Life, Woman Power


She had that chuckle, such a beautiful smile.

She had walked in those shoes, long mile.

She had an affinity for pink that soon changed to black.

The world kept reminding her constantly of her lack.

She had hips that would sway and pronounce her gait.

The chauvinistic whistles announcing her fate.

She would bury her head low.

Walk steadily but still too slow.

Her brothers had better clothes and more time to read.

Her work at home would give her no time to lead.

Her back would arch from the weight.

But somewhere at the back of her mind she knew it was never too late.

And this all happened when she received the missive.

That she no longer had to be eternally submissive.

She learnt that she could transform and change her records.

Go from a lady to ghetto in a matter of seconds.

They had missed the fight in her eyes.

They did not see the truth as they made a bed of their lies.

They had missed the arched back that could easily carry future burdens.

They had missed her upturned face to the heavens.

She knew where to get her strength.

She could see how narrow the road was but not its length.

They had broken off her wings at an early age.

Forever an angel, she had just changed her means of flying to a broomstick.

She had grown into a beautiful woman. Oh such a sage.

She had learnt there was power to be found even among the meek.

And so once again she swayed her hips.

Up the ladder of success she went.

She had the voice of the people on her lips.

She was a mother, a sister, a daughter and now a prophet sent.

Alone, she had self-actualized.

She had seen who she could be beyond the smoke screen.

She had not only hoped but also realized

She had stayed awake instead of dreaming of being part of the scene.

This woman had grown to know her worth.

She had not the let the past be part of who she was.

This woman had chosen to venture forth.

She was no longer a servant to men but now a boss.

This angel had refused to become a woman who needs a man.

But had become a woman who all men would need.

Deep and overstood, Kenya, Politricks


I hold this pen and contemplate. Should I rhyme or just alliterate?

I have made this a habit. To always see rhythm in my work as fit.

I sometimes think of how; my memory will make heads bow.

But I always end the thought with a smile. For I know I won’t be dead for a while.

Or possibly the Good Lord won’t let it be. His plans are all that matter to me.

To be an artiste who believes in Him. It’s quite a hard feat as being inquisitive is part of my realm.

To be remembered after I am gone. Not in a sad way that leaves someone forlorn.

Neither does it have to be by the whole world. Just to those who matter and in whose hearts I will be found.

My thoughts have always been weird. But rarely in my writing has this reared.

In my stables I have chewed the cud. Watched every morning as the roses opened up from the bud.

Hysterically I laugh and my sadness sometimes hits bottom. It is part of life, c’est la vie a fitting idiom.

Some have questioned my sanity. While others, when they get to know me; my insanity.

I have enjoyed every aspect of my life. Happy times have overruled the strife.

I have learnt to enjoy each day to the full. I do not waste any second like a fool.

Be it in my own cocoon or among friends. I make sure to smile at the fads and social trends.

I have always loved a good quote. Smiling at how oblivious of that phrase the writer must have been as he wrote.

My writing might find its way to a Presidential speech. Probably on a lover’s tongue as he serenades his damsel on the beach.

But all I need is for it to be remembered by just one. To have it treasured as a folded paper back that has been worn and torn.

I work in an office and I love it. Not because of the money that makes ends meet.

But because of the growth I experience. I get to meet people who make me happy by their existence.

I sometimes want to be out across the land. Not just in my country but in overseas beaches where my toes dig in the sand.

With a clique of like minds with whom I can communicate literary. It could also be that one person who is always on my mind, literally.

Looking at that that strong willed Aminata. Imbuga must believe me a nutter.

I am the Lion to her Jewel. In her warm embrace, I revel.

She makes me reconsider marrying when I want. Like a ghost my thoughts she haunts.

Tribalism is supposed to be the river between us. But for that grain of wheat I will make no fuss.

For all the petals of blood we have shed. This island of tears we will mend.

As we bring down the devil on the cross. The land with no thunder will no longer be at a loss.

No longer at ease has been a running theme. As we meet in the dark and whisper these subtle morphemes.

We will one day see the Promised Land. But the citizens need to decolonize the mind.

I am the last born despite my girth. What a son though I never taught my mother to give birth.

I like manning up to the people. This despite my resolve has never been simple.

Through my journey as I encounter Africa. As the neo racism makes me sicker.

Showers bless our dry land. I am coming home from looking for the rain god.

It’s a good day, no mourning. And it is well noticeable in the morning.

It is time for the festival to make hay. Time keeps running out each day.

We will tell this one story as one tribe. We will garner this one victory with one vibe.

We will occupy so this our kids’ minds won’t preoccupy. Hoping my cipher will be lost to any spy.

The country will learn to change. And the stiff necked leopard will join us on the stage.

The pie may have been fallen in soil. But soon their plans we will foil.

I stand ready for that moment. And whether they televise it or not, the revolution will be part of the movement.

For it does not matter who I was or who I am but who I will be.

Like a Midas touch, my plans will excel.

As I walk my talk you will learn that I keep my word.

To my mind and my world I will give you access.

And with that you can gain the power to reach a higher point.

With the potter’s words we won’t need a wand.

We will conquer fear and with our courage show our enterprise.

This unexpected journey will have a ring to it.

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 struggle will be real but we will bear it.