Category Archives: affection

Father she is growing

She is growing father
Can’t you see her breasts are pushing her dress further?
Her hips are widening
Her lips getting softer
Her skin becoming thicker
Her bosom broadening

Father can’t you see her armpits getting hairy
The curiosity in her eyes…she’s getting scary

Father I think she travelled to the moon
If not she will be there soon
Coz I saw tuck a piece of blanket beneath her junction

Father she is the reason boys flock our homestead
Why can’t they go to uncle’s place instead?

Father I saw her talking to Ben
They are planning to play the adult game
And then she will be gone, he will elope with her

Father talk to elders
Arrange for her wedding
And give her away
Before she loses her virginity
That will reduce her bride Price
Father she has completely grown, in a full woman

My Insomnia

Do I know her name, NO

Does she know mine, I guess not

Yeah she might be knowing Agak the Poet, The performer

but does she know the other bit-the passionate lover?

If she knew how my tongue has been behaving tamed

would she read it in my eyes and end this daring game?

She is beautiful, to tell her I want her I wouldn’t dare

my tongue held back by this bitter question ‘what if she doesn’t care?

The last we met She shared a hug

Did she feel the vacuum of love in my heart?

She asked how am doing and I said am fine, I am such a liar

Even a blind bat could see she put my crotch on fire

I would like to take her home, to meet my parents

Will she ever love a Luo, she already hates my accent

Her beauty is beyond her pillowy breasts

She has a big heart too, it’s a miracle it fits her chest

I dream of making her my wife

Coz her love is the Aromat that can spice my life

This beauty has become my Insomnia

All night I think of our little past with nostalgia

She has gololi eyes, eyes blind to my feelings

When in my Valley she’s the only one who can tend to my lilies

She has ears, ears deaf to my whispers of love

Yet she is the only one who can fill this vacuum in my heart

Will she agree to be my dark skin beauty?

Loving her is my passion, not a duty

I plan to meet her tonight

Dear lord make everything right

To propose to her I need no ring

Neither a song will I sing

For I want her to be the 5th chamber of my heart

A wife, a part of me that hurts when she’s hurt

In her warm embrace I can’t resist to get chained

In the full glare of the envious moon her lips I will taste

My Insomnia

Copyright ©George Agak 2014

She Unchained Django

There are mysteries you are always yearning to unravel. In most cases you will plan how and when to see beyond what is exposed before eyes and hear what is heard in the mask of the silence of the surrounding. This wasn’t the case, I never knew I would be here in the first place and the thought of knowing her name had not struck my mind even once but here we were- strangers in the night, no were we still strangers? I guess not, after all the unpleasant treats nature had served us together at the fall of dusk; the rain that got us wet to the pants and the mud that sank our feet to the ankles we were more than strangers- at least we were friends, yeah friends who were about to cross a crucial boundary to an island known to many as ‘more than just friends’.

Sleeping in different rooms yet under the same roof with a woman not related to you by blood is quite impossible especially when you are not a victim of hypogonadism. With healthy testosterone levels, a phone on the bedside stool and a mind craving for venture of all things passion, the urge to press call button of impromptu sermon to the woman cannot be easily resisted, to be blunt it is irresistible when the Holy Spirit has refused to pay you homage at such unfaithful hours. I sat upright on bed and scrolled through my phone contacts for her digits. Having got it, pressing the green button become a challenge, my mind got crowded with ‘what if’ thoughts. What if she has slept and can’t pick the call? What if she is not alone in her room? What if she got angry and threw me out into the cold? No I’m not doing this, I dropped the phone on the stool and just then a thought struck me- what if she expected this and I failed her? Won’t that make me gay? Then it dawned on me that whatever I did or did not do at this instant had fruits both bitter and sweet and so I pressed the green button. She didn’t receive the call but hysterically rushed to my room as if it was on fire.

There she stood leaning on the door and watched me as I fumbled for words that could best serve a reason for calling her. Of course I hadn’t called her for a glass of water, I wanted something quite obvious, yeah your guess is right. I beckoned her to come and sit on the bed and she obeyed, all I could say was ‘I thought it weird for us to be sleeping under the same roof yet different rooms’ she didn’t have to speak for me to know she had the same thought. I pulled her arm and laid her next to me, facing me. The innocence in her eyes made me feel the in beast me, what was I really doing? Otoyo ne pok oriwga gi rombo (a hyena and a lamb has never been put together). For a minute I gently moved my fingers through her hair, she smiled I guess enjoying the touch. Fast forward, she sandwiched my lower lip between hers and slipped her tongue in. my heartbeat got faster as her lips caressed mine and for some seconds they got chained in momentary tight embrace.

Lying on my back, she mounted on me, clothes flying in air exposing a porcelain skin hidden beneath and two daring gate keepers of the chestlands. Her nipples prickling my chest sent ripples down me and I felt my Django raise its head. She bit my ear gently; the touch of her tongue on my pinna sent me to an earthly paradise. She moved her hand down the junction and cupped my package as if they were some mangoes on groceries stall, an act that irritated Django. An angry Django is a dangerous buffoon. As her lips glided on my skin I turned her ready to strike having given in to Django’s pleas just then she made an unexpected reaction, she covered her treasure with her left hand ‘we can’t do this’ is all she said, pushed me aside and began putting on her clothes, she wore her pants and stood facing the door, her nightdress in her right hand. ‘Sorry’ she said and walked briskly to the door, opened it and closed it behind her leaving me to burn in the fire she had lit.

Beauty in a Matatu

It’s been long since I saw a woman worth putting pens to paper for, a woman worth every stain the pen leaves on a paper as it glides on it in the name of ink. I am talking beauty. Not beauty potentiated by unnecessary meat exposed and lips stained with cheap lipstick. Not beauty achieved by doctored boobs and hips pumped with myriad injections of silicon. Neither Am I talking of beauty sandwiched between multiple clothing of behind nor beauty trapped on ears burdened with heavy metals in the name of jewelry. I am talking raw beauty.

I had just come from a meeting, no a debate that was successful despite disappointing absence of the expected attendees. The dusty road had got the better of me as I had to trek from Kariobangi to roundabout to catch a mathree to my hood. In my hoodie and timberland avunjas the dusty road was the least of my worries. But still that wasn’t what I thought of as cool, the dusty road was not appealing but the constant harassment by the touts who operate Makadara bound matatus was worse. These people have no respect; they are goons to be exact. They are very touchy. They will not only touch you but will literally pull you away in a bid to convince you to board their vehicle. It wasn’t funny seeing a woman old enough to be my grandmother almost getting ripped apart by these nincompoops. They treat people like items of trade; some avocado on a groceries shop and all may get out of hand if the ‘item of trade’ is a young woman laced with ounces of beauty. They love everything sumptuous. such a woman will have to put up with two things, the uncalled for body pressing in the most treasured parts and the sickening sight of chocolate ads in the name of teeth, how they smell mfff! I wonder why they always bring their mouths closer to your nose in conversations.

After few confrontations by the touts I manage to free myself but they are philanthropic enough to lend me mouthfuls of insults as my entourage. The trails of insults kept following me as if they sensed I had insult receptors at my kisogo that they could attach themselves on. At some instant I felt my stomach churn in rage and I was tempted to turn back and glue their lips with one ushi mawash. It’s been long since I did practical martial art lessons. I plan to die with all of me in one piece, having myself castrated in Kamiti maximum prison for killing a mannerless tout is a thought that should never materialize. It would even be worse to be hanged for the same. I want to die of obesity someday. I said obesity and nothing slim. Not even malaria should come between me and that dream. Nyaka atho ka achwe githuon. Donge?

Beauty in a Matatu

The 15 minute walk left me exhausted but I was just in time to catch a D bound mathree. I got in and secured a seat closer to the window. Just then a woman got in. what a creature! She had it all, a beauty that could not be hidden even by the thick dust that laced her feet. What would such a beautiful lady be doing in rounda? Her eyes were floating on melted vanilla flavored ice cream and for once I thought if she ever cried, her tears would be wild honey. Some people sit and sleep on gold and still mine it in other people’s minefields for meager pay. I bet she can live on her tears alone. I do not know much about fashion but I would tell you that her full dress fitted her perfectly. She was divine. Yes so divine and the calmness that ensued in the matatu after her entry was the silent whispers of her serenity. Wait a minute does she want to sit next to me? Yeah your guess was right!

For the first two minutes I kept silent wondering if I was too brief with my answer when she said hi to me. And the hand why did I let go of it so quick? Such are the hands that every normal man would wish to hold on long enough to emit sweat. Yes sticky sweat of seduction. But I did otherwise something wasn’t just right. I turn to face her only to find her holding a bible, reading something in the book of Ecclesiastes. such a beauty in a matatu reading a bible- the book of Ecclesiastes to be precise is not my definition of mere passenger, Maybe an angel hiding in the beauty of porcelain skin and contrasting dusty feet. Somebody teach me how you tell an angel ‘your beautiful’ without making it sound like a cliché that it has already become to her. Maybe I will find the strength to tell her that next time we meet. She better be reading the Songs of Solomon then, I wouldn’t hesitate to make her my Song. Yeah you heard me right my Song at all costs.