Why do you need the face?

And you have no love to face

Why do you need a dear tooth brush?

And you have only one rotten tooth,

Why do you struggle for political power?

On your punctured moral history,

Why do you cry for a lot of money?

And little cash you had, dude,

Made you a public drunkard

Why do you talk of your culture?

And Christianity is there for you,

Already your extant traditional cultures,

Are crude and a merciless enslaver?

Why do you need the social face?

And all about you is utter facelessness



I met a rude black beggar,

In affluent heart of Nairobi city,

He begs oafishly with a dirty bowl,

Even begging from fellow beggars,

While rudely insulting the donors,

Why this beggar had a wild law,

To suffocate other beggars,

Into to monopoly of his crudeness

Begging to get capital for begging,

Or use alms on wine and wenches,

With no fear of moral destiny

That the two mess and sicken

Or corrupt and terribly corrupt,

The weakling soul of a serial beggar,



It starts like blurred dizziness,

Falling in place right your front,

With no crystal explanation,

Why your boss shilly’s and shally’s,

From lemon to sugar in a twinkle,

And certainly goes a pure lemon,

On your true efforts and your do’s

Then colleagues become snakes,

Their fangs in towering fuck of your arse,

Above luck that holds the pauper’s fortune,

Spying on you in effort of their mighty,

Like the then youthful Vladimir Putin,

In the ideology torn Germany of yesterday,

Pecking his nose on everything American,

You get a scamp’s name only to be fired,

From your job; a market for your labour

Then out you lugubriously go like a rat,

In your fated fall-out with capitalism,



Home and family double fucking captives

Of salary and sickling heart of your employer,

That held captive your peasant labour,

Poorly feeding the hopeless mouths,

On the round head of your short wife,

She all looks at you in pale askance,

As you walk in with broken shoulders,

Heavily crushed by sadism of capital

From the boss’s misfortune yelling base

That knocked you crazy into wondering

What your family will eat the job is gone,

Suddenly landlord jumps at your testicles,

Crushing them with sure power of rent,

As the bills and rates squelch in a roar,

With all manner of cantankerous rudeness,

Earning you foolish sympathy of your wife,

Her epileptic gone violent on sad news,

Taking refuge to the warped heart of her kin,

Where all donations of roof and roost,

Chances you nothing but sex with fate



Then you follow her to where she went,

Amid tight grip of bottomless fear,

For whereabouts of your wife given then fits,

But you find them all save above your class,

Your wife and your son in the co-husbands house,

They are all well enjoying cosmetic life

For no other god chance,

But to confirm you a destitute

Of money and means,

Not shouting of class and care,

She is in aura of hand-me downs;

New stuff of king-sized garments,

Smelling shrewd funding by the co-husband,

Her chest now overflows joy and esteem,

Not for meeting you once again,

But for the new class of life,

Your son brainwashed clean,

Towards want free identity,

New father and dressed mother,

You are sent dangling in shame’s noose

The co-husband gives you a palliative hug,

But an open scorn downing you saddle’s bow,

Typical of an African erotic leopard

That used to stay in the Muu tree,

Poverty and hunger wavers rarely,

In their royal duty of singing the drill,

For those that have naught,

And makes them to choose no choice,

Like the way you chose to hang in,

With blind appetite for fortune,

But life gave you misfortune’s dish;

The co-husband now masculine and ogles,

Without fear nor favor or pauper’s frailty,

At the strangely refurbished baby face,

Of your untouchable wife in his custody,

He expresses full sympathy to all her past,

Suffered while under your roof,

But contrastingly as skeptical he remains,

To all your genuine hopes for the future,

His wife looks at you in the full measure

Of malice and derogation in Olympiad class

You were garbage at municipal pit,

Or something less in value than above,

For all the ten and four days of your life,

You sheltered from hunger at co-husband house,



Heart’s sorrow bridges you to treasure,

You could not access till jostled by fate,

When in joy the heart rarely peregrinates

Now boredom amid plenty takes you out,

Of co-husband roof reeking cheap riches,

Worn-out in patience from seeing open romance

Between him and her as if strangers have met,

Down you walk in somber foot-paces,

To the lonely library the curse materialist,

Your curious nose pecking stiffly,

Into dusty shelves of classical works,

Cowardly picking out Tolstoy’s works,

A set of collected stories and other stuffs,

Don’t forget war and peace,

Or the humongous Anna Karenina,

Then you deeply bury your face like an ostrich

Into the sandy pages of wood feeling,

The Sevastopol or size of land man needs,

Or Tolstoy’s passion for French,

Or joy and fate of families

Or reasons for the armed forces,

Or beastly motivation for types of soldiers,

At most the wine ridden soldiers,

Or the alcohol consumed humanity,

Betraying simplicity of good life,

Or moral obstinacy of reason,



Laws have no gender,

But some thoughts of women,

In regard to supposed life of man,

Graces the need for sex of law,

Silently overt thoughts of women,

Armed to teeth and nails in ploys,

To twist and supple man’s image,

Impels the world to sire female laws,



A brief muse about afro cinemas,

Before it breaks into witchcraft scene,

Takes you to particular moments,

Of man and woman in life,

In deep thoughts of past glory

In deep thoughts of past grief,

Better is he in deep thoughts,

Of his grieves that are past,

Than him who is in deep thoughts,

Of his glory that is past,

Plato in apology to Athenians,

Was in logical thoughts,

Of his past political grieves,

When he yield true pearls,

That life un-examined is not worth living,


Born Lev Tolstoy,

He grew to be a County,

Vasleyvitch Tolstoy,

Born a peasant,

Then became a mutzhik,

He drunk like a sponge,

During the child hood,

Contracted syphilis twice,

Fought in the Napoleonic war,

Divorced twice or once,

Read Thoreau and Homer

But hated Shakespeare

For his satanic lenience,

To politics and government,

That defy ethos of peace,

In the name of King Lear,

For its glorification of war

A virtue which Marx loved

At age of seventeen,

Leo read the Bible Psalms

Or the Psalter,

King David the narcissist,

King David the war veteran,

His Johari window was big,

Leo read Omar Khayyam,

All a thousand Rubiyats of wine,

Then Mahatma Gandhi read Leo

And Luther King read Gandhi,

Nelson Mandela read all,

But Alfred Nobel defied Leo,

For his public folly in nihilism,

But he reward Leo’s mental children,

With the December something,

At Swedish academy,

My son’s read Leo,

You can win Nobel Prize,

A hundred million at once,

Falling in total swing,

To your poor home,

Will erase poverty in full swing

From the lugubrious face of your home

My daughter’s read Leo Tolstoy,

For his simplicity and spark,

My nephews read Leo, led my niece read Leo

Leo Tolstoy the king of intellectual tsar.



Then through the power of your son,

Your wife becomes remorsefully quilt,

For her over focus to the co-husband,

Already noticed by your son,

She recluses into new psychopathology,

Whence sex is taken media of bribery,

Not for pampering the seminal seeds,

You planted in her feminine thighs,

Before the fallout with capitalism,

Then she steals a moment,

When the co –hubby is away,

She ogles at your face,

Your erotic devil comes back,

Your penis erects up,

You kiss and she kisses,

You put her on your co-s bed,

You go parallel to each other,

Then you fuck one another

And fuck and suck and fuck,



Refreshment! Mind repair of the times;

Safe sex refreshes man more than all,

Your mind comes back ogre-like hurtling,

Your memory comes back virgin young,

Your remember your Doctoral assignment,

By the half mad Ardwings Otieno,

All to your class; Jane Ojuok,

And Jane Wekesa the most sexiest,

What of the Kipsigis short girl; daughter of Sambu,

You hiss anyway! To dine on your books,

Flopping through by browsing through,

As you come to ANOVAs; Analysis of variance,

Poisson probability, Bernoulli Binomiality,

And the fishers test of fish sex!



Then your son finally uncovers,

The cuckold state of your poor heart,

Tortured by the wife’s new lover,

It questions your choices in life,

It questions the virtues calling your tune ?

Guilty tunes you into prison of thoughts,

Gush me not if I forget about this,

Because it conjures pain more than art,

To muse of having a brilliant child,

In the quagmire of lands like Africa,

Where certainty for future looms thinly,

Education and security of your child

Coldly suffocated by brigandage’s stare,



Then your ennui catapults you to roam about,

Then you chance on the anthem of the street;

God my provider, praised be your name,

You are not Allah of terrorists

Nor Jehovah of racist Jews,

But you are my God,

Hope of the street child,

Rock of the street woman,

And fortress of the street urchins,

You love us all in our contortions,

Gays, straight, white, and Negroes,

Without bias nor discrimination,

You have abundantly loved the meek,

With gift of life and blessings of plenty,

For us the rejected and my street dudes

Wading in huge garbage within the municipal,

The source of our food, drink and relish,

My God you are great!



Wonders were in the days of King David,

He wondered a man with a maiden,

A ship in the fleet,

And the eagle in the sky,

But another wonder persists,

Beyond king David to my time,

This is a man on libido,

With erect penis at joint of thighs,

What’s wrong with a man?

When his penis is erect,

Whether an engineer or a duffer,

A genius or a stooge,

When penis is at noon

Where are the brains?

Why always the brawn,

When you erect that short dick,

Walking out of your normal way,

Disappearing into the back street,

To some nondescript corridors,

Your hunger for misfortune gets saluted,

By the street patrons in weird corridors,

A gifted prostitute, brown in complexion,

Her back glorified with man-made buttocks,

Erasing from your eyes her age,

Your mothers age minus white hair,

Then you slavishly bargain not to win,

Now a dizzied creature of fetish of sex,

Your penis wildly erect like pagoda apex

No, herself very calm on melancholy of HIV,

Shrewdly she accepts to give you a wonderful fuck,

At a minuscule fee to your senses; two hundred shillings

You coffle up to the sexual tether,

In senseless dance to the turbulent tune

A tintinnabulation in your ears

Impeachable tyranny of the penis,

You go into a room with her,

A workshop of sucking and fucking,

You can call it a brothel,

But I and Marx we call it bagno,

God prevails and she throws a condom at you

Pulling away her leopard stripped panties,

Letting you see eagle tattoo of on white thighs,

Confused electricity drips in your head,

Then you become a beggar of the year,

Effusively begging for live sex with

Without condom use lest you zest not,

Lest you don’t harvest maximally,

With your dinosaur’s testicles,

She cunningly accepts your request,

In her full knowledge of your kamikaze,

Villains commit when dying for no course,

She gives it an ok, but at a small fee

You go on to pay as if possessed,

By the devil of paying for nonsense,

And then you suck her clitoris live,

Before gracing your joy with live fuck,

She feels nothing in entire of her body,

For her vaginal purse is spacious,

Like the side pockets of your trouser,

You achieve early orgasm to ejaculate,

She moans lightly like a teased Carmel,

She pushes you away with a sober vim,

You collapse aside in a dull thud

Like a dead bird from ruffian roof,

Your penis now flappy

Not reflecting a shuttle in crypt,

In volcanacity of the past minute,

Then you look at her with bent eyes,

You see her sporadic white hairs,

On forehead and between her thighs,

She is looking stupid but not foolish,

She breaks into fits of wild coughing,

Accidentally dropping HIV palliative drugs,

The horrendous ARV’s

You now hang around there agape

Niggardly chewing full size of misfortune,

In your voracious mandibles,



You go to town library,

Your memory a glow,

With your misfortunes,

Harvested from harlot fuck,

You are now counting,

Days left for you to die,

You will leave no legacy,

No cows, hen, crop or property,

As a pass-me-down,

For your poor son,

You enter into library,

You spot Okot p Bitek,

The Omar Khayyam of Uganda,

You land on his set of poems;

Under the title; song of Malaya,

And the other: song of a prisoner,

And the song of a soldier

And the white teeth,

lang par lawing

Lang par Ocoli

You seek solace in reading them,

Then your heals up on his words,

Full praises of wine and women,

Of a fuck with Malaya

Of sex with prostitutes,

He supplicates all his gods of art,

Plus all of his health and wealth,

You get again rejuvenated,

Growing a Tigre’s chest,

With sense of immortality

Above HIV and aids,

You walk back,

Like Mao Zedong in the long march

To the co-husband’s house,



We need more Jews, than Arabs,

For the Jews can do,

More good than evil,

In the world and in heaven,

Wonderful inventions,

Go to their names,

Atomic bomb of Einstein,

Das kapita of Karl Mary,

Literary invention of the bible,

Microsoft Corporation,

Benjamin Disraeli,

The bank of England,

The Freemason,

Are all not Jewish efforts?

And more science efforts,

Logic and literature,

But they have also lied,

Deceived us monumentally,

They have fed us on falsehood;

Sexless origin of Jesus Christ,

Six-million deaths in the holocaust,

Linking Osama Bin laden to twin towers,

Claiming Uganda their holy land,

Raping Arabs at Gaza

On claim of Godliness,

These are lies and more lies,



Then you wonder around,

Giving co-husband breathing space,

You go back to the library,

Hoping to read sex poems,

And sometimes to wine,

Of Khayyam’s rubiyat,

You don’t get them,

All are out on short loan,

But you now get the Koran,

You make a dare to read it,

Reading Al bagarah, Al Fatiyah,

And all other Al’s you do get,

I tell you the Koran is very good,

Then Koran intellectualized,

But most honest in art and style,

Islam is very honest in style

Enjoying simplicity and obstinacy,

The dual virtues made Islam rocky,

No exaggeration but Allah’s word,

Tightly pristine with Arabic past,

Precise and worth serious trust,

Islamic terrorists are Islamic virtues,

Of religious honesty and so forth,

This makes them open terrorists,

If you want a serious religion,

Try Islam my dear brother,

And if you want confusion,

Not Christianity for its sham,



Life in the house of co-husband,

Is not a glass of wine,

Or a horn of snuff,

It’s a testimony of human agony,

Clean contradiction to purpose of life,

It makes you to reminisce and remember,

Your student days in Europe,

In United Kingdom of Europe,

When on science scholarship,

At the university or Wales,

In Scotland,

Remember when you reported,

And registered for medicine

White students went berserk,

They all pulled out of the course,

And deregistered from medicine.

All went for pharmacy in lieu,

What was the reason for this?

Perhaps a wonder for a chimpanzee,

Studying medicine at the university,

And true it is

Some Scotsmen have never in their life,

Seen a Blackman from close range,

To make it worse than usual

Some black men like you,

Are as rugged and crude in the look,

Anyway, one boy took guts to register

For the same course you were to do,

Your goodness you got a classmate,

All went well and the semester started,

After a while you proved yourself a man,

For your brilliance come anything book–work

Silent neurosis made you to love God,

You chose to born again from blackness,

So that you could foolishly walk around,

In piety that Christianity makes an African a man,

Antithesis to it you got in the whites only church.

The Anglican Church in the suburb of Wales,

On one lonely boring Sunday,

Your dare a peregrination,

And popped into the church without a notice,

As you walked into the church

You got the provost active on the floor,

Roaring like a he-goat on the wave of heat,

Announcing Jesus the Christ to all,

As if the audience was a society of the deaf,

But not royal oriented United Kingdomers,

Silence clouded the church on your sight,

In the measure of transistor radio on blackout,

Indeed blackness of your melanin rich skin

Gave the provost a blank check of blackout

He expected not nether from the black world,

Expressed in entry of black a creature like,

Faithful flocks went faithlessly wild,

They began jumping out and running away

In a higgledy-piggledy haste from the black beast

Women and children crying like hypochondriacs,

For God’s help from the black beast

The cry in cacophony poked the deaf God,

Your presence brother was black arrival,

It paralyzed the whole church,

Down to innate humanity,

The provost to guts to calm the situation,

Folks and flocks flocked back like young tucks,

From their respective crests of hysteria

On recombombulation of looking at you

Through the safe windows grills,

In fear poses to acclimatize to blackness,

Harmlessly planted on the left side of the church,

Paving way for flocks to come back to the right,

Phenomenally dividing the church into two humanities,

Horrendous black humanity singly on the left,

And frightened white humanity on the right,

The the provost sobered up to clear the mess,

He asked you to quickly walk out of the church,

If need be only to comeback on a vetted notice,

Of three months prior to your visit,

You walked out like snake’s tail,

Though you came in with a stampede

In the manner of tiger’s chest,

Good, peace you walked away,

Solacing your folly with a hymn,

Mumbling to yourself in-audibly

Walking straight to your pigeonhole,

Under glaring reality illiterate Christianity,

Blind to knowledge that blackness threatens religion,

Always a young bull remembers not the previous injuries,

a week later you healed from the trauma of melanin curse

Then you went out stubbornly for a modern shave,

Your curly African hair had biblically overgrown,

Little you knew that Scottish barbers are fully of scorn,

They don’t serve black heads with a modern shave

You went for the first barber, he declined religiously

The third barber declined frenetically,

The fourth barber examined your head and never talked,

The fifth barber directed you to the horse shearer,

As the only barber ready to dare his tools of work,

Beyond the obvious to shave a black head,

You went back to the house unshaved

Regretting why you are black in the white world,

In the careful ocean or white correctness

Back to your room you went like a cowed chicken,

Heaving the mass of your black flesh,

On the wick-work of a bed,

You slept soundly and deep

You fondly dreamed of Kenya your poor home,

Land full of peasantry riches within its borders,

The morning came with contrasting fall of bliss,

On the horn of truth that memories die with purpose,

You resumed your bookwork anew with unique spirit,

Reading medicine like Gregor Mendel himself

Or Hippocrates and Alexander Fleming,

Counter blow to the current; a twist of fate cropped up,

You fell in a whirl-winding love with a white girl,

This Scottish girl dared the beast in your blackness,

Perhaps she wanted to know power in the black sex,

Little did she know that she was rattling a tired snake?

I mean your first hug to her sent her bananas,

She felt sensual warmth of its kind in her life,

You kissed her beastly, sending her nerves mumbo-jumbo,

She moaned on each kiss like a male pig being castrated

Your mouth lively touched hers,

Your body warmed her pelvis and wide groin,

Beyond the callous imagination of European virginity,

She dated you effortless, you accepted with a pulse

She forgot the date and came to your room a day earlier,

Bold walking to your house in the mid of the day,

You kissed her fondly in a tune of three hours,

She was warm and non-resisting like a warmed rubber tube,

You laid her on the your noisy bed, pulled off her lingerie,

Then with one sharp pierce you broke her virginity,

Penetrating her little genitals with your stiff penis,

She went wild and groaned like Christ at the graveside of Lazarus,

You took you time then you ejaculated,

Your warm semen into something amid her thighs,

A black triangle amid the end her soft white thighs

She merely convulsed but remained warm,

She came back to senses without expectation,

She found herself in the loving black arms,

Nicely pampered and protected from harms of life,

She looked at your face with stern eyes of love,

Then you kissed her fondly like an Olympiad love-maker

She began shedding tears of love and lost virginity,

Tears of strange love, the first love,

You also cried, shedding lovely tears for your blackness

As she too cried for her lovely whiteness,

Your love for each other was momentarily equable,

You were both sandwiched in each other’s arms,

She made an offer to your lovely black soul,

That she takes you to her parents for a show up

Pressure to which you softly surrendered,

As we confirm the folk gem that;

Even the strong and wise easily flex under pressure of love,

You accepted to go to her parents

In your capacity as a potential suitor from the black world,

You got to her home in a style not to be spoken,

She went to the bathroom for a shower,

Before she came out from the bathroom

Each member of her family was on you;

Raining fists, stones, clubs truncheons and gnashing,

On your black skin like the bees on a well scented flower,

Her was father was beating you with no mercy,

Her mother was beating you neurotically,

Brothers and sisters jabbing you too;

They all thought you were a ghost,

Or a beast, or a devil, or astray chimpanzee,

Or an active Satan lose from the nether world,

But when she came out of the bathroom,

She half naked and panting, her sexy breast pointing at the Sun,

She pleaded and implored with her family,

To bear with your black skin, as it was only shallow,

Veneering your goodness in totality of humanness,

She averred you a man studying for medicine degree,

At the royal University of Wales,

They all went agog and mesmerized;

How can an ape study for medicine!

You were finally given one effective jab in your cheeks,

To catapult you out of the white home of love,

To jostle you out of the home of your blind love,

You complied and came out running at bitch’s pace

As if being chased by a hundred deaths,

You ran beyond the reach of scholarship,

You had been given at the Wales University

You got back to Kenyan a literate young man,

Straight you b to Moi University,

For a cheaper degree in law,

You cursed yourself and said to hell!

To hell with Wales university

To hell with its scholarship

To hell with medical studies,



Christmas day gets you there,

In the co-husband’s house

In that sunny and topical town,

Called Kakamega or esiyeywe,

In western province,

Of a country called Kenya,

In the eastern part or Africa,

In the non developed world

Then Christmas day of 2014 gets you there,

It was a Christmas in Kakamega,

Or Christmas in the co-hubby’s house,

Or Christmas in impecuniousness,

Or Christmas on empty pockets,

Or why Christmas for sure!

Why Christmas in Africa’s

Why Christmas in Christendom

It’s not written anywhere,

In the sixty six biblical books,

Neither is it in the apocrypha,

Not anywhere in Koran

Not anywhere in Judaism,

Dini ya Masambwa

Or Hindu, then why Christmas,

Is it an overture of Roman imperialism?

In its Christo-pagan arm of the Catholic faith,

As it is already taken over by commercialism,

As the center-piece of the opium for masses,

Carefully perpetrated to achieve commercial gains,

And imperial strength in fetishism of commodities ,

I remember those days of our childhood

Christmas was the church protégé

Today it’s a commercial Xmas,

And Xmas is protégé of commerce,

And Xmas is protégé of freemason

And Xmas is protégé of politics

And Xmas is protégé of insurance oligarchy

And Xmas is protégé of coca-cola

And Xmas is protégé of Chase bank,

They all brand in artfully style

To make it more sex than a harlot,

And seduce the senseless to poor to spend,

Without sense nor reason for value addition,

Provoking commercial madness of china today,

To have knowledge that Christmas as high season,

For factory goods business in Africa,

To sell motor bicycles,

And the father-Christmas toys,

When you walked out with your pregnant wife,

To have a look-see at the suburb for Xmas,

You come face to face with Xmas-madness in Africa;

Men and women were drunk,

And they were still drinking,

Some gyrating their emaciated bosoms

To the high rollicking rumba music,

You moved ahead for your way home,

Across a certain a woodlot,

You came to a man and woman

Both of them naked to the nudity,

A thin tall man on top of huge stumpy woman,,

The man pushing his waist, up and down,

The woman was reciprocating dutifully,

On slight groans of finish! Finish dear!

Please finish! My vagina is dry and burning!

The scene sent your wife crazy

Forgetting her pregnancy,

She laughed and giggled and giggled

Till you got home on in the co-husband’s house,




You get back to the house,

You find your co-hubby,

Very happy and tipsy,

With dog eared books,

Browsing through them,

He welcomes you warmly;

Merry Christmas Basakwa!

Basakwa meaning a man

You married from the same home with,

You retort with care;

Merry Christmas Basakwa

He orders your wife to the kitchen

To prepare coffee for you,

You begun your imagination,

And he pokes you off;

With an intrigue of a question;

Did you know twin towers?

The world trade center?

Do you believe in the story of their bombing?

Did Osama bin laden bomb them?

Then he intervenes, No, it was not Osama,

Nor any Islamic organization,

Nor Algaeda

Nor Al shabab

They didn’t bomb twin towers,

They were the Jews

That bombed the towers,

To dupe America into war,

On Islam and Arab Nation

On behalf of the Jews,

Because if Jews on their own,

Fight with Arabs,

Arabs will finish them

So they duped Americans,

This is the same way,

Churchill duped Americans

By sinking American cargo Ships,

Peaceful ships of trade,

Using his warships

With Germany labels,

He capsized the American ships,

Then Americans got provoked,

Beyond their raw fear in isolation,

And jumped into war like a leopard,

The Second World War

Against Adolf Hitler,

Or just in the same way,

Jews bombed the aero-planes

At the Lockerbie sky,

Then blamed Gaddafi

And Americans believed,

They began hunting for Gaddafi,

Their black sleuth

Barrack Obama killed him

Obama is a fearless Nigger,

Infected with reverse racism,

Or just in the same way

Uhuru Kenyatta of Kenya,

When he became the president

He used the state machinery,

to bomb the Westgate Mall,

By so doing, he decoyed foolish public

He killed Africa’s beacon of poetry,

Elder Kofi Awoonor,

This world my brother,

Let me dirge him,

It was for no big deal,

But to be set free from the I.C.C trial

On pretext of his moral duty,

In Anti- terrorism, fighting the Somali’s,

So lies have reigned

In the history of man

More than reign of truth,

I believe you are getting me,

My dear Basakwa….

Then the wife came in

With a tray or coffee,



Then you sit alone,

And reflect,

About the Jews,

And black men,

That died in great world wars,

Then you sense a big lie by the Jews,

That six million of them,

In a holocaust by killed by Hitler,

During the war, it is a lie,

Why and because; by 1939

Total Germany citizens were nine million,

Jews inclusive as Germany citizens then,

After the second world war in 1945,

Germany was not three million people

How six million got killed?

Indeed they were the black Africans ,

Thad died most,

In the two wars,

European governments

Never counted African deaths,

African losing life was nothing,

How many black men died

During world war two?

If it’s a bad question

Forgive me but is sensible to ask,

How many North Africans are today?

Were taken to the quantanamo prison?

I don’t know who is bound to answer,

But it is an open forum, for a dialogue

Or trialogue in a song likes a poetic antiphon

Hence the black word power in polyalogism!



Fear of numbers,

And tentacles of poverty

What came first?

Africans are poor,

And they fear mathematics,

Apart from the American Blackwell,

He achieved some efforts,

To be a mediocre statistician,

Fear of numbers,

Is fear or success

No great mind

Is non-statistical,

Africa’s culture of numero-phoba,

Has a hand in afro-poverty

Why do black men fear numbers?

Is that they are cursed,

Or the mathematics teachers are usually hostile,

Can we mix mathematic s in history?

Or mix mathematics s in folklore

Or mix mathematics s with sexology,

Or put mathematics inside the bible,

or even we forget about mathematics

And set Africa free from tyranny of numbers

And make senseless the burden of development,

After we have all mixed mathematics with football,

And if there is no solution to fear of mathematics

It will be so for our development that needs not numbers



The heart of a woman is never cold,

it is always possessed by selfishness or a man,

It will only rest to its peace,

After it has enslaved one’s son,

For no other reason but pettiness of purpose

On sheer pretext of shortness of the penis,

To convert a man into herbal tea servant,

Or a cowardly hen pecked major domo,

When she rolls on borrowed bed,

Furnishing her urban nails,

To have a man pay for up her dress,

A dress so open on the backside with craftiness,

As she confirms to the on-lookers,

Crafty highness and might of her beauty,

To hard working man at the local garage

Or have an idle man take her car to the garage,

And of course to pay bills after its mend,

At her pretext of seductive garage men,

Or to have a silly man spend his whole salary,

On flowers and earings and necklaces

Not forgetting the overpriced sanitary bads,

As she shrewdly but stuff her money keenly,

In the lucrative bank account at the city bank,

To worship her success as if it is co-owned,

To drive a man’s car on potholed toad,

During that silly weekend trip,

To gore a man emotionally,

In to a birthday duel for a lullaby,

To have a husband become a cook,

Cooking ugali for the city queens

As a stern warning hangs at doorstep,

Fierce dogs are looming inside here”,

“Don’t dare my friend to come in at all”

But for nothing lest knife mates get him cooking,

as the woman basks in the glare of T.V light,

a woman yearns for a man to pay the swimming costs,

And work full time in praise of beauty of her boobs,

As he also adores the shape of hips,

I a full song praising her beauty,

Against the full current of her confirmed ugliness,

On all the social media to have a man as comrade,

In church gossips and squelch,

To have a man who can do her that sweet thing,

Women like being done by men,

After which she gets a slave,

At whom she can hurl,

Her verbal arrows

From her warped arch of emotions,



Then you get razed up

With the glowing news,

On the eve of Xmas day,

Anchored on your co-hubby’s TV,

Announcing death of black Rhino,

She died at the age of 43

At Maasai Mara game reserve,

It was overwhelmed by waters,

Of the fluvialy swollen Mara River,

Waters buoyed away the rhino,

To his peaceful death agony of many,

Her death had to send the government awry?

To announce mournfully rhino’s death,

More bamboozling when given state burial,

For having defied bullets from the parrel of the poachers

Throughout its stay in these turbulent worlds

Of the selfish man, poachers and swashbucklers,

In mad drive for money primitive accumulation,

Of filthy abundant wealth,

Killing all the animals and cutting down all trees,

Taking wood to dirty factories yelling smoke into air,

Petrifying all the airs as it makes breaths so hard,

Setting in a warmed globe to be hand maid of blood moon”

Punctured faith of earth’s end

When entire folly pertains in man’s avarice,

Hastily eating pillars of the earth,

With care nor caution,

Why not earth’s reciprocation by eating you piecemeal

In the full swing of your endangered capacity,



There are pains of more agony

Above power of words to express,

Not all pains are there,

To be measured by man’s knowledge

They go above this,

Like the pain of having a wrong wife,

Leave alone marriage to a wrong man,

A spouse knowing not what you want,

Nor cares to know not what you want,

Nor cares do know what you befit,

She prays a lot for the donor’s bread,

Than the one you earn by your sweat,

She feeds your child in messy soup,

On shame and agony from donation,

As she betrays all your plans,

To come out as home’s succor,

The pain of seeing your child,

Begging to eat, whether from stranger or kin,

It is again the ghastly pain to encounter,

of all it gores the heart with horror,

Horrendous most on leeway of your spouse,

Pains of marriage are a distress,

They suck your fats like cancer,

As their public treatment is a fountain or shame,

Scorn and laughs to eat your arise,

Curse of a wrong wife is the deep most curses,

Having an equal measure in the curse of a wrong husband,

Curse of marriage bridges sorrow;

You can harvest when eating donors bread,

On restituted tongue of your beloved son,



You come now to reality,

With impotence of your hands,

And the potency of your fate

Pressing death and bad luck

To reign your life like Ceaser in Rome or

Mobutu in Congo,

Eating away your beloved ones,

Sisters and brothers,

Uncles and aunts

Leaving with you sludge of your blood,

Alcoholic brothers and blind sisters,

Thieving brothers and neurotic sisters,

The money you earn gets you nowhere,

Wasted away daily on their ceaseless savage,

As a night runners outside your hut

Transforms into a black cat, or a black cow,

Sometimes into huge a bat,

Or into special creatures,

Only known to village dwellers in Kenya

Western Kenyans call them as enjayu,

Now the night-runner dances with heavy footfalls,

Outside on the fresh grave of your father,

Picking red soils from the grave

Throwing them rudely onto your bed,

Through the ruffian openings at the roof,

Hitting your awed head in fury,

Cursing the money of your salary

To eternal state of powerlessness,

For it to only have germ in clubs,

But purely paralyzed by voodoo

In any effort to buy a value



Your stay in the co-hubby’s wanes

Days and money slowly goes

Menus change from the usual flesh,

Gradually and gradually into leaves,

Announcing the pocket reality,

Always inherent in street wisdom;

That there are only three things in the word,

Always smelling on the third days;

Visitors, fish and girl friends,

You see now the wave of concern,

He had been having in your wife simmers,

He now comes from ante-chamber,

With a tray full of eggs in the hands,

He makes a snobbish gift,

To your wife as you look on

He claims it charitable move,

To hold up nutrition of your son,

Only you discover sometimes after,

The gift was a tray of rotten eggs

You wonder and get bamboozled,

By what is wrong with people,

Claiming to be riche when not

They suffer from poverty of manners most,

Just like an African chicken in cesspool

Or is it the usual moral fiber of the rich

To use the poor in a sly,

With vision to make filthy riches,

But always evading the reverse,

To use riches in clean way,

With vision to help the poor,



You look around,

At all the faience you have,

Intaglio and glyptic you own

In the hearth of your kitchen and beyond,

You only see china; they are made in china,

Even the tooth picks and wooden comb,

Chinese dragoon of economy and technology

Gradually engulfs and twines Africa’s weak muscles

Pulling Africa’s youth from schools and colleges,

To come and ride trishaws and motor bicycles,

And listen a one battery radio and to its music,

As they put on wristwatches digitally blinking,

With Vodafone cell –phones in their velvety trousers

Swash-buckling into early sex and early marriage,

As their choices are made in china

Even their middle income economy

Is not homespun as such,

But a mere tentacle of china,

I now see the Chinese all over,

In the corridors and in rural hamlets,

And boroughs and villages and in night clubs,

At the village wells and boreholes,

They are selling “mutura” and roasted maize

Trapping snakes and contraband-ing ivory,

Cleaning sewages and mending culverts and gabions,

As sons of Africa idle around for office work,

As if they are now royal idlers blessed with laziness,

Loafing around for certificate based jobs

When the Chinese passionately mend the roads

From which they make money to fuck African women,

Impregnate them even and dump them,

For no big reason but for the next woman

They fuck back daughters confusiously, in the Kung fu tze style,

At the Thika super highway and Malakis village water wells

Here they will leave humanity a half yellow and half black



Then you reconnoiter to the unknown

Beyond boundaries of culture,

And confines of history

As the obvious goes selective,

But the special breaks monotony,

When you run into their turfs

Smoking and dancing erriely

Energetically like a Spanish bull

Beguilingly beautiful and tall,

But exuberant in the sparkle of the eye,

Dancing to one another as if ordered,

They had no business for convention

Nor any business for remedy

All awakened beyond self-creation,

Beyond superiorities of the partriachy,

They all dancing the tune called by matriarchy

Pipers with not hate nor vice,

But at sympathy with infinitesimal nature

The true mother of all wonders,

More than pretentious artificiality

In gender law of perfection,

Only favours traditional ignorance

Mistaken for the purity of hearts,

Yet deified by superior sins,

Only condemned among the meek,

But let us flex our minds,

To venture deep in the hilly abyss,

And dance to gender beat,

On the augmentos of new music,

Wafted only by lesbian fingers,

On the banjo and the drumbeat,

For glory of God the creator,



My heart was burning inside my chest,

Lack of reason harassing my mind,

Wrongly befogged to falsely suspect,

Sex and sex between Co-husband,

And my pregnant wife,

Only to be brought to a stunning reality,

On the intactness of my sexual turf,

The troublesome beauty, Abduction of my juvenility,

In the callousness of my mind,

Called the wife on which imposed the self,

As she counter imposed me down to my foolishness

And selfish creed to patent sexual freedom,

Of one’s daughter into sexual proscription,

List I knew that his impotency in his long penis,

Made him harmless and dovish docile,

he could not manage a fuck with my pregnant wife,

a beautiful discovery making me glow with flames of joy



Then Xmas festival ends with politics,

Killing and killing the politically deviant,

On the last day of inglorious December

As three young Kenyans get killed,

Because of politics in Kenya,

Three innocent middle aged or young men,

In the ages of forty, active and educated,

One Fidel Odinga another meshack Yeibei,

Two fibrand Nilotic antecedents

And one prominent journalist,

In the Eldoret town, for covering ICC news,

Fidel Odinga the cool one of Nyanza,

And Meshack Yebei the suave one,

And the ICC witness against the government

Against the crime on humanity

They killed Yebei brutally,

They chopped off his ears and plugged out his penis

They all crushed the balls and left him to rot,

Putrefy in the bush in the chilly winds of death,

As the fellow too kills the prince of communism,

Smooth boy of Marxism for fear of tribe and democracy,

They killed them gold blood they made them follow tune.

And dance mortal dance of Robert Ouko, the Nyadhin — jasimpa,

Son of the lake born out of wedlock,

He was shot dead and roasted electrically,

And eyes gorged by the vassals or dark days,

The two arms of Moi, himself in the full gear,

Of Kenyan presidency supervised

Ouko’s murder at Nakuru killer’s lounge,

and airlifted him to Dala in Koru

As they pulled Yebei’s dead torso,

On a sleigh to Nandi Gaa in Turbo,

This politics of murder by the young and strong

Surrounded by beauty that be the young and sexy secretaries,

Of Ethiopian beauty and Somali waist-lines

Which they enjoy to fuck inside the cabins

Of state aero-planes in the flight

Where eyes of the peasants will never see,

The fucking value of their tax money

Hence the question that ever beguiles me;

Is black politics possible without murder and politics?

I will last to my old age in wait for the answer



Still in the co-hubby’s domain

Reminiscing Langata school girls,

Within the verge of the human limits,

Of New Year birth, clothed in full spirit,

Of war and struggle against land grabbers

They embattled the police fearlessly,

The policemen were clothed in combat gear;

Boots and clubs , Tear-gas and hot spray,

Dogs- and terror, Guns and guns lings,

In no other stretch but to mar juvenile spirit

Of primary school girls of lang’ata school,

the spirit or war, for democracy

And land the germ of land-grabbing

But police terror never killed the spirit



When you gag the media,

Mr. honorable Powers that be,

You cunningly strangulate the air waves,

Bulldozing the media it with heavy law

Into corners of fear and miseries

Where will poor put their tongues?

To vent their grieves as they moan their agony,

And expose their say for public concern,

You Mr. Powers that be get my words

Don’t gag the media; please don’t gag the press,

And when you gag it your wont gag misfortune,

That will befall your political turf,



Then your mind roves,

Peregrinates from place to place,

One memory to another,

Hating all that comes in your mind,

Your date of birth and your place of birth

Family history at most rules with sweets bitterness

Lacing poverty’s hangover,

With tastes of wormwood and so forth,



Wine alone is not bad

For it lifts high sorrowful hearts,

Condemns to oblivion signs of stress

And makes a full clever,

And sublate cleverness into animal ability,

But wine seller’s heart is toxic,

More than a thousand times

Than strong wine she makes money from,

She minds not what wine does,

To marriages and punctured lives,

She minds not of HIV spread

As a child of her trade ware,

Or even street families from homes broken by wine,

Or the weakly emaciated patrons,

Desperately punctured by her stuff,

The Wine seller’s heart,

Is made of snake’s poison

And scorpions, serum

It derives pleasure from sorrow

Man waywardness is her squab dish,

Driving families and moral duties

Down the abyss of hopelessness,

She sells wine to buy herself milk

She sells wine to buy her sons land

She sexually induces the young into winery

She empties their pockets with power of sexual wine,

Leaving me them to home

When only broke impecunious drunkards,

Toothless barking unknown greetings

Now she smile with passion snipping at them

She shrewdly retreats to count cash proceeds,

From the ruthless sale or her wiles,

On the other end carousers take stock of injuries

She empathizes not with the mire of children,

of her drunkard clients, when they miss school and food,

To stave their father’s loyalty to the royalty or wine

She punctuates these with a clandestine giggle,

She devilishly skulks a snook

At the folly of man in her clientele,

With money on the way to carouse,

As they condemn their own families,

Into destitution and unhappiness,

At ploy of shrewdness of the wine-seller,

To serve indigo dark heart

With glory and joy,

From bare misfortune

Chewed by wine takers,

She goes not for new stock

She only dilutes old stocks of wine

With dirty water, a sludge from pant wash,

Her pants and lingerie and brassiere and towels,

Black ash of her scanty beards

She puts in this solution or wash-outs,

She dilutes them in wine for selling,

Voodoo power her business secret,

To hold captive and tethered those drinking,

On the rope of cruel urge of appetite,

Wild and torturous urge for her wine

She feels sweet from her antechamber

Where she nourishes her heart

On the human bondage of preys



Adam Smith was for wealth of nations,

But John Ruskin and Mahatma Gandhi bowed

At the sussed up truth in the illeth of the nations,

Their wealth is none but kismet of nations

Just like a fortnight with co-H, nations go through

The copula leads nowhere but efforts below the weight

of fate and destiny,


She delivers a baby boy

With a wild look,

Her face with strange nose

The wedged head is eyesore

Stumpy and bowed legs

Ending in long foots,

With pumpkin like checks,

It looks like your co-husbands,



I blame God

If at all he created me

Giving a penis that didn’t need,

God should have consulted

Or carefully researched

If I needed a penis or not,

The penis most useless thing,

It has made me poor,

a useless and sexy black pauper!



Why did you kill Cecil?

Out of fun and not war,

Why did you kill him?

For no reason but psychopath,

You killed our only lion,

The bread winner of our day,

Couldn’t you buy him to your den?

If envy crippled you reason,


Cecil our lion, the beacon of Africa,

His ogle at visitors, mess socio-paths,

To Place victuals; wine and food,

On our poor tables, wherewithal plus,

His roar makes Africa a place to be,

His forelimbs a strength of our nature,

The huge tongue a galaxy of symbols,

Then you slug his head; a paradox;


Was it racism against animals?

Or a nervous system gone astray?

Dr. Palmer you killed Cecil the lion,

Of Bulawayo, heart of Rhodesia,

You posed as a visitor, courtesy of host,

On a natural look-see in nature walk,

Or you though Mugabe is lion Cecil,

You were wrong in the crush of souls;

Life of man and animal are both sacred,

Remove it for fun and prove a gnat,

Remove it for reason, nature will listen,

But not to the weird sadists of thy sod,

Glorified in assassination of callous nature;


Listen to my song of nature’s love, you folks;

Keep fauna and flora in your proximity,

Tightly intact as call of moral duty,

To all which every living man is duty bound,

You dumbfound me now by malice to nature,

Alack; destroy them at your own risk, mark-you;

Injured environment is merciless to man,

From heavy ozone you exude in the tundra,

To wild poaching you execute in tropics,

Chewing fortune in elephant tusks,

You condemn the species to chew a doomsday,

Perfecting your neurosis in stampede of times,

You will never guarantee me of nothing cozy,

Yet to be found in the days of tomorrow,

Calm back to knowledge of earthly unity,

Blackness and whiteness are nature’s unity

Chances are that the first will be last,

As the erstwhile last ones in glory bask,

For it is last pettiness to murder a lion,

For no other reason but coveting of neighbours;




Everywhere I go there is a snake

Poisonous and ready to bite my heel

Its throat swollen with the venom

Its eyes glaring at me with a ray of death,

Standing head high on its tail,

Wagging its head from side to side

Hunting for where to bite me lethally,

When on my way going home

I chanced on the black snake

I was horrified into a fast run

Stopping only at my house

My heart violently throbbing,

I went to my bedroom to take cover

Under my old shredded shawls

A snake jumped out of the blankets,

I too jumped away, terrified,

I ran way fearing not to cry

I kept on running, death was chasing me

At the speed of my legs’ maximum capacity

Past my father’s lonely white grave

I dashed into my mother’s house

She was not in the house, in all the corners,

But on her bed was a glittering coil of a black snake,

I became dizzied, in full grip of fear,

Struggling to see clearly

If the snake was coiling on my mother,

Good luck; it was not, but where was she?

I dallied there not to get the answer

I don’t know how I got myself out,

Running away like an Olympiad night runner,

I don’t know how the snakes new my whereabouts

Their spies must be top notch of all,

Prying on me all the time, even when I go to shit,

They pried on the size, smell and colour of my shit

Snakes read my private life like an open book,

My speed when running as been my savior,

Saving me from ever threatening venomous bite,



Nigeria the beacon of Africa,

An altar of Africa’s beauty,

Cradle of African consciousness,

That towed pan-Africanism,

To its true home and glory,

Nigeria the domain of black talent,

Boiling with sharp branded art and vintage poetry,

Exporting intellect and knowledge to earth’s zenith,

You are the placenta that feeds fetal African theatre,

To a postmodern birth in spectacular vintage,

Nigeria the land that sired a black Nobelite,

Of rhetoric and black logic; Wole Soyinka,

The land of heroic Achebe and patriotic Okigbo,

The Born masters of pen pushing and storytelling,

The land of she-Leo Tolstoy: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie,

Cole Teju, Captain Amadi and the genius Ben Okri,

The land of peace loving Abubakar Abdusalami

The land in which music glows like a flame,

In the coals of lips on the head of Rus Kimono,

The land of oil wells and palm wine,

Blessed with elegancy of climate,

Beautiful terrains with unique fauna and flora,

The showy eagles in the azure of your skies,

Are ever shooting African contraltos down,

To your culture rich ears and art sensitive nerves,

In the full realm of reasons and logic

Nurtured by strength of your Islam

Unshakeable stature of your Christian piety,

Nigeria the uncompleted darling of world,

Desperately admired by each and every soul,

For your cultural competence and vintage in art,

Brimful in your gift of the populous humanity,

Ostensibly riding in forefront of development,

Like no other civilization of the times,

Kindly don’t fight again,

Why chaos Nigeria this time round,

Appetite of power is rooted in human folly,

It is like instinct of war and strife,

Both are ultimate children of human evil,

They are the same that killed Okigbo,

They took Massoud Abiola to precocious death,

Killed Ken Saro Wiwa and boomeranged fiendish Abaja,

War and chaos is the only threat to your talent,

War suffocates you time for afro-cinema theatre,

Poetry and prose will be squarely chimed,

On the cruxificatory stake fuelled by selfish politics,

Don’t fight now Nigeria for reasons command so,

Let any one of you be the president,

As long as he is Naija born,

Whether from Abeokuta or Port Harcourt,

Or from Kaduna in the North wheresoever’s,

From the Yoruba or the Fulani,

From the Berber or the Igbo,

From the northern Muslim

Or the southern Christo-Africanism,

Care not Nigeria of gender or so,

As longer s/he is a Nigerian,

Whether black or white or Arabian,

Lesbian or gay or an Osu girl,

Young like Ikemefuna or old like Obierika,

Let him rule for the sake of peace,

And people’s love for Nigeria,

Chaos gives you no palm yam,

As protégés of your history scot-free testifies;

From Biafra you harvested zero yams,

It was only bloodshed and sorrow you ripped,

In Boko-Haram you are harvesting no yam,

Other than lose of virgins and death of the youths,

My heart is totally weak and wearied,

Just like dears of an old woman,

With valour like a virgin in Night’s wee,

Before the threatening tor of chaos in Nigeria,

My prayer straight to gods of war in Nigeria,

To withhold rivulets of irrational anger and political ire

Lest dear sons and daughters of Nigeria fight, Amen



All black virtues and white vices to day

Point to the reality around the British Empire

Or the famous Great Britain

Or the British Commonwealth

If not the English commonwealth

That its next monarch must be an African

Truly an African without streaks of cosmetic Africanity

Deeply black in colour,

Negro in race and African in blood,

The monarchy of England should not be confined

To the parochial and Provencal English blood

Falsely named the royal blood

What a misnomer? For science and religion

Has nothing in history like the royal blood

But only brutal probability of genetics

Ever and ever will befall humanity,

The royalty of blood is only a smokescreen for racism

Or inter European apartheid or apartheid in universality,

The empire of British Commonwealth, Gambia included

Is not about the royal blood of charlese, Elizabeth nor Victoria

It is all about world class cultural inclusivity

Of all the pillars of the English culture,

English commonwealth is of culture,

language, attitude and geography

This has to be known devoid of racial biase

And this is the great English empire;

It is a billion African English speakers

Its five hundred million American English speakers

It is a million Australian English speakers

It is a hundred million Indian English speakers

These are the bricks that mould the English commonwealth

Not queen Elizabeth and her son the cuckold of Egyptian mangy dog,

It is the nation of Uganda which is hundred percent African,

No Caucasoid nor Asians but its mother tongue is the British English,

Uganda is crazy; its peasants speak English like Cambridge scholars,

It’s the Nigerian Afro -cinema that promotes spoken English

With the muscle only inherent in the stampede of cultural imperialism,

The royal family is not royal at all in the informed understanding

Or else which family is not royal, show one me please

And I will show you folly of the day

Who wants not to be royal, why not all of us,

Crudeness of culture is the pedestal of reserved royalty

Inclusivity is the contrasting mother of cultural strength

Thus, all English speakers are the royal family

Of the British Commonwealth,

They don’t need royal blood

They already have full amour of the royal culture

Of the English linguistic or mental civilisation,

Please Queen Elizabeth listen to me carefully

Listen with your wholesome body and soul to this song

The song of freedom echoing cultural modernity;

Give to us, we your children of the commonwealth our rights

Include us in our hard earned monarchy,

I also want to be the king of England

I want to fill that royal palace with my dark skin

I want to speak and write English poetry inside the palace

The royal palace of England whose

Whose Golden floor and pavement are s

Reeking the blood of colonialism

The wood and gold in the palace

Was taken from Africa without any pay

During colonial robbery with violence,

Give me my historical rights to be the king of England

Then my four African wifes; Lumbasi Opicho,

Namwaya Opicho, Nangila Opicho

And Chelangat Opicho, the most beautiful of all from the heroic Kipsigis

Will be the four queens of England, queens of the English commonwealth

Lumbasi for Scotland, Namwaya for England,

Nangila for Wales and Chelangat

For the begotten Ireland,

I have all the virtues in my blood to be the English king

If it’s military, shaka the Zulu is my uncle

If it is wisdom, Nelson mandella is my uncle

If it is intellect Kwame Nkrumah is my father

If it is culture Taban Lo Liyong and Okot p’Bitek are my brothers

Whereas Leopold Sedar Senghor is a son of my father from another mother,

If it is beauty Cleopatra the Egyptian ,

whose beauty killed the Roman king is my mother

If it is science my witchcraft is superior in technology to silicon computing

If it is sex, ask your daughter in law princes Diana

Now what am I missing to become the next English monarch?


My dear black folks,

In the tundraness of black abode,

The land of South Africa,

In the glorious city of Jo’burg

Cities of Durban and Pretoria,

Stop that Xenophobia,

As it is un-Godly and un-couth

For you to execute irrational hatred

Against Godly virtue of human otherness,

With all due respect,

To your suffering past

In the warped package

Of apartheid and racism,

Where whiteness ate blackness,

And glorified black misfortune,

To a pedestal un-chewable,

In a dint of very black white energy,

To inculcate self doubt

And self-rejection

In the poor black souls,

But the Mandela today-ness

Healed your wounds

With a soothing love and peace,

So, why black Xenophobia?

My dear black brothers

Why that Xenophobia?

Why hate merchant Somalis?

And education mongering Nigerians,

And desperate trading Indians,

And science peddling Europeans,

And Indo-Persian shop keepers,

They are only poor human beings,

Sadly depraved by migration

a compulsory social force

to the poor folks and their kin

Among all men and all animals,

I will remember with ego,

A love song Nelson Mandela sang

To the desperate white Africans

Somber African- Africans in London,

Exiled there by powers of apartheid,

During the hostile dark times

Of colonially racist terror,

In then tyrannized South Africa,

The song he sang that; I love you all

From the bottom of my heart,

I feel like stuffing you all in my pockets,

To carry you back to Africa,

To my mother’s kitchen,

And eat together,

From a common wooden bowl,

At our black hearth,

In the true spirit of Africanness,

Why chide the Shaka spirit?

My dear black folks,

By looting shops,

Of the foreigners,

To commit cheap theft,

Of cigarettes and wine,

And air time

And cell-phones,

In your mad stampede,

Of hating the foreigners,

A mere blurred mind

In the grip of xenophobia,

Wealth and property are not a miracle,

They always come from a living cradle,

They come from pre-existing wealth,

And pre-existing property,

Your native property thus,

Will come from alien presence,

Your xenophobia will only doom you,

Doom you to poverty and bucolic mire,

Stop xenophobia and build Africa

To its pan-Africanist tor,

Hug corpus of democracy

And kiss lips of human equality,

Love otherness in all humanity

Love it in truth and racial justice

Love it in truth and tribal neutrality,

So that sweet shame to the devil,

Your land be a vintage cradle

As to vintage Mandela solely it was.


 Build in a very humble way
 Its architecture redolent of Europe,
 Plain and honest in structure,
 The vestibule at the entrance
 Replete with old hardbound books
 Dust covering the jackets
 In their agony of human oblivion,
 Every section has shelves under lock
 Only to be open on permitted access.
 Located in the desert like an oases,
 But the desert of readers not waters,
 But like any other oasis, it is useful,
 At most to the genuine users.
 There are books and books all over,
 Windows only open after adjustment,
 You start at the door step with classics,
 Indian, European, American and global classics,
 I pumped into Leo Tolstoy at the first glance,
 Finely juxtaposed; Anne Karenina after War and peace.
 I opened war and peace and I chanced on Napoleon
 Then thrill of intellect and bliss of art
 Began flowing into my guts like a river
 I kept on wandering why Leo Tolstoy
 Never became a Christian sub religion,
 To be added to the two testaments,
 For it to begat the post-modern holy Bible.
 My physical peregrination of the hand
 Led me to a vase of rosy wine
 Its intellectual whiff surpassing all,
 The psalms of David and songs of songs
 This was nothing but precious discovery;
 A thousand Rubiyats of Omar Khayyam
 The shoulder of wisdom and love of God
 The hero of Sufism and demystifier of heaven,
 When in fact I came unto his 69th Rubiyat;
 I have heard people say
 that those who love wine are damned.
 That can’t be true, that clearly is a lie.
 For if lovers of wine and love are bound for hell,
 heaven would be quite empty!
 I chewed and chewed fortune out of Rubiyats,
 I went through all the thousand Rubiyats,
 Only hot Sun and desert sand storms of Lodwar
 Are my witnesses among the myriads of bystanders
 As life of a reader is similar to the life a writer,
 They both derive energy from solitude’s power.
 I moved on again to Alfred Jarren
 The son of France, the father of mystery;
 Pataphysics the science of fantasy
 It has the realm beyond metaphysics,
 His survey of pataphorical world
 Has remained witchcraft
 Beyond my simple soul’s grasp.
 Paradox is one other worldwide wonder
 As I look at an illiterate Turkana Man,
 Guarding the library, club in his hand,
 His ever week from stubborn hunger,
 His sires never go to school, perhaps culture
 I looked at him often in my pause for muse,
 Why guard knowledge that you can’t use?
 I again came upon the Quran
 I read it voraciously over and again,
 In expectation of great knowledge
 Always making Muslims to be noisy,
 I have found nothing great in the Quran,
 Only regular subversions of Biblical grammar,
 Let Muslims sober up to respect Jesus Christ,
 His sermon on the Mountain is perfectly enough
 as an impeachment to crazed pataphoricals
 That Muslims often dare the world with.
 I read the Bible again in repetition
 Of what I had did ten years ago,
 I read psalms, Job and Isaiah,
 Gospels and epistles are more nice,
 Chronicles and Habakkuk are so dull,
 Lamentations are somber poems,
 Revelations are esoteric lies,
 Kings and Samuel full of chauvinism,
 Proverbs and Ecclesiastes are mere clichés
 My idea is; mankind can fear God
 Minus Jewish intervention.
 Now I chanced upon The synagogue of Satan,
 A book written by one other crazy American,
 His name is Andrew Hitchcock Crichton,
 The book is long and spellbinding,
 Having historical facts from early centuries,
 Chronicling mysterious growth of Jewish empire,
 Arranging facts one after another
 Dismissing Bush’s anger against Arabs,
 Over the bombing of the twin towers
 When they are the Jews who Bombed America
 As a decoy to induce American wrath,
 Thus twin towers bombing was Jewish war ploy
 To put Arabs into a rat’s corner.
 I came across one funny book
 Written by a Indian sage
 Its title was Secrets of sex
 From male perspective,
 I don’t liked the book
 For its prurient content,
 But to my sad chagrin it was the most read
 Its leaves were dog eared and use worn
 I spied into the rumour about its tearing,
 it was a hot cake among nuns and priests
 Presently living at Lodwar cathedral.
 You could also wonder my dear brother
 Why a Christian library has works of Marx?
 This was my muse as I read Karl Marx,
 I mean everything written by Karl Marx,
 From Das Kapita to Germany Philosophy,
 Selected works to Poverty of philosophy,
 18th Brumaire to Integral calculus,
 The Manifesto to the letters,
 I read Karl Marx as if I was in Russia,
 I wondered why Catholics are Liberal
 They fear not those who contradict them.
 The Holy Grail is visibly placed
 In fact at right hand corner,
 At the far end on your entrance
 I chose to read it
 Because of its voluminousity,

The book is about sexual life

Of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene,
 This book shares out that;
 One time Jesus was found hiding,
 Kissing Mary Magdalene, the Grail
 In the most affectionate manner ever.
 The catholic Library at Lodwar is bad news
 It swallowed me like waters of Indian Ocean,
 It is located at place called Lokiriama,
 It was established by Bishop Mahoni
 One other man deserving my respect
 He was humble and catholically wise,
 Very intelligent and consciously bookish,
 His mission was to make the Turkana people
 A modern community, but he failed,
 He was so disappointed to his hilt
 He transferred to the Archdioceses of New-York
 Where he began facing problems of the law
 On allegations of him being a pedophiliac,
 I curse the devil for such temptations.
 I did meet Yan Martel in this dome of books
 His famous book; Life of Mr. Pi
 It was my eye opener?
 It transformed me from a village bumpkin
 To a modern reader of global literature,
 I read this book amid my fear of Tigre
 But I was thrilled, to my bone marrow
 When the main character drunk the blood,
 Warm salty blood of the sea turtle.
 I got another book with folded pages,
 At its mid was the red book marker
 Baring the name of the respected priest,
 The book was entitled; How to excel as
 A homo-sexual, chapter one focused on gays
 Chapter two focused on lesbians,
 But the rest of the book was all homosexuality,
 In nothing else, but rosiest terms.
 On such encounters I once again went back,

To re-read 89th Rubiyat of Omar Khayyam
 It has the following quatrain to echo;
 Looking for peace on earth? Foolishness.
 Believing in eternal calm? Foolishness.
 Once dead your sleep will be short. You may
 be reborn as a clump of weeds that will be
 trodden underfoot, or as a flower that
 will wither in the sun’s heat.
 African writers were stuffed on one shelve
 Labeled African books of English expressions,
 But on my request to the project manager,
 His name was Peter Kebo, he was Flamboyant
 And physically indifferent to Turkana poverty,
 We agreed with him to rename the shelves
 As; African literature in English Language,
 Nobel Laureates are in this section;
 Soyinka, Lessing, Coatze and Gordimer
 Not forgetting the Egyptian literary tiger
 In the name of Mahfouz or Maguiz
 I clearly don’t know,
 Sembene Ousmane is also here
 I read him again for the fourth time,
 It’s when I found out the simple truth,
 That God’s bits of wood, translates as;
 The wretched of the earth,
 I read Lessing’s Grass is singing,
 She likes sex,
 I read Gordimer’s July’s people,
 She likes menstrual blood,
 I read everything here
 As published by James Currey
 In his Africa writes back,
 I also read the White African Nobelite
 Joshua Maxwell Coetzee
 He is a wizard of Narrative literature,
 I read his life of Mr. K.
 I found amusing plots and amusing themes,
 I also read Ngugi’s Wizard of the Crow
 It is nice; Ngugi is still fighting dictatorship,
 Not physically but in a metaphysical manner.
 I was again lucky enough
 To chance on Caribbean literature,
 Is when I read Vitian S Naipaul
 The humourist Marxist of Marxists,
 I read his Mr. Biswas’s house,
 With avidness of an aphrodisiac cur,
 His characters like taking a long time
 In the toilets, Naipaul is good,
 I again chanced on George Flamming
 In the Castle of my skin
 Caribbean literature stinks of slavery
 And counter-slavery.
 My landing to the shelve of Latin America,
 Was a total blessing; Gabriel Garcia Marquez
 Stood out like tor of literature among others,
 I began with his Big Maria’s Funeral,
 Then I moved on to Love in Times of Cholera,
 And then You Can’t Write to the Colonel,
 As I spiced my intellect with Melancholic Whore,
 Then finally I revisited his Stories from Africa
 And the Hundred Years of Solitude,
 The following morning when I came back,
 I read in the newspaper that;
 Gabriel Garcia Marquez is dead!
 It was sad and poor of me, I mourned him
 With long essays and somber poetry,
 Then I fell in love with the literatures
 of Spanish origin in language sense,
 I read Octavio Paz and Pablo Neruda
 From Octavio I enjoyed coda,
 Between Coming and Going and so on,
 Neruda thrilled me with his sense of Marx
 Especially his poem; on burying the dog.
 European classics section arrested me
 I never easily moved out of there,
 I chanced on Hitler and annals of Goebbels,
 Reading Russians like Tolstoy,Chenkov,
 Gorky, Gogol and Shelynetsyn was lively,
 Chewing Shakespeare from cover to cover
 Not spearing Pushkin nor Homer,
 Victor Hugo was a relish. Emile Zola
 And Maugham, I too enjoyed…
 Then my holiday in Lodwar was finally over,
 But I am soon going back for my Xmas,
 I will directly go back to the European section,
 I also remember having come by;
 The Satanic Verses of Salman Rushdie,
 I will have to re-read it with passion,
 It is my prayer that this time comes
 For I to resume my holy duty
 In the Catholic Library at Lokiriama
 In Lodwar Dioceses of Turkana County
 In the Savannah desert in North West
 Regions of my country Kenya.


IF OBAMA WAS A EURPOEAN (antiphonal poem)

If Obama had been a European;

He would have been a Corsican,

And walk crazily to the mainland,

With them full spirit of revolution,

To sent kingdoms harum-scarum,

And unite the youth of Europe,

In mad frenzy of socialism,

To imprison the pope and the tsar,

And leave history to repeat the self,

Firstly as a tragedy, then farcically,

If Obama had been a European;

He would have been a Bolshevik,

Like Lenin and Jesus Christ,

To carry forward communism,

To international status in a song,

As his speeches come like Lenin’s

Even the posing style on the dais,

Plus the waving mannerism,

His simplicity of language,

Redolent of Lenin’s fear of esoteric,

In a short chin preaching liberty,

Liberation of women from kitchen slavery,

If Obama had been a European;

He would born a garrulous boy in Austria,

Tasting poverty and childhood tortures,

Under full light of half parentage,

In the preparation of the political tsunami,

Building the black shirts and the Nazi youth,

With a mad dream to retain Alsace and Lorraine,

But now he is an African;

He will contain his mania,

Preach peace and preserve humanity,

He will extol black traditions of eloquence,

But rule well and finish well,

Like Mandela and the King of Timbuktu,

To serve God’s purpose without dream,

of self apotheosification in the mad-mad world,



I know not of freedom,

But I know of disguised slavery

Branded and packaged cunningly,

As freedom to the hopelessly enthralled,

Helplessly looking on parliamentary thievery,

Of the political class stealing by intricate laws,

Making beguiling statutes to preserve their life-long power,

And extort us through tax for their personal surfeiting,

In alliance with the voraciously rich industrial class,

They have viciously lynched hunger and perpetual want,

As the slave-driving harsh factory drill master

Unto we the toiling wretched of the earth,

For the menial wages a minuscule of our factory-labour,

Having no iota of charm to buy food and pay rent,

As labour leaders hide inside the powerful pockets,

Supporting betrayal by the parliament the people’s renegade

Making us, our wives and children serial hustlers and soilers,

The cheap equable manure that fertilize their birth of riches,

As we desperately give birth to hopeless children,

The mere agent of morrow’s poverty amid affluence,

I know not of freedom,



She is a daughter of mild madness,

Visiting the humble who’re vulnerable,

To grip of kleptomania and depressive manic,

Like Shakespeare and Fyodor in the lands yonder,

But often once in a while of the blue lunar,

Not caring the social class or material status,

She boldly loves those wallowing in the pauper’s mire,

For they have nothing but time to court her to bed,

Bed her down with patience and request for a turn,

In lovely contrast to the bed room dilemma,

She mocks the rich for boredom in the huge tummy,

They stuff her up with un-called for luxuries,

And they deny her love in freedom to behave poorly,

Her deep-hearted secret, bed-fellowing the poorly,

For the sweet gift is in the time they give to her,

Like a decade of Odysseus turmoil with calypso,

And Pope’s time with art in his torture by wants,

To sing the short knowledge is dangerous,

On a shallow sip of the pyrene spring,

In the classical charm in the essay of man,

A strain that only visit the neurotics,


In one bright, rainless, warm, non-sombre,

And cloudless morning of April 2014, 
 Skirmishes began at ten in the morning,

Among the roaming street children
 as if they were only playing hopscotch

among themselves, and their mates, 
 It was an unfolding in the dust filled

non tarmacked streets of Lodwar town, 
 Town located in the savannah

desert belt of north western Kenya, 
 A non local police man who was on patrol

shot dead a rioting local, 
 A hungry local had attempted to snatch

a shot-gun from the policeman, 
 He shot him twice in the head,

scattering whitish brain tissues all over, 
 He shot another local sympathizer

of the riot in the leg, in the heel, 
 The remaining riff-raff of rioting locals took off

on their heels, like rats, 
 Once picturized

in the word-smithing power of James Herbert, 
 The hoards of local rioters,

most of them motorbike riders, rushed back, 
 To their places of abode,

known as Manyatta, 
 or poor hamlets,

more sorriest than ghettos, 
 They pulled out their fellow manyatta dwellers
 For military reinforcement 
 They came back in throngs
 All armed with rusty guns
 Swearing to kill all
 By the brute guns, 
 All the non locals
 Not from their tribe,
 They rampaged a whole town
 Mercilessly looting and plundering 
 Each and every shop, business vessel, all outlets
 Of the non-locals, all the migrants; black and white, 
 Chinese and Arabs, Indians and Somalis, Just but to mention, 
 They looted while singing tribal war songs, shooting all the non locals
 Identified by differences in outfits; especially loincloths, Ekijolong, etc
 They shot non local women,

children and vandalized their trade wares
 Those with guns holding the police station hostage,

those without guns looting shops
 Some tried raping,

but their uncircumcised penis proved a snag in this satanic venture
 With a sardonic remorse they stopped the terror

of rape against womenfolk of non natives
 Women folk of non local ethnicity,

but still not safe as shooting followed without ruth, 
 Puncturing the breasts, uterus and bladders,

and splashing blood on each gunshot, 
 Human wailing, crying, hysterical running,

farting, falling, and brute of the gun’s cannon
 Gripped the town in a flower of curling dark smoke from burning tires, 
 Gunmen walked from door to door in a feat of amok anger, 
 Asking names of each person on their way
 To decipher out the tribe or the clan
 Lest they mayhem a native son
 Instead of the non- local
 Which they are bound to kill
 By dutifully releasing
 Deathly bullets
 Into the head
 Of emoit.


They are silent and beautiful,
 gorgeous in in the white halo,
 cemented in a beautiful terrazzo,
 baring the names of fallen soldiers,
 the European soldiers that fell in Wars;
 second and first and the heinous silent wars,
 i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre,
 only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian.
 Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa,
 in India , panama , Latin America and Europe,
 the active fronts in which the allies fought Hitler,
 they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas,
 in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa,
 in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar,
 They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved
 on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires,
 which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king’s horseman
 in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands,
 he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard,
 for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption.
 I walk around the commonwealth graveyards,
 in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire,
 looking for the names of African soldiers ,
 who died in thousands fighting for the queen
 the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth,
 Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with
 the second duce; Benito son of Mussolini,
 fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war,
 i have seen no name of any African,
 I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo,
 who was conscripted into the first world war,
 Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo,
 Biket came back after seven years in 1918,
 carrying Wandabwa’s Belt,
 Wandabwa had died in the field, 
 Where was he buried, he is nowhere
 Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries,
 I have not seen Nasong’o wa Khayongo,
 who was conscripted in 1940,
 to fight against Hitler,
 he was conscripted on his nuptial evening,
 even before he had had the first sex,
 with his new wife, he went away crying,
 he never came back, his name is nowhere in graves
 the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen,
 Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world.
 you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt,
 whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen,
 you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya,
 or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya,
 you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group,
 Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini,
 Keya is subverted sound for Kings African rivals; KAR
 the African sound for KAR is Keya,
 in reference to mass conscription of Africans
 into the KAR, to fight Hitler,
 A child born during that time is named Keya,
 A man circumcised during that the time, 
 is in the age group of Keya,
 A simple lesson in regard to our people,
 taken away to fight the colonial power
 and left to died and rot away in the bush
 without a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial,
 that come along with the death of soldiers,
 passed away in the battle field,