The ghost in a town inhabited

The moon would phantom its way up,

creepily, as if tip-toeing.

No one slept earlier in the city

and no one cared for ghosts, either.

But where a free-spirit belongs,

a free-spirit will find itself.

This town was completely different.

The wooden houses creaked hymns

in the direction of the wind.

The dust covered these old buildings

and not a single soul was in sight.

The run-down petrol station 

seemed to have been run dry.,

probably by some reckless youth,

in pursuit of some fun and a road trip.

You could clearly make out

the overall image the town

had tried to create of themselves.

But it was history now.

It was all gone.

What outbreak had diseased them?

Where did all these people go?

It must have been a war, wasn't it?

But a free-spirit embraces even in scarcity.

The pleasure is hidden in small things.

& she had heard stories of herself in the city.

Such a pity. No one was discreet these days.

Everyone was trying to be the one with THE story.

None of which were juicy, of course.

But they still got her.

They knew what she was up to,

now, and they kind of saw her light shine 

when it wasn't supposed to.

So she ran away.

And this is where we are now.

In the inhabited town 

that understood her more than herself.

It was an open unrestricted playground

that she discovered she could discover herself in.

There was not too much grass here

but those childhood days were gone.

She could live wherever and adapt 

and she was happy she could.

She needed it now.

The clouds paved way and the sun struck her face,

she stealthily sneaked back into the shadows,

she knew her place.

The poem we sung

"Poetry to me was hugely vague,
and the words never made sense.
See, everyone was doing it
and they all seemed to say the same things.
It wasn't special,
a very odd way of expressing oneself. "

"We played with words and toyed with visions,
creative imagination was our reason to source for ideas.
Nobody liked to read as much,
save for the few friends and family we had.
We chose a sport no one saw need for
but the few who stumbled upon us
found a reason to sing. "

An orchard of dreams is what we had left,
clustered hopes of a failed tomorrow
bunched into an inconceivable idea.
The violin strings did not fiddle with our fantasies
and the foods we ate tasted something like disgust.
We were never satisfied
and maybe that's why we were never invited to the high table.
The lonely nights paraded our dreams
and despair lurked in the shadows.
The creepy moon only reminded us often
that we didn't have much to offer the world during daylight.
And what pained the most,
is that we had forgotten who we really were.
We had lost feeling for anything real
and our lives had become crazily busy.
We were all somehow obsessed with this stupid thought,
that if we looked like we were doing something
people would be more proud of us.
It's funny how they still never did
and the pretense game we played so skillfully
was child-play to who we were in us.
We were big.. so huge, bigger than life!
but we were yet to find out.

- A poem is written -

We sat by the Humber river as we listened to the river hum by.
It was a beautiful feeling and I could tell we were daydreaming.
Something was different about today;
the winds were gentle and the sun needed no shade.
The clouds looked spaced out and the blue sky was intriguing.
Something about our generation, nevertheless,
phones always had to get flipped out.
Small gadgets that our lives seemed to revolve around

and we needed them, somehow,
to stay connected to our own little solar systems.
So a message would show up,
and one link would lead to another,
the tweet the birds tweeted led us to a forest,
found ourselves by a river
and we stumbled upon a poem.
A poem so beautifully crafted, it would make you cry..
Each word served its purpose
and every intonation dwelled in its right place.
This poem played with so many of our feelings
all at the same time! 

I promise you, no one was ready.
See, the poem was a perfection of art.
It was everything artistic and music was its soul.
This poem embraced you so tight,

it could leave you breathless.

Few had withstood to the end,

but those are the ones who walk with a tune

repeatedly playing in their heads,

haunting them for a while.

This type of poems held you hostage

and their aroma smelled different types 

of deliciousness.

It was a plate well served

and we were villains well starved.

So the hands were washed, waters of the river,

dried, plates involved and the forks came poking,

one word at a time, silently absorbing

and silently digesting.

This poem we sung was a masterpiece.

This poem we sung was the elixir of life.

Happy Mother's Day, mama!

Happy Mother's day, mama!
You deserve it! On this very day and every other!

You deserve to smile, to be happy,

or wouldn't it make you smile,

to look back and see

that the flower seeds you watered

are grown and beautifully standing by themselves?

They are humans now, no longer little people,

they've grown from your hands,

your gentle hands of steel yet tender to the bone.

They've cushioned themselves in your warm heart,

because you've cuddled them up before,

from the day they were born.

You've cuddled them with prayer,

you've cuddled them with care..

You have blessed them in secret

and covered them with good wishes.

They might never understand the little precious sacrifices

you made for them, but they'll feel the love.

You exude compassionate energy

and the worlds accept you and love you.

For you've opened doors for your children,

and let them see it in their own eyes.

Of course, you're worried some things,

beyond your control can happen,

but you've learnt to trust the storms.

You have let them flow with the waters,

but first taught them how to swim.

You have let them go to hunt,

but first made sure they could shoot.

You have let them fly high into the skies

but first hand-made wings for them.

& today you'll hear the crowds sing,

and they'll chant praises they never say daily,

they'll call you precious and adorable,

beautiful and someone they couldn't be alive without (of course),

and they'll hang up pictures of you with them

and say the nicest things you deserve to hear,

they'll send you messages of unending love

and I want you to believe them.

I'm far away from you right now,

and about to scream out something,

and in the midst of these crowded happy cheer,

I hope you'll hear a whisper from afar,

saying "Happy Mother's Day, mama!"

because you deserve it.

We are selfish

For were it not for the constant nudge
of nature upon our own desires,
to a speculation of fires we put on
to raise the temperatures
of the icebox that is our hearts,
we would never know the bounds
we've been enchained to.
We are selfish.

The thirst in our throats
craves for a drop of water.
We travel miles in the deserts
we are born in,
to find the oasis that we deem
our destinies.. destitution.
We are selfish.

Because it thorns in our hearts,
it pricks in our wounds
to feel like the journey might have been
wrong, right before we die.
The inquisitiveness of our minds
might misdirect our hearts,
but the belly in our anterior,
is a greed to an end.
We are selfish.

And I agree that we are insatiable humans,
voracious and gluttonous to that
which is served on our plastic tables.
When the spoons come flying,
the fork becomes our weapon and the plate our shield.
Dinner is served, before the interests of others,
songs are sung solo, before the choir chimes in the chorus.
We are selfish.

And we are selfish,
not because there's pleasure in profit,
but because competition is repugnant
to our interests.
We want to reduce the probabilities
in our futile possibilities.
We are afraid to lose
so we eliminate competition.
We are looking out for ourselves,
and only ourselves, even in others.
We are selfish.

We are selfish, mostly,

for the things we hope to receive, not for how we don't give.

Not for how we refuse to share but for why there's a need to share.

Not for the time demanded from us but for the time we create for others.

Not for the intentions in other's hearts but for the selfish ones in us.

We are selfish.

Gracias Rabbana

Gracias Rabbana, nashukuru Abba Father!
I can't hold these thank yous any longer,
and in all humility I'll approach no other.

Gracias Rabbana, my heart throbs enough for me to write this alive.
Gracias Rabbana, my mind still perceives tomorrow in all its intentions.
Gracias Rabbana, my soul still respires to your breath and my spirit accords.

I thank you. Because many a time I haven't.
I have dived deep into moments without reflecting back
to even silently whisper a thank you.
I thank you. Because I've grown to realize life.
I have developed a consciousness only you would grant
in all its abundance as I sought after it.
I thank you. Because you've decorated my life
anointed my steps and blessed the works of my hands.
I thank you. Because there's so much I'd utter right now
that would look so minute in your even greater and bigger eyes.

Gracias Rabbana! You know me too well!
You know when I fault, you see when I stumble.
You've seen the mess I am and the struggles I couldn't overcome.
You've seen the paths I've taken and the roads I couldn't advance.
You've seen the foods I ate and the strange ones that choked me.
You've seen the games I played and the tournaments I lost.
You've seen it all, Rabbana, you've been aware of my actions, all along!

Gracias Rabbana! It is you who sees no fault in weakness
when we run to you for strength.
It is you who sees beyond my conceit and that which I'm vain in when it's always been your grace.
It is you who looks beyond my helplessness in my dire time of need because you're hope itself.
It is you who distinguishes that which I do good and there where I slip, the author and finisher of my faith.
It is you who knows when I am supposed to be grateful,
and I know it's all the time.. so,
Gracias Rabbana!

I'll lift up your banners, graffitied all over with your fulfilled promises.
I'll declare "Gracias Rabbana" in the secrets of my chambers
and even conspicuously overt in public if I have to.
I'll humble myself and uplift the undying grace you've had over me.
I'll listen to the humming of our busy lives and create a
thank you song for all you've done.
The children will sing it, the youth will echo it,
the old man will believe it and the old woman will dance in your favour.
I'll chant your praises in the morning and in the shadows of the night,
and choirs will sing in the background as they hymn your praises
saying;


Gracias Rabbana!

Fake world, Fake people

I say fake world, I say fake people,

because we are real but unreal.

We believe in our realities

and doubt possibilities.

We dream to achieve,

but hope to receive, without working for it.

See, they smile in your face,
but are quick to replace,
love with hate, when you are late
on your promises.
We dwell on premises,
the same premises, with our nemesis.
From the beginning of time;
Genesis, we've learnt that,
not all that glitters is gold,
we're told, not every story unfolds,
the way it's told.

We spice things up, we're nice, in person,
twice worse in our confines.
We hate you when you're alive,
but die with you in tears,
when you are in your coffins.
We are stubborn, from the day we're born,
we are vulnerable, until we are gone,
so we learn to be fit, wear suits that fit,
for survival is not for the prettiest, yes,
this race is meant for the fastest.

That's why many are quick to fake to look the part,
to play the part, to seem the fittest.
And I detest the fact that we were born here,
it's clear, everyday, that we are full of fear.
We say what people want to hear,
we have become people pleasers.
We come to the dinner late,
to miss the appetizers,
we eat junk, lost souls serving us free pizza,
because the system has subjugated us.

We are broke,
and most of us broken.
We are tied behind technology, so they can feed off of us,
we are fake because we choose not to,
we are born this way.
Fake till it seems normal,
learn the etiquette to seem formal,
we are learning to grow more,
without having to stumble.

May you, oh Lord, guide us on our feet,
in the right paths, with the right math,
until we get home. Fake world!

Halima, Halima

"Halima, Halima!" she called out.
"These clothes won't wash themselves!"
she added!
and Halima had to wake up.
The lines of people at the well
by chance she got there late,
would not have her clothes
washed and on the drying lines
by the gate, by the time the sun goes down.
So she puts on her torn cardigan,
quickly fetches the jerrycans
and runs to the well.
Well, this is her life, everyday,
unlike her brothers,
who will not need to learn,
no, not in the walls of a classroom, but,
the ways of a woman,
expecting marriage by the young age of 14.

She sighed, as she stepped outside,
and walked by the side,
as was expected of every woman;
while looking down, not to lock eyes with that of a man.
The morning breeze kissed her beautiful face
and reminded her of herself,
who she craved to be in the moonlight.
The star she yearned to become
was wrapped up in dirty clouds
full of vengeful lightning and thunder.
She was scared of herself
more than the society that
tried to shepherd her into its ways,
its old ways of doing things.
She was afraid she would conform
and cease to grow.
She was afraid she'd never be
as educated as her three brothers.
And that's why every dusk, when the cattle
her father owned, as dowry,
from two previous early marriages of her sisters,
came back to the rest to rest
from the green pastures on the slopes near Elementaita
signifying the arrival of night,
she served food to her brothers
and in generous amounts,
so as they slept soundly,
she'd sneak their books out
in the faint flickering light
of a candle and try to learn.

No school for girls,
no education to the society.
See, a lamp covered
is no source of light.
A flower blooming in the dark
loses the color of its petals,
and the vibrance of the green in its leaves.

Educate a girl-child and you water
a dying species of a tree.
Educate the girl-child and you quench
the thirst of a parched nation, a thirsty nation.
Educate the girl-child and you increase
the waters in a sickly trickling stream,
which can now carve a way of its own
and explore the world.
Educate the girl-child and you save
the world.

Halima, Halima,
I'm proud of you, Halima!