The East African Story

My Beautiful Fuchsia

Ask any stolen heart, any stolen kiss, any stolen glances and looks
Ask any dog or bitch, any gander or goose
Ask any frog that a princess kissed
Ask the magic wand that brought beauty forth
Ask the witche’s broom stick of flight
And when you’re done ask me where Fuchsia is
The answer is the same


Till you realise in life you’re an island
Till you realise in life you’re that lonely ladybug on a leaf
In a pond at the mercy of frogs
Till you realise you’re just a drop in an ocean

Uncle’s old structure

Where your lips tasted like lips those years ago
Where we lost our virginity standing by a viper’s nest
That factory of bastards and broken dreams
Now has iron sheets for windows
And doors of steel
Our secrets and memories are forever safe
From nosy husbands and wives my lady


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

the drug and I

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

Of Deadbeat Dads and Runaway Fathers III

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;

Of Deadbeat Dads and Runaway Fathers II

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.

Of Deadbeat Dads and Runaway Fathers

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.

Enjoy this blog? Please spread the word :)

Follow by Email188
%d bloggers like this: