Dreams Mock Me

Dreams Mock Me

As a child I had dreams bigger than my sleep. My abilities had no stains of doubt and my hopes breathed from lungs of possibilities. Today my nightmares are bigger than my house and procrastination evicted my best friend ‘NOW” and my walls are painted with the blood of my slain dreams.

Dreams Scare Me

Dreams Scare Me

As a child I knew my life was thought out
I knew come what may, I’ll make it out somehow
Then came obstacles that I trudged on
They soiled my hopes
And my dreams began to shrink
Choppers became cars,
Which eventually turned to bikes
Before I got contented with the means of mobility,
I was birthed with; my feet
I began having sleepless nights
Fantasies visited every night
It came with a number of friends
Insomnia, inability and anxiety
How odd fantasies and inability
Could hold hands?
An indomitable trio
Sifting through my mind
Scavenging for bits of possibilities
Like hurricane they swept all my dreams
And deposited them in the damp of my pillow
And they whisper
Pretending to be friends
Procrastination joined them
He’s a good friend I thought
“You’ll do it when you get back on your feet”,
He told me.
He always had the best words when I needed things done
There was always a better time to do it
Now wasn’t part of his vocabulary
He erased it from my dictionary
And so
All became in an hrs. time…
Now my son asks me
Hasn’t tomorrow arrived?
When is a better time?
Will you ever get back on your feet?



Necklace as a Memento

shanize 3The necklace you see in this photograph is one of my possessions I have got so attached to. Steve, a fan of my poems and a brother gave it to me after I had lived with him for a year. I moved in on my own, every time I have it on, I feel his presence around me, his charm, his knack for perfection is the adrenaline that flies me whenever I rehearse for a performance.

whenever I listen to Dolly Parton’s ‘Coat of many colors’ I think of my necklace of three colors and a pyramid of curio shell.

The Dreamer Died

In the blanket of darkness
When all I see is this crazy mess
When my feet wobble at my weight
And my spine can’t hold me straight
When the stench of this pigsty
Swamps my pillow with self-pity
I think of the dreamer I used to be
The one who thought the world wasn’t complete without me
The one who conversed with destiny and sealed his own fate
The one whose feet walked on hot coal,
But still had eyes fixed on gold
The one who shredded impossibilities
And used the shreds to weave possibilities
The one now dead



Hearts Ripped In Throes of Passion

Charlie listened to her plans and knew he was in trouble. The pursuit had ended sooner than he expected. His was a cautious heart, still harboring bandages and stitches from a relationship he knew was destined to earthly heavens. It was now that he realized that he didn’t need a woman and all the pursuit he had waged was just under the illusion that she needed a nurse to dress the wounds that were causing him sleepless nights, but wounds of the heart need no dressing. They are to be left to heal on their own for even the hands of angels aren’t soft enough not to leave a bruise on delicate wounds. He was learning that if there was a concoction for healing a wounded heart then a woman wasn’t a part of it. The concoction would be made of three recipes; time, time and time.

“Babe, are you even listening?” Annett prodded.

“Yeah, we’ll have children, we’ll wed and we’ll travel the world on love’s back. What more have you talked about?”

“Babe, don’t be cynical about love, why did you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like this”, she twitched her lips. She was pissed off.

Here she was, trying to please a man who was too mean to pay her the least attention she needed. Why does it always have to be like this? Finally Charlie was proving to be worse in conversation than Kev she was ditching, but he had it all; all he sought in a man. He was well endowed, got looks to die for and was stable financially. Even if he was incompetent in other aspects, he would be worth the risk.

To Charlie, love was a grand illusion. It was a huge chess board, every player reading the opponent’s mind and hiding their next moves under their sleeves and aha! Their true intentions surface, too late for any defense. Good intentions floored as illicit passions take toll. And then ravens would perch on nearby trees, waiting for the opportune time to come down and feed on the vestiges of hearts spread on rugged earth, hearts ripped in throes of passion.

She was created for others too

I loved sunsets. That is past tense. Ever since you walked out of the door, sunrise and sunset have no difference to me, of what effect is sunshine on a soul so dark without the brightness of your smile? Sure, the sun shines but it was the tilts of your front teeth that reflected the light in right angles to illuminate the darkest corners of my life whenever you smiled.

The sunsets aren’t any better, I stand at the balcony, watching as face of the sun folds in orange wrinkles and all am left with is lethargic feeling, bits of pebbles form in my throat and I choke at my own indulgence in nostalgic thoughts of our past, my waist is yet to forget what it felt like to have your arms around it. Counting birds is no longer a potent therapy to me and the breeze maims my olfactory with your cologne, I don’t know the scent of nature anymore. Echoes of your giggles keep interrupting my meditations, and my mind refrain from focus and tenaciously grip to every detail of the ‘Us’ we were, my meditations turn into fantasies, the silence turns into your whispers, giggles, sobs, hiccups, slithers and muffled moans. I meditate to clearly see my goals, but I see you remove the posts.

I remember we gave each other names, names that were sweet music to our ears, names that assured us that destiny curved a path that only the two of us could tread on. Names that etched love on every corner of my thoughts. But these names now torture me, these names still haunt me. There is nothing more haunting than a name that refuses to die with its bearer, it’s a spirit always hovering, asking questions, pressing charges and worst of all eroding a mind that no space is left for seeds of nothingness to sprout. I want nothing of you. I don’t want to remember you. But how can’t I remember you when everything my eyes latch upon reminds me of you? In the night, I look at the sky, the black canvas that we once drew our love on; the constellations whose beauty we reveled at, the falling stars that serenaded our love every night now mock me. They laugh at the darkness I’ve become. They gossip of how hollow I’ve become ever since you left.

I don’t want to remember you.  The memories of you to me are what a blacksmith’s furnace is to steel, it hurts, it wounds and maims but it curves steel into treasure box sought by royals. I am wondering what your memories are curving me into. I was kind of dyslexic, for how could I fail to read the signs you showed? Most probably you never showed any sign. Ours was a smooth terrain,

Our names spelt love
And the illusion that it was created for us
Barred me from seeing the truth,
The truth; that you were created for others too.


If loving you was a career

I would specialize in it

I would learn to be the best in the profession

I would know its thrills and perils

All the highs and lows

If loving you was a career

Then you would be the college

Your backbone would be the curriculum

Tread carefully or fall head first into oblivion

If loving you was a career

Your lips would be the white board

And my tongue the marker pen

I would write for eternity,



Inscribing my love deeper than tattoo

Thousand students would want to write on them,

Some would, but their pens won’t write deep

They’d be erased.

When exams come,

My answers would remain

Deeply inscribed in your lips

And I would pass: the only one good enough for you

Tribalism is a malignancy

I am getting ready for a war to win the freedom to my thoughts back, I am getting ready to validate my own judgement. I want to judge you based on the content of your character and not on the lies I was told while growing up.

In fact give me my earbuds I want to cock out all the dirt they’ve spat in my ears all these years, my ears are aching of the rot within, can’t you get the smell: that Njuguna,Kamau and Mwangi are a band of thieves, that otieno, Adhis, Okoth, Achieng are walking billboards of braggadocio, That Wanjiku, Njeri, Shiro are all gold diggers, that mwikali, Kambua, kanini, Mwende are only good with their backs on bed sheets shifting positions and muffling groans but their hands are too feeble to hold the threads of marriage with due tenacity.

Na kama ni ukweli kila kabila ina maradhi

(if its true every tribe has an ailment)

Basi ni tiba tunahitaji

(Then its the cure we need)

We need a cure for tribal maladies

As tribalism is the worst form of malignancy

It creeps slowly into your heart and swells and bursts into lethal toxins that lames your sight in such a way that humans are seen as animals. you look at me, at streaks of blue in my eyes, at my kinky hair and light skin and all you see is a snake, kill or escape.

In reality all you should see in me is you in a different body, you with a different purpose and school of thought for we’re all one. Kikuyu, Luo, white, black, kamba, muslim, hindu, atheist, Christian et cetera we have a common ancestry. from Adam we all descend.

Its time we unloaded tribal stereotype baggages from our backs, dump them in rivers and watch them drown. I need a rest. we all need a rest. we might be different as east is from west but these differences make us complement. Somedays I find my bones too heavy, I tried to walk on but the earth surface threatened to break at their weight, I cocked them out and curved my coffin out of them, I dug my own grave and with all the strength I had left, dragged myself into my coffin, but still I needed six of you to carry the coffin into my grave.