Things happen

Things happen, my brother,

Like the chair that loses a leg

When it’s your turn to sit 

Or the sparrow flitting in the evening sun

Whose poop aligns so well

With your freshly made hair. 

Things happen, my brother

In that second between action

And your planned reaction

Between the promise and the failure

That causes your mouth to open

Things happen, my brother

Out of the blue

Out of the haze 

And sometimes clearly in your mind's eye

You know it will happen as it will happen

But not in the time and not in the space

Things happen, my brother

Life wanders as it ebbs

From minute to minute

Before a final accident

And then hopefully

You are at rest. 

A long way from home

The migrating kite

Is a long way from home

Even though he soars

Across the skies

Spying the mouse

Hidden in the eaves

He is a long way from the nest

He has built for his old age

Amongst the branches of an Iroko tree

Even as he scours the ground

Of a familiar turf

Where the chicken hides from his shadow

As he lofts on the currents

Wings spread out to catch the wisps

And soak the energizing rays of the sun

He still remembers the lay of his nest

And the feel of the twigs in his perch

High up amongst the Iroko leaves

While the kite is alive

And the currents still flow

With the rays pointing toward the west

And the clouds fleeing towards the east

With the mouse not straying from the eaves

And the chicks beneath their coop

Home is still a long way away

I will stand up again

I make notes to my self

writing in the stillness of recollections

one after another 

the goals missed

the excuses given

the chickens come home to roost

and you know the day is at the end

and the count of feathers falling

and the volume of tittering

inspires your dread of failure

but I will stand up again

older and wiser and better

because the sun will come out

and the chicks will hatch

the cocks and the cockerels will raise their voice

and we all go out again

to do that which must be done.

Gift me a lotus tree

 Gift me a lotus tree

Gift me a lotus tree

In a garden hidden in a crater

With a tranquil lake 

And sharp cliffs standing guard

All at attention from the valley to the clouds

Let my chores be simple

To sit beside the lake

And besides the tree

To lift a finger and curl a flower

Down from a languid branch

To slowly munch the petals

Savouring the juice slowly 

Slowly seeping further than where the blood gets to. 

Gift me a lotus tree

On a tranquil island 

Bang in the middle of this crater lake

Let my dreams be simple

To stare into the turquoise lake

With a smile on my face and peace in my heart

To blank my thoughts to the urge

Of the tumult beyond the cliffs standing guard around this crater

To still the wanderlust beyond the tree and her flowers

To slowly munch the petals

Savouring the juice slowly 

Slowly seeping further than where the blood gets to. 

Gift me a lotus tree

And the island

And the blankness that follows

Let my joys be permanent

A flower away, arm's length away

A smile without a sweat

Contentment without assets

just the urge to sit and gaze at the tree and her flowers

To slowly munch the petals

Savouring the juice slowly 

Slowly seeping further than where the blood gets to. 

Just give us hope

( An inauguration poem )

Hope is what brings us here

From the time we asked the British to leave

The hope of a new nation beckoned on us

with alluring promises that we anchored on

We knew the journey will be hard

with friends, we have just met becoming brothers

and other strangers we did not remember inviting

filling the tent

Hope told us the tent was big enough

that the land was rich enough

that the rivers were full enough

Hope is what brings here again

Hope for the hope that the dream

will become true 

and we will slap our brothers back and not their cheeks

that we will distinguish the stranger from the friend

and the tent will truly be enough

Hope that our search for the promise

made when we chased the British away

and even before then when the bibles came and took our land

and restrained our hands from selling our brothers

for mirrors and guns

Hope is what brings us today again

We knew the journey will be hard

but not this hard,

We knew the race will be long

but not this long

Hope told us our generation will not die off

as we went around the desert in forty years, and then forty nights

and another forty years again

until we are now here

Hope is what you, all of you owe us

that our dreams will be less bloody

and our days be less dreary.

Just give us hope.

The little things that matter

Sometimes it’s the little things that matter

The sound of the leaf unfurling from the bud

Her ribs cracking as they straighten out and turn to face 

The new sun peeping out at dawn. 

The thoughts of the white speckled pigeon

Sitting on the ledge and pecking at her scales

Ruffling her wings to catch the lightest touch of the wind

The rhythm of soles 

Pattering on the walkway

Making a symphony of the weights they bear

The curling of the fingers

At the moment of ecstasy 

When nothing else matters

The slow and reluctant retreat of the night

Suddenly racing away as the shy sun picks up her courage. 

The mindless rise and crash

And rise again of the waves on the beach

And the little pebble brought to shore and taken back again and brought back again. 

The hungry bird pecking at the sacrifice left at the crossroads

For the gods who won’t eat. 

It’s the little things that matter

Little things are forgotten in their littleness

Overlooked in the chaos of living without the be-ing 

Until their absence signals our exit from the here and now. 

Unfinished

Unfinished is the title of the song 

whose rhythm we forever seek

The lyrics were written eons ago

In the rumbling of rocks that has not yet stopped

In the wind that still races around the globe 

race around these rocks

Chipping away bits here and then there

The lyrics are there in the letters of life 

strung together in the minute memory of our cells

To read and recreate and reform

 in the unfinished business of life

Unfinished is the war we fight 

to take the earth and its contents

And fight to take our life into our hands

ds to break the bondage of sin, man, and oppression

Unfinished is our quest for justice 

for those that have been shattered and squashed, 

run over and rolled over and forgotten 

Unfinished is our blood that runs hot 

at the excitement of words and calls to action, 

to rebel and to capture, to rebuild and to destroy again

Unfinished is the counting of the stars that stretch across the skies

 inviting us to look up and continue the count

Unfinished is our search for the beginning 

Unfinished is our search for the end. 

Unfinished is this poem.

Unfinished.

The nation without a soul II: The lions rule the grassland

 The nation without a soul II: The lions rule the grassland

The lions kingdom only grows grass

Yea

And the lions leave their kingdom

Yea

The lambs got eaten before they could herd

Yea

The grass is lush and inviting

Yea

Only the unlettered are deceived

Yea

The lions rule this kingdom

Yea

The lions don’t eat grass

Yea

And the deer can’t run fast enough

Yea

And the lions must have their meal

Yea

So the herds get eaten young

Yea

And the lion is the king of the grasslands 

and then i left the room

 and then i left the room

it has grown dark in here

amidst the voices raised

and the claims laid out in print

so i stood up and walked 

round this table 

from behind the man without a face

covered head to toe with red slips

around the man with the briefcase

that landed with force

and a weary face

I walked round the vultures silently

waiting for the carcass

and the hyenas baring their fangs

I took note of the executioner

standing in a corner with a long ax

and a darker cloak

I walked round the table

and wrote the debts out on the wall

one stroke for money in bags

one line for a life 

and a dot for a frown or a smile

The walls filled up

with strokes and lines and dots

and the darkness grew in here

and then I left 

through the door that remained open

to look at the lone pigeon

standing in the ledge 

together we sat on the ledge 

pecking away at the scales on our feet

as the sun came out to dry our wings

i grew wings as the dew fled

and filled my lungs with the throbbing rays

and i left with the pigeon

away from the strokes and lines and dots

and the claimants waiting in the dark room.

I left the room 

With the pigeon calling his friends from nearby trees

We all saluting the sun

And gulping the fresh air 

Free from the debts and claims

In the dark room getting darker. 

Tufia !!

 Tufia !!

What will the diviner  say

As the beads he flung on the mat

Slowly climbed over each other

Settling in pattern of foreboding

The black arrayed against the white

The trained eye seeing the evil

Coiled and waiting to spring

What would the elders scream

When the diviner relays his divination

Of the pattern on his mat

And the portents from the gods

The propitiation that has been asked

A head for a head, a soul for a soul?

What would the young shout

When asked for their portion of the sacrifice

A head for a head, a soul for a soul

A sacrifice to propitiate the gods

For the sins of the elders

Who have invited the diviner 

Who cast the divination beans?

What would the earth say  

When told of the sacrifice

To come from generation to generation

A head for a head, blood left on the tarmac

A soul for a soul, conscience left in the vaults 

The diviner afraid of the truth

Elders afraid of their sins?

Tufia !!