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I met a gypsy couple the other day
In the park of course
They were a lovely, beautiful mess
Trucked in right from Santa Cruz

They loved lots
Only four days
Her car stuck in some lot

I laughed a bit
I had to admit
I too
Knew the feeling
Being stranded
Deprived
Wrecked
Solititude

I gladly changed their tune
Convinced them tomorrow
Come noon
They'd notice a chance of attitude

Another chance at eternity
A moment devine
And poetic as the last

There's no such thing as time?

We're all actors in a grand tragedy

Lost gypsy couple and believers of
Tiny miracles

Completing
Relieving
Resolving

Appreciating the tiny moments
Of eternity
An un edited story
The surrounding give me plenty of these
Tiny Moments of eternity
eugene.moon.weebly.com
You lived alone in the solititude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.
I am mourning my model;  Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Homage to the late poet; Kofi Owonor


By
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])


In one Sunday Nation article, Professor Ali A Mazrui analyzed the inter-politicality of The Jaramogi Odinga family and The Kennedy family by arriving at a difference that the Odinga’s have curse of long life but the Kennedy’s have a curse of early death through violent and untimely  mode of death .Mazrui made these analogies in reference to violent death of John F. Kennedy and the subsenguent Chappaquiddick bridge tragedy.Similarly,the salient difference between a European and American or a Japanese and African writer or African artist is that most of African writers die early in the mid of their lives through violent death but in contrast American and some European writers die peacefully and comfortably in their old age. Early and violent death is the dominant bane, fate and misfortune that now and then besmirch an African writer. This position is in recognition of a fact that my child-hood American popular literature writers in the name of Mario Puzzo author of the God Father and Robert Ludlum an author of several anti soviet spy series like; Borne dentity, Borne Ultimatum and Icarus Agenda plus very many others like The Matlock Paper had just to die recently in their late eighties. The most surprising of all is Phillip Roth whom I read at the age of twelve years while in my primary four.  Now I am forty years and this year 2013 Phillip Roth is still alive and active to the American literary civilization that he has been touted by the Ladbrokes as a probable candidate for Nobel Prize in literature. But sadly enough on 22 September 2013 in Nairobi the black angel of early  death has carried ahead its  foul duty by claiming the life of Africa’s most honorable literary scholar Professor Kofi Owonor during the helter-skelter of Alshabab terrorist lynch of the upscale West Gate Mall in Nairobi.
Actually this essay is meant to be a deep felt homage to the late Kofi Owonor, Killed by Islamic terrorists in Nairobi. However, the essay also goes ahead to decry the violent and early deaths of several other African writers. The deaths which have almost turned Africa into a literary dwarf if not a continent of artistic bovarism. Kofi Owonor, who peacefully and honorably came to attend Story Moja Literary festival to be held in Nairobi, was violently shot by the Islamic fundamentalist terror group known as Al shabab. Whose gunmen lynched the Mall in which was Kofi Owonor and his son. The terrorist were sending out the Muslim catchword on which if one fails to respond then he was known not to be a non- Muslim on to which he is shot or held hostage for ransom.Fatefull enough, Kofi Owonor was not muslim.He was an elder, an Africanist, a scholar, a poet, a realist, a rationalist, a Christian, a religious non-fundamentalist and a literary liberalist. He could not respond with any tincture of religious irrationalism to the question of the terrorist. He was shot dead and his son injured. Too sad. This is actually the time when Christian positivism goes beyond rigidity of other religious affectations in its classic assertiveness that the devil kills the flesh but not the soul. And indeed it is true the devilish terrorist killed Owonor’s flesh but not his literary soul. They are such and similar situations that made Amilcar Cabral to observe in his Unity and Struggle, in a section on Homage to Kwameh Nkrumah to rationalize that the sky is too enormous to be covered by the palm of a sadist nor to be vilified by the spitting of the filthy ones; Truly, like Nkrumah, Kofi Owonor was the sky of African intellect never to be covered by the brute of the cannon from the parrel of a Muslim terrorist.
Kofi Owonor is not alone neither are we alone. You, my dear reader and I  we are not in any historical nor literary solititude. In Africa God has blessed us with the opportunity of the dead relatives in the name of the living dead. We are not the first and the last to grief. Owonor is not the first and the last to dance with fate. Even Ali A. Mazrui in his literary expositions of 1974 otherwise published as the trial of Christopher Okigbo.A  novella in which Mazrui cursed ideology as an open window into the moving vehicle that let in  a very bad political accident to Nigeria in the name of Biafra war which claimed life of  Christopher Okigbo at the Nzukka battle front. This was one other sad moment at which Africa lost its young literary talent through violent death.
Reading of African literary biographies in all perspectives will not miss to make you attest to this testimony. Both in situ and in diaspora.Admirable African American writers like Malcolm X, and Dr Luther King all died through violent death. Even if in the recent past, the Daughter of Malcolm X revealed to Sahara Reporters, Nigerian Daily, that Louis Farrakhan was behind the assassination of her father, wisdom of the time commands us to know that it was evil politics of that time that made Malcolm X to die the way international politics of today in relation to crookedness which was entertained during the formation of the state of Israel that have made the son of Africa professor Kofi Owonor to die.
An in-depth analysis into the life and times of African writers and artists will show that the number of African cultural masters who die violently is more than the number of those who died normally in their old age. Some bit of listology will show help to adduce the pertinent facts; Patrice Lumumba, Steve Biko, Lucky Dube, Walter Rodney, Tom Mboya, J M Kariuki, Che que Vara, Ken Saro Wiwa, Anjella Chibalonza, and Jacob Luseno all but died through violent death. Lumumba died in a plane crash along with Darg Hammarskjöld only after penning some socialism guidelines. After writing I write what I want, a manifesto for black consciousness Steve Biko was arrested and tortured in the police cells during those days of apartheid in south Africa.Biko died violently while undergoing torture in police cells. Lucky Dube was fatefully shot by a confused ****. Walter Rodney who was persuaded by his student who is now the professor Isa Shivji at Dare salaam University not to go back to his country of Guyana, desisted this voice and went back only to be assassinated in the mid of the rabbles that domineered Guyanese politics those days of 1970’s. This happened when Rodney had written only two major books. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, being one of them. Tom Mboya was shot by a hired gunman in down-town Nairobi, some one kilometer away from the West Gate Mall, at which Kofi Owonor has been shot. Mboya could have written a lot. Even more than Rudyard Kipling and Quisling. But fate or bad luck had him violently die after he had only written two books; Challenges to Nationhood as well as Freedom and After. Both of them are classically nice reads until today. He had also submitted sessional paper no. 10 to the Kenya government which was a classical thesis on Africanization of scientific socialism.
J M Kariuki, Che and Saro Wiwa are all known for how they violently died. Powers that be and terrorists that be, expedited violent death against these writers. Thus, brothers and sisters in the literary community of Africa and the world as we mourn Kofi Owonor we must also let Africa to unite in spiritual effort to rebuke away the evil spirit that often perpetrate terror of violent death which  especially  claim away lives of African writers.

References
Ali A. Mazrui; Trial of Christopher Okigbo
Amilcar Cabral; Unity and Struggle
Purab Nov 2015
Monochrome night,
Spreading its wings.
Etched to a scenic solititude;
In it's dead silence,
Heart sinks.
Thoughts within me,
like tides,
They Roll,
They crash,
and,
rise again.
Inspired from a poetic dark
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2024
borrowing from a pink floyd album cover:
it will take a 12h shift:
standing: not marching: i'd much prefer
a 12h shift of just walking than standing
in one spot: rooted in like a tree:
your skeleton is not supposed to imitate
a tree:
you almost want to stand on one foot...
but your toes are only so numerous (x10)
before the pins and the needles reach into
clarifying you are a bipedal creature
with an ***** spine:
i tried dancing on the spot
i tried being a hunchback i tried everything...
bypass comes after about 10h when
the fatigue wears off and some strange
adrenaline kicks in and the pain is numbed
(which wasn't a pain, just an irritation
to begin with) - and the body is worn enough
like a gratitude...
plus is was Wanstead and all the east London
hispters and the thoroughly bred
well: all the women are mothers but they
look so average so average
none of those whorish **** types you want
for one night:
then there was this couple and obviously
middle aged with two boys...
one had an oversized head and absolutely no
shoulders
his brother in a wheelchair all strobe-light happy
in spasms of trying to give birth to ego
and to the vector of ego that could be translate
as thought:
a happy vegetable: well: all botanical life
is alive and moving to the waves of photosynthesis
so much parody:
i was thinking in splinters of moments:
if i am so degenerate in my ethics of perhaps
my biology and i am not given access to
reproduce: i will... just watch this spectacle
of the receeding hairlines and the weak jaws
and the choice women have made
and i will be deliberately humble about
how people want life to be the conjuring
of a magic of misery...
am i o.k. with "nature": yes! am i concerned
about the civilization of nature:
the unnaturalization process that spews out
of the mouths of Christianity:
how the weak are supposed to humble the strong
and leave the strong unwilling to protect
the weak?
that is what Christianity has spawned...
                        the weak bias of weakness...
there is no strong bias of stregth:
even in that single sentence i see...
                        there is only strength and will:
determination...
but the weak spawn a -ness: a quality about them
that crumbles under the weight of
solititude and: eventually that solitutde turns into
a solipsism: which, is a veneer: a mask:
a prototype which becomes an archetype of
imitating a mountain...
standing ground watching as time erodes...
how time bends...
for those 12h i tried to conjure a narrative akin
to the peep / peak show... with an internal
narrative to hush hush talk miserably about the people
around me:
but i realised: when you negate thinking:
i.e. i'm not thinking:
when you obstruct thinking rather than pseudo-obstruct
thinking with acts of meditation and
meditation is such oriental *******...
we're Europeans! we don't meditate!
we either think! or we don't think!
meditation is a pathology of the lack of obsruction!
to borrow from architecture and the dams
and how rivers swell and become lakes
and in turn are harnessed to create electricity...
at this Wanstead festival i witnessed the holistic
jargon eye and ******* swelling crap
like 45min sessions of people sitting in
a darkened tent tapping their foreheads...
listening to windchimes and witchcraft...
as i said to my Pakistani coworker:
well: i can imagine that massaging the temples
would do you some good: since that's the most
vulnerable part of the cranium: besides the eye sockets:
but tapping your forehead thinking it would
conjure up Buddha's third eye...
i can ******* headbutt you... do i need to tap
my ******* forehead too?
i can ******* headbutt you like a Mongolian yak...
savvy?
oh jeez... and the music: this karaoke was
so terrible...
                     well... what i was trying to figure out...
Wanstead is not Chelsea and these hispters
with their families:
some apparently deflecting biological hazards
of leaving it much too late to reproduce...
but everyone was just giving themselves a pat on
the shoulder for having achieved a momentous
clarity of family:
while i just stood there: twinkle toe...
a vastness of reading and isolation...
                              sparingly a comment came
which i overheard between four men
concerning the "yellow jackets"...
         until one approached me and asked
me for the direction to the toilets: which he already
knew:
but the way he approached me was
from a descriptive angle:
well, you look stern and authoritative...
do i?
                      the black cap and sunglasses
are not a ******* Batman suit:
do you see me wearing underwear over my trousers?
i didn't say that: i didn't even think that:
i'm only now, writing about it...
ad hoc hindsight... which i find more and more:
hindsight is a great tool for narration:
because you don't have any narratative component
when the moment comes:
it's only hours later that it creates a dawn of a splinter
a suffocation of silence that needs to be
broken...

so in that: all well known album cover...
light passes through a prism: for the sake of argument
the prism is 2D...
so white light passes through a prism... triangle...
and emerges as a rainbow...
now...

  thinking                      not thinking...
besides meditation:
meditation in the oriental sense is...
i saw those *******...
they obstruct not thinking by creating
frequencies... making sounds...
and i don't mean Mongolian sound generation
of the khoomei... the Tuvan practice
of reaching into your stomach for a breath
and raising it to your throat
while also blocking your ability to breathe
through your nose creating a blocked
cavity (misnomer aplenty, regardless)...
but these ******* are willing meditation:
they are so blind to: not thinking...
that they are actually thinking about: "not thinking":

by way of honing into a specific sound
of the "guru"...
                    i never thought that i could
experience seeing people so pathological about
clinging to thinking:
and these people are, categorically:
pathological concerning keeping up with
the Descartes and the Kants...
thinking without focus / systematications...
no labyrinths no rivers...
no great yawn seas of perverted time of
their own, singular, vessels...

          you either think: or you don't think...
so if i take the light and the 2D prism away...
and instead...
i posit a cube...
and just draw a straight line into the cube
and just call it time...
i can replace light with time...
but for me to replace light with time
i need a 3D object for the vector to pass into:
after all:
what does thinking cushion, absorb...
time... thinking has nothing to do with space:
and i think that's what really bothers most people...
that thinking is associated with time...
while not thinking is associated with space...
categorical-negation: NOT-THINKING

**** i even had to craft a hyphenated compound
for the subject matter!
not-thinking ≠ meditation...
                               maybe meditation is something
the orient invented itself in because
its phonetic encoding create a dissonance
from how simple and universal sounds are...
i mean:
     i once wrote a poem about red and green...
but that became deleted (somehow: ooh woo hoo)
octopus, milk, sugar... otherwise oscar, mike, sierra...
that's what came through the radio
and i just giggled...

                  why are traffic lights
red amber green
green is safe
but what if blue: blue is flow... good to go...
otherwise blue is the light of an ambulance
speeding:
blue is: let us pass through:
so it's not like people can't see blue
in the daylight...
ah but red and amber: conjure up brown?
no... blue and red contrasts...
yellow and blue make brown?

                  shifty tactic... now just spewing...
but regardless of light...
if time is the equivalent to light...
and passes through a 3D rather than a 2D prism...
(in the case of 2D: an optical element,
so viable)
                           ... thinking is associated
with time...
but not-thinking... that's the cushion for space
to absorb you, chew you, digest you: spit you out
but retain a part of you that will eventually
be ******* out...
                              yet time and thinking...
a bit like medtiation:
meditation is a laxative:
you want to enter a state of meditation whereby
you stop thinking: but you're not not-thinking...
meditation is an answer as to why we were
able to domesticate animals...

                            oh no one here who's a loud
mouth and know it how...
these words: written with the envy of silence
have no voice of my own...
but they can be the reader's own words...
i will not utter them...

                        that tapping on the forehead
bothered me a great deal...
                           meditation is not a negating-obstruction
of thinking...        there is only the categorical-negating
article of: NOT: the definite articulation of
the swaying-obstruction of NO...
                     there is NO moon
                     becomes: that is NOT (a / the -ism) moon...

12h shift... several hours later and
my plughole of an **** gets finally unblocked
with relaxation my rummaging my intestines
with a bread that doesn't use the ingredient of wheat:
just seeds and white cheese (not as salty
as a feta)...

                          and we even haven't began to
talk about Islam's fascination with consciousness...

— The End —