Sexual redemption

I feel the warmth of your pussy on my glans
how pleasure swathes my nerves
and swirls thereabouts,
a wave of emotions taking leave
short breathes
legs shaking
Oh, sexy, hold that waist down for me
I want to savor the glory of your mons,
swim in the waters of your orgasm,
baby baptise me anew,
the sinner that I am needs redemption

 

Of Poets, Weed, and Balls

Yesterday mi had a lengthy conversation with a poet I respect. We’ve walked the streets of Nairobi with him. We’ve eaten snacks from roadside vendors together, and we’ve also eaten at prestigious hotels where he mostly waited for me to serve so that he could have not only the same dishes but also the same quantity.

He’s a brother I hold close to my liver, you know, he’s one of those few wise men you want to consult when you’re stuck.

One time in 2015 I had Sh.200 only, and he had an event somewhere in Westlands so I asked him what he’d do if he were in my situation, he told me to buy food. He reasoned that events come and go, but hunger doesn’t understand the human language of negotiation.

He’s that real!

So, yesterday, he called, and we talked for about 45 minutes. Guess what we were talking about?

Balls!

He was concerned that all I do is talk about the balls and weed, and not writing poetry as I used to. He told me so many veteran poets have reached out to him, and at one point they had this ka-meeting discussing how to ‘help Agak get back on his feet because he’s fallen from grace’.

Lord, people care. And it’s assuring. I don’t take it lightly that poets of repute held a meeting to bring me back to the Agak they knew. Yo, that’s not concern, that’s love. And you gotta be grateful for such people.

But me, I haven’t fallen from grace yo. I might write about balls and weed and girls and everything withing the dark side of morality, but damn, my head works fine.

It’s just phases. One time you’re the poet, other times, you just want to sit yo ass down, light a spliff, and get wasted. Now it’s the phase for balls and weed, and I can’t know what I’d be doing tomorrow, but if my balls and weed posts worry you, I assure you, I am fine.

The balls are fine.
The weed is good.
And when these two are alright, then life must be good.
You, may you have people who genuinely care.
#Rollanother!

Getting to Know Achieng’

How well do you know Achiengs?

 

Achiengs are firstborns, even when they’re not. Achieng will be the sibling helping you to find your socks in the morning when other siblings have left for school.

 

She’ll be the one taking care of her sick mother; running around soliciting funds, back at home changing adult diapers and fixing catheters, and making meals and catching the bus to the hospital at visiting hours. It doesn’t matter if she has ten siblings, she’ll always take care of her parents as if she’s the only child.

 

They have a heart of gold.

 

She’ll be the sibling in whose house you can crash for unforeseen number of days when you lose your life’s bearing.

 

My sister June Nyawade is a testament to this, I can’t even count the number of times she shared her pocket money with me because our father never gave us, boys any money while in school. And when it was time for me to have my own crib, she’s the one who gave me the means. She was still a student!

 

But Achieng is a no-nonsense woman. She can be militant if you want her to be.

 

She’ll be the one knocking the neighbor’s door off the hinges because she’s heard a child is in distress, or a woman is getting a beating. She can risk her life for a complete stranger.

 

Achiengs are activists by nature. That’s why they name themselves like freedom fighters; Achieng Otieno, Achieng Omondi, Achieng Odindo. You’ll read her name twice just trying to figure the kind of mayhem she is.

 

Achieng is an incredibly strong woman, both physically and mentally. She can be there for you when you least expect. If you need money from Achieng but she doesn’t have, she’ll make calls to her aunt in Oyugis, Asembo, or her boyfriend in USIU, and you’ll get the cash.

 

When Achieng loves, she loves with everything. If Achieng loves you, you won’t even need a house to hit her genitals. In the village, Achieng can even hold an anthill for you; you hit the thang from the back and life goes on.

 

And they love this sex thing. And they don’t hide it. What she wants she wants, and you can’t use her love for a good dick to manipulate her!

 

Your beloved Vagina Mouthpiece is Achieng Omondi. Had to be an Achieng!

 

Also, a husband can’t scare her. If you’re married to Achieng, and then you begin playing games, you’ll be chased from your house with your clothes in a Nigerian bag.

 

Lastly, Achiengs are not lacking in beauty. In a pool of 10 Achiengs, 7 of them will be beautiful. Look at my homie here, Emma Nyar Asembo, isn’t she beautiful?

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Whenever I read my posts I find out how fucked up my life is. That’s basic. Sometimes I get superb revelations. Today, I’ve realized that I write everything in Dholuo. It might dress and walk and talk like English, but it is Dholuo.

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Good morning. I’ve woken up motivated and upbeat, and the balls are merrier than yours.

Charred.

Of what good is life when pain is all it brings?
Do you move out when agony knows your address?
When the heart beats in defiance,
And your feet steps with uncertainty,
Will the embers spark a fire?
That life might find a new vigor?
or
Will you bask in the pain of your realities
and hit nails on your casket as worry chars your faith?

War zone

I’m still stuck between yesterday’s tragedies and tomorrow’s promises
Embers of life dying with every passing day
Love life. Live life. Easy isn’t it?
Living in a war zone.
After the battles,
Some clean
Some don’t
So heaving chests breathe brutal bruises
A grenade exploded here
Bullet husks carpet my belly
Been sweeping too long
But years wage more wars against my sanity
God, make me numb, I’m paying the price.

Three Letters

I remember her. Every day, I see her. The soft-spoken beauty who grabbed my hands when other beauties were still waiting for the opportune time. She reached out, in three words, a paper ironed and slipped in a perfumed envelope.
“Anto Iberna. Aduari”
(You’re beautiful to me. I want you)
I read the letter, the meaning too gross for my mind to process, so I studied her handwriting. Lord, it was a result of routine scribbling. It wasn’t calligraphy per se, but it was nothing ordinary.

Every word smiled at me.
Every word seduced me.

I think I saw her writing them with a ruler pressed on a page as a pen left bits of her soul on the page. She was the letter.
It was an art.
What was I to do? What did it mean when a class 6 pupil wrote a class 4 a letter?
“Anto Iberna. Aduari” this had to be a joke, because I knew ‘beautiful’ boys were not skinny and didn’t have big front teeth; they had round heads, and more meat, and were taller, and were fighters. But I was just a skinny boy. I wasn’t ‘ beautiful’. I was different, I was weak, but I could run, so I ran from her. Ran away from her.
She was the letter, remember? I ran away with her in my pocket, and when I couldn’t run anymore, I crushed her in my palms and chewed her. I killed her.
Fast forward, 15 or so years later. Nairobi homes ghosts. She is the most beautiful of them all. I, the murderer sips coffee that her ghost has paid for.
“I love your locs.” They are four words now, she talks more now. Her thighs fill her skirt. She is juicy. She is the words. I chewed them.

Epitaph

I’m here, I’m not.
She was here, She’s gone.
Rocks ground to pebbles,
Then dust,
Then nothing,
—Nothing—

I counted the spaces they left
Huge, huge, huge, gaps loom
So I spread their absences on the floor of my heart
Now this heart won’t dance right
But still, more gaps loom
—Irreplaceable—

Humans are humans
They come in different shades
Same fabric
That which make us animals
And butterflies
They hurt
They heal
The Yin, the Yang
The Push, the Pull
That keep our empires bleeding
In love and in war

Some still fresh, some worn by time
Headstones bearing sorry epitaphs
Of loved ones lost in the earth beneath
‘Lowo rach, lowo kwalo joherewa’
So we light candles, place new wreaths
Bitter-sweet memories we re-live;
A touch of mysticism they plastered on the cheeks of our existence
A generous love they spilt on pages of our destiny
And laughter,
And friendships,
And warmth of bellies on freezing nights.
Memories of breasts we suckled
and Twins we starved—
To death!

Still the hand of time swings
Back, forth
Wringing our souls off guilt
for transgressions against our own—
Sins we committed in absentia.
Still,
We cling,
to body parts we kept!

 

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As a poet, your work is to write about love–not to find it.
You dig?