Tag: Overstood

#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, 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

Deep and overstood, HIMYM, Life, Love, Lust

I PUT A SPELL ON ♥

The Divine Bandit

See, I don’t want a luh… luh… love that whispers lies between soft kisses.
Nor one that starts with poetic vibes but ends with tone deaf silence.
The sun came and set on every bright promise, and I am still standing in the dark.
Because I refuse to chase illusions that vanish with the dawn.
I don’t want to use far-fetched faith to build love an altar, I want love that is its own proof of existence.
I’m tired of working hard to satisfy love that fades before I can hold it.
I don’t pen this with the naivety of a hard-won hopeful heart.
I don’t even try to rhyme, because love dances in your eyes for a second but lacks a permanent rhythm.

No, I don’t want a love that leaves my brain empty and a heart that’s fake full.
Because madness is loving something that would never have your back.
I don’t have to count the stanzas in this ode to love’s eternal hell.
Because we have arrived at roads that are crossing and the train is not pausing.
This is not a poem, it’s just a eulogy of feelings.
Scarred like a young Simba yearning for guidance from Mufasa.
I came to learn that happy endings are only for children’s movies.
Even as I offered my jacked arms to save the almost drowned lover that arose.
In the end it was an almost choreographed loss.
Bringing with it the realization that I’d always reached for something that was never really there.

See, I wanted a love whose language embodied our sensual lingua franca.
Thought I could make true affection more local than international romance in Casablanca.
But now I know love is only fluent in goodbyes.
I once thought it was love when it drugged me to hearing colours, dragged me to feeling nervous.
Now I know it’s just a shaken withdrawal, stirring hopeful hallucinations of something I never had.
This kind of love created nostalgia within seconds of its passing.
Now it’s just a beaten loop of mistakes I keep replaying.
I thought love was a present whose gifts are seen in the future.
Now the future is just a graveyard of what-ifs and never-was.
The emotions overlapped and the melee inside love’s octagon only ended in heartache.
Her shadow parallel to mine, I watched her, knowing quite well we would never meet again.

This writing is just me talking, I’ve grown tired of conversations.
The thematic synopsis aimed at you because you said love was real.
When you held my hand and stole more than moments.
But you see, I am a different kind of person now, colder even.
I once carried the flag for love, but blind belief is just another word for deception.
Like an overplayed song, I got tired of the sampled melody on further reflection.
Now love is just static, white noise, a sound I’d rather not hear.
Our love was the painting that looked its best because it was incomplete.
Now I see it was never art, just scribbles on a ruined canvas.
The knots I felt in my stomach? They were just warning signs I ignored.
Tying me to a destined death on hills of red flags left unexplored.
We added colour to the life we created, but it still faded.
I tried to hold on, but love bled through my fingers, unaided.

See, choosing your happiness over mine is not a smart objective.
It is a losing game, a prize that love never lets you keep.
These verses are barely from my thoughts.
Each word here is a scar, and I am yet to run out of pain.
We thought we were writing from the wisdom and experience of getting burned.
All that time we were strumming a requiem to a teenager’s dream on broken strings.
Our journals didn’t hold the same ideas, the writing didn’t rhyme and neither did we.
My invalid dreams, now dead and buried.
In fact, they are no longer dreams, just faded echoes.
I traverse this unloved life as a ghost of who I was.
From a writer, a dreamer, a lover, to currently counting the furrows on my brow.
Now I’m a cynic, a realist, and in the dance of love, I seem to break a heart with every blow.

You were meant to be my last word, my last note, not my last mistake.
Now each day, I rewrite my story, and love is no longer in the plot.
Every moment we had is just a photograph I’ve shift-deleted.
The moon listens, but she no longer gets space to speak.
Love was once my confession, like a sin unforgiven , it’s now my regret.
Living while loving was once interchangeable, now it’s a contradiction.
When I soar above, I do it alone, no longer chasing stars.
When I put down the last notable word from my pen, it will not be the end.
Because love never leaves but lingers in the empty spaces it leaves behind.
My mind is a maze, but I no longer want to be found.
My mind may amaze, but I choose solitude over a jigsawed heart.
I’d rather get lost in my own thoughts, finding safety in the echoes of silence.
Words created the illusion, promises built the farce, while cruel lies tore love apart.
My words may seem to be never-ending.
But love? Love is done pretending.

10th February 2025

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

KENYA’S 2024

The Divine Bandit

JANUARY

New year, new fear
Positivity relegated to the rear
Condemned resolutions

FEBRUARY

A nation’s emotion
She gassed me to explosion
Negligence tracks

MARCH

Water is wet
More so, a liquid threat
Unlike tears in a flood

APRIL

6 feet under
No defence, I wonder
Finally one with the force

MAY

Mining for gold
As long as it glitters, I’m sold
My life’s plan collapses

JUNE

Masai Rex
Protest my negative cheques
Billed for my own demise

JULY

Political scuffle
Order a cabinet reshuffle
We did not believe

AUGUST

Serial killer
Possibly a seat filler
Escaped to another calling

SEPTEMBER

Violence between genders
Home acquired by moneylenders
External peacekeeping

OCTOBER

Ousted conductor
Exits stage left of the destructor
The music plays on

NOVEMBER

Paid ayes
Hand on a Bible, avoiding God’s eyes
They don’t like us

DECEMBER

Herod’s dream
Missing kids on live stream
Cosmetic justice

27th December 2024

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

12 DAYS OF A KENYAN CHRISTMAS

The Divine Bandit

On the first day of Christmas
My government sent to me
A tax man for the wrong fee

On the second day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

On the third day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Three benched trends
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

On the fourth day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Four warning words
Three benched trends
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

On the fifth day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Five olden kings
Four warning words
Three benched trends
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

On the sixth day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Six cops a-lying
Five olden kings
Four warning words
Three benched trends
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

On the seventh day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Seven cons a-skimming
Six cops a-lying
Five olden kings
Four warning words
Three benched trends
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

On the eighth day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Eight blades for killing
Seven cons a-skimming
Six cops a-lying
Five olden kings
Four warning words
Three benched trends
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

On the ninth day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Nine Mercedes financing
Eight blades for killing
Seven cons a-skimming
Six cops a-lying
Five olden kings
Four warning words
Three benched trends
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

On the tenth day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Ten reforms unwilling
Nine Mercedes financing
Eight blades for killing
Seven cons a-skimming
Six cops a-lying
Five olden kings
Four warning words
Three benched trends
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

On the eleventh day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Eleven snipers shooting
Ten reforms unwilling
Nine Mercedes financing
Eight blades for killing
Seven cons a-skimming
Six cops a-lying
Five olden kings
Four warning words
Three benched trends
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

On the 12th day of Christmas
My government sent to me
Twelve mothers crying
Eleven snipers shooting
Ten reforms unwilling
Nine Mercedes financing
Eight blades for killing
Seven cons a-skimming
Six cops a-lying
Five olden kings
Four warning words
Three benched trends
Two subtle shoves
And a tax man for the wrong fee

And a tax man for the wrong fee

26th December 2024

#IAmKenyan, Culture, Deep and overstood, Hip hop, Kenya, Life, Politricks

UKOO?

The Divine Bandit

Naamka asubuhi napiga dua for vigeti, sala more natumia mama kwa kibeti.
Big fish kwa sahani ndio maana nashusha neti, ligi soh natafuta hizo zangu senti.
Pay per clue ama stage haijalipiwa, donda wa flow change yangu ni kitu pure.
Sticks and stones nikitusiwa, nabreak bones kama gwiji wa rap akiwapa kitu sure.
Colour kwa face, akala mpaka base, nakala ya case, nitashinda usitie shaka.
Maisha naichase, boots zangu nazilace, 7 am nishaset goals natoka kuzisaka.
Naruka mvi nastep on a Gen Z, usishangae water cannons zimejaa kwa nchi iko dry spell.
Wanasting kama Hessy, nabii ana appetite ya promises but hafurahi tukiskia dinner bell.
Tutazidi kufinya kama nyash kinky, 1-2 sio mic test bali ni kupunch more than lines.
Makanga amelewa na whisky, dereva amesema halali but you can see the signs.
Nina akili na nywele, locked kwa target wakirusha my comrades kwa boot.
Nauli ya hapo mbele, watch them split hairs trying to tap your root.
I’ll keep spitting truth through pain like my dentist was a priest.
Armed to the tooth because they freed a beast they thought didn’t exist.
My creations destroy and burn, no wonder I keep grilling them on my cage,
Walidhani I wouldn’t return, they should have braced themselves for my rage.
Usiku kabla nilale napiga goti bila kupaniki, Maulana  alinibariki hakunilaani.
Tajiri ama maskini ana siku ya kufariki, leo jina kubwa kesho yake FULANI.

#IAmKenyan, Deep and overstood, Kenya, Life, Love, War

Open poem to the PORK

The Divine Bandit

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.