She has left

Nyalego has left
She has gone back to her father’s home
She couldn’t stand all that shame at the market
Even children now know who she really is

She was caught naked on Odhiambo’s bed
A boy who was still in primary Eight
How could that bed bear her weight?
Nyalego has spoilt this village
Her husband says she has been into sexual pilgrimage
For a long time he hasn’t touched her pants
Kumbe Odhiambo was the one fulfilling her wants

The neighbors complained the bed squeaked so much
And the boy was rarely seen outside
He had a lot of inside job
The neighbors had long forgotten the color of his uniforms
And the path to school no longer knows the might of his steps

Nyalego has charm
For how could she bewitch the pastor’s only child?
For weeks the boy hasn’t reported to their home
Nor does he ask for money for upkeep
The pastor will drop Jesus and pick a machete
Nyalego should never come back

Odhiambo is still very young
To be learning reproduction practically
He said he only poked it with his finger
That’s how they do it digitally

Now Odhiambo has been expelled
Nyalego is out of sight
He is the only one,
Who’ll bear the weight of shame

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Work In Progress

I’m the one whose presence is annotated by perpetual absence of silence, call me siren
I’m you when your own heartbeat defies every step you take on the career ladder,
I’m the cancer that ate your mother’s breast when I knew she had twelve kids to be fed,
I’m the conniving spirits that duped your addicted father that rehab is for those trying to quit
I’m the hunger that drove you insane peddling your virtues for a plate of crumbs,
I’m the light skin black sheep of the family whose identity has been lost, everyday learning all that I am; all that makes my stomach churn with rage when I see in others.
I’m a hollow casket; my own corpse believes I stink
I am a lost shepherd sought after by sheep
I barely know me
I need revelation, from he who created me
The things I swore I couldn’t do have become a part of me
The things I hate doing
Things that fill me to the brim with self-loathe
Things hidden beneath my teeth and clothes

Sometimes I think my very existence is a mistake
My shoulders are burdened by heavy bundles of blame
For a past that I had no control over
Whoever sowed my seeds maliciously laced them with shame

I am sandwiched between two extremes;
Nobody understands me, neither do I
What am I worth?
I am the color of disappointment,
A definition of failure,
The barren branch of a vine that is chopped and burnt

The path to righteousness bruised my shoulders
Vanity didn’t find a place me
Love chose butterflies, fled from the dull me
Behind me trail 99 problems
No one in sight to help me solve them
And I am addicted to things am ashamed to pen…

What do I stand for?
For what purpose was I created?
Am I the only one asking these questions?

I am a faulty gun in the hands of a novice hunter cornered by a vicious prey
I am prey to alarm chimes reminding me every morning that I’m too small for my age yet too old for my dreams
I am the mess the society created but felt too good to clean,
I am the last crunch of a midnight snack that the throat moistens to swallow but the tongue still wants it back.
I am the insatiable bits of lust that blinded love. That craving for attention that sparked #mydressmychoice tension that lured your sister in her sweet sixteen to dress in micro-mini to call for catcalls without seeing sins in this, wallowing in the oblivion that ladies who command catcalls reduce themselves to specimens on which men practice their dominance.
I am a vestige of all the man I was meant to be, for when all is said and done the dilapidated apartments of my ribcage sinks at the weight of my failures, the stench of my wounded ego whisked my ambitions out of my system unto your doorstep as realities, so don’t brag to me about being on top of your world, man that’s my dream you’re living.
I am the last words of a slain poet, chocking on the metaphors as the last strike of destiny left my face spanked in wisps of crimson.
I’m the lost Angel knocking on Satan’s door, with premeditated good intentions soiled by your wicked expectations. The mustard seed of my existence strives to thrive, to give you million shades of love but you want to get me chained and spank me with lashes. Damn it! My creator fills my needs with million shades of grace so you can keep your filthy shades of Grey for yourself.
I’m the eye that finds you whenever you’re lost in thoughts, the gentleness in a beast that enticed the beauty, the flickers of nostalgia for times yet to come, the allure of a raspy voice that cajoled her to loosen up just 5 mins after meeting him.

I’m the history of mysteries that made you a best fit, a victim of your victories, the crooked stick that straightened your path to political stardom, the rag on the foot of your throne, the misfit that you dish thousands to have his head on plate, the ground is yet to drink the all blood of my lot you slaughtered to get where you’re. Success comes with a price tag but why are we the ones to pay for yours? Because we don’t have lives, because we’re shackled in poverty, because our lives don’t matter. listen, did you hear that. that’s the voice of my maker reminding you that this being you despise, this being you hate religiously, this being you’ve reduced to a metric to gauge your political bearing, this being you want dead because he couldn’t conform to your ideologies is still a work in progress.