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

John Paul’s Satire


Be still, my sorrow.

Stay asleep, my soul.

Flatter these sheep, show their dry coats.

Flutter lids in my sleep, dreams of dry jokes.

Endless jars of my transformation oil.

Door ajar and whispers of this son of the soil.

I lost my right to be wrong.

But still got this long con in my sights.

Red eyes are better than red thoughts.

I’m making a killing casting your lots.

I slit my throat to spite my tongue.

But all you see is the price of air exiting my lungs.

I set my foundation using your alms.

The ceiling of my impunity will be laid down by your arms.

 

I care, I promise you I care.

 

I care less of your pain and struggle.

As long as you caress my stains and sweep up my rubble.

I’m Marx and you just failed my class.

I lie in your confused conflict as you run out of gas.

I slay you at the same altar you worshiped your queen.

For you chose to care more about Keke than your teens.

By the rivers of this new Babylon is where I shall bury your capital.

Instantly highlighting these failures deemed societal.

Communal consumerism makes up the new deadly sins.

A gambler’s addiction yet only the house wins.

I wash the blood off my hands from this planned accident.

My promises like Pontiacs pirated off the silver coast.

At your crossroads with the train bearing down on you sets the precedent.

That your existence was only narrated by my ghost.

 

I wish I cared, really cared, because I don’t.

 

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Guest Post

Sun-days and French Toast


Introduction: 

This is my first guest post on this blog. You might be seeing more of this from the lady who wrote this. If you need to follow her other type of work, kindly click here: https://muthonisheartmusic.wordpress.com/

She plays the violin, has worked with the Nairobi Orchestra and teaches/taught music.

That is all. Enjoy.

break_01495_t_horiz

***

Sometimes you think you’ll have to leave your house to find inspiration to write. To tap into all that’s swimming in your head and try order it into a recognizable shape. But then other mornings, like this one, inspiration fills your room slowly, like the first rays of the morning sun (which this night owl – miraculously – has witnessed quite a few times in the recent past. This is thanks to a teaching schedule attempting to turn her into a morning person. Oh dear, I shudder at the thought of the “m” word…)

For at least 3 weeks now, I’ve wanted to make French toast for Sunday breakfast. With a dash of vanilla – the latest addition to my mild culinary experiments. But every Sunday morning, at least in the past month, has been a jump-out-of bed and rush-to-the-next-obligation typa morning. OK, sometimes it’s more like life pulling a reluctant me out of the cosy embrace of my bed in a battle that can last anywhere from a few minutes to an hour. So I cannot begin to describe my unadulterated joy at finally being able to have a French toast morning. Ever done a little dance at the first taste of something you’ve wanted to eat for so long? Then time stops for a bit. You almost can’t believe this is happening and every inch of you is jumping for joy. Who knew bread and eggs could bring so much joy? All this with a bright, cheerful sun outside to match, accompanied by beautiful bird songs that I believe everyone should wake up to. Perks of living in Muthiga Green 🙂

I’m a human who gets excited by the smallest of things. The opposite is also true. So if you meet me grinning sheepishly to myself today, it’s probably just French toast vibes bubbling underneath.

***

You know, nothing in my past life quite prepared me for the soul-angst that is adulting. Just yesterday evening, I was asking myself yet again whether I was damned to ‘wander’ forever. I chanced upon a panel discussion on climate change at the National Theatre and found them talking about the role of youth in climate discussions. A young woman talked about her involvement in the campaign to stop the Lamu coal plant – highlighting how, a big part of the opposition to the project was the lack of involvement of the locals. An unfortunately familiar narrative with many of these mega projects. Not to mention the shortsightedness of investing in a coal plant that would irreversibly damage the Lamu ecosystem, while options for clean energy abound in this country! Another participant talked about the complex politics surrounding Gibe Dam, a project that threatens the very survival of the Lake Turkana ecosystem. As I listened to them, the familiar question came floating over my head again – What have I done with my degree in Environmental Conservation? My life, so far, feels like one defined by starting out yet another new path while leaving the previous one not fully resolved. My soul relishes in possibility. Not always the actualization of all these wishes/dreams/desires. And so, inevitably, the anxiety of sticking with something versus starting out another new venture come to colour my existence in a beautifully muddled clash. My life is then spent in the grey, constantly wondering ‘Is this IT? Am I doing enough?’ and at the same time experiencing moments of pure contentment after a beautiful rehearsal/practice session or a memorable lesson with a student or even just a heart-satisfying conversation.

So I relish mornings like these. For their brightness. For their ability to melt all these worries and doubts from my soul. For the abandon with which the universe offers itself to me.

Invites me to drink giddily from its cup of being-here-now.

Listening to the birds outside and following the gentle sway of the trees.

Relishing this moment here and now.

Remembering to breathe.

And to just be.

Deep and overstood, Life, Love

Just another Viking myth


Ragnar:

My dear little but dangerous dragon.
I am not in envy of your power.
I would just want to be allowed to love you.
Power was given only to those prepared to lower themselves to pick it up.
And my back is arthritic.
In your big eyes I see a reflection of my pain in your emotions.
What are you hiding?
Why does it seem like you carry the colds of the long winter in your heart?
Has summer not thawed you even a little bit?
Born in blood but living as an icebox.
You have decided to feed the wrong jaw.
Your work out just makes you lopsided.
Your leaning is not cool but just a show of an illegitimate scale.
Why don’t you fly?
Why have you grounded yourself?
Surely the sky offers more than the greener grass that you now lie on.

Toothless:

My dear Ragnar, what happens when my toothless smile can no longer hide the tears for my lost tail wing?
I did not choose not to fly but my heavy heart can no longer soar.
I am clumsy at love because someone did not put back the broken pieces of my last flight properly.
I am not feeding the wrong jaw.
I’m just being fed the wrong hearts.
Black and sooty blood is not like the red I was born in.
Creeping around me and trying to make me one of their cousins.
The sky is indeed the best place to be.
But the fall is as hard as jumping from this heart’s ego to the mind’s IQ.
I am not despondent.
I just have no up to give and so I choose to down the next lay.
I hear the Earl has gathered his cohorts for one last hunt for me.
Why are they trying so hard when I’m already lying in wait?
Could you go get them for me?
I long for that last stab so they can be as surprised as I am when they can’t penetrate my rock of a heart.

Ragnar:

I’m blind to your suicide letters.
I see in you via a spiritual channel.
Where there be no licking of hands to soften the reality that I need to tell you.
Count yourself lucky that these shoulders still have the strength for two.
I will never let them find you.
In the eternity I shall create.
You shall take off from the fear of lacking flight.
But when the air catches your new wings.
I will make sure that the wind blows just right so you never have to fall again.
When I push you over the precipice in your final everlasting flight.
Consider that your last fall because I shall join you soon after.
Your real pain has not been the fear of flying but the fear of flying alone.
I cut off my wings once but now watch them regrow.
They only do when I am helping those deemed as worthy as you are.
I don’t need to hammer these truths into you.
Though I have to say an iron will is needed.
This hulking mountain we still have to climb.
I will be the captain of this merry car now.

Toothless:

I am lost in your energy and the power you possess to see past my black window.
I eye the hawks as they screech in disbelief at how far I’ve fallen.
I did believe that on this occasion the silver band on my finger was slit.
I have been drinking from too many broken goblets.
And I become pale considering adding a new spring to my past smashing look.
This hope you carry will one day be the end of you.
Why try to put off the inevitable?
The gods no longer listen to you but you still believe in yourself.
You say that your existence and those you can see is what drives you.
What will you do then Ragnar?
When I jump from this cliff and my makeshift wings do not catch the wind?
Who will be there for you Ragnar?
Here, hop on my back.
Let us find out together.

Deep and overstood, Hip hop, Life

The rest are in pieces


“I woke up this morning and figured I’d call you
In case I’m not here tomorrow
I’m hoping that I can borrow a piece of mind
I’m behind on what’s really important
My mind is really distorted
I find nothing but trouble in my life
I’m fortunate you believe in a dream
This orphanage we call a ghetto is quite a routine
And last night was just another distraction
Or a reaction of what we consider madness”

Living in my mind
Questioning the queues of pain that we file ourselves in
The life we live, we compare
With others, tell ourselves we’re better because someone is worse
We are the devils we see in the mirror
We hope that we know ourselves
Better than we know our health
Going mental
Asking God for better cards
Sometimes in anguish wondering about his existence
Which we greatly applaud when better times arrive
Even for a second
Looking at the last time we were truly happy for 24 hours
With a smile that was not triggered by memes and sitcoms
Getting nostalgic because reality has hit you
It has become a nightmare you dream of each night
Cuddle your demons, let them snuggle closer
Then feel them massage your back as you kneel down for prayer each morning
Wondering why you’re looking through the window when He said you should knock
Out there hunting wondering whether that counts as seeking
It’s a sickness, a cancer hiding in your left ventricle
Playing poker with your newly formed clot
Your heart keeps skipping beats for the wrong reasons
Staring up hoping to see Him in the sky
But getting lost in the melting of your sunscreen by the glare of your sins
Trying to find the definition of success in your bank balance
That leads you to your payslip and injections of investments
Leaving tracks on your once strong arms that are now too weak to carry the weight of the world you have shouldered
Do the measly coins handed out to street kids add up to your tithe?
Is your soul as successful as the grated cheese falling off your abs?
Or are you the new Gluteus Maximus Meridius looking for revenge where Genghis left off?
Do you end up in this hell on earth because you’re not using your God given talents?
Would you be happier writing rhymes for a living and taking 4 vehicles to get to the only home you can afford?
Do the lies you tell yourself of how Cole and Kendrick are your inspiration make you breathe easier?
When you know you were still loving, living and lost in the alliteration of poetic injustice years before they put track on record?
Does it not hurt everytime you try to make sense of everything?
Try to have a happy and fitting ending to these thoughts that you call poems?
When you’re simply just:

“Tired of running
Tired of hunting
Answers to life
But retiring nothing
Your driver just veered of a cliff
Hands on the wheel, who said we wasn’t?
Dying of thirst
Dying of angst
Dying of lust”

The Divine Bandit ’17 ft. Excerpts from Kendrick Lamar

Deep and overstood, Life

Defend us


Life seeps from the annual annals of this anarchy full year.
Walking dark paths trodden by the voices in the shadows.
The soul sucking dementia of the valleys of death where dry bones rise to meet the gnashing teeth of humour-less mongrels.
Lost in the strange world where black lives don’t matter even to the black brothers.
The natives are walking hand in hand with the grim reaper.
They have no reservations to take away what does not belong to them.
Old age comes for our fathers, bullets for our brothers and corruption for our children.
Depression is the new elixir for the mothers and sisters because alcohol loses it’s hold in the morning.
Blood flows thin down the superhighways of unmarked speed bumps.
And we smile.
That smile when the joke is too morbid and the tear-wells are dry.
Emerge from the smoke rising from the smog on that darn hill.
Happiness is Rosberg and it has chosen to retire from you.
Your mind..minds are having a battle.
All claustrophobic in the hope that a panacea will be able to drill down through the firewalls of loneliness.
Emerge with immortal thoughts of times that were, joy unbridled.
But you know it won’t come to pass.
Because from the outside.
Everyone can see you look caged because you dared the devil of your government and they now rule with an iron fist.
The universe has crushed your ego and your purported heroism is now a memory in the mind of a villain.
You don’t believe in defenders anymore and your avengers are either dead or on vacation.
The year has pushed a shaft through your core and you are the next course at Hell’s kitchen.
Your rhymes have taken a walk to the dark side and now they walk back with the onomatopoeic footsteps of a mindless punisher.
You count down the days.
To what could be the end or the first taste of blood on your lips from the first blow.
You hope against hope.
That all will be well.
But the killers are marking your grave because Hope just committed suicide.

TheDivineBandit™ – Hoping 2016 ends soon

HIMYM, Life, Love

How I met your Chuck


This week started on a very weird, confused and sad note. And no, despite the G.R.R.M kind of year and especially July, nobody died. At least not in real life. The cause of all this grief and anguish is because 2 years later, I finally watched the last 4 episodes of HIMYM. And being the eccentric person I am. I keep replaying the scenes in my mind, the times that this program took me out of the doldrums promised me something fresh, something real does happen in life etc.

I know I’m so very late to be commenting on this. But I feel lost. And I probably will for a while. You don’t rip my emotions apart like this and then expect me to recover. Of course this makes a good point on how good the program was. But still….

  • You made me root for Robin and Ted to be together at first. We all love Robin and man is that woman beautiful. It also did not help that my best friend insists on calling me Tedward. Yeah, I know, my name is not even Edward.
  • Then you made me understand the love between 2 scarred people. Barney and Robin were perfect for each other. Notwithstanding that, you still made me watch a whole season based on their wedding. And 10 minutes later they were divorced?? I don’t care if you had a caption reading 3 years later!! That hurt my freaking aorta!
  • Finally! Finally! You show us the mother. How the gang meets the mother. How awesome she is. The yellow umbrella, the ankle,the bass guitar, the lighthouse, the Farhampton inn and that cute dracula smile..chaiiii!! Sob. And then what do you do?? Wait for it…..
  • You kill her!! Murdering writers! And you kill her via Ted’s words. No awesome last minutes shown. No grieving by Ted. Shake your damn heads dammit!
  • Then 52 year old Ted who can’t actually run from a waiter steals the Blue French horn. For the 3rd time? And we are to believe now that Robin is free and done travelling and Ted got his dream wife and kids and is now again “free”, all’s well that ends well?

It does not. If I wasn’t so old. I’d say you ruined my childhood. 🙂 But hey, I had good enough practice. This happened in another warped mentality ending on Season 5 of Chuck. Where the writers chose to rob Sarah of her memories with Chuck. In essence saying Sarah could not remember what we had watched since Season 1. There’s the little suggestion that she will remember. But in a world where I have to watch Game of Thrones, Gotham and Daredevil. Give me a happy ending! Errm, I mean give me an ending with a bit of jolly good positive vibes in it. The world already has too much darkness in it and I need a little bit of the most rare of sparks I can find to light it up every morning.

The writers tried to calm the fans down by redoing an alternate ending but hey no take backs for what has already become imprinted in my mind. Teddy Westside got the raw end of that deal. Or did he? I don’t know. And now I feel a slight need to continue with the Haikus coming on. See what you have done?!!

Vengeance shall not be mine! Haaaaaaaavvvvveeeeee you met Ed??

Crush, Deep and overstood, Jesus Christ, Kenya, Life, Love, Politricks

Rest in Peace The Divine Bandit


In her past they sang a song of victory.
They won the war.
In my past they sang my dirge.
Yet I won the war too.
But my victory was short-lived.
For a bullet fired in victory found its target on my knee.
And as I fell down to the ground.
My bayonet had gone through my throat and then tongue.
To say I was dumbfounded is understating it.
But their victory songs did not stop but the dirges did.
Because I did not die. I crawled to safety.
Away from their trampling celebratory feet.
I crawled to her.
She had seen me while atop her kraal.
She spread her “shuka” on the ground for me.
We fell in love in silence.
Then we became blood lovers.
As her fingers got covered in mine. Hers became cold.
Under the golden African sun.
Her wails were a harmony to the rapping of the “victors”.
In her sobs I found my inspiration.
Covered in her tears, I accepted my expiration.

To be continued when I rise again…