To the delight of mowing cows and bleating goats
But to the chagrin of the old school herdsman
Or the kid caned for soiled shoes
On a Monday morning
Till it rides the rising motes
Till it runs and hides
From the heat of the sun
So it can rest for the day
Till mother nature cries again
To the delight of mowing cows and bleating goats
the drug and I had goose bumps and pimples
as I lay there head spinning like a spin the wheel
and salivating at the sharp shadows of the nipples
as she danced and I was ready to kneel
we pumped each other, the drug and I
°~ Nature’s green ~°The rolling planes of green racing for the setting sun a…
And to you, son, as I talk these truths to you, I know you will have your own truths. You will wade through murky waters of youthful indiscretions. The realities, conjectures, and vicissitudes that will unfold before you, will bewilder you to your core. It will not matter what people of “normal situations” will think of you. The situation of your birth, childhood, teenage, youth, and adult life will not matter, son. Your ability to rise above the negativity around you and the foul challenges will be the determinant of your will be significant, but it will not be enough. Son, what will matter is whether, from the ashes of your uselessness and bizarre prevailing conditions, you rise and build a legacy that you will be proud of. But above all else, son, since we are talking of deadbeat dads and runaway fathers, I will say this;
So, I knew. But daddy was an awesome man. In all honesty, I still feel he is a very model man. You know like someone you can emulate some of his traits (some, son. Some!). You see, through the six of the best strokes of the cane, the guy taught us that small boys do not sit around, blow balloons, and kite them about. He made us understand that boys should take sisal, grind the leaves against sharp stones, create strings and weave slings and head to the bushes to hunt rabbits and birds. He taught us that no man should ever wake up after the sun has woken up. You see, son. This is the man who would wake up at wee hours of the morning. When that ka cold is starting to penetrate even the thickest of blankets. He would arrange the four bulls behind the yokes and produce an explosive sound using the sisal-stringed whip. If the explosive sound did not wake you, son, then his singing would. Let me put this into perspective, son, you see the home was big. It housed four wives, each of which had a big house and a large compound. But you see, when daddy sang his song, his voice bellowed to every tiny crevice in every house, Even the rats began to squeal and run around aimlessly. The song wasn’t a nice one, the voice wasn’t sweeter than a frog’s croak. But it was something, son.
But you see, you are my son. You will be my son. Always my son. And I know that you have the special blood that runs within my veins. No, son, do not get me wrong. We are not in the lineage of akina Albert Einstein. We are not geniuses (I think at this point I should speak for myself). I have nothing much to offer and claim credit for and render me a genius. Just some useless blog and an old pair of shoes, which has been eaten lugubriously by the Nairobi tarmac. But son, unless your mother will come to me with the babe, guess what phrase, triggered by the boiling hormones and a treacherously clinging blastocyst from another man (This happens a lot by the way son), you have my DNA in you. I see a shapeless head like mine, carrying mild and shy eyes, an ugly smile, and a chipped tooth. I see a mind that looks deep into things and comes up with the bigger picture. In you son, I see a guy who has seen and has experienced more than his age can accommodate. A person, who through observation, has lived ahead of his time and back. Son, I believe you can handle this. Partly because, you have no choice and partly because there is no simpler way of putting things to do with the deadbeat dads and runaway fathers.
On the day I almost died for my country, we fetched the water and started our journey back home and we discovered that more people had evaporated into thin air. The wonder in our heads just alternated between two theories. Either they escaped or they died. But that remained to be seen. We had a more urgent matter to deal with. As we were crossing the road, a rowdy group of youth was running towards our direction. Agitated barrels were exploding behind them. The pinching sensation of teargas had caught up with us. that was when we realized that Houston had a problem! We pushed out bike loaded with 40 litters of water up the hill as fast as we could. But just before we could cut the corner, the helmet-head saw us! He began to raise his AK-47. We disappeared into…
But since its about the day I almost died for my country, I will tell you about Vicky. His name is Victor Omurwa. He identifies himself as a kisii or Omogusii. At the age of 13, he had held the record for the most skillful Pool player in the A thousand streets of Oyugis. Yes, Oyugis also has a street with such sobriquet. And yes, it is sometimes called K-street. At around the same age, he had already styled his hair into 24 hairstyles. He had fried his hair using balataglo, he had put culkit (that thing you do so that your hair looks like Joseph Hellon’s), he had shaved marine, punk, Jordan, Mohawk. He had even tried kibaki style. You know. He had done it all. It was another record. In 2007, he had rasta. Dreadlocks. Okay in short Vicky
Beating the dust off your Capellano, you walk majestically towards the apartments as Njoro’s Kwashiokor infested car diarrheas its way along the dusty alley, waking all the children having their afternoon siesta in the neighborhood. But that is none of your concern.
She stamped her feet in a hop-step-jump manner as she sang mbinguni hakuna digiri, in her head. She was so engrossed that she barely noticed Olonde staring at her with openly lustful eyes. Olonde often wondered what sort of lady Jerob was. There was something about her that he could not pinpoint.