My Son and I

When I look at my son

Fingers flicking on the play station

I marvel

Some few years ago in 1967

When I was his age

There were no such gadgets

Instead, we played sheki and birkoli

And shot each other using jumla plant guns

Girls played kora, boys played lifundo

I liked pepeta, I dribbed the ball like Christian Ronaldo

We made clay toys at Kacheliba Mixed

We went to mtelezo at Shabaha

Hunted for hyraxes and hares

But my son,

My son shoots with his toys

I don’t get it—he shoots people!

Or drives fast cars by pressing buttons

We are world apart,

I, the old fogey who played in the dust,

And my son, who sits up all day playing video games

I once sneaked into my son’s room and tried them

I think when I saw a figure aim a gun at me, I ducked

That was the last I had with those weapons!

Photo credit: Google.

Mothers Day 13/5/2012

My mother, Mrs. Paulina Maya Choram, in her traditional regalia

"This is dedicated to my precious mum, Koko, and all the wonderful mother all over the world. This poem is to you all in as much as it is for my mom."

                                                              - echoes of the hills 

                                                                  

Tororot, I pray for my mum today,

Though I be far from her reach

I know that her love remains rich

Funny how, try as I might, the English

Language is under stocked of words of praise

When young, my mum chewed bananas

And fed me with them (there were no blenders);

She carried me on her back, metal box on her head

All the way from Kapenguria to Kacheliba

When water was scarce, she gurgled water in her mouth

Held me mid-air and sprayed water on my body

Back then, there were no handkerchiefs,

So mum sucked mucus from my nostrils

Then spat it out

“My son,” she always tells me,

“Good fortune is never pulled by a rope—

Be patient, don’t lie, and don’t steal”.

Whenever I see my mum

I forget all my problems; she is like a sanctuary to me,

She is like middle pole of a hut, holding my emotions,

There is something about mothers, I don’t know which,

Pulling us to the center of our existence

My mum is the uncrowned goddess,

The unsung heroine, the unrewarded achiever,

Other people have their achievements written on paper,

My mother’s are spread across the years of my life,

The referees to her curriculum vitae are Tororot and the

hills of Kacheliba,

Like all success stories, she knows pain too,

I don’t know where she gets her strength from—

most probably from Tororot— because her spirit

is sturdy like the bark of an akoretee tree;

Most mothers buy their sons gifts, my mother

Gave me hope and cheer, with it she always tells me,

“Mondanyu (my son), all my blessings are upon you,

Usichafuke roho (don’t get your spirit dirtied), utafaulu

(you will succeed)”

You all know this Tororot, so I pray to you today,

To thank you for keeping us well through the heat of the day

For all along, no searing heat has burnt out our energies

And for my mum, she has always kept pace

You hold the future, Tororot, a mere pilgrim like me

Cannot predict tomorrow, you know how our graphs will rise

You are the owner of the Cartesian Plane

But if you will allow, Tororot, this Mother’s Day

Grant my mum a little more cheer, a little more of the echo,

And in your divine plan, one day, reward her

Through me or others (you work in mysterious ways)

With a little more of what other pilgrims have

This will be to your glory, and imagine Tororot

How that will speak more of the value of Hope?

Neighbours are Bad Friends

So, what is it with perimeter-walled fences

That barricades good neighbours?

On metal gates, there are warning signs

Of mbwa kali (fierce dogs) and 24-hour surveillance

What happened? What changed?

I thought if I came over and said my greetings

Like good neighbours do, the least I could expect

Was a thermos flask full of tea and perhaps

Little of suspicious looks

But not so

Instead, neighbours know each other

If their flowerpots are knocked over by neighbour’s children

Eye-brows knit, gates are opened for process servers

Suddenly, they know each other

If the other pumps over his home theatre’s volume

Of course to out-compete the other’s house all-night prayers

I stand in-between these Berlin-walled residences

I wonder to myself, wasn’t it a thief’s theory

That the higher the wall, the mighty the residence

Which equals more likelihood for attack?

In the past, it was my business

To know how many children my neighbor has

If his child sat while I passed, I taught it manners

If I try it today, they call it ‘assault’

If I find out why they are not awake on a Saturday morning

They call it ‘intrusion to privacy’

Is this the new form of neighbourliness?

Photo credit: Link

Shared with: Theme Thursday # Neighbours

The Bridge of God

this river flows, Pilgrim, down

to daraja mungu, the bridge of God.

upstream, the rushing waters chocked between rocks

some parted under the sturdy roots of mukuyu, the baobab

others, in a moment of youthful folly, broke banks

as if, like fish, they could live on dryland

so, the cool waters thus flow

many a drunkard tested their levels

not with sticks but their knees

the small curls, sensual yet unbridled

deep mangroves roots held tight

where this river leads, pray pilgrim,

we might not know; yet, it holds such

depth of conviction

Poem shared with: Magpie Tales

Wait, Where Did We Bury It? (Florette)

I promised that I will be back. Now I am. And what a great way than to try a poetry form known as a florette.

The challenge at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads  this Sunday was this:

 

Florette:


Rhyme scheme: a, a, b, a
Meter (syllable count): 8, 8, 8, 12
Fourth line requirement of internal (b) rhyme scheme, on syllable 8.
The completed poem should consist of two or more stanzas.


xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxbxxxa

Here’s my attempt:

Pilgrim, across the cemetery of wasted

words, show me just one most jaded

by the tongue. Ignore the weed of orphaned

idiom, just walk across and tell me the wisdom,

such is my thought vested.

I want you, most fairly, to be judge;

though you be immortal, candour is your badge.

Exhume the words, then, go ahead fellow

Pilgrim, I have the Court Order fellow Pilgrim,

Will you budge?

BIO-LUMINESCENCE

Credit: Google

If I have to stand here and peer into the future

I can see next week resplendent in BIO-LUMINESCENCE

(Oh, Koko, that word, I love it)

I can see the ray that I clasped in my palm

Course through again in my being

For a good cause, fellow pilgrims

For after a long wait looking into the East

The warm beam has settled on me

So much has the skies given

So much has Tororot been favourable!

Here I am, sitting pretty

And now, like never before,

I will consult my Muse—

After all, the echoes only reverberate—

And across the hills and caves again

You will hear the pilgrimage songs

The voice remains distinct, the message is still clear

What will change is the intensity, pilgrim

Did I say  BIO-LUMINESCENCE?

Yes, that’s right, BIO-LUMI(Rumi?)-ESSENCE.

When the Cinema Came to My Village

When the Cinema came to my village

It was the biggest thing ever

My brothers and I

Sat on sand

In front

Was a big white cinema

I remember how Rambo

Killed everyone

The Terminator, Commando,

Bruce Lee, Shaolin Tempo

These people fell from tall buildings

Then stood on both feet

The next day, a 13 year-old

Climbed a tree and jumped

Well, he was no Rambo

So don’t wait to hear what happened next

When the Cinema came to my village

Old men laughed to expose their toothless grins

When people kissed, they covered their faces

Eish, these wazungus love each other!

I remember  a boy asked me,

“These people are bad, how can they burn

Their houses instead of giving us?”

I am still thinking of the answer,

But I know what the audience wants

So, back then,

We shaved clean to be like Shaolin Tempo

We made small plant guns

And became Commando

The problem is that along the way,

Hollywood didn’t scout for talents in this neck of the woods

Poem shared with

Imaginary Garden with Real Toads

As I Travel Here

Photo Credit: flickr

As I travel here,

My feet will grow weary sometimes

As I travel here,

My head will be stuffed sometimes

As I travel here,

The incessant drone will fill my ears

But

I remain a pilgrim.

I have been to this road before,

My ancestors shook this dust before

They looked up to the Sun,

“Kong’asis”, they named the East

Their feet was bruised by rocks,

Yet they climbed treacherous hills and mountains

There is music in my ears,

There is fresh air filling my lungs

As I travel here,

I see distant homesteads beyond the hills

I will set forth

I will tighten my akala shoes

As I travel here,

I know the destination

As I travel here,

My heart is full of joy of this sojourn

Poem shared with Real Toads.

Lenten Journey- Day 12

#1

You who toil everyday

You who fail to observe Sabbath

I ask, when do you worship?

Ewe unayetia bidii

Unayepuuza siku ya Sabato

Nauliza, unaabudu lini?

#2

His words command obedience

They are not like ours

Scattered within a fairy tale

Maneno yake yanafaa utii

Si kama yetu

Zilizotapakaa katika ngano

#3

You heard the Constitution

Like a human being, is a living document

So are God’s words

Ulisikia kwamba Katiba

Sawa na binadamu, inaishi

Hivyo basi ndivyo maneno ya Mungu

Lenten Journey- Day 12

#1

Let us have high priests among us

Though not sinless

To guide our pilgrimage

Na tuwe na Makuhani Wakuu miongoni mwetu

Japo wasiwe watakatifu

Kutuelekeza katika imani yetu

#2

Who hijacked the process

I mean, what went wrong

That those not called masquerade as ones?

Nani aliiteka nyara shughuli

Ni nini kilienda upogo

Hivi kwamba wanafiki wameenea?

 

Lenten Journey – Day 12; March 26th 2012

Biblical Scripture: 2 Corinthians 3:4-11

Feel free to explore the Lenten Journey at Cloaked Monk Blog