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.
“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.
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
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.
Broke, jobless, taxed, homeless, no wonder the streets keep calling. Smoke, fearless, facts, timeless, we’ll march again and keep coming. In the spirit of Wangarĩ, Mboya, Ouko, Njindo and others, we claim our birth right. We are not here to be the 4th liberation, we have got the final one in sight. You thought we got our heads stuck on our screens didn’t you? You missed us gaining knowledge to kick you out of our view. We got to watch the previous generations get the same treatment. Peaceful demonstrations against injustice turned to hostile internment. Ignoring our demands and rights is definitely a foolish use of freewill. I shall still be at your gates tomorrow, yesterday was just a fire drill.
Water cannons hazitushtui wakati hakuna maji kwa taps nyumbani. Mkono wenu mrefu lakini sisi twapungia serikali yenu ule wa buriani. Nikiupload video, mnataka kodi, nikipata likes mnauliza tuje lini? Tutatiktok tutatiktok na nini, hatuezi afford tax tutatiktok kwa nini? Tunacreate jobs from scratch, nyi kazi ni kudestroy our digital hopes. Mnacreate mobs na promise ya lunch, kazi yetu ni kudestroy hizi ropes. Mnadhani mboka ndio tutapiga lakini kuwapiga nyinyi ndio tutachoka? Tuko focused, threats za lock up twaziweka behind bars za kufoka. Tumekuwa at the bottom na bado mnatulet down, tumekuwa njaa koo yasema tuko na kiu pia. Tutaexpress our ways kwa hizi barabara, sisi si generation ya sahani, tuko taxin’ juu twataka sinia.
In the abyss we snuggle with our demons then send them out for coffee in the morning.
In the abyss we need no serenity.
Because you accept what is and what isn’t. Then throw change on the difference.
In the abyss, there is no reality or dreams. Just calming nightmares.
In the abyss, we strangle hope with our heart chords.
In the abyss, we never open our eyes.
In the abyss we don’t look for the light.
For only in the darkness does our skin glow.
In the abyss there are no reflections.
Just deflections of positive thoughts.
In the abyss there is no heartbreak.
Just the slow cranky hum of rusty pacemakers.
In the abyss there are no strings to hold us back.
In the abyss, the limit is every human.
In the abyss we write but never read.
For in the nuclear storm, we will be red all over.
In the abyss, we already survived WWIII.
In the abyss, we didn’t die, because we were never alive.
I had a harder time coming up with a title for this post than I had writing it. This is because I always knew how I would tell the story. How I would pass the story across. How despite my Kiswahili influenced phrase translation, I knew most of my audience would get it. That’s because they are Kenyan. When they read this, they don’t apply a particular accent to it. No, they use that familiar pronunciation that most are accustomed to. Yes, that way Kenyans speak that makes people always question where I’m from every time I travel. They seem to easily recognize the Oga and other Western African accents, I have been told the Tanzanian’s English is more sing-song than we can tell. And of course in Omugurusi’s country, they are easy to identify and well popularised by the hilarious Anne Kansiime.
Most of us especially writers insist on writing British English despite the fact that it’s harder to speak in the same accent. We have “U’s” in humour, favourite and all our endeavours. See what I did there? We also have “S” in place of “Z” in the past participle of most verbs. I actually forcefully use the S in my posts no matter how many red lines appear under my words. If you have been on my blog before, you will realise that these first two paragraphs are what I use to get my mind to focus. ADD is a bitter gift and a sweet curse. But I have the hang of it now.
About 3 weeks ago, I was to do a post that would have started with the simple phrase: “I HATE KENYA!!” My reasons would have been justified. As far as my perspective was concerned. See, I had been in Angola for just over 2 weeks. In those 2 weeks, I had to contend with knowing blood was flowing back at home. My brothers and sisters were getting killed or maimed for life. And this had prompted quite an emotional post from the south side of Africa. Ironically, here I was in a country that had experienced civil war into the 21st century. They had obviously learnt their lesson from what I could see around. They all mostly speak Portuguese and marry without discrimination on tribe or colour bases. This is saying a lot. The country has a machete in its flag for Chrissake. And yes, I know that was not the intended meaning.
Cogs, Machetes and Stars. But still peace reigns.
Back to why I hated Kenya at that particular moment. I landed on a Monday at 3 am. And I was still a bit sad from the news I had read while abroad. I was supposed to be off work for the next 2 days due to travel and jet-lag. But I had a conference on Tuesday and so despite the fatigue, I was up by 6 am to pick up a Ugandan guest who was here to attend said conference. Long story short, by 8 am that day, I was not nodding off to sleep at Geographical Information Systems conference. I was standing in a stuffy, ammonia smelling, wall graffiti ridden room at Kibera Law Courts.
It’s still art no? #Scofield Moments
Yes, I had been arrested. For failing to use a pretty non-existent pedestrian crossing as I crossed Waiyaki way. Yes, I was at fault as long as the rule of law is concerned. But, yes I would do the same thing over and over as I told the cops as other guests at the back of the “Maria” tried to negotiate for their release. The thing is, on Waiyaki way, it does not matter where you cross the road, (that is unless you have a foot bridge close to you), you still have to rush across it like a demented oryx who learnt how to walk from Bambi to avoid getting hit by the onrushing traffic. See, no one slows down at the said pedestrian crossings. Some cars actually seem to speed up near them so as to avoid traffic that might be caused by people crossing. It does not help the case that the road is sometimes widest at these same points. I tried asking why not arrest the reckless drivers first who have made the pedestrian crossings unusable. I got comically stupid answers like “We will start with you today then we will move to the drivers.” Yes, you would have to use the Pedestrian crossing for the moment and if you got hit while following the law, they would make sure the driver paid heavily for your physiotherapy or your funeral. I had to pocket just to avoid slapping the tiny brain out of his ear.
But the arrest alone was not the reason I was so angry at the country. Neither the fact that I had to wait a whole day, standing till my old sports injured foot hurt like hell to pay a one thousand Kenya shillings fine. Nor was it the fact that some people charged the previous day with the same offence had been fined 20K or a month in jail. I thanked my stars I was not one of them. No, I was angry at the fact that in that one day, we were about 1000 people that were charged with such a minor traffic offence. I was angry as I saw a man arrested carrying business wares in a paper bag; weep at the fact that he could not afford the fine. Yes the poor would become more poor. But most of all I was angry at the fact the perpetrators of Mpeketoni attacks had gone through traffic blockades without getting arrested. I was angry that the grenade attackers had evaded these same cops. This great law enforcement order that could arrest 1000 people in one day for not crossing the road properly. Yes, they had missed an internationally re-known terrorist who would end up bringing terror and bloodshed at Westgate. Yes, my innate patriotism was gone. I could not afford to be loyal to this country. The next chance I got for better pastures, I would not even cross the border chewing cud. But that was 3 weeks ago.
My rationale is always too strong. So with time, love for my country has come back. As always we know who to blame. But we always forget about the man in the mirror. Yes, 26 years since the Michael Jackson hit. We still sing along without taking into account the lyrics. I will not adopt a holier than thou attitude and pretend I have not been in the least bit tribal before. But I have over time always worked to negate any history I might have had with that ugly attribute. I actually stopped using my actual second name so that one could not easily tell what tribe I was from. That way we could act with no prejudice. Be friends unconditionally. My 7 best friends are Kalenjin, Punjabi, Meru, Giriama, Luo, Kamba and Taita. I did not choose for them to be. No, their personalities are what makes them be accorded such honours. I have to state that I am Kikuyu otherwise this will not make sense. In that cell, my best friend was a Luo. Yes, in the eyes of our so-called leaders, we are supposed to be water and oil. They make jokes that never can you eat Omena with Githeri. Such shameless and archaic analogies.
We had been talking since the bumpy, overloaded, no-safety belt ride from Waiyaki way via Ngong road to Kibera. None was benefiting from the other. We just shared jokes and political quips. But by the end of the day, the relationship was forced to become symbiotic. He had no one to pay for his fine at the bank so I had my best friend do it for him. And with his knowledge of the Luo language he made sure he negotiated with the senior cop so we did not sleep in a cell. He was a brother in alms. (Yes I spelled that right). We even took the same cab to work from the hell in a cell. “Omera, Nyasaye ogwedhi”
I hope this is not the rapper, but it just might be..
I have written a post on how I was taught how to love growing up. One thing I was not taught is how to hate. I was actually taught of how evil that would be. How much of a sin that was. In later life when certain people have driven me to such an extent. i have only learnt of how consuming hate is on the person producing it than the one receiving it. It is a cancer. And its consequences are almost as deadly if not worse.
Yes, we called Luos, “Mera” growing up but that had loads to do with the repeated phrase; “Omera” . Which I later came to learn is one of the most endearing words in the language as it means “my brother”. I admired the Luo workers who used to live in Central Province then. This number has since significantly dwindled. They were hardworking, astute, muscular and if you know me then you would knowI kind of very much followed in these footsteps. (Just like being Luo, GymRat is a lifestyle 🙂 ) I have said before, I am a child of the world. I really do not care where my good qualities come from. All humans are my brothers and sisters. My enemies are those who try to oppress them or hurt them regardless of their creed, race or tribe.
Because whichever political rally you attend, whomever you vote for. It’s that neighbour you sell your wares too, that driver who drives your kids to school, that friend in your network who informs you of a vacancy at his workplace. That is your real friend. When in need, your wedding committees, your burial and funeral arrangements, your hospital bill Harambee does not have IDs being checked for tribal name tags. Yet, all and sundry who have known you, have respected you and have loved you will show up at your door.
We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children
We are the perfect generation to exact change in this country. We are not the leaders of tomorrow but those of today. We can change two generations at once. We can change our parents and make sure our kids never learn otherwise. They learn nothing but love. They never learn to be Luo, Kikuyu, Kamba or Kalenjin. Teach them to be Kenyan. Yes I know it will be not be easy. Nothing worth it ever is. You cannot give up on this. The whole country will depend on you. Your heroism will be unsung. Not a single verse will be written in your honour. But I will stand too. I am sure as hell that I am not alone. My brothers and sisters from all parts of Kenya already ride with me. Are you willing to join me? I am not a Kikuyu, I am not black. #IAmKenyan
This will not be poetic, this will not be prose.
And for some time the thorns will outshine the rose.
The book will not be written. The history not recorded.
The wise will understand for the message will be coded.
The blind will hear the message and communicate it to the deaf.
The couriers will be the dumb so the secret will never be known.
We will have not seen, heard or said anything evil.
The war will be fought by the crippled, master minded by the bald heads of cancer patients.
You see the battle will not need brute strength.
The lid on the jar is already open and the concern will be how to get it back on.
The man in the mirror will already be one with his reflection.
The step of the Boy Scouts will sound like the army, but we will not hear it.
The bubble wrap around this new world will sound like gunshots but we will not fear it.
Peace, love and unity will be tissue thin but we will not tear it.
The Divine Bandit™ 