When I wake up at 3 am and sit up to scribble a nightmare inspired poem,
The neighbours think I’m just a troubled person.
Like cravings, the need to put these words down floods my mind.
It is all I can think of at the moment.
It is 20 minutes to 5 pm, the time when I hurriedly leave the office.
Because I know, there’s a one hour workout session
That is quickly followed by a light meal, a look at the telly, some reading
And sometimes just directly take a 9 hour nap.
I am writing this as Eric Wainaina blares in my ears.
I have never really listened to music at low volumes.
I have to hear each instrument used
Whatever drum thump that everyone would choose to ignore.
Maybe that is why I am not a fan of music videos.
But here I am typing with tears welling up in my eyes.
I keep breathing in and fluttering my eyelashes to keep the tears away.
All this because Eric dares start his Twisty song with:
“Hii ngoma ni ya babangu”
Because to date the words dad, father, baba, papa cause the deepest of emotions to come crawling to the surface.
And sometimes I hate myself for it.
Sometimes I just let the tears flow.
Because it really is cathartic.
It does not really heal but I feel more able to deal once that bitter bubble is burst.
It is the most childish of ways, but my hair to me is the legacy of what he was in his youth.
And how when I live my dream I can still see myself in him.
Funny thought is that I really wanted to play football professionally and did not.
But he did.
Talk of your parent living your dream on your behalf.
But the best part is how much more protected I feel.
He is watching every single day.
I feel shame when what I do does not make him smile.
But it does not beat the sense of achievement when you manage to do something he really wanted you to do.
I just type away without even editing.
That will come later.
And truly I have no idea why this piece is in a poetic kind of stanza.
Maybe it is because I am used to writing like this.
My friends say I type texts in a staccato manner.
That is mostly because the thoughts run over each other sometimes.
Like a bunch of seeds looking for the one egg to fertilize
I can feel my breath becoming lighter now.
As the clock strikes 4:55, I find myself asking why I even started typing this.
Maybe it was just because of that one song
Maybe because I can hear his song
Maybe because I am his song
As he has been mine before
I don’t know.
All I know is this tune keeps playing.
And I am yet to find my harmony.
Why all these feels today you dare ask?
Because of the below:
Life as it is, comes in phases.
The good, bad, ugly and beautiful keep recurring in different forms.
Misimu-Swahili for seasons – is everything making up the season’s in the life of Gufy as a Performance Poet.
A collection of 5 spoken word poems cutting through basic scopes of life. From politics, love, religion, childhood dreams, death and God.
This collection aims to re-live the thoughts and beliefs of a young man in search of an end game.
Misimu is Gufy,
Misimu is Us,
Misimu is Poetry we relate to.
https://www.facebook.com/events/579418178897716/notif_t=plan_user_invited¬if_id=1469625780162119
The Divine Bandit™ 
This work has touched me outright.
Thank you..
you sound like you have more to say, please do……..reader left in suspense. You write well too. Good on you. Be proud of you.
Thanks Josephine. I will try. These things and emotions and words come upon us when we least expect.
I feel you. My dad left in on March 20, 2010. Talked to him before going to bed. Two hours later, at midnight, I awaken from a dream – dreaming that he has collapsed and died. I shrugged it off. Went back to sleep. At 2 a.m., my sister called. I looked at the phone, picked it up and said ‘It’s dad, isn’t it?”. And she asked how I knew. I told her I know, two hours prior…. And yes, he actually collapsed and died. I see him in my dreams all the time. Most of them are happy – I actually look forward.
Keep writing Edwin
So sorry about your dad. I am glad you get happy memories about him. May he always be your love and light.