I have an issue
One that weighs heavily upon my heart
One that, if left unchecked, threatens to tear our social moral fiber apart
An issue I will express in English, with some help from my old friend Swahili
Hii imenisumbua akili, kwa hivyo kuiongelea ni kitu tunastahili
Hii story ya immorality tunaichukulia so so light
Dem akiji'expose kidogo mbele ya kamera haina mseo, tunampandisha cheo kwa society, all of a sudden ye ni socialite
The new cool, eti ‘good girl gone bad’
Hiyo njaro siyo polite
We have a lot more to live for than that which we seem to be aware of
It’s not always about a good time, or lack thereof
Our reputation as a culture I believe is something we badly need to take care of
Siyo game
Siyo Jokes
Si eti mambo na fame
It shouldn’t just be about who drinks, who smokes, who vomits and who chokes
Hiyo lifestyle siyo dope
Na siyo right
Six hundred and seventy something ways to die… choose one
I refuse to go… speeding down a highway, drunk out of my mind, on another booz run
However, I may not exactly be the right person to point out how messed up you are
On a scale of one to ten?
I’m probably as guilty as you are
*******!

Lack of money is lack of friends; if you have money at your disposal, every dog and goat will claim to be related to you. ~ Yoruba
War has no eyes ~ Swahili saying
There can be no peace without understanding. ~Senegalese proverb
A leader who does not take advice is not a leader. ~ Kenyan proverb
If there is character, ugliness becomes beauty; if there is none, beauty becomes ugliness. ~Nigerian Proverb
Unity is strength, division is weakness. ~ Swahili proverb
Wisdom does not come overnight. ~ Somali proverb
Knowledge without wisdom is like water in the sand. ~ Guinean proverb
Home affairs are not talked about on the public square. ~ African proverb
Show me your friend and I will show you your character. ~ African proverb
Make some money but don’t let money make you. ~ Tanzania
When you are rich, you are hated; when you are poor, you are despised. - African proverb
A man who uses force is afraid of reasoning. ~Kenyan proverb
Traveling is learning. ~Kenyan Proverb
What you learn is what you die with. ~ African proverb
He who is destined for power does not have to fight for it. ~ Ugandan proverb
It takes a village to raise a child. ~ African proverb
Poverty is slavery. ~Somalia
The wealth which enslaves the owner isn’t wealth. ~ Yoruba
Much wealth brings many enemies. – Swahili
You are beautiful, but learn to work, for you cannot eat your beauty. ~Congolese Proverb
A pretty face and fine clothes do not make character. ~Congolese Proverb
Show me your friend and I will show you your character. ~ African proverb
A close friend can become a close enemy.~ African proverb

This is where the-
Spaceship of poetry has landed me
English  is beautiful a color to  paint with
But Swahili is the breast milk
A mother's breast is sweetest
be it canine

English was crafted with unique abilities
Expressions smooth like whiskey
Words that connect to the soul
God really blessed the language

I am grateful that I can write
Construct like engineers and designers
God endowed humans the ability to create
But only  poets can create with words

I turn to Swahili now
To feed  hearts with its-
Charming soulfood
From planet to planet
As my spaceship of poetry traverses worlds

I thank God for the talent
And my journey He will guide me
My destination to be the shinning star
Twinkling the beauty of literature

To shine like Venus in the morning
is my desire
To love you dear Poetry
And embrace you in Swahili and English

To feel you in every way
And inspire hearts of humanity

Ominous notes are spewed from the *****,
Shaking the chandelier.
“It’s a syndrome he suffers from, one of being half-reared.”
The monotonous metronome ticks at allegro
While the all too sure foot taps andante.

Entrancing sweet air surrounds that ever-thinning hair
While I chew on half of a pear.
Wear and tear quickly begins to take place
While I erase the ink on my page to make space.
To make space for answers to these overwhelming questions.
I’ve never been much of a winner in this race.
And I’ve heard pace is the key,
But I have no such interest in locks.

Oh yes I’ve got golden goals,
But not the type of gold the count uses for bitter revenge,
Gold more likened to The Idiot’s investments.

Thetis by what mind did you dip only my fingers?
At sunrise my left side malingers.

Hello Mr. and Mrs. Jones I’m a sales representative from corporate united
Can I interested you in a genuine grin this evening.
Oh…that’s fine, I get paid just to ask.
But regardless, I could really use some conversation at the moment.
Would you mind ministering me with melodies?

I scrape the insole of a misfit pair…
Staring and staring at the ground waiting for it to shake.
Trembles are a sort of comforting contagion.

Oh it’s long been cold enough to build fires,
But I’ve only just collected the wood,
And I see no value in conversing alone outside,
Splitting the options with a razor, the sheets are more comfortable.
Lonely days bring still shivers multiplying,
My skin’s grown thin, all my warmth radiates out.
Oh I should have been a pair of scuttling claws…
The salt water is purely a majority,
My spirit is displaced into phytoplankton riding waves.
There there are no graves,
No cremation or consolation.
Just rest.

My I’m tired, I’ve toiled and tilled till morning
And still haven’t seen sprouts.
The bull in my chest shouts and I’ll I want
Is to wring it’s neck.
I’m tired of walking amongst bloodsuckers and
Angry hordes of minotaur’s.
I’m tired of constantly treading over manmade floors,
And walking down the hall
Only to find my destination…a steel locked door,
Then having to implore upon the janitor.
I’m tired of dancing all the time,
Just let me stand in silence.

PLANET NAIROBI (When the sun goes down)
Nur…
They were on the verge of losing this battle… it was only a matter of time, and he knew that. Through the window, he saw them advance, with a fierce swiftness that would have put anyone opposed to them at unease. Trembling uncontrollably, he reached for his weapon and held it firmly, ready to martyr himself for his family’s honour and legacy if need be. For they were not, and never would be known as a family of cowards, they were royalty... and he would rather go down fighting than cowering, that was the bottom line. But he knew that his sword, as well forged as it was, would be no match for Rath and his five hundred man strong battalion. So, biting his lower lip he waited for the pounding footsteps to reach the top of the stairs where he stood, the one solitary guardian to the throne. Martyrdom was his destiny.
“Let he that stands between Rath and the throne fall like the city walls!” Rath’s dominant voice bellowed as it got closer, too close for comfort.
He braced himself.
Suddenly, the doors burst open. And Nur... Prince Nur, finally got to come face to face with the scourge that had terrorised the lands of the sea for so long. A man of whom he had heard about from stories as a child growing up. A man that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. Nur realised that he had always been afraid of Rath, long before this moment, how was he supposed to fight this man when he was clearly at a disadvantage? For it was common knowledge that to go into battle afraid, was to go into battle prepared to lose.
Rath was a gigantic figure, and exuded the air of one who was accustomed to crushing his opponents and hadn’t experienced defeat in a while... if not ever. This man stood at almost eight feet tall, with rock hard muscles that seemed to pile on top of more muscle, threatening to tear through his dark skin. His long locks of unkempt hair fell over a face that could only be described as menacing. He had a permanent scowl that was complimented by his black, soulless eyes. And as they stared each other down, Nur couldn’t ignore the presence of sheer evil he saw in those eyes, a shiver of dread ran down his spine. He raised his blade.
“A child?” Rath barked, “A petulant child? Is that what this Kingdom’s defences have come down to? An infant?” He waved a dismissive hand at Nur.
“A prince!” Nur responded defiantly, raising his blade even higher and more confidently. This man may have been the epitome of terror, but Nur would be ****** if he was going to be talked down to in this manner, this was his palace.
“A prince huh? Prince Nur I presume? Your father was a brave man, I respected him. Even if I met his acquaintance only for a couple of minutes, before I slaughtered him. But I do respect a king that fights alongside his men, as opposed to other cowards I’ve had the pleasure of killing that had barricaded themselves in their chambers and let others fight their battles for them. King Thur was a rare breed... but a dead one all the same.” He laughed remorselessly as he said this. “And soon you will get to join your warrior father foolish one.”
Nur lost all sense of fear. Infuriated, his nostrils flared as he swung the blade with all the ferocity he could muster, slicing deep into Rath’s right forearm. Time slowed to syrup as he saw his adversary’s blood stain the sword, but realising that it wasn’t a fatal strike, he turned around swiftly, switching his stance just in time to see Rath’s massive blade come down on his head. Then there was a deathly silence.
The afterlife was nothing like he had pictured. It smelt of... he couldn’t quite place that peculiar smell. It wasn’t pleasant, but neither was it unpleasant, just unfamiliar. Then he turned around and saw her. He deduced that she was probably the source of the smell. He noticed that smoke came out of her nostrils and mouth every few seconds after lifting a sticklike object to her lips. Nur mused at how wrong the high priest in their kingdom had been when he spoke about the place in the sun... the afterlife. It wasn’t anything like he had described.
But wait a minute! He realised that the sun was still above him, in the sky. He could see it. He could feel it on his skin. So WHERE WAS HE? He felt dizzy, unable to comprehend. Only a minute ago he was in the royal palace, facing certain death. And now he was... he didn’t know where he was, or even what he was. Was he dead? Transcended? Was this just his soul? If so, then how come he still had his senses? All these questions raced through his mind at the same time. He turned toward the lady, who seemed unaware of his presence. She was tall and very light skinned compared to him and her hair was tied in ponytail at the back of her head. He couldn’t make sense of her attire though, she seemed to wear a lot of clothing, garment over garment that covered her arms and legs. She was also extremely beautiful and had a slim womanly body most warriors would **** for, he noted, and felt himself flush. He tried to see what she was squinting so intently at and concluded that she was just staring into space as she drew, he realised now, on the tiny stick and blew out more smoke. That was when he noticed how high up they were, this palace stood almost five times as high as theirs. It was overwhelming to say the least.  He got up and walked over to her, deciding to leave his blade behind so as not to come off as a threat.
“Greetings?” He said politely. She jumped as if she had just seen a ghost, dropping the stick she was holding. He had clearly startled her, so he took a step back lifting his hands in the air to signify that he meant her no harm. She breathed rapidly and began to speak just as rapidly in a foreign tongue. Nur couldn’t understand what she was saying, but the hostility in her tone and her demeanour was hard to miss. He took another step back, ready to defend himself from an attack if need be. He had heard tales of an island with warrior women who could match, and beat, even the strongest male adversary in combat. He decided to tread cautiously.


Nasim...
Nasim Naikuni was beyond peeved. Who was this ******?  He had scared her half to death and almost made her fall off the roof, not to mention burn her favourite grey, three thousand shilling trouser suite when she dropped the cigarette. And what annoyed her even more was that he didn’t seem to register how ******* she was. He just stood there with a blank expression on his face, like a schoolboy waiting for his mistake to be explained to him. Nasim couldn’t stand slow people, they got under her skin. She was yelling at the top of her lungs, which was taxing to say the least, seeing as she had been smoking just seconds ago.
“Are you slow?” She shouted, tapping at her temple repeatedly. “What makes you think you can sneak up on me like that you fool? You almost killed me. Do you realise that?” Then she stopped and studied him, out of breath. She noticed that he seemed unable to understand English and so she switched to Swahili, “Nini mbaya na wewe?” What’s wrong with you? Still there was no response.
She gave him a once over. He dressed strangely. His large, golden brown pants that fluttered in the wind seemed to have been made from an expensive material, though it was like no material she’d laid eyes on before. It bordered somewhere between silk and suede. His shirt was also made of a similar material, but leather brown in colour, matching his leather boots that were laced and reached just under the knee. He stood an inch or two shorter than she did, but she guessed that was probably because she was in heels. He had long hair that seemed to fall halfway down his back in one long braid. He looked almost exotic as he tried to communicate, but she couldn’t place the language or his ethnicity, for his skin-tone was chocolate brown but his hair looked almost like an Asian’s, dark and straight. He spoke in a tongue she had never heard before. There was also something really classy about this boy, whom she guessed to be around eighteen years of age or so. It was like looking at a darker, more pampered version of Sinbad the sailor.
Nasim relaxed a little and decided to give the fellow a chance to introduce himself, in whatever way he intended to do so. He seemed to pick up on this and started explaining something to her, making a couple of gestures, and at some point she thought she saw him mimic a fight, and then  point to the sky. Nasim still didn’t know what he was talking about, but felt a semblance of communication begin to take form. He directed her attention to another part of the roof, probably where he had approached her from. And she saw the blade! With catlike agility she swung her purse at him, the blow caught him square on the jaw with a thud! The bottle of perfume she religiously carried around in it serving a different purpose on this day. He hadn’t seen it coming and so had no chance of stopping it. He staggered backwards as she made a run for it toward the staircase but felt a hand grab her ankle causing her to tumble onto the hot cement floor. At that moment her heart sank, for she knew that she was done for.


Nur...
Nur was perplexed, he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve the assault. The lady had seemed to be calming down, but all of a sudden she had lunged at him with a weapon he had first assumed to be a bag. Though, she didn’t strike with the strength that a warrior would have, and also had made an attempt to flee. This told him two things. One, she wasn’t accustomed to combat... and two, she had attacked more out of fear than strife. Which meant that she posed no immediate threat to him. Also, she was the only person he had met so far and his only hope of figuring out where he was. He couldn’t afford to lose her, not just yet, so he decided to try something he was ashamed he hadn’t thought of sooner. Nur spoke into her head.
‘I mean you no harm.’  He said, and waited. No response. He tried again, concentrating harder this time. ‘Can you hear me? I mean you no harm’
‘LET ME GOOO!’  Her thoughts screamed.
He could understand her, they had made a connection. Progress...

One year later. Nasim...
“Good afternoon people? You’re hangin’ out with me Nasim Naikuni on your favourite show Voices, where you can throw any question you have regarding life... and living it, at me and the voices in my head will answer them for you... yeah, you heard right, the voices in my head. I’ll be takin’ your calls for the next hour. Let’s begin shall we?” Nasim spoke into the microphone just before a voice-over added...
“NASIM NAIKUNI, THE ONLY RADIO PRESENTER THAT’S LITERALLY GONE BONKERS!” And then was followed by some rock music. ‘So what?... I’m still a rock star... ’ Pink’s lyrics belted out as Nasim removed her headphones to take a breather before she talked to her first caller. A breather... and also to have a bit of a chat with the voice in her head. She walked out of the studio into a corridor where she was out of sight, and concentrated, her eyes crinkling from the effort.
‘Hey, are you there?’
‘Uh huh.’ The prince replied.
‘Okay, we’re on in roughly three minutes. Make me look good babes’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘True dat. What are you doing?’
‘Breakfast.’
‘It’s one in the afternoon... ’
‘This is not my planet, therefore I’m not obliged to follow its rules. I can have a one o’clock breakfast if I want to.’
‘Brunch.’
‘What?’
‘Brunch, what your having would be brunch. Breakfast... aaand lunch?’
‘You see? You get all high and mighty on me about this and you even have a name for it? If it is so wrong to have breakfast at this time, then why would your people give the meal a name? I’m just saying.’ Nur said mockingly.
‘I give up’ She replied with a sigh.
‘Nas... Nas?’
Silence.
She walked back into the studio.
“Caller... you’re on air. Shoot.” Nasim said softly, leaning into the microphone.
“Hey Nasim, lovely job you’re doing by the way.”
“Why thank you dear, but I don’t deserve all the credit you know?”
“Yeah I know... you and the voices in your head... ha-ha! Anyway my name is George, and I’m kinda’ in a predicament at the moment. You see, I have a wife and a family... two kids, but I kinda’ got into this relationship outta’... obligation as opposed to real love...”
“Obligation?”
“Yes. I met my wife five years ago in uni’ and we dated. But looking back, I only got into the relationship because I felt I’d led her on and she loved me soo much, I just couldn’t disappoint her. So I got stuck in a phony relationship, at least on my part. Next thing I know, we are pregnant and... It’s been we ever since.”
“So you want to what? Get out of your marriage?”
“I want to be with the person I truly love...”
“Hooo... **! Scoreboard! Now we have lift off. And how long have you known this person that you truly love George?” She said this with a tinge of amusement in her voice.
“Six years... and we’ve been going out for the past two.” He sounded ashamed.
‘He sounds ashamed.’ She heard Nur say observationally.
‘No kidding.’ She retorted.
(In the past year or so, Nasim and Nur had come to an understanding somewhat. After she had struck him with her purse and the little scuffle they’d had on the rooftop, and after convincing herself that she wasn’t going crazy... or that the cigarette she had been smoking wasn’t laced with marijuana or some other hallucinogen, she finally gave in and listened to the voice speaking to her in her thoughts.
‘Please, just give me a chance to explain. I need your help lady!’ He sounded desperate.
She felt sorry for him, but still suspected she could be going nuts.
He continued. ‘I don’t know where I am. My father is dead and I don’t know where I am or how I arrived here, and you’re the only one that can help me right now...’
Nasim, touched now, replied. “How am I supposed to do that? And how are you doing this telepathy thing? Are you really doing this?” She shook her head violently, like a wet dog trying to dry itself, “I’m very confused right now.”
He looked even more confused. ‘Talk to me in my head, I think it is the only way we can communicate with each other.’
She didn’t know how to.
‘It’s simple, concentrate.’ He said reassuringly.
She tried. Still nothing.
‘I could hear you a moment ago, I don’t understand. Let’s try this slowly, repeat after me... Nur.’ He told her.
She heard him, and was thinking what?
He repeated, ‘Nur.’
She tried thinking the word he’d asked her to repeat as hard as she could but he didn’t seem to be getting anything. She decided that the cigarette must have been laced with something. Here she was, on the roof top of her work building trying to master telepathy, with a stranger who just happened to own a sword. This had to be a dream, a nightmare.
‘I must be high.’
‘Yes! Yes! You’re high!’ She heard the excited reply.
‘What?’
‘You did it!’ Nur said happily, ‘you figured it out. And yes, I was also meaning to ask you about how high we are.’
She had done it. Nasim could hear him and answer back, she felt oddly proud of this accomplishment. Then she asked puzzled. ‘High? You get high?’
‘I am high.’ Came the naive reply.
‘Oh...’
‘Why are we so high up? The palaces on our island are half the size of yours, are you that many in your palace that you need to build it so tall?’
Then she understood. And laughed... ‘Who are you? And how did you get here?’
‘My name is Nur... Prince Nur... how I got here? That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ He was being honest.
And thus begun an adventurous relationship between the two. Nasim took him to her apartment that day, passing curious and disapproving looks all the way. The most difficult part being trying to explain to her boss why she was coming from the roof in the company of someone who dressed like a ******, as he put it. She made up something. And he gave her one of those I’ll accept your story just because... looks. Nasim found that hilarious. But she was glad she had asked Nur to leave the sword behind to be recovered later. That would have been a tad difficult to explain. They got to her apartment block and were met by more disapproving looks from a group of nosey old women, the type that love to mind everyone else’s business but their own, as they walked to the lift. And when they got into apartment F6 on the second floor, she introduced Nu

Last nite I dreamed of T.S. Eliot
welcoming me to the land of dream
Sofas couches fog in England
Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbows
curtains on his windows, fog seeping in
the chimney but a nice warm house
and an incredibly sweet hooknosed
Eliot he loved me, put me up,
gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious
asked my opinion on Mayakovsky
I read him Corso Creeley Kerouac
advised Burroughs Olson Huncke
the bearded lady in the Zoo, the
intelligent puma in Mexico City
6 chorus boys from Zanzibar
who chanted in wornout polygot
Swahili, and the rippling rythyms
of Ma Rainey and Vachel Lindsay.
On the Isle of the Queen
we had a long evening's conversation
Then he tucked me in my long
red underwear under a silken
blanket by the fire on the sofa
gave me English Hottie
and went off sadly to his bed,
Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad
to have met a fine young man like you.
At last, I woke ashamed of myself.
Is he that good and kind? Am I that great?
What's my motive dreaming his
manna? What English Department
would that impress? What failure
to be perfect prophet's made up here?
I dream of my kindness to T.S. Eliot
wanting to be a historical poet
and share in his finance of Imagery-
overambitious dream of eccentric boy.
God forbid my evil dreams come true.
Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg.
T.S. Eliot would've been ashamed of me.

A baby from Burundi sits next to me today.
He coos and drinks and swallows his mother’s milk.
His father speaks Swahili. Smiles, tells me that his last son
Is going to grow old in Rochester, NY,
Where I sit in a white-walled waiting room, watching
Mothers drag their babies by the armpits to be weighed.

A boy with braided beads holds up four fingers and tells me he is five.
He is too skinny. His pants are sagging and his iron is low.
His mother takes his vegetable checks, stuffs them into the back pocket of her jeans.
What the little **** needs is two percent milk, she says,
Her gold hoops fluttering.

Her son struggles with the small wooden chair he is carrying.
It drags along the carpet, hitting the high spots, and his tiny biceps flinch.
He sits, facing me, while a name is called. And another.
Another woman’s son hands me a book and waits.
He is watching my face and I watch his mother kiss her boyfriend in the first row seats.
He tucks his chin to his chest when I ask his name. Whispers, tells me Jayden.

First page. What color is Elmo, Jayden?
Shoulders shrugging. His lower lip, puckered out and innocent.
What color is he, Jayden?

The color of Jayden’s skin slaps me across the heart when he says he doesn’t know.
He was born in Rochester, NY,
With trash bags and Burger King wrappers wrapped around the fence
That separates his house from the street on which he will grow old
Too soon.
He starts kindergarten in the fall and I tell him Elmo is red, like his t-shirt.
Like his mother’s fingernails.
Like the tomatoes and bell peppers and beets he has never seen.

A girl who went to my High School carries in her youngest child
Who is old enough to walk, but wobbles.
She calls her daughter “thunder-thighs” instead of Jazmyne
And strips off her shoes. Her belt. Her gold bracelets.
The scale says Jazmyne is too heavy for food assistance.
The state says her mother isn’t poor enough for welfare.
The girl I used to know leaves without her daughter’s shoes or the food checks she came for.

In conversations of pretension
We talk about first and third world.
Pretend that America is the land of second chances
Where a baby from Burundi can grow old in cashmere sweaters,
Even when his parents couldn’t pay.

The father who speaks Swahili looks at his shiny watch and his family’s vegetable checks.
Smiles. Tells me his last son is going to grow old and full
In Rochester, NY.

Ekhafu ya kamevele niyo ekamayanka elurende!
It goes a Bukusu saying, from Kenya,
It has it English equivalence as;
The most productive Milch- cow
is the one that often dies at the creek,
And truly Proffessor Ali A.  Mazrui
Africa’s global intellectual Milch-cow
Has died today from his drinking creek,
At Birmingham hospital in New-York,
His death is a deep wound
To the world of knowledge,
An impeachment to the voices
Subscribing to classical reasons,
An old wine skin to the new wine
Of nothing but global democracy,
I mourn you Mazrui in this solemn dirge,
I grieve for you deeply from my heart
I grieve for you as you grieved Okigbo,
When the bullet took his youthful life
at Nzuka battle front during the Biafra,
My mind’s eye is seeing you,
Like my Mr. Giraffe the driver
In your political epic
That tried Christopher Okigbo,
Mazrui the global son
Sired in the neoclassical times
We shall miss you,
As there is no whence
That cometh another Mazrui
From all the four corners of the earth
Rarely will he come one more Mazrui,

You failed your O’level exams at Mombasa Sec School
As you humbly basked in Muslim poverty, in 1943
Not because you were a stooge
But a genius of cultural radicalism,
Refusing to answer a history question;
Who is the Archduke of Canterbury?
Dismissing it as academic sham,
For what value has Archduke of Canterbury
to an African, Asian or Mexican boy?

You were denied a chance to study
At the then colonial Makerere University,
You sublimated to Edinburg and Oxford,
You come back into its deanry of political science
You met Milton Obote face to face,
When he was an African-English song bird of Gulu
You shouted loud when Id Amin plotted to **** Okello Oculli
You were then detained for this noise of humanity
You voice was heard,
And you were exported to southern Tundra
As an exhibit for non-white intellectual
Mazrui let me mourn you for the efforts
That sired intellectual democracy in Uganda,

When I reminisce of you Mazrui,
Pages of African Conditions open
Widely before my mind’s eye,
I see your intellectual pilgrimage
From Rudyard Kipling to Julius Nyerere
As you made your Al Hajji stone
at the graveyard of  Shakespeare the bard,

You met Daniel Moi face to face
Daniel Moi the Kalenjin Cow of Dictatorship
And black Maestro of ethnic terror
You took this despotic Moi cow to the well,
You pleaded for it to drink politics of reason
But Mazrui I pity, you were unlucky;
Kalenjin cows never drink whatsoever
From the democratic wells of political reasons,

Mazrui Maalim the star of Islam,
I envy your for your elonguence
I envy you for the unique power of ideas,
I envy you for unique intellectual bravery,
I envy you for constant intellectual dynamism
For your firm stand against utopian socialism
For your intuition into Nkrumah’s Leninist czarism,
And Senghorean cultural despair in paradoxical negritude,
For your firm stand against Ngugi’s literary tribalism,

Mazrui the stellar saint of Swahili Nation
I remember your glowing tribute
In eulogy of Julius Nyerere the swahilist,
When you held the world stand-still
With your cadence in tribute to Mandela
You have used every English word in your scholarship,
Indeed Mazrui you are the African sky
that cannot be vilified by any  ***** mouth,


Mazrui the angel of good thought
You cautioned Wole Soyinka in 1988,
When he embarked on his racist mission
That made him to call you a white African
Or a non- African African, An African Arab
In his blurred thoughts in dint of bigotry
Emanating from your Jekyll and Hide
Vintageously Serialized at Albert Schweitzer,
You sang to him ballads of the scholar
On the African of the soil and African of the blood,

Rest in peace Mazrui at the Fort Jesus
Let your glorious name and teachings
Remain permanent to the future people
As the stubborn stones of the Fort Jesus,
As your name takes the official knighthood
Of the leopard skin on death of the leopard,

I want to know more than one
Haitian

I want to know more than three
Jamaicans

I want to meet Nigerians that speak
Igbo

Kenyans that laugh at the Swahili I learned in Berkeley
Ugandans that correct my Mandarin
Tanzanians that teach me how to say it in Cantonese  

I want to tour the holy city Ile-Ife
trace the pilgrimage path of Mansa Musa
then circle back to Timbuktu

See the reminders of Aksum
See the remainders of Kmt

Touch the Earth and envision the buildings that my ancestors constructed
thousands of years before they were invaded thousands of times
leaving the still standing walls that others never believed were thousands of years old
till their, “science” said so

I want to board a barge in the south and flow north with the Nile
I wonder what eight others will join me

I want to walk the same trail
that was the first trail
compare my foot print
to the first foot print

The vision I see
The things I want to do
The escape I want to take

Isnt one that is new

Its one that is old
so old that its in the blood
in the very fabric and design
of all that claim

Human

What I want is a realization
no
a reawakening
of my genetic inheritance
of my ancestral birthright

What calls me is the land so old
its true name
its original tongue
is the only
can only
be labeled

The First

There
that is what calls to me
There
that is what pushes me
that is the very intangible force that pulsates my heart
pumping the blood through my veins

That place that is forever older than old
yet
In a constant state of
Reconstruction
Recreation
Revelation
Renovation
Revitalization­

Revolution

I want to breath the air in that place that is always in a state of newness
I want to feel the frequency in that place
where there are as many words for new
as there are people to speak them

That is the place
That is the space
That is

© Christopher F. Brown 2015

They come uninvited to our shores
frightening the lovers of the sun and  sand.
The water is now a blue, wet poison.
There is no bottle with a skeleton label
only the shadow of fish as huge as ocean liners
trying to stow away passengers in a dark hole.
Like African slaves we go unwillingly to the unknown land.
There is no time to prepare for this death, this injury.
Screams are heard and not heard like distant echoes on a
mountain in Switzerland. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"
Yells ***** down to the distance like heavy iron anchors.

This creature does not speak English,
Italian, Swahili or.....
It only knows the taste of blood. It wears hatred around his
neck with the faces of victims close to his teeth. It is savage this
thing, this monster, this bully.
Where did it learn to hate
then eat what it hates?
Did a God really create this wet Frankenstein?
I think it created itself.
It grew heavy with the impurities of never loving, giving, serving or
blessing other~.
My God! it does not prey before eating it's favorite morsel~
man.

Poetry is like electricity,
But without a switch,
And stronger;
Like lightning.
It strikes you, and suddenly
You're a pianist;
You can speak Swahili;
The color green tastes like
Starfruit (only you've never had it
So all you can think
Is, "Man, this forest is delicious!")

Poetry is a zap from nowhere.
It makes your hair stand on end;
It makes you half afraid and
Half eager. You start flying
Kites with keys and fixing the satellite
In storms because it's awful for
A second, but then
You're never the same.

I know.
I've been struck so many times
And each time, I've traded
Gibberish for English,
Sight for insight,
Words for love,
And love for words again.
I have heard voices bellowing
And crying
And laughing.
I have seen smoke and sunlight
And smelled sulfur and
Tasted honey and salt.

Maybe I am not "smart,"
Always leaping into danger,
But I can't think of a better way to die
Than  to be struck by poetry.

I USED TO THINK THAT DOGS THOUGHT IN ENGLISH,
BUT, OF COURSE, IT COULD BE GERMAN OR SPANISH,
IF YOU TELL THEM TO SIT, THEY MAY NOT RESPOND,
JUST RUN AWAY TO THE BACK OF BEYOND;
I'M LOOKING UP 'SIT,' IN RUSSIAN, 'GET OFF
THAT ****** CHAIR,' IN CROATIAN AND 'COME
HERE, THERE'S A GOOD BOY' AND 'WELL DONE,'
PERHAPS WE JUST NEED AN 'ESPERANTO' SO
THAT THEY WILL ALL DO AS THEY'RE TOLD,
OTHERWISE WE WON'T LET THEM COME IN FROM THE COLD,
'STAY,' IN SWEDISH COULD MAKE THEM PEEVISH,
'FRIEND,' IN SWAHILI COULD MAKE THEM AN ENEMY,
WE DON'T WANT THEM TO BARK, MOPE AND PINE,
DON'T FORGET THE MAGIC COMMAND - 'NEIN, NEIN, NEIN!'

We met during a meteor shower
at a party on Cloud Nine
And we were high, high, high
         out of our minds

Drinking the Elixir of Life
     From Vampire bartenders
The bumble bee of time
                whose sting is reality
And idealism is a crime

You were trying to plant trees
with seeds inside rain drops
Like Redwoods and Populus tremuloides

I  think your father was a giraffe made out of sticks from the Swahili language
              by the carpenter that is your mother
Who you look like

I wonder what you would carve from the
   wood of your harvest
A Wife like the Blue Fairy?

But you only saw in colors of green
With absinthe stuck in your teeth
you wear windchimes and windmills like earrings
and hummingbirds nesting in your ears
Your blood is honeysuckle

You caught me a Shooting Star,
              Calling me Eyelashes and Pretty dresses
I  like it best when the stars fall,
sizzle sizzle pop Like the beginning of time
and water fighting for its Life

I asked you, "Have you ever cut down a tree?"
            Pause button lingers on your lips
"What does that feel like?" I ask.
Your reply, "Hot, like the burn on your chest from the sword you made for the King of Aliens."
"He was just an Ex boyfriend" I reply.

You continue your work, eyeing as ghosts
     linger like houseguests on my shoulder pads
Pretending to be my consciousness
I put my morals in the recycling bin last week.
     And threw my soul into a Wishing Well.

You said you were going deep sea memory diving.
Amnesia a Past time, last time, previous life girlfriend you had
Who cheated on you with Reincarnation

You say that's why the dinosaurs
are extinct

I ask you if you need a ride home in my Time Machine.
It's made out of cardboard and childhood memories.

There's a monument in Georgia, Elberton's the nearest town
Off of Guidestone Road, this monument is found
-
Thereon is inscribed, 10 guidelines for mankind
Written in 8 languages, these guidelines are defined
-
English Spanish Hebrew, Russian and Chinese
Arabic and Hindin, Swahili if you please
-
10 Principles of Rule, 10 Principles of Right
The Wisdom of the New Age, so Lofty and so Bright
-
Read them very closely, understand what they do say
Read Precept number one, what message is conveyed?
-
Reduce the population! Pray tell how's this going to be?
Not to hard to figure out...World War Three

One day I was in the rural areas of Turkana County,
walking up and down perfidiously ,
in a style of  the devil when visiting
Job  the son of Amos in the land of Uz,
It was in fact in the Northern region of the County
near a town known as Small Spain,
it is bushy and full of wild animals,
i was  on assignment by a certain NGO,
to give food,*******,drugs and clothes
to the dwellers  of this desert region,
All over a sudden I pumbed into a riff-raff
of  peasants, wearing scrofulously lugubrious faces,
one of them , a young man was on the ground
reeling in pain from the snake-bite,
he had been biten by a deadly desert snake,
A yellow Mamba in fact, it left its fangs in his muscle,
it was pathetic and sorriest, as there was no clinic nearby,
the nearest hospital was one thousand miles away,
and  you know,there is no road,no vehicle nor bicycle,
no horses nor water boats, only Carmel,,donkey and goats,
were there plus few emaciated native cows,
Luckily enough a white man  who stayed nearby,
surfaced from nowhere, he also owns a small aero-plane,
He spoke Italian,Spanish,Swahili and Greek like a native,
so I don't knew which country of Europe he came from,
he picked the snake bite victim to his home,
he asked me to come along
we boarded his plane to Kitale,
where we have a government hospital,
We flew across the hills of Turkana land ,
thousand and thousands of miles,
it was i, the white man  and snake bitten man,
three strangers on one another in the aeroplane,
Bound strongly by human love beyond identity,
Our patient began getting worse and worse
In fact  he had began getting dull and motionless,
we landed in Kitale, the white man bought a taxi,
we rushed to the hospital, all us panting frenetically,
we got at the hospital found nurses having lunch,
they were slow and relaxed, as if death is their dish,
the African nurse who came was all but un-started,
she began asking  for the age and the  tribe,
The tribe of our snake bitten friend,
She also asked for where he works,
And where he often goes to clinic,
worst of  all, she asked where he goes to church
she again demanded for seven hundred shillings,
the white man gave her the money,I was broke as usual,
He gave her a bank note of  one thousand shillings
she declined , she instead  wanted loose money
she ordered us to look for her the  loose money
before  she could begin treating our friend,
before we got the loose money  our friend died
of heavy poisoning of the blood, snake bite
He roared like a bull in the slaughter house,
on his painfully preventable death,
the white man was very disappointed
the white man wept, he went back to his plane.
In a similar stretch with a case of  a referral hospital
in Eldoret, also another town in Kenya, it is big,
it is called Moi Teaching and Referral Hospital,
it has the largest cancer management unit,
in the whole of east and central Africa
from Congo to Seychelles is the only one,
it was build by tax payers money,
but local politics as influenced it otherwise,
workers and Nurses are substantially locals,
in fact from one clan, now they speak strangely,
patients from alien clan are never treated,
they must bribe to be treated,
if not you  go back sick and eat your tribe,
or if you are introduced by a local politician,
you be lucky to be treated your cervical cancer,
they charge medical fees exorbitantly,
but once you pay no doctor will come,
in fact patients who are admitted for in-patient,
rarely come out  alive, if they are one hundred,
eighty of them will die,twenty will go home,
only to come back after a while and then die,
out of this despair another white man from Germany,
has established a modern hospital , just nearby the referral,
it offers absolutely free cancer treatment services
as Africans keep on facilitating death of their own kin,
Blessed be the womb that gave birth to a European.

Yes, I can see it now.
It's so vivid in my head I can almost taste it
After all these years
Swahili as a official language of Africa
And one currency for the whole continent
Land is for all who live in it
Agriculture is bigger than any mineral resource
Borders are just lines drawn on a piece of paper
Color is the thing of the past
Political leaders are not self obsessed cows who are self serving and only serve lies to the poor for supper, empty promises for breakfast and tax burdens for lunch
A Africa where being an African and proud is something to be celebrated daily, not just a show-off play dress up thing once a year
A green Africa where more trees are planted quicker than their cut down
Green energy is embraced
Churches are open shelters for the homeless
Teaching is a respected profession
Every child goes to school
And no child crosses a lake and walk 5km to school
Schools actually nurture kids talent and don't just train them to be working slaves
Private and Public schools, clinics, hospitals or anything else are held at the same standard
Men actually take care of their children and baby mamas
A CEO is given a same respect as the Janitor
Corruption is no more
**** is legal
Pigs are flying and...

Wait, Pretty obvious I'm high right now
There's no way corruption will end
Well, there goes my joint.