Words of an old wise monk.
Be wary of the man who rides a white horse.
He hits harder than the law, son.
Tag: the divine bandit is human
Haiku Beast Day 18
Abe sinned like all other men.
He hatched a plan behind her hazel eyes.
Cain, you tell my brother’s reefer?
Haiku Beast Day 17
I’m engaged in a psychedelic war.
A lewd sip double they called it.
My double edged roll is now blunt.
#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”
#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.
https://www.facebook.com/events/579418178897716/notif_t=plan_user_invited¬if_id=1469625780162119
Haiku Beast Day 16
It’s 4:21, blazed it and got got.
Enjoying the ecstasy at Newport.
Puff, puff, passed out.
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??
2016 CALVARY HILL DRIVE
I: THE COME UP
Oh be careful little eyes what you see.
I’m rooted in rocks.
Smell the scent of what’s cooking.
I’ve crossed the desert.
And sands are no longer sinking.
I remember the peace in my liver.
When I never walked alone.
II: THE WARM UP
Watch your actions for they become habits.
My voice is a lyre
My truth tugs at her strings.
My life is a hymn but I feel alone
You know like solo-ish
I can see the darkness at the start of my tunnel.
Lights, please!
III: FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS
C’est la vie
Got friends from Cana having a party in my tummy.
Vices abound and I think Roy has the spirit.
Following stars that are Westbound.
But not a wiseman amongst us.
I’m wasting my youth on the young.
I need something over 21.
IV: THE SIDELINE STORY
Yea though I walk…
I’m missing His presence.
Trudging over bits and pieces of my essence.
Her lies taste sweet like ice cream.
Her wake rouses me and I scream.
I’m flashing a full house.
At the chess table.
V: BORN SINNER
For God so loved the world….
I had a million dollar dream and a pyramid scheme.
Emerged from the battle but with a crooked smile.
No longer picture perfect but worth the picture still.
In the beginning was The Word.
It said: “Seek and ye shall find”
But I’m the one who knocks.
Peter Mukabi Njoroge 1943 – 2016: THE ROCK THAT MADE OUR HEARTS BLEED
The day our father died.
There was no thunder or lightning.
No previous night’s rain to bless the world he was leaving behind.
The day our father said goodbye to this world;
There was no group of friends and family around his bed.
No last kiss on his forehead or a hand to offer one last comforting squeeze.
The night our dad went to sleep for the last time;
He did not inform anyone that this would be the last goodnight.
That he would not wake up from one last dream.
Because you see, before our father died;
His smile had been the lightning to many a sad heart.
He always had a way to shock you out of your cocoon
His voice thundered with a hearty laugh;
That always followed one of his sly jokes.
He was a blessing to his children.
And he had a way of raining goodwill on the rest of those who knew him.
Our father did not need to say goodbye to the world.
Deep down he lives in each one of us.
We can still see his smile, feel his calloused hands.
And in both of them, we get the strength to know;
That he intended for us to live on and achieve our dreams like he did his.
Our father.
Your husband.
Your brother.
Your uncle.
Your grandfather.
Your late son.
Your friend.
He was but a man.
But he managed to be more than that to each of us.
He was a helping hand.
He was the joker in the crowd.
He had aged wisdom.
He was a force to reckon with.
This man had careworn palms.
Yet he held kids and showed his gentle heart.
He had a quiet simmering temper.
With which he stood up for friends and family.
He could discipline with one look.
And love with one phrase.
He fought wars with himself.
Won battles for each one of us.
He was the calm to our storm.
He was the gentle breeze in our sails.
He made ways for all of us with his will.
Taught us that it was allowed to dream beyond our means
Our father was in no way perfect.
But each of his flaws made him unique.
In being the man he was.
He mirrored the attributes of his children
Orphans will sing the whole-hearted giving nature of Virginiah.
We found your silent wisdom and maturity in Jane and Carol.
The sounds of clashing hammers lead us to the workaholic bee in Dave.
We shall gather on warm nights for advice from the boy you made a man’s man.
Who deserves the name Kelvin for always striking when the iron is hot.
And when this family needs to smile again;
Irene and I will be at our wit’s end to make sure of that.
I am sad.
As most of the people here are
But I stand here to celebrate you.
For giving us the best of your years
For being the best of dads
I know you can hear us.
Let not these cries dampen your soul.
Let that crooked smile never leave your face.
And when the skies light up with stars tonight
I will remember that twinkle in your eyes.
That always spelled mischief.
That twinkle that said,
There was something you hadn’t revealed fully.
I hope you can finish the story for me one day.
Untitled 01:45h 19/12/2015
I: God
Take me back to a time.
When being good was as easy as breathing.
And my mama’s words resonated in me.
When her bidding was stronger than a belief.
Proud to be called clean, faithful, a follower of rules.
Take me back to Sunday school.
When I believed in forgiveness.
In King David after the transgressions.
Saul would become Paul.
And the past would be forgiven.
Early mornings, when I’d remove my socks and shoes.
To be equal to the other village kids.
When my lullaby was the thoughts of heaven.
And not finances, planning on how to break even.
Take me back to being what they called a junior youth.
Looking forward to a life of serving not mastering.
Living for Him not aspiring to attain.
Take me back to the Bible not the blogs.
To learning rather than just reading.
II: Love
Take me back to the fairy tales.
To dreams grand and of sunsets.
When love was a gift and not an achievement.
And a source of never-ending happiness.
Not a path to probable pain.
Take me back to when today mattered.
To when the future was always bright.
Not a reflection of past mistakes.
Take me back to Celine.
To Luther Vandross and ᗅᗺᗷᗅ.
To staying alive and celebration time.
A fulfillment of the life that would be mine.
Take me back to hand sculpted gifts.
To names carved on trees and doodles on my books.
When the thought far outweighed the cost.
And the character way better than looks.
Take me back to primary school.
When affection made my heart skip not beat faster.
When I’d be transfixed in moments not lost in the next.
When what I felt was said and not lost in text.
Take me back to just being divine.
Before I let in the bandit and stole more hearts than one.
It’s been a while since I went out of line.
Lost the chance to enjoy the moment and ran after the fun.
III: Author
Take me back to senseless writing.
To holding a pen and trying my best at cursive.
To when the ink was the blood from whence poured my soul.
And truth riddled every sentence.
Take me back to basic lexicon.
When being deep was not the goal but a happy coincidence.
To when morphemes and synonyms did not matter.
And rhymes came out as staccato as a stutter.
Take me back to real poetry.
When my life leaked with every phrase.
My thoughts and fantasies saturated every page.
This gift was not even recognised as one.
Take me back to grammatical errors.
To a period way before the nazi era.
So I can write away my troubles.
Let the paper fade away my pain.
Take me back to Wordsworth and Frost.
Before I end up on the road least taken like Poe.
Lost in my melancholic notes.
Of the writer I could have been but never became.
Take me back to Shakespeare.
From thence I can find my path again.
Still a poet by any other right or how I write.
Immortalized in my own song of La “Wino”.
IV: Life
Take me back to singing and dancing.
To India Arie and Maxwell on a sunny afternoon.
To ill-fitting earphones and cassette tapes.
To bitter lemons without a tequila shot.
Take me back to addition and subtraction.
Not regression and plans for my progression.
To learning how to draw, no matter how badly.
Rather than designing a dream house in every reverie.
Take me back to freedom.
To aspiring to be President.
Proudly sitting at the head of the class.
Rather than murmuring at the back row.
Take me back to undefined genius.
Rejoicing in completion rather than competition.
To figuring things out not judging them.
To creating and not just utilising.
Take me back to long walks not quick rides.
To sun basking and making images from the clouds.
When I’d revel in heavenly splendour.
Not lost in thoughts of what tomorrow will bring.
Take me back to open spaces not closed walls.
To old friends not new acquaintances.
When I’d play in the rain rather than in its after-scent.
Enjoy every living minute, make it a lifetime moment.
Take me back, just take me back.
The Divine Bandit™ 