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

Dad, Life, Love, Prose

#MisimuZangu


I don’t know whether I was nominated for this. But seeing as Veon Ngugi tagged me in her post, I had the inkling that I should say something. I still felt that a lot about my personal life has been written down in poems but reading Ivan Irakoze’s post brought about the fact that there is only so much that we share in those rhyme schemes gets understood at the level we would love it to be.

#MisimuZangu is about sharing something personal. Sharing something about dreams. Sharing about ups and downs. So essentially sharing about life.

I am 29 and of course to some of the toddlers whom are part of this challenge. Not looking at you Ngartia J Bryan. 🙂 I might seem to have everything in order. I told a story to the members of the possibly defunct Sanaa Book Club and they were all insistent on the fact that I should share about that life. And maybe that would give someone going through the same some bit of hope or last push that they need.

In a nutshell because as brave as I have become since, I still do not like telling this story in its long form. In 2011, I was diagnosed clinically depressed. It was a shock to not only my family, my workmates but also my friends. Because if you’ve met me, you probably do know that rarely anything gets me down. Probably never did have anything till my dad passed away earlier this year. But the feelings about that are not something I am yet capable to write about. You can only bypass so many grammatical mistakes with another set of clear meniscus on your eyes.

The worst part about the depression was that it was caused by medicine. Medicine I had finally decided to take to cure the migraines I had lived with for the last 10 or so years. Migraines that had been the first reason why I had to start wearing spectacles. So the cure had brought up a side effect that you will never wish on your worst enemy. I remember that morning when I woke up and switched off my phone and said F my job, F what people think, F life! Because from a point where I had become unable to wash a cup or rinse a glass. I now could not get out of bed, nor turn in it. The effort was too much to my mental.

I’d like to tell so much about what happened between 2011 and before the treatment started working. But I can only remember so much. I still have blanks about the year. But I came to finally, having spent 600k, with no recollection of where or on what but a bank statement that proves I did make the withdrawals. Imagine an 8 month hangover or amnesia. And the worst part about it is I was well to the outside world. I won awards at work. Got the best of recommendations for my projects. But in the end I managed to turn that around. Healed, I am now here. That money is a thing of the past. I have love in my life, and a car, oh yes aptly nicknamed Lagertha. It is rare to be debt free. And neither am I. But I am here to tell all people who read this and those tagged too. There does come a better time. It is hard work but the struggle is beautiful.

The more current personal fear that follows me to date? It is that once you have been depressed. You fear being sad, you fear expressing sorrow. Because you are afraid that the sorrow might stay. Again. And that is how I missed the funeral of the uncle I am named after. Rest in Peace Daudi Kimemia. Yes that is my name. Mukabi is my father. R.I.P.

But we trudge on. About to hit the 3rd Floor, I can look back at my life and say I am ok with having lived it. Because it made me the person I am. And I love this person. My self love has enabled me to have a larger heart to love others.

I will leave you with one quote I wrote when I was 14 and started writing poetry. As this life smashes you against currents and rocks, as you wait for the tide to rise and lay you on higher ground.

“A wise man does not test the sharpness of his sword on butter”

Dad, Life, Love

#MisimuZangu Hii Ngoma ni ya babangu


When I wake up at 3 am and sit up to scribble a nightmare inspired poem,

The neighbours think I’m just a troubled person.

Like cravings, the need to put these words down floods my mind.

It is all I can think of at the moment.

It is 20 minutes to 5 pm, the time when I hurriedly leave the office.

Because I know, there’s a one hour workout session

That is quickly followed by a light meal, a look at the telly, some reading

And sometimes just directly take a 9 hour nap.

I am writing this as Eric Wainaina blares in my ears.

I have never really listened to music at low volumes.

I have to hear each instrument used

Whatever drum thump that everyone would choose to ignore.

Maybe that is why I am not a fan of music videos.

But here I am typing with  tears welling up in my eyes.

I keep breathing in and fluttering my eyelashes to keep the tears away.

All this because Eric dares start his Twisty song with:

“Hii ngoma ni ya babangu”

Because to date the words dad, father, baba, papa cause the deepest of emotions to come crawling to the surface.

And sometimes I hate myself for it.

Sometimes I just let the tears flow.

Because it really is cathartic.

It does not really heal but I feel more able to deal once that bitter bubble is burst.

It is the  most childish of ways, but my hair to me is the legacy of what he was in his youth.

And how when I live my dream I can still see myself in him.

Funny thought is that I really wanted to play football professionally and did not.

But he did.

Talk of your parent living your dream on your behalf.

But the best part is how much more protected I feel.

He is watching every single day.

I feel shame when what I do does not make him smile.

But it does not beat the sense of achievement when you manage to do something he really wanted you to do.

I just type away without even editing.

That will come later.

And truly I have no idea why this piece is in a poetic kind of stanza.

Maybe it is because I am used to writing like this.

My friends say I type texts in a staccato manner.

That is mostly because the thoughts run over each other sometimes.

Like a bunch of seeds looking for the one egg to fertilize

I can feel my breath becoming lighter now.

As the clock strikes 4:55, I find myself asking why I even started typing this.

Maybe it was just because of that one song

Maybe because I can hear his song

Maybe because I am his song

As he has been mine before

I don’t know.

All I know is this tune keeps playing.

And I am yet to find my harmony.

Why all these feels today you dare ask?

Because of the below:

Life as it is, comes in phases.
The good, bad, ugly and beautiful keep recurring in different forms.

Misimu-Swahili for seasons – is everything making up the season’s in the life of Gufy as a Performance Poet.

A collection of 5 spoken word poems cutting through basic scopes of life. From politics, love, religion, childhood dreams, death and God.

This collection aims to re-live the thoughts and beliefs of a young man in search of an end game.

Misimu is Gufy,
Misimu is Us,
Misimu is Poetry we relate to.

#MisimuZangu

https://www.facebook.com/events/579418178897716/notif_t=plan_user_invited&notif_id=1469625780162119