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.
As a poet, your work is to write about love–not to find it.
Early this year I had a stint with a lady who kept telling me that I’m too hard on myself. I didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, didn’t party, didn’t bet, didn’t …my guard was always on duty, never down. We were not in a relationship, I didn’t own her, she didn’t own me, we just kind of made an unspoken vow to be present for each other whenever testosterone hiked.
I enjoyed the simplicity of the game; there were no entitlements, Just shaky expectations, longer erections and fleeting orgasms. Man, for all the yearnings it felt good being laid by an adult–on birth control.
My routines changed and so was hers, we spent more nights awake and more days lost in lust or nursing our tired genitals. Those were the days I could spend 24 hours in my single room naked. We ate and snacked sex. Nights became shorter and so were the days. In no time, the good boy that vowed never to smoke a thing got his first puff of weed and more followed. In short, my 2017 resolutions lost meaning in January.
I made amends quickly, and today 2017 is one of those years that have brought me immense blessings. I won’t list any here though. I made resolutions that I haven’t accomplished, some were silly af, some were too obvious and some just plain boring. I might not be proud of how the year began, but I’m grateful I met someone who taught me how to let my guard down. As crazy as it sounds, I’m thrilled I did stuff I swore I’d never do. Life is too short to follow routines, too short to keep it together, too short to be a perfect son, too short to be a role model, too short to be sober all the time. So even as 2018 approaches, I won’t make any damn resolution, I just want to live as wild as life was meant to be; smoke a little, read more books, make more enemies, sleep more, slap my landlord with a whole year rent, dance more, scream more ( in this life try hard not to be my neighbor) and just be a little bad, you know, I’ve gotta find something to be forgiven for.
My advice to you as you enter 2018 is to do something that freaks you out; something as odd as having a quickie backstage 5 minutes to your cue in a play you’re the main act! Feel the rush, the dum dum in your chest. Yes, remind yourself, you are only human. Happy New Year folks.
The place we used to hide in is no longer a secret, they have discovered it and known the secrets it kept. Our beautiful moments flew when adulterous wives brought their men in; the charcoal notes stood the test of time—to tell tales of our childhood indulgence.
If you’re to leave
Take my heart
Engrave your name on it
And feed it to Ravens
There’s no you without me
There comes a times when all you do backfires on you
When she keeps mum and hurts
And still blames you for not knowing her problem
When your hi sounds bye
And your laughter mocks her
And your love just hangs there
Waiting for her to be the girl you knew
And she drops you an sms
” you can never make me happy”
And you feel your balls melting under the weight of self-loathe
Your heart doesn’t respond, it’s dried
The only proof that it lives on is the fact that you’re still alive
Your patience reserve isn’t rich
But you try to give her space
And pray, that you will change
For you’re always the bad one
I guess I fell for a cerelac babe,
no wonder our relationship has teething problems
There is this thing we call sibling rivalry, Well, we never suffered from this disease in our family. We were more collaborative, so most of the time we got neck-deep in shit as a family. In fact, we suffered from a more powerful disease, It’s commonly known as sibling thievery!
My sister June Nyawade and I stole a lot of small things (note that ‘small things’ doesn’t mean we were cleptomaniacs) we stole useful things like maziwa, chapat, mandas, miksi and honey too. you see stealing these small things and getting away with it gives one a very addictive adrenaline rush, we started simple. we were just exploring our abilities and stretching our realities a bit but soon it became a game.
Being that my sister spent most of her days in the boarding school, I was left to exploit these opportunities at home alone. My favorite days were when father came home from Kisumo with two polythenes full of shopping, there would be honey, miksi, goldband and some other sweeties I have since forgotten what they were called…YOu see, I was no thief I was just taking liberties with things I was entitled to, It was the time of serving that I didn’t approve of, I was no thief I was just impatient.
It so happened that one day, I had come from school for lunch, as mama was busy in the kitchen I took my sister Dorcas, then still a baby to her crib but I didn’t stop there..I walked to the door and called mama twice just to make sure she hadn’t followed me.
‘Aaaan’ mama itikaad
At this point you have to be very creative
‘Nyathini pek manade kawuono yawa’
‘hahahahaha kwani ikia ga ni ng’at manindo pek’
‘ooyo mama afwenyo kawuono’
‘tim piyo, ilokna rombono kapok idok sikul’
Having made sure that the disciplinarian was busy, I hopped into her bedroom and opened the kabat..2kgs of Miksi just stood there waiting for me…my ooh my…no spoon! what do you do? cup your hands and do the scooping-licking, scooping-linking and then baang the bedroom door opens…and then history! I went to school without taking lunch…
From that day henceforth I swore not to indulge my impatience in absence of my accomplice, so when she came back we pulled the mother of all thieving.. we drank all the milk we were given to boil..when mama came back she found us very busy teaching Lucy some manners..Lucy was once a faithful cat, dare we call this corruption? Lucy was just a Josephine Kabura, the Waigurus were the ones ripping it’s skin off now..
‘yawa pakanani tinde osechako kwelo yawa’ is all mama said!
I know June Nyawade will say this is a lie
I also know That I have just fooled you!
There she was
The black sheep of the class
She neither belonged
Nor felt at home
She was alone in a crowd
She was lonely too
Nobody dared speak to her
So she nibbled her nails
To remind herself of her existence
Or to converse with herself
After all she’s three in one
She too knows the power of trinity
A language she spoke
But none of them understood
Or paid the least attention
Mute and dumb they assumed she was
How language can be so limited to words
And then they beat her
She cried painfully
As tears streaked her visage
The others kept mocking her
And I rose
Sauntered towards her
She came running into my arms
And she sobbed and sobbed
And she fell asleep
In a stranger’s arms