Posted onJune 30, 2016
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Hey, I thought you would be excited when I told you I had moved houses. I thought you would come visit my humble abode. It never hit me how that would put you off. I mean, I thought you always wanted the best for me. But guess I was wrong, you loved a butterfly, and now you have to let it go, lest you break her wings. The broken butterfly wonders where it will fly to……..
It has been about a week now. Since I moved in into my new bachelor pad. Having had to forego my passion for months, the chicken must come home to roost. Look, I will not trouble you with the intricacies of my absence for the last six months or so. The important thing is that I am here again. Here to complain about the author of Jephte’s daughter and virgin births. I am here for sole expression, to talk to you and smell the feeling of cozy bedside aromas of your stenched hangovers. I cut my goatee, but I never had one to start with. So you can tell my age. I am still young.
I think I have successfully convinced you not to ask me where I have been or what shenanigans have been keeping me from penning shit. It’s called life, and we handle it as it comes to us. So a few days ago, I was minding my business in town, trying to imagine all these people in the streets checking their messages if they have won any Stawisha na M-Shwari bonuses. I thought of how unlucky they must feel every evening when the only messages they received was for points accumulation. On TV however, were happy maligned faces of the zealots who have circumvented the paths that luck follows and their beaming pride in such misunderstood maneuvers bewitched the very beings of my random thoughts. Do you get the gist of what I am trying to pass across? Anyways, be that as it may, there I was on the stairs going to my favorite coffee shop (read liquor store) at that goddamned hour and guess what happens; yes the stupid phone rings. Let me tell you one thing about me, I don’t trust in these phones we carry in our pockets. It may have been that the girl I pulled a stunt on sometime back in my other life had just caught up with my gimmicks and she was here to show me psycho. Like that girl in Immortal Technique’s obnoxious. I stand for a second, unplug my powerful earphones and look blankly at the screen.
072 blah blah blah blah, that’s my mother’s number. I had forgotten, she told me she would always pray for me to avoid bad company and coffee shops. To avoid girls who frequented such hell spots. Girls with pretty names like Happy and Melody, girls with natural names like Anita. I answer the phone. Hallo mum, I was just thinking of calling you right after I finish up something small, I lie in my head. My mouth has yet to flip. My son, when are you coming home for prayers? You know I have been having weird dreams about you and places with red lights. Only God can tell us what is waiting to happen. But mum, your eyes have been red since the last time the school board wanted to expel me in high school. I think it is part of your recovery psychology; whatever that means. Oh!, I never thought, anyway, stop all you are doing and go pray. I turn back. It’s like mum is always watching my steps even from the furthest corner of her bedroom in the village. I shudder and turn back. In my head, Anita shouts “ Fuck You!”
Let’s face it. KE Hip Hop isn’t too popular. It’s picking up, yes, and as a fan and I’d say to an extent a “promoter” of the art I’m genuinely pleased about that but at the same time, I can’t say that I don’t come across people who say that “KE Hip Hop is crap”. […]
Source: I WILL CLING TO YOUR CLOTH
Over the past week, shit has kept coming up, crazy shit, cool shit, Nada shit- the kind of shit you never even expected but happened anyways. I have no idea where I am starting from but let me just say this, on our side of the soiled earth, always do what other people cannot do, do you. It would be bad to twist your personality to fit other people’s expectations when your core and spirit speaks otherwise. like what your friend finds funny, if the things that amuse their silly selves are not your usual cup of tea, its not a battle or a boxing match, throwing in the towel won’t pinch any nerve ending on your beautiful body. Its quite simple actually, put on that grin that shapes your mouth like a burnt plastic jug and walk away. Go spliff up a Marlboro or light up some sensia, or just walk and let your memories tickle the emblems of your being. People will call you crazy at times, many times even but you know the mantle that holds your being together. The craziest people have fertile imaginations, their existence has shaped the world. Just remember how different you are and smile, elongate your life on this world.
I was talking to an old friend the other day on phone. This is a guy who would inspire you back in the day when jumping over Mwalimu’s fence for mangoes was the thing. He would warn with dire consequences spattering out of his little black mouth. His premonitions about you falling off a weak branch often came true but what always numbed my mind was how his idea of stomach upsets were linked to the yellow mangoes from kina Njeri’s. He was a beautiful souls nonetheless and it was always joyous being called out on Friday for our outstanding devotion to academia and writing. I was the go to guy for Swahili write ups while he was the guy who spewed pure Queen’s lingo like a pro on paper. My scores shot up to straight A’s in his company. Not that I always copied his exams, this guy was too old for his wisdom. Fast forward to 2015. The sound of my voice paints crates of beer in his mind. HE is an alcoholic and a bad one at that. Stories of him lying in mud in the outskirts of town abound. He has lost his front teeth in bar brawls and ill fitting second generation liquor. My heart goes out to him, a friend who is wasting away with each passing day. May be there was no one to tell him how beautiful a being he was and still is. May be ha want acceptance from other folks in college, he never accepted himself as the lotus that he was. he instead decided to be a magnolia, craving attention from any soul and anyone who gave attention, he was a spirit whore, that old friend of. He changed to fit into uninformed norms, misguided by the naked allure of life unachieved in empty fantasies. he never fathomed or got to know life as it is. He is suffering and I am afraid he will suffer so for long if he does not turn the tide of his waves.
If he had the true power to understand himself, he wouldn’t spend his homeless nights in filthy chang’aa dens, he would smell like he was yesterday, he wouldn’t be heading to rehab next week. I hope the confidence will come through and lead the way to his happiness. he is still a young man and we are all aware that what ifs have to be made into living dreams.
That is the kind of shit this earth swallows. This is the kind of shit that balances the world, the kind of shit that makes nature seem so unnatural.
Some things are better said by the other person, I feel like I was the one writing this, it is a good read and real
Fear is a funny little thing. Not funny ha-ha, but weird kind of funny. It is a four eyed monster that is not afraid of the light. It will grip you on the brightest of days. It will cripple you in the light of day. A four-letter word, small but that has led to more catastrophes than AIDS or slow WiFi. Fear cannot exist in a vacuum. It needs to breathe, feed, and poop so that it can be its best self. It cannot exist on its own; it needs a body, mind, heart to occupy. But it cannot co-exist with courage, or love. For the opposite of fear is love. Where love resides, fear curls its tail between its legs and walks away.
Fear is your neighbor’s poodle that will not stop yapping at 2 am. It is your ex calling incessantly, even though you want nothing…
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