letter to the editor

Letter to the Editor …      S.K. KYENZE

1

Dear Mr. Editor,

I too got the news,

I was elated to read the grand plans

Though, I sat not in the planning meetings.

Who but an ingrate,

Can such grand plans belittle?

2

Dear Mr. Editor,

We of the plains, the plain truth we speak,

Off our soil, toil no matter how much we do

Nothing better than a modern sports stadium can sprout,

And the government men, they too know that

A race track and public park they too gifted us.

So, Mr. Editor, with parched lips and hoarse voices,

We accept the gifts, for water pans and dams –spell death by drowning,

For We of the plains, know not how to swim

3

Dear Mr. Editor,

I attended an interview yesterday,

A clerical position,

Ministry of  public service, youth and gender affairs.

Wasn’t it nice to gaze at those anxious faces?

Purpose driven, focused interviewees

Clad in borrowed second hand suits.

Wasn’t it nice to admire the beautiful architecture?

So, Mr. Editor, after the interview,

with my certificates and testimonials drenched in hope,

I pushed my wheel chair and went home – to wait for nothing

If only there was a wheel chair ramp…

Maybe, I too would have been interviewed.

4

Dear Mr. Editor,

They struck oil, gold and coal in my backyard,

Selfishness is un- African so I know,

We have to share with the more deserving,

They can ship away as much oil as they need,

They can mine as much gold as they wish,

They can truck away as much coal as they desire,

But Mr. Editor, These jobs,

Tea girls, office cleaners and security guards

Are our jobs.

5

Dear Mr. Editor,

I saw heaps of rotting farm produce,

The roads were muddy and impassable,

Yet, for my kinsmen’s folly- I apologize

They should have known better.

They ought not have prayed for the rains.

6

Mr. Editor,

My sister is dead,

Labour pain struck late at night,

We tried, God knows we tried,

six  hours  pushing a rusty wheel-barrow

ten kilometres to the dispensary,

She is dead- the watchman told us after a brief examination.

But Mr. Editor,

She should have known better,

Pregnancy out of wedlock,

Illegitimate child,

Perhaps, perhaps it was for the best.

Yours Sincerely,

Citizen x

The statistic

My dreams.... remain positive always. inspired by the book : The secret

MY DREAMS

My dreams are an eagle

They spread wings and soar

High in the sky they cruise

Regal in the wool white clouds

To the skies my dreams grow

My dreams spot a target, focus and swoop,

My dreams are a never missing eagle

My dreams are the ocean

Deep and vast

My dreams take me with them

As the tide rises and ebbs

We surf the waves of the ocean,

On our backs ferrying mammoth yachts

Laden with ours hopes and aspirations

Gently rocking me

My dreams are the ocean

My dreams are the wind

Sometimes a gentle breeze

Sometimes a sweeping gale

A wet sponge on my face

Gently sponging away my fears

Sometimes a twister, a tornado

Wreaking havoc on my impediments

My dreams are the wind.

My dreams are diamonds

Precious dear rocks

Carats of unbreakable grit

Shiny rocks on my fingers

My dreams are true gems.

My dreams are parachutes,

From heights I jump

My passion hurtling towards my fears

I close my eyes and glide

Then I open the parachute

My dreams take in the wind

I ride the parachute of passion

Then my dreams gently land me

On the soft landing of my aspirations

These are my dreams

What are yours?

S.K. Kyenze

07/06/2017

Taabu. a poem on on the girl child

TAABU  

“Taabu,

Why would you wreck my house,

For your mother’s death you can blame me not

Your being a bastard and an orphan too.”

Across the house reverberated her aunt’s agitated voice

Trembling, crying and sweaty she sat motionless

Eyes wet ,hurt, gazing and seeing nothing

Slaps, kicks and punches, punching her fickle hopes,

“Taabu, why would you?”  It was an ominous threat 

scream for Taabu we all must.

Broken and shattered, silently she screamt

“Loving uncle of birthday gifts,

In the darkest of nights to my bed he crept,

Panting and soaked in drink,

As in your queenly slumber you dreamt,

I lived ignoble horrors of the night

my weak whimper, smothered with a calloused palm

my Feeble struggle, violently restrained, 

Punches and a dirty rug on my bloodied mouth.”

All and sundry her hurt to bear she wished,

Uncle’s nightly visits, the weight and stolen innocence,

Sponge drenched in beer, brandy, whisky and earthly evil

Her rose nipped in the bud, Wings of her dreams clipped

Night after night,

Blows and vicious suppression from dear uncle,

Uncle of birthday gifts, dear uncle.

“Of my sister Taabu you are borne,

From vile orphanages I rescued you,

Child, so dear to me why would you?

Why would you my heart and affection trample?

Why would your kind uncle’s name soil?

 Clinging on nothing but hope,

Taabu  who sought assistance.

Mockery and chiding she got from the police station,

“ Such a big girl, who would?”

The  callous afande sneered

And laughed at the retreating girl

Dehumanized and broken she slogged on,

The duty officer, her promise and solace, gone

Soaring to roost on justice’s nest

Taabu, sought refuge in the promise,

116, The promise of justice and solace!

Hello, 116 child helpline?

Yes, what’s your emergency…

I am taabu…

She poured her heart and hurt

Taabu, exhaled a sigh of relief

Her unborn child kicked

And she wept.

For she had found refuge, a shoulder to lean on.

S k kyenze

I TOO HAVE DREAMS

                               I TOO HAVE DREAMS

I too have dreams. I know I am not a child of a lesser God. I have dreams, I dream of a big belly, double chin and a fat account to boot. I dream of a nice, fat, distended pot belly. The kind of potbelly that is always threatening to rip open my shirt buttons. I need a pot belly that will balloon at the same rate with the national debt. That is the kind of pot belly I dream about.  There is pleasure in having a pot belly, every time I will be seated with my less fortunate tribesmen, I will keep massaging my pot belly. I will enjoy the pleasurable sensation of massaging my potbelly as I sooth the drumsticks I ate the previous night. My phone will ring, and as my PA hands it over, I will be leaning back in my chair, throw my head back and while leisurely massaging my beloved potbelly, I will proceed to talk to whoever is calling for the next pot belly hour.

I dream of a double chin too. The kind of fat, double chinned neck that shows all markings of success. I need a double chin that will keep the new wife I will marry busy. A man of my status needs a contingent of young wives to keep him young.

However, before I can actualize this dream, my brothers we must have a one on one. My brothers, those people have been eating, they have been stealing, it is about time our tribe produced a great leader. It is time, it is our time to eat. When I am elected, I will steal the same way they have been stealing, I will grow rich too. My brothers, the good thing is, when I grow rich, you grow rich too, I will build a mansion to behold, and then you can take photos of my wives and kids fighting in the rooftop swimming pool then post them on instagram and facebook. You will have a chance to get back to those people who have always insulted you. Those mean people who have always rubbed the poverty prevalent in our region on your faces. You will tag them in that photo of my wives and children fighting on the roof top swimming pool as proof of the fruits of devolution.

My, people, I am truly tired of the quacks in our public hospitals. I want to be certain that, in case I cannot sleep because of flatulence, or any member of my house is affected by constant flatulence, we will be flown to a far off land for medication. To deal with a case of wealth induced flatulence, you require doctors who are used to handling such cases. Our doctors are used to handling minor issues like kwashiorkor,marasmus, malaria, malnutrion etc diseases of the poor man. Flatulence is a disease of opulence. I would really like the certainty that, when it strikes, for it most certainly will, I will be flown to a distant country for proper medication.

My brothers, we are not children of a lesser God, at least one of us should have a pot belly and a double chin, and that person is me!

it just happened

IT JUST HAPPENED

She was always there. She was a cooing dove, she was you and I’s dreams. With his unquestionable prowess to judge human character –the class teacher- had made them share a desk. Growing up is always a challenge.

He would sit next to her, pubescence announcing itself all over his face. Her flimsly blue school dress leaving nothing to imagination… His fickle mind would soar. Soar to heights higher the mountains his civics teacher spoke of. Higher than Kilimanjaro and Everest mountains…

He noticed, he noticed that she had had an accident that was making her chest swell.  The accident, a malfunction of nature, left her with a long lasting condition of a swelling chest. SHE TRIED HER BEST TO HIDE IT.

Class seven was a mix of a T junction, fly over, round and about combined. He could no longer join the school choir. His once mellow soprano was now a rusty blue band tin that could not even be used to fashion toys. A school term earlier, he had drawn a line on his school desk. A perfect survey demarcation that rang louder that Donald Trump,s wall. (He of mexico-USA border wall)

As acne further land- scaped his face, he kept noting that, she kept crossing the boundary he had fashioned on the desk (he never got a Title dead for his land). She had a way of making her legs cross the demarcation with her legs, and warming his legs they were.  It always happened, that moment he tried to steal into his polythene bag (the bag that had everything apart from nuclear war heads complete with authentic launch codes and heat seeking missiles... ) mostly when their teacher   was delving into the topic of adolescence…)

He must have been a narcissist, a sadist –so I believe-, Why, why on earth would an an accident that made your desk mate develop ever growing boils on her  chest make your pair of blue school shorts bulge ?iT JUST HAPPENED

Nunguni- my home

Yuta (who preferred to be called Judas Iscariot) was the main man at ever night vigil we observed. He was the man who always stoked the embers at funerals. He made us forget that the following day we would be interring/ burying one of us.

Like a loose branch, properly socked, swaying under the influence of the stuff he, without fail, day in, day out, had imbibed at Nunguni, That place, The place near what the locals called Mujinga high school, Yes Kwai Vavai, Kwa Mbaa musiu, would regale us with tales of how he betrayed the messiah. He would narrate tales of 30 bob for Jesus Christ, Tales of how he left (divorced) his Turkana wife for slaughtering his beloved dog. (He told us that the dog was called Mainduzi- according to him, it was the best Avocado seeking dog he had ever owned.)  Yuta, who was the best lumberjack  I have ever met  would boast of his Massive saw. He spoke of, with precision and to our mesmerized brains, his favourite saw. The 700 teethed saw…yes that was Yuta.  He would speak of how he had schooled with Kipkalias Arap Ng’eno. The same Ng’eno (who according to him)  had a paunch so bid that he would not scratch it with his bare finger nails afraid that it would burst.  He would say, “  Nasoomaa na Kiplakalias Arap Ng’eno. Yu ena ivu inenene. Athuaa Ivu na usia nakwa nio vaa kwa Muteti Ndilaka Makunu…?    (I schooled with Kipkalias Arap Ng’eno but now, I am scouring the forest for  mushrooms) He would make us forget the sorrow of a funeral.  He was Yuta. Maybe as I recall him, one day, one time Yuta (who preferred to be called Judas Iscariot , the same Yuta  who would narrate tales of how he betrayed Jesus Christ  for 30 bob, Tales of how he left (divorced) his Turkana wife for slaughtering his dog.  The same yuta who  told us that the dog was called Mainduzi- (according to him, it was the best Avocado seeking dog he had ever owned.  I don’t know whether it had the specs of a hit seeking missile or not) 

Yuta, who as I recall him I tumble into  memories of, Kivini (the insane man who who kept reminding us that he was the most handsome man you have ever met ( glazing at a shop window. Hapo chic Jambo hotel, he would say (I mean kivini), Indi  kana kaa  ti kombe) He would be donning more than 77 pairs of trousers) …

Nunguni,  Nunguni… Kilungu,  When you land there, fear not of how you will get to heaven. How do you get to pearly gates of heaven? Fear not. Cosmas Mathuva  was always ready to assign you a special number. A number to heaven. He had  tiny slips of paper that he distributed to all and sundry. In a soft voice, he would say,  “Kamwana nukwenda Kuthi Ituni? Kamwana osa namba ya ungaini.”  (would you like to get to heaven young boy? Here is your number.  I hope the registration number that he gave me is Valid. If not, St. Peter… get ready to explain)

Lulunda (our guardians)

Sometimes we would be in our mud walled kitchen. Yes that kichen that bore more holes than a milk sieve. Boiling Mukeu (Githeri) is no mean feat. One of us would be instructed to get more firewood.This meant getting a piece of wood from the "kiveta" (kiveta- a stack of firewood) literary explains the saying (ula wi kivetani uthekaa ula wi iko). In a lucky occasion,, you would see the fire. Let me call it fire for I don't know the right English word for it (flames/fre). Across the valley, you would see it burning, flaming, yes blazing brightly. the flames would glow embrace and reassure you. It is the most beautiful flame I have ever witnessed. The flames were radiant, illuminating and assuring. I recall grandma placing her hand on my shoulder and saying (In a voice she can only command) that is not normal fire. Our village is protected from all evils. What you see is not fire, it is "athiani " (living dead) they take care of us, protect us. It only strikes me now that I have a very vague memory of my great- grandmother who was a mundu-mue (she knew the ways of magic. I bet she would have given Harry Potter a run for his money in wizarding ways. J.K Rawling hear that....wink ..wink) back to the flames, there was a cardinal rule, never point at the flame. Next, upon witnessing the flaming glow torch of security we would summon our neighbors to witness it. some of us  remember us huddling on that rotten excuse of a fence? To cap it all, as we went to bed, we would be certain of where we saw the fire. We would be certain of the exact spot the flames were for we knew the ways of the hills. our blood breathed Nunguni hills. We were the hills and the hills were us. However, at the break of dawn, no matter how early we woke up, early enough to witness the frogs mating at "wakulila" stream (I don't know why they named the stream wakulila ) we never witnessed a scorched portion of land. It felt as if the flames of yesternight were floating, a figment of our collective imagination. The flames that never burnt a single leaf of dry eucalyptus tree leaves. The flame that mesmerized us, held us in perpetual awe. We gasped, we trembled, we were scared,we were safe for 'athiani' were with us. We simply named them (too scared to call the fire by its name) 'LULUNDA' That was my world, It is small because it does not have a voice. It is big because it rests on the crest of shattered dreams. It is wild for it is a ship who's captain lost it all. We are losing, we have lost everything, no more dances (kilumi, kithembe etc) born in a generation wallowing in a pool of lost identity. I can not claim to be Kenyan if I have no answer to the question, ' Who am I?' (oh the vitriol that follows you when you speak. Yes that accent I am trying to drop. I will be 'kienze, not KYENZE (PRONOUNCED CHENZE)) tuendelee ...... The next day, I would be chanting and memorising Catechism lessons. Getting tamed to be a good Catholic. Under the tutelage of Methodius Mitusi. The catechist who served the church for 36+ years. The catechist who Pope John Paul II acknowledged (I hope our parish did not lie about this) I recall the days and the joyful comfort of sleeping on grandma's Vono bed (it was springy and comfy) wetting it every other night. (remember Nyakake in John Ruganga's Burdens) I would wake up. (not prompted by pee on my bed) they would happen, they always did, tom tom, oh the sounds ,the sounds would come on risinng into a wild orgasmic crescendo of vibrating and 'adulating' Akamba music (lost and will never be recorevered). The mwali, nzeano,kilumi, lullabys would go on. I used to sit on that bed with my hair literary on the roof. Then she wakes up, Grannie wakes ups and says, 'I hear them too. Do not answer them. They are taking of us' I am not writing for Africa, I am trying to remember my moments of bliss . ohh Nunguni. Ohh Home, where i never belonged