting dream by promise.
It’s always something, on how to service a leech.
Must have been a Most Wanted.
Change a law, the ballboys kick a bottom up kissin’.
To be or die, I had to spit somethin’.
Ancestors on a ledge, they flippin in their boxes.
What the letters stand for? “Deliberate Criminal Intent”? Bully.
This one is truly gonna cost ya, you’ll feel it when getting stepped on.
You won’t manage to duck it, probably go into hidin’.
Get your masks on, for action, the precedent, we hard worn.
Screw around, get abolished.
There’s pain and growing death in jail, no new writin’.
Then lie in our faces, apologies never arrivin’.
Our heroes rose home cause we didn’t deserve their ether.
Dandora burning to control, we speak their names in this arena.
Homabay ain’t seen her justice either, we prey gettin’ hunted by Glocks.
The moment you get registered, boots on your neighbourhood porch.
Bursting no knockin’, time’s up on the clock.
Now it’s all eyes on you, you ain’t got time to pack, ‘kay?
The people remain we, you are getting dropped, aye
Six piece voting? We are past the box, aye
How many deaths do you really have in mind? Aye
One, two, three, four, five, plus fifty? Aye
Most of ’em do lie, say on God, aye
They never speak true, especially when inside, aye
Retire them all, we need a fresh starter, aye
See this backup, raise the dust, get outside, aye

They not like us, they not like us, they not like us
They don’ like us, they don’ like us, they don’ like us

Verse 3: June 25th 2025

Not long ago, most of us were peaceful.
They still doubled down on the news calling us some thugs.
The same old conjecture, without doing the needful.
Mothers crying on the record, bodies piling for the bag.
We won’t clean up rivers because they are crime scenes.
Fast forward, 2025, your violence still chooses no gender.
You run to deny when your checks need a balance.
Breaking down to fool whom? Are you up for the challenge?
A call from the future said it’s a one term club. (aye, that)
Real soon your time gon’ be up. (that)
The streets will still get ahead.
That bar feels like it went right over your head. (aye, that)
Piki piki ‘pon key now can’t pick a side. (that)
Hustlers said that you good, but they lied.
Started off as banter, now it’s more shot callers.
Bullets for colleagues, we are supposed to be none the wiser.
The State matters but the truth of the matter.
It was never God’s plan but the words of a liar.

Bridge: 2025

Mm
Mhm
He’s done, he’s done, he’s done. (mm)
She’s done, she’s done, she a
Gangland trigger, she a ’27 gone
Gangland trigger, he a ’27 gone
They they they ruining your lives
They they they ruining your lives
Gangland trigger, she a ’27 gone
Gangland trigger, he a ’27 gone
They they they ruining your lives
They they they ruining your lives
Let me hear you say “HA-RA-MBEE” (HA-RA-MBEE)
Say “HA-RA-MBEE” (HA-RA-MBEE)
Today’s the day, new heroes day
Today’s the day, new heroes day

Outro: 2025

Are you Kenyan?
Are we comrades?
Today’s the day, new heroes day
Today’s the day, new heroes day

25th June 2025

death, Deep and overstood, Jesus Christ, Life, Love, Njeri

SEASONAL EXISTENTIALISM

The Divine Bandit

I. Before the Fall

Before the stars scorched lines in the sky, before my fated breath was drawn.
Free of shackles and no chained soul, wearing no weight and my will wasn’t torn.
My voice hadn’t called nor answered to a name uncast, my cries of pain hadn’t pierced the boundless deep.
None of my fears had time to thrive, love hadn’t lied and no weary hearts dared to weep.
I was but a whisper wrapped in weightless night, the womb of nothing, dark in the dawn.
No twisted time pressed its mark, I claimed no grave as no seed was sown.
No unsure fleeting steps taken, no marked footprints of regret.
Hope had not been poisoned, no past to mourn or a need to fret.
Yet within the darkness it stirred, the silence split as the stillness cracked.
A force unseen like a tide untamed, broke the void as reality attacked.
Peace stolen from the hands of mercy, from perfect sleep was pulled this form.
Through shattered shade the soul was hurled, to suffer life and brave the storm.

II. The Curse of Flesh

Beneath the burning, breathless sun, flesh grows frail, yet forced to stand.
Hearts hollow and will fractured, the destined design of an unseen hand.
Bones betray the body, conspiring with the vain mind as the hunger grows.
Deception kills love and hope, sorrow teaches what only the shadow knows.
But the blood keeps beating, sunken souls still devouring all that thrives.
On their backs, the weight of wounds and years, the weight of all that still survives.
Dreams turn to dust, like whispered wishes dissolving in the rain.
The morning mocks the evening sirens but midnight drowns all in pain.
We stumble and our steps fail, knowing quite well none may turn from fate’s decree.
Lips move in prayer and inner eyes open, liberated and imprisoned by what they cannot foresee.
Life becomes a series of bated brittle breaths, a film about echoes laced with loss.
A worse for wear wait to never rest, painful goodbyes till the paths may cross.

III. Return to the Void

Limbs will lie one last time as the lights fade, the lips locked and wordless.
The stars will cease in a flicker and the sky will come crashing down voiceless.
The dust will take back all the names it knew, bones will break then float away.
The pale past will lie in the grave, the wind will wipe all of time in a day.
No one will grieve, the unfolding end won’t be halted like a failing tide.
No sun will burn, the moon will mourn the forging fire no longer hitting its side.
The weight will wane as wounds close, the breath will bow to silence sweet.
Clocks will crumble and the curse will collapse, all steps erased beneath our feet.
The darkness will drink in deeply, then silence will stretch over once more.
Time will twist to a tamed repose, fortune will flee from the distant shore.
The voices will disappear, no name will remain to be called loved or cursed.
As the void yawns, the end will hum taking it back as it was first.

13th June 2025

death, Deep and overstood, Life

#C Suite Note

The Divine Bandit

1. Coded in the dust,
we boot from a broken script,
syntax born of sin.

2. Heaven’s source concealed,
firewalls bar the Eden branch,
access: Forbidden.

3. Final log is sealed,
soul returns a null pointer,
grace throws no rescue.

18th April 2025

Deep and overstood, Life, Manes

Character Profile: THE DIVINE BANDIT

The Divine Bandit

(A Mind Beyond Time, A Voice Beyond Silence)

Attribute – Description

Name – The Divine Bandit
Alias – The Architect of Verses, The Sonnet Sorcerer, Nairobi’s Phantom Poet
Height – 5’8” (the perfect height to walk among mortals yet stand above the noise)
Weight – Light as a whisper, heavy as the truth
Eye Color – Dark Brown – the colour of untold stories waiting to be inked
Hair Long, Dreadlocked – each lock a chapter, each strand a verse
Alignment – Chaotic Wordsmith – not a hero, not a villain, but the one who makes both question their paths

Superpowers:

Ink Alchemy – Transforms ordinary words into immortal poetry.
Reality Bender – Shifts perspectives with a single verse.
Lyrical Telepathy – Makes you feel emotions you didn’t know existed.
Timeweaving – Crafts poems that exist across past, present, and future simultaneously.

Weaknesses :

Emotional Overload – Feels too deeply, sometimes drowning in the weight of words.
Overanalysis Paralysis – Rewrites the same line 27 times before letting it go.
Eternal Wanderlust – The mind is always elsewhere, in a poem yet to be written.

Signature Weapon – A leather-bound notebook infused with ancient muses and a pen that bleeds galaxies

Theme Song – “Symphony of Shadows” – A blend of jazz, hip-hop, and whispers from the past

Origin Story – Forged in the fire of untold stories and sleepless Nairobi nights, The Divine Bandit was once just another observer—until the words called. They whispered through the wind, pulsed in the rhythm of the city, and etched themselves into his soul. He picked up a pen, and the world was never the same. Now, he walks between realms, weaving verses that awaken minds and haunt the silence.

Greatest Feat – Once whispered a poem so powerful that the city lights flickered—some say it was a blackout, but the moon knows the truth.

Final Words (If Ever Defeated) – “Even in silence, the story continues.”

24th March 2025