Mr President, I’m not a revolutionary, I’m a poet.
I shall try my best to not have my words sound like bars that could be perceived as enemy lines.
I’m afraid that I’ll raise a storm that could brew a kickstart to knowledge at lightning speeds.
Mr President, I’m certain I would not skim any parts of the historical scams or telltale signs.
I would delve deeper till I rooted out what was fertilizing corrupted seeds.
But remember Mr President, I am just a poet.
I titled my poem open because my verses will be holding such a conversation.
My fears though they ring true will be nullified by the dreams of a generation.
Mr President, for clarification purposes, I don’t write poems, they write me.
I feel a nation’s migraine building up and threatening to explode if I don’t document the aura of this age.
Slowly, my anxiety builds up as my restless thoughts clamour for the right to be.
My pen gets smarter than the sword and the blood of the slain inks this damp page.
Mr President, I’m sad and mad, that means my tears keep mixing anger and grief and I’m starting to accept this recipe for depression.
I’m sobbing for a nation Mr President, because I’m hoping my tears at this altar can bargain their way to a red carpet where acceptable justice prevails.
Mr President, open hands welcomed full streets during campaigns, peaceful demonstrations were served closed fists, bullets and batons of oppression.
We the people, we came in peace, came to voice our minds but ended up picking brains and taking young dreamers to early graves.
I’m not a revolutionary, I’m a poet, Mr President.
Just a son of the Kenyan soil, a law abiding resident.
Mr President I’m not a criminal, I’m a poet.
I used to write verses about love before I couldn’t afford one on loans.
I used to write about baddies Mr President not bad deals and bad bills.
I grew up to watch the game played by civil masters, the careful selection of pawns.
The number of moves countered, when those laying down can’t stand up to confirm the kills.
Mr President, a placard is worth a papercut not a trip to the emergency room, a voice is worth a meeting of minds not a bullet to the head.
I’m not a criminal Mr President, just a poet trying to articulate the life of the dead.
As a poet Mr President, I deal in reason in my rhymes, smuggle smarts into select conversation, and forge new styles to the way I steal status quo that’s past its time from closed minds.
I whisper my emotions into my letters, wrap my words with my true feelings and throw my meaning to my audience as the scene rewinds.
I hear the cries of the unnamed, tear this curtain for them so they can have a peaceful sleep.
They died for the shamed, those with futures uncertain, they are soaring through an eventful trip.
I’m just a Millenial poet Mr President, one who is unable to unsee the horror yet not hear the apology for the betrayal in our cities.
I’m just trying to get some shut eye, and as a way to pass away my time through my recent insomnia, I find myself counting scorned deities.
I’m writing this in long pauses Mr President, thinking back on how many years parents keep burying their children in this nation.
Each single time and regime, when the people raise a questioning hand, the corporals end up punishing their offspring.
A digital movement, something that could have been debated without confrontation.
Before the next bell tolls, maybe you could make a point of picking up on the first ring.
Mr President I’m not alive, I’m a dead poet.
I’m not sure how I got here really.
Maybe it was that poem I wrote when red-eyed, or that Ex with a passionate grudge or maybe my DIY noose finally worked and that’s why I am floating.
Any of them could be perceived as deadly by the right audience on the wrong side of history
Or I could have starved to death, I think artistes and Kenyans, especially Kenyans do that.
I don’t know where I am Mr President, it’s a new place for a poet.
It’s dark and peaceful. Everything I probably always wanted.
You know? When you took away my purpose.
When everything I created in destructive conditions was taxed till the government was content.
When I moved back home so you could have several homes.
When my social media post not meant for views got me in trouble for reporting the current news.
When that tick-tock ended up being my clock winding down on me without my consent.
When I marched to the end of the line and they cut mine.
I don’t know where I am Mr President. I didn’t want to end up here.
I thought you’d listen. I created the most informative poster. You’d probably not have been proud, but I was.
Now I can’t hear my comrades.
I’m calling out to them, they said the water would just itch. Is that why I can’t scratch away this lonely feeling?
I carried that flag and water bottle for the teargas like the poster said right? It must have worked, I’m not coughing.
But… but I am alone Mr President. Mr President? Mr President? Mr President? I guess this is the end of our conversation Mr President. If you can still hear me.
I only need to know: Where am I? What happened?Did I make a change Mr President?
I was not just a poet Mr President.
I was a Kenyan.
The Divine Bandit™ 