Our Hearts Shall Remain Dark, Forever Dark!

The concept of Africanism may be easy to decipher but a nightmare to live. Perhaps in this age when western winds are violently blowing all over. Stripping us naked and dismantling our shrines.
Africanism may basically refer to something that is characteristic of African culture and tradition. This ranges from our names, rituals, way of worship and food to clothes. Mostly, before the advent of colonialists, children in African communities were named after seasons, historical events, influential (mostly good) people and circumstances surrounding their birth. For example, in my community– Bukusu, Wekesa is a name for a person that was born during harvesting. I was named Wafula when I was born in early April, during rainfall. In many cultures, these names held (and still do) a mesmerizing mistique. They can influence the life of both the child and family. However, the system of naming is gradually changing as we drift into obscure westernism.

Worshipping in our African way is peculiar. Prior to the advent of Christianity on the African soil, who did not know that God is there? Different communities had their own gods which they worshipped, offered sacrifices and libations in sacred places like caves, mountains and trees. For example, Kenyatta in ” Facing Mount Kenya” says that the Gikuyu had Ngai whom they worshipped under the Mugumo (fig) tree whilst facing Mt. Kirinyaga(Kenya). They prayed for life, fertility, good harvest etc etc.

This would have thrived well were it not for the light-skinned and blue-eyed creatures. They came with the bible, a testimony of their narrative of religion. A modern one, I would say. They claimed it came from one true God. Their God. So ours were fake and evil. But if Gikuyu and Mumbi, founders of the Gikuyu community; Mwambu and Sela, founders of Bukusu community are the exact representatives of Adam and Eve, then who copied who in creating these myths? We should note that our myths existed long before we met the bible. Fancy that? Thence serious christianisation commenced. Our religions became evil; our customs became evil; our philosophies became null. We away drifted from Africanism thus.

Moreover, our identity seems to have eroded with the onset of colonialism. And restoring it has proved futile since then. Infact, as Oginga Odinga note in ”Not Yet Uhuru”, it was the quest for Africanism amidst the struggle for independence which made him to enter the LEGCO in skins. Furthermore, during the wake of independence and after, most African scholars championed for Africanism. For example, the late Henry Anyumba, Ngugi wa Thiong’o and Taban lo Liyong pushed for the establishment of the department of Literature in English at the University of Nairobi. Here, they wanted African literature to be taught as present in our cultures.

Embracing Africanism has never been easy. A mirage perhaps. It began with independence. Those who got power adopted the colonialists’ way of ruling. Murder, detention, torture, exploitation, divide and rule etc. These were the best ways to keep power. Worse than colonialists! They left our sense of brotherhood– a true African ideal for dogs. See? Ok.
Westernism smuggles itself into our midst in many a way. Look at the current fashion trends, music and obsession with European football leagues. Women today merely cover themselves. Selling nakedness to those with eyes to buy! Our music long lost taste and didactic values when artists discovered that shouting obscenities– sex, murder, theft etc and dancing awkwardly– flaunting big breasts and buttocks pays handsomely. Money and fame. Who listens to our local griots any more? This provoked me to lament once in a poem ” Winds from the West”:

“… I’ve tried long enough,
To grasp obscenities of alien tunes.
I throw hands to the roof,
And wriggle my butt, violently:
To follow the rhythm of their awkward dances;
But I falter and weep…
I long to hear our drums talk,
Litungu whisper a tune,
My heart can dance to…”

Some of us are busy tearing their cloaks to acquire foreign ones. Sing alien anthems and dance to their tunes. But perhaps our hearts shall remain dark, forever dark. A trace of Africanism.

(c) wafula p'khisa

The Last Airbender-- A Review.

THE LAST AIRBENDER by Wudz

When I grow up,
I want to make love to the Universe,
And give birth to an Earth,
All other planets will envy.
An Earth the moon will fall madly in love with,
Hold hands and dance in the orbits,
Of the Milky Way.

When I grow up,
I want to re-write history,
Where all heroes are women.
I want to re-write the book of Genesis,
And give man power,
Over the gods he created.

When I grow up,
I want to be an alchemist:
Mix Water, Earth, Wind and Fire,
In a pot of gold,
To create a panacea,
To heal Mother Earth.

When I grow up,
I want to walk on air,
Like the Last Airbender.
Bend all the laws of Nature,
Meditate and levitate like Buddha;
Heal souls with pranic waves.

When I grow up,
I want to telepath and teleport,
Read thoughts of men,
Change time,
And reverse bad karma.

When I grow up,
I want to die at will.
Attend my own funeral,
See what is on the other side,
Resurrect,
And live life,
Without fear of hell,
And eternal condemnation.

When I die,
I want to see with my Third Eye.
See the past, the present and the future,
At the same time.
I want to take Jesus down from the cross,
Turn his scars into chakras,
And his crown of thorns,
Into a halo of eternal light.
Tell him no crucifixion anymore,
For every man is born a saint.

When I grow up,
I want to be God:
Create Man in my own image,
So that I will understand,
And love myself,
In a billion ways.

When I grow up,
I want to be forever young.
Young enough to enjoy life as it comes,
And old enough to know,
When to let go.

When I grow up,
I want to be myself;
For I am still,

A spiritual toddler.



CRITICAL REVIEW

The Last Airbender: A Review.
By Wafula p'Khisa.

Michael Ochoki alias Mike Wudz is a versatile, exciting and inspiring and one of the twenty first century's major poet. His poetry, though full of simplicity, is ingrained in satire, prophecy and revolutionary ideologies-- protest and resistance.One such poem is ''Voters on Vacation''. Moreover, his poetry can be summed as four-fold. One is man(sexuality and humanity). Two is religion(spiritualit­y). Three is the state(politics and governance). And four is the universe.***

The poem is alluded to a 2010 American fantasy adventure film ''The Last Airbender''. The film was written, produced and directed by M. Night Shyamalan.

''Airbender'' literally refers to someone who can or manipulates (bends) air. Therefore, ''The Last Airbender'' refers to the last (and only) person who could manipulate the air. But metaphorically, it is a messiah. The last and only person the world is in dire need of for redemption, healing and protection-- if life has to continue. Just like Aang (Noah Ringer) in the film. He is a mighty avator-- the only person on the planet able to manipulate the elements: water, air, fire and Earth to conquer the world. Thus distance people from the woes and suffering in the world.

The Last Airbender is a meditative poem. A little child's dream. Therefore, the speaker is a child (stanza10, line4). Moreover, this is emphasized in the line 'When I growup'-- at the beginning of every stanza, except stanza7. In the mind of a child, Wudz meditates (or fantasizes) about what kind of person he will be and what he will do when he grows up. This reminds of childhood innocence and reasoning. It fools one to imagine that life is easy and everything is possible.

In stanza1, the speaker expresses desire to love, care and protect the universe( line2). This will enable him to establish a new Earth that will experience no darkness."...moon will fall in love with...''(line5). He personifies the moon by saying that it will fall in love, hold hands and dance with the Earth (line6). This tells us how ever bright the Earth will be. And he says or rather foresees that this will make other planets envious.(line4).

In stanza2, the speaker intends to change the order of things. To re-write history and glorify women for their heroism.(line3). He intends to enlighten and empower man, once he re-writes the book of Genesis(line4). This would enable man to control the things(gods) he created (line6). The 'gods' here may mean man's inventions, habits and constructs which have overwhelmed him, humiliates and have made him to worship them. For example, technology, corruption,tribalism, bombs etc.

In stanza3&4, the speaker desires tobe an alchemist(scientist)­. To create a remedy(panacea-- medicine), (stanza3,line5) by mixing Earth, water, wind and fire to heal mother Earth (stanza3,line6). This implies redeeming or saving the world from its ailments. Furthermore, he wants to be like Aang (the airbender in the film): to control air and meditate to have spiritual powers that could enable him to heal people(stanza4). However, to achieve these, he intends to bend all laws of nature (stanza,line4). As a saviour, this likens him to Christ. Jesus violated the laws, including the law of Sabath to heal people and save lives.

Moreover, in stanza3, he hints to us that only scientific inventions and technological advancement will healthe world. That is by creating jobs, manufacturing medicine and drugs to treat diseases etc. It is something he would do when he grows up.

He further says, in stanza5, that he wants to be able to read people's minds, communicate without using verbal or visual means (telepath), change and reverse bad karma (deeds or actions). These can only be done by a supernatural being-- a'God'. This is whom the speaker wants to be. The last messiah; universal saviour.

He wants to die at will (stanza6,line6). This ironical. It is contrary to to our inbuilt perception of death: no sane man can will to die. Moreover, he says that he will remove Jesus from the cross, heal his scars and assure him of no more crucifixion (stanza7). This portrays him as the last messiah indeed. A God. Greater and more powerful than Jesus Christ. Damn. Fancy that!

In stanza8, the speaker says that hewants to be God. This is a metaphor. It implies a supreme being, with power and high moral standards. Compassionate, just, loving, omniscient etc. Thus to create man with similar character traits( line3)

However, in as much as the speakerwants to grow up, and realize these dreams, he is afraid of old age.(stanza9,line2).­ Old age is associated with weakness and distate of some things, probably pleasure. Therefore, he wants to remain young forever to enjoy life( pleasures of the world) but be wise, like the old to make right decisions-- stanza9,line2,3,4&5.

Never Meant to Be?

Sometimes we love. Sometimes we fall out. When against us fate works. We crumble. We cry. We regret. Maybe we were not meant for each other. We console. Though we curse the day we met.

But is it true that we were never meant for each other? In case we end abruptly. Or the sweet love we cherish eventually becomes sour. I doubt. I think, as everything was made to be as it is, so does our love. It was meant to be. Regardless of whatever happens or whoever we morph into. This is well captured in Genesis. Therein, God, unhappy with Adam's loneliness, fashioned for him a woman, Eve. They were bound to last. As man and wife. The perfect match required as far as the concept of procreation is concerned. Moreover, the duo broke up not even when Eve strayed and smuggled the forbidden stuff into Adam's system. They bore the consequences together, including the eminent expulsion from the Garden of Eden. See?

Thence whenever we are bound to people who strike our chords right; make our hearts sing in unison and dance joyously to the silent tunes of time and wind, we surely are meant for each other. What remains then is to make what bonds us to meet our aspirations. To be strong or weak, to be worthwhile or meanwhile, and to bear fruits of happiness or sadness. Whatever! And should things go wrong such that we cease to adore each other, as before, then we should say: '' We didn't make it to be...''. Because we would have failed to tame everything tameable and make things work. We would have terribly failed to nurture our love; and ruined it instead. You know how. Right? Cool.

Further, journeying down the narrow path of love is an uphill task. Just like life. Really? Well.
Alot of commitment, sacrifice and perserverence are necessary. Damn them! How far you go is determined by how much you go through. Methinks you cannot possibly say that 'you've come a long way' just because you started dating whilst in std 6 or whatsoever. See? People are hardened by experiences in life. Or love. The more the challenges, fights, turbulence and poverty etc you withstand, the far or longer you go! Amidst all these, you are able to understand each other and bond the more. You are able to nurture and protect your love. So it bears fruits. It dies not. For you make it to be that way.

(c) Wafula p'Khisa.

Haunting Memoirs 4.

Performance in school depends on a myriad of factors. One of these is provision of fora for learners to interact, reason together and share intelligent ideas. Symposia, contests, drama and music festivals are common platforms for learners' intellectual growth. Our teachers hyped so much about them. Sadly, no day under the sun saw them thrive. Not even theoretically. Sometimes we would be invited, but fail to attend; because invitation letters first fell into wicked and wrong hands. Sometimes we were hardly invited. The organizers considered us worthless perhaps. A meanwhile school. They left us alone. We too left them alone. Thus we were academically distanced from our contemporaries in worthwhile schools.

2005. Prior to the first harvest. I was a freshman at Mukuyuni Sec. School when we first took part in science congress. Auncle, a naughty lad then, was our ambassador. This wasn't our first time. But I could unapologetically claim that it was the last. Because it would take ages for it to be re-introduced. Amidst ignorance, arrogance and beauracracy though. 2011. My compatriots: Githinji, Wangila and I-- then pseudoteachers, would harder work to re-kindle the fire. We were utterly frustrated. Realizing development in a backward society is no easy!

We hardly interacted with our contemporaries on academic platforms. However, we managed during games and sports. They effected physical and social development. They bred filth too. We fell for girls from neighbouring schools and lost our to some boys around. But only after thorough negotiations with fists and kicks.

Mukuyuni had the pretiest girls around. However, we boys hunted dames outside. Elsewhere. A cow does not graze where it sleeps, unless it's sick or insane. See? Well. We hardly starved. Though. Hundreds of lusty, dry and sexually thirsty bulls-- with extraordinary libido, fit for artificial insemination, around went crazy over our beauties. Sad is the man who has no woman. For he has to wander for miles, and sacrifice and libate to get one. This is what befell our brothers from other mothers. You could bumb into them in extreme corners of the compound and the market, in compromising positions. Desperate? High? Horny? Anyhow.

They were selling policies. Stripping naked before our girls to expose their development projects. Fancy that! Some of our girls were money-maniacs. Gold diggers. Love wasn't love without money. See? Cool. They would then pen flowery and flattering epistles-- a feat rare in their essays and class assignments-- to lure mugs into sneaking and stealing from their poor parents. Stealing for women. Efulumi, a classmate then, fed a girl till she was a full grown woman. Then she eloped with some lousy acre of a man. Ugly indeed! Efulumi hadn't bitten her. He hadn't harvested anything. Oh, friend, whoever looks after a cow doesn't milk it. The mug smuggled all delicacies into her stomach whilst strictly maintaining himself on a zero diet. He was skinny like a mantis when the girl was fat like a pig.

During such occassions-- games and sports, some teachers, particularly perpetual idlers made themselves known. They exercised power and authority. And we felt their presence. They busied themselves with separating and pinching love birds. This was accampanied by hurling lots of obscenities at them. They earned special hatred for that.

Sometimes we were to cough out money for symposia and contests. They were regular and abundant like christian fellowships. But were they not to be catered for by our fees? We were discontended. None of us was ready to be robbed without violence. So we left it alone. Our teachers too left us alone. Who cared? Who would lose?

However, we tested the waters during the Second Harvest. The big big ones had exited. There were only small small ones. And anticipating resistance was like expecting a genuine miracle in this wretched century. It was like expecting one to blanket himself with a fence. Dead or live. Whatever.

We paid to go to Maeni Girls for a history symposium. All was well. See? But it was the climax of the noble assignment that reminded us the need of owning a school locomotive machine. We had hired some ugly, old, blind, lame and noisy iron box. Or was it a coffin? Only nemo could tell. The driver had disappeared with the tout immediately after dropping us. To hustle for extra coins perhaps. Now they had apparently forgotten about us. Damn. Darkness was overpowering the fragile daylight. The sun could rule no longer. The dynasty of the moon had come. And it was silently announcing its presence in the ugly sky. I would describe a woman someday in a poem:

... You are the pride of my heart,
As they are to the sky: sun, moon and stars...

I trekked for a thousand miles to my father's abode. Tired. Hungry. Disgusted. Anyhow, it wasn't difficult. Brother, if you think seeking for knowledge is difficult, jaribu kazi ya mjengo!

 I missed the worst. Wonders thrive in the dark. Darkness provide delicacies daylight could not. Anto hyped henceforth. He buzzed from alpha to omega. He had veered into bushes with some crooks to irrigate their throats. They had praised and worshiped the holy waters till ''the iron box'' arrived.

Only a foolish hunter entrusts a dog with his meat between its teeth. Our teacher mistook the boys to be priests in a rector. In their midst he put girls. No one could right such a wrong. The filth that happened could not be captured in any normal man's rhetoric. Many only spread or got rumours. The bush radio could only talk about it; it could not talk it. See? Cool. So the boys and girls were driven to school late into the night. Anto and his crew were atop. Aire... They sat in pairs. In angles.

There was a power outage in school. When the arrived. There were nonrhythmic grunts and moans. Here and there; especially there. Jubilation. Disgust. The boys and girls bonded the more. Sexing. Kissing. Sucking. Sulking. Brother, wonders thrive in the dark. Darkness provide delicacies daylight could not. See? However, the rain of pleasure was short-lived. The chief security officer stormed the arenas, a matchet and rungu in hand; a gun in his mind. They fled. No man who is serious with his life, however wretched, stares at the smiling face of death. They easily passed through the hole of a needle, where a camel has and will never pass. With a coward man on their trail, they jumped over the fence-- tall like the Berlin Wall.

And before the day could break, the news was out. Gossip Fm was hyping it. It salted and sugared it. Who did not mourn and fear for the fate of beloved candidates? Campus hopefuls. And still Anto remained on the throne. The school head boy. Troublesome and indispensable. We philosophized.

Wafula p'Khisa.
Lirango Lienjofu
(Thigh of an Elephant).

This Song is Not Our Mother Tongue: A Reading of Stacy Njagi's Works.

Unlike the first language which a child acquires once exposed to, poetry is a sophisticated tongue. First, it is sacred. Only the selected few receive this divine inspiration from the gods. Owners of words. It can't be for all of us. It can't be for the whole society as Stacy posits in her article: 'From the Heart of Stacy'. Second, it has to be learned. Even though most of us are born with the poetic spirit, it's only activated through mentorship, learning and influences. That is what makes Soyinka, Okigbo and Brutus different from Dennis Chukude and other pioneer African poets. See?

A critical analysis of Stacy's works points out two things. One, she is a talented poet with myriad misconceptions. Two, she is still experimenting; and to assert her misconceptions: she dares to challenge the literary canon that has thrived for ages.

A child cannot leap from the breast and walk. No. It has to undergo the tedious process of learning, crawling thence walk. Stacy wants to skip this, and because she can stand up; she is calling others to emulate her. She calls it freedom in 'From the Heart of Stacy'. To her, they can only achieve this by ' ignoring the advice of the old poets' and 'learning from their future'. Honestly, this is ironical. Can a toddler learn from its adulthood-- something yet to come?

Only a disgruntled youth who defies the wisdom of his forebears lives not to see the sun. To manoeuvre through thickets ahead, he needs their knowledge as a yard stick. That way, he would also grow grey hair. This is what Stacy is against. In 'From the Heart of Stacy', she opines that for a poet to develop and earn from poetry, he must stop listening to the experience of the old. 'the 17th century poets...'.

History holds that poetry has existed since creation. Therefore, what Shakespeare, Yeats, T. S Eliot, Okigbo, Okot p'Bitek, Angelou etc did was to develop it in response to the experiences of their time. What Soyinka, Anyidoho, Mapanje, Angira, Ongili and us do is continuing it. Kofi Awoonor refers to this as ' principle of continuity'. He argues that: to create, you must return to what was there before, advance it. And I have no doubt that the future generations will pick from us. Evading this is like advising one to leave the road to paradise for an absent one.

Stacy's poetry is of a different kind. Strange indeed! She has branded it 'kunyamba genre'. Fancy that! 'Stacy Amenyamba', 'A Fat Fart for Art' and 'Uso wa Shujaa' portray an inherent struggle, conflict and fight for recognition, acceptance and belonging-- to the ''paradise of artists'' as Achebe calls it.

'Uso wa Shujaa' is a very dry poem. Basically an assertion of her resilience amidst the storms of criticisms and dissatifications of her works. 'kunyamba' means farting. And it is shit that is farted. Thus, 'Stacy Amenyamba' captures her supposed distaste of the older poets and their 'adherents'. Her distaste is unfounded. This is the shit she farts.

Furthermore, in 'From the Heart of Stacy', Stacy claims to have been to places and seen alot. It is very unfortunate that she has learned very little. This is evident in her attempt to laud Okot p'Bitek and 'downgrade' or despise Wole Soyinka. Okot and Soyinka are Euro- Modern African poets. Okot employs the Acholi song tradition and culture while Soyinka banks on the Yoruba mythology and culture. This is very sophisticated. Thus grasping it calls for a sober mind. A poet's mind. For only a poet understands a poet.
Generally, Stacy's poetry is defiant in nature. It's aimed to defend a certain character-- 'kunyamba'. This, plus the uncritical reading we serve poetry herein ruins the cause of literature. Encouraging 'pseudo-poets' to multiply.

Moreover, to borrow from Robert Heyden: such labeling like 'kunyamba genre' puts Stacy in a kind of literary ghetto where the standards applied to others are not likely to be applied to her, for she, being a 'spokesperson for her character and cohorts', is not considered primarily a poet but a species of character-relations woman, leader of a cause.

Moreover, literature is not religion. There is no day that the former will play the latter's roles. Thence in poetry there are neither disciples nor followers. Poetry only has masters. It is therefore unwise for Stacy to refer to whoever honours the literary canon as 'lost disciples' and their 'blind worship' in ''Stacy Amenyamba''....

In conclusion, Stacy attempts to create a new poetic order by 'outdating' and despising what has existed for ages. What has informed the literary discourse for centuries. This is a dog's fart intended to put out a fire. This song is not our mother tongue!

Signed:
Wafula p'Khisa
Lirango lienjofu
(Thigh of an Elephant).

Honour My Word: In Defence of Poetry.

In a society where wisdom is associated with the old, the young need not to draw diagrams and geometrical figures to prove points. They need not to scream or stage showdowns to render their notions relevant. No. The old know truth once they see it. So the young know nothing that the eyes of wisdom have missed. A woman who started cooking early boasts of many broken pots. Achebe opines.

I am not a poet of any distinction. I may not even be a poet. See? But sanity has taught me to accord everything the honour they deserve. As a believer, I accord God the honour he deserves. As a child, my parents I accord the honour they deserve. As a learner, my teachers I accord the honour they deserve. And as a master of the word, I accord poetry the honour it deserves. Why should you not?

Poetry, like other words in scriptures, is sacred. Undressing and wrapping it in filth and rudimentary emotional tendencies is an abomination unforgivable. Every god feels it the bone. But do we care? Time has changed indeed. And poetry too has to. But it should only do so to capture and represent our reactions and responses to societal issues. As J. C Echeruo puts it, works of young writers should have a message; poetry is not simply the beauty of language or phrasing but the quality of the soul! This is influenced by what the body experiences.Moreover, these are neither Nerudian nor Shakespearean ages. They aren't colonial ones either. Oyoo Mboya argues that this is a contemporary age. What we lace poetry with should therefore be current. However, I would like to clarify something. The best African poets, according to Arthur Gakwandi, have not written odes, elegies and sonnets. They have invented new models to embody their encounters with modernity. This is evident in the way they have exploited folk traditions of their people and created new dramatic forms of expressions. These lie abundantly in the works of most Euro- Modern African poets like Chris Okigbo, Wole Soyinka, Okot p'Bitek, J. P Clark etc etc. This questions the nature of our poetry. Is it African? What is so African in our poetry?

Ngugi posits that a writer does not write or live in a vacuum. There is the society. Rich and poor. Happy and sad. A poet who fails to capture these-- societal issues, is irrelevant. Damn!
Herein, there are poets, pseudo-poets and masquerades. The latter outnumber the former. Indeed they are starving us with dry, senseless and filthy stuff. Texts or poems? Sadly, most of them are allergic to criticism. None is willing to learn. How then will we paint the world beautiful again?

Poetry is serious business. Damn. Only the spirited few can run it. It is not the mere scribbles we display to gather 'likes' and invite idle comments. Whoever can't bear its dictates should try prose or just opt out, sit and scratch their bottom and smell their fingers! Other genres also entertain no mediocrity.
Lastly, many a times some fellows here argue that poetry is just playing with words and also one can write about anything. I detest that. Verily, poetry is not language. It only uses it. Moreover, everytime a poet holds a pen, there is something on their mind. A human experience to be captured. See? It is not all about anything. Nonsense! The ' how ' and the ' what ' are at the heart of every poem.

(c) Wafula p'Khisa.-Thigh of an Elephant.

Thirsty at Heart.

Politics of love are worse than of power. There are no tribal alignments. There is no divide and rule. There is no military conquest. No. Meriting relies more or less on wits, perseverance and fate. Not might. So my cause was hard to bear. An uphill task. See?

For her I had purchased a bouquet of roses. Expensive though! But she deserved it. It deserved her too.

Getting into a woman's heart, especially the rare gems that befit the 'miss universe' title is no easy. They are resistant to any magipower of seduction. It ain't as easy as ejaculating or drinking. Whatever! I was determined to have her; even if I was to fleece myself to death. A good farm is worth any form of investment-- if returns are fathomable. She meant the world to me.

However, delivering the gift was a mind-gnawing nightmare. I had to execute it myself. Maybe I could be elated by her smile. Maybe I could feel her warm hand, if fate permits a handshake. But I didn't know how and when. '' It's to be on a special day'', my friend Safara had suggested. '' And in a swaggerific way eh! In a palatial city hotel, at a high table-- dirtied by all kinds of delicacies on earth.'' It seemed a task doomed to fail; should Samba be a zealous materialist.

The world is swollen with women; but deficient in ladies-- wife materials. Samba belonged to the latter. She exhibited angelic traits that made her undoubtedly the first and greatest beneficiary of God's original clay, sweat and skill during creation. I only felt alive by glancing at her. I craved for her. Perhaps she was created for me. I thought.

I sought for her. A ripe berry should be quickly harvested when ripe lest it be punctured by birds. Moreover, a tree is fast cut down once it comes of age; otherwise someone else may cut it. However, my approaches attracted her not. Oh, God they were crude! She never felt and acknowledged my presence. She abhored 'shit' from a third class, and title-less survivor and victim of Kenyanism. Ati she had no time! For heaven's sake, I wondered why she was violating the doctrine which abates discrimination of whatever kind. She was a staunch christian believer. Though I failed to decipher in what.

Samba was a hard nut to crack. My amateurish tactics in seduction could have made me infatuate to death with fantasis were it not for Safara. Although he helped alot to achieve nothing, I acquired some tips worth boasting of.

Safara was a nasty guy. Unpredictable and unreliable like the meteorological department. He could soil your soup before you could gulp it. And he could easily redeem you from a hangman's noose when least expected. Therefore, I best avoided him during times of merry, but sought for him during times of worry. Now I needed him badly like water to a desert dweller. He was a staunch believer in the 'tit for tat' doctrine, but he stunned me when he just volunteered to help. Wonders! Perhaps it was for blessings from above.

He was a professor of sexology and seduction at the University of Life. Though it baffled me upon discovering that he was women-phobic. He had never had a woman in his wretched life. Damn!

''I'm an expert Pal! I could own all women on earth. King Solomon would be no match for me.'' He argued. '' And I'd be unfair to dummies like you...''. He sweat and breathed thunderously. Thence he would hit the bottle, watch porn and smoke heavily like a chimney.

He had tried hard to change my mannerisms. Perhaps I tasted how being a gentleman is. I changed my wardrope and downed the forest of hair on my head; full of wild creatures! Before buying the roses.

The Valentine day was past tense. Samba's birthday was a nightmare to know. These, according to Safara, were the ideal days in a woman's life. Hence worth proposing. Parties and other merry occassions were rare like a chicken's urine. Unlike funerals. But it is horrible to propose or angage at a funeral, amidst tears. Death haunts love. See? Good. Getting her proved impossible. I nearly faltered, fated and quit. But quiters never win.

Via inquiries, I learned with disgust that Samba's birthday, also the Valentine day, had long past. She had celebrated and forgotten. I had to wait; despite the gnawing impatience.

It took centuries. Things happened. They threatened my faith and dedication to the cause. Achieving it seemed bleak and impossible like realizing the 'Vision 2030' in Kenya.

 However, I wasn't alone in dire need of Samba. The race to a woman's heart has many competitors. Snails and horses. So we were. One of my rivals bought me off. I devoured the fool's dough and intensified my quest. Though underground. But harder now. Someone was craving for what I was supposed to eat. He discovered me instead, before I could get far. The dude had hired many spies. He cornered me, with his gang's aid, and gave me a thorough beating. I nearly died. But Samba was worth dying for anyway. As posited by the following poem:

... Once in a while you'll chance upon angels--
Their hearts so cool like fresh milk.
So men slay each other over them,
You'll have to choose love or death.
If you choose love, my son:
Mess not with an angel;
You'll be courting disaster!
But if you choose death,
Then be a martyr of a love worthwhile...

Nonetheless, I sympathized with him upon discovering that Samba had humiliated him publicly. Another rival invited me for a duel. I thrashed him. He opted out for me. Another nut busied himself with bad-mouthing my name and lynching my character. Another one, Fuso, perhaps tougher than all, promised me death. The mug is blind. He had spotted us shaking hands in a not-so-bad-way and mistook us to be romancing. Anyway, these were merely a frog's noise; they can't bar an elephant from drinking water. They were bee stings which cannot scare a honey-comber from harvesting honey.

The day of reckoning came at last. I dressed to kill. Whatever that means! '' It makes your image dazzle'', Safara said. I smuggled myself into Samba's apartment, trailed by Safara. Uninvited. Fancy that! Cool. We partied; stuffed our tummies full and irrigated our throats. It was Christmas in February! I handed my treasured gift to her when the moment came. But oh, sweet Jesus! I almost puked on her expensive, short, new, red, Chinese, woolen dress. She took my gift with distaste, reserving undue disgust due to many eyes present. There were plenty of flowers, and other presents. Most of them outdid mine in quality. They were choking the little space available. So she put mine into a dustbin nearby and forgot. The devil in me incited me to strangle her; but I refused. I loved her.

I was the saddest man on the continent. Furious, unforgiving and inconsolable like a seasoned presidential aspirant robbed of victory by a mildly intelligent political greenhorn: in fairly corrupt General Elections. I was thinking of visiting a witch doctor when she called a few days later. How she got my number, only heaven knows. My heart warmed up. I almost died of excitement when she proposed for a meeting. ''All is well. Finally you've got her,'' I whispered to my heart.

I was bored by the meeting. I hated it. I regretted consenting to meet that tormenting angel. I wish I knew. We argued. We bargained. We disagreed to agree.
'' Look, I'm just like married. You won't have me'', Samba posited.
'' Show me the papers then, and the ring'', I retorted.
'' Just understand Pal''.
''Not that easily dear. I can't go against the dictates of my heart''.

Losing wasn't my option. Perhaps not her. That she is taken made me to flinch not. After all, everything good on Earth is taken. You only have to fight for your share. Something I was devoted to.

'' I may not appeal to your taste'', I said after ages of silence. '' But I'm the right man for you...''
''But I've one already...''
''He is a fake!'' I cried. Just crown me a mpango wa siri then...''
'' NO Pal! '' Silence. Thundering hearts. ''I know how you feel. It's hard... I don't know what to do.''

''I suppose you know it better. I've told you already.'' I implored. ''Things aren't as easy as you think.'' She said, almost in a whisper. I wondered where the hell we're headed to. I was damn bored and angry. I rose up to disappear. Then she motioned me to wait.

'' Well. Be patient.'' I wished it could have been a sentence to hell. Patience my foot! I was born or rather denied it when God was issuing out virtues. I had abundant impatience!

'' Don't wane Pal, I beseech you. Let's be friends first before pondering on what ails you.'' She implored. She tickled my heart.
What else was I to say?
 (c)Wafula P'Khisa.

Haunting Memoirs 3

Prefects are all conformists. Stooges. Puppets. So were ours. They always bent so low to dance to the obscene tunes of the school administration. They always sniffed for trouble in us. They always had distaste in everything we did. Be it good or bad. They worked hard to deliver us to teachers for thrashing. Otherwise how could they be perceived as working? Serving the school.

Prior to the introduction of the voting system, prefects were always imposed on us. But this still thrives to date. Really! Teachers bend laws, rig and smuggle small-headed mugs into student leadership. The tragedy is when the subjects to be served are all big-headed. Damn. How can a fellow who hardly clicks in class; who ever lies to examiners and ends up scoring miserable marks order around his counterpart whose intelligence could easily outdo a teacher's? Impossible. Only an intelligent mind can lead intelligent minds. And it is with reference to this that I always honour the one Muheshimiwa. A fellow bighead. Though imposed on us, he was the only guy who spoke what we yearned to hear. We listened whenever he talked. For everything that forth came was absolute wisdom. That was in 2008. The year of the first harvest.

Some prefects mistook themselves to be small gods. They threatened and scared us. To them, you were either a friend or enemy. It was damn expensive to afford friendship. It was hellous to be an enemy. They exercised authority in totality. One of these was Mariko. The headboy. He used to vomit alot of Shakespearean nonsense till we complained. Teachers veered into sixes and sevens. Damn. Fancy that! Cool.

Mariko was the best prefect ever. Best of the best. Though only at the onset. He had mastered the art of rhetoric at the time most of us could hardly utter a word in the queen's tongue. Except the usual 'yes' and 'no'. Sometimes he could address us until the principal only dismissed us-- instead of giving his long, boring and disjointed speech! So Mariko advocated for strict observance of the School Language Policy. Damn. How on earth could it happen? We cursed. We loathed it. We resented him. Most often, we enjoyed eating words in mother tongue-- the best we could as if they had been spiced with palm wine.

Only Vicky put Mariko in his right place. Though only for while. He elated the god of mother tongue; and we joyfully worshipped it. He swore to bring an ox-plough and plough Mariko with it. Should the latter do anything stupid. He cooled. Vicky meant business. No one fucked with him.

Vicky and Felo were evil geniuses. Too bad they came before their time. Mukuyuni was thriving on old-fashioned ideas, barren ideologies and cowardice (on our part) when they exhibited some radical tendencies. They drank like fish and smoked like chimneys. Infact sometimes Vicky used to ask for permission to go home and come back whilst sober. A nasty fellow. Fancy that! Anyhow, together with Yakubu, they slightly shook the foundations of the existing system. We denied them support; we're choking with cowardice then. Infuriated, the administration dealt with them ruthlessly. They suffered from a bout of frustration. Mukuyuni wasn't a haven for radicals. They left. However, Yakubu remained to race with us. I respected him and still do. He was the only guy suspended for criticizing our teacher of chemistry for crude teaching. Something none of us could afford. Most of us were busy gathering unhonourable suspensions for making noise, rudeness, seducing and loving girls...

Mariko's successor was Anto. A nasty and indifferent fellow indeed! His counterpart-- the head girl was Sara. A very humble, quiet and God-fearing lass. She was also the C. U chairperson. Whenever she sung and preached, I felt like going to heaven there and then. Her heart was so cool like fresh milk. Many men stalked her; dying for her. It's a pity that no one merited.

I can't honestly forget other angelic gems in our class. Martha Mukopi, Lilian Edowan, Rael Naulikha, Maurine Wabuge, Rose Nyongesa, Loy Mamati, Lucy Wachilonga, Linet and Josephine Kimani are just but a few. They made us men. They made us not regret our going to Mukuyuni. May God bless them. May they live long to see there grandsons' grandsons. May they grow beards! Damn. Moreover, I can't enjoy the present sweet nakedness and fear for the sad fortunes of tomorrow without remembering Kuka Lukibisi and Kuka Makokha. The former was the first guy to grow and keep a beard. So proud of it was he that he always stroked it when talking to teachers. They always felt embarassed. They left him alone. Morever, he had once masqueraded as a seller of '' kelukelela ''-- the charm that lulls women to die for men. The latter was a professional liar. Professor of Lying & Falsehood. But he repented afterwards. It's no use to busy live on lies. Unschooled and colourless lies. His heart was scrapped clean. Today he insults the devil and incites the Old Man Above with unwavering zealousness. Damn Prof.!

Haunting Memoirs 2.

2009. It was young. We too were young; pregnant with expectations. And Mukuyuni was the best place to reason, experiment and showcase our innate endowments. It was awesome. We loved it.

The school had just, recently, woken up from an ageless academic slumber. A comrade, Musiambo secured a ticket to university on a regular basis. Then Kalamu, another ambitious fellar had followed suit. It demystified the common belief that gnawed at our hope for ages that Mukuyuni was intellectually barren. So it could not sire academic giants and hum the tune of eliticism for the world to dance. Moreover, Musiambo and Kalamu had unlocked and left wide open the golden gates to the university. They had been, for centuries, closed on us. Now we could march there happily, if we so wished. For the desire to go to campus, to complete the 8. 4. 4 system is the heartbeat of every serious student. A son or a daughter of a peasant or middle class cohort in extreme corners of this country. Staunch believers in the god of education as the ultimate social equalizer. Fancy that!

My soul brother, Auncle and I had postponed success the previous year. Albeit unwillingly. But the year, 2008 had been a bore anyway. See? Thus comrades: Mariko, Maka, Weresh, Musoka, Justine and Muheshimiwa leapt forward. The latter was a mathematics genius. The dude knew the numbers like his mother tongue! Perhaps he was the greatest mathematician I had ever seen. His remarkable game with numbers was amazing. We even understood him better than our teachers. I envied him. Anyway, Auncle and I were now determined to achieve success by all means possible.

Exhibiting brilliance was an uphill task. No easy eh! So Musiambo and Kalamu were just good. But they became our role models. Indispensable inspires. I personally shed tears of admiration when the former was hoisted and carried shoulder-high. Celebrating. Ululating. I dreamt and longed to be in his shoes. It required extra-ordinary efforts and struggle to attain any remarkable brilliance. For whoever attends a local school-- the kind commonly baptized ''CDF schools'', those only used as polling stations: there are no relevant books-- those available are archaic and full of cockroaches' shit; there is no motivation; there are very few qualified teachers-- these are ever bored by the sick condition of the school and the principal's frustrations; and financial constraints are a darling. Therefore, manouvering through these, and feel the sweet fragrance of success is a matter between life and death. Many tried. They failed. We survived. Sometimes we were clobbered to go home and bring fees-- amidst hungry times. Something the principal knew pretty well to be rare like a chicken's urine. While in form two, a comrade, Toshiba had quit school under such circumstances. I loathed it.

Furthermore, being in a mixed school earns one special challenges, wrapped in beautiful flowers of fate. Girls, beautiful senoritas, are in plenty. At Mux, some were beautiful whilst some suffered from the incurable disease of ugliness. Some were tall like flagposts whilst others were dwarf. Some were fierce whilst others were docile. Some were lovable and worth dying for whilst others were a no-go-zone. Some enthralled with killer smiles whilst others scared the hell out of us. But we loved and adored them. We seduced them; fought over them; emptied our pockets for them; and bit them. This was perhaps when chewing books became damn boring. We really felt alive. Damn. Fancy that! But this sector, under the department of Heart Affairs, was strictly for professionals. Professors and doctors of Sexology and Seduction from the university of life. The likes of Meta, Abu, Mkwe and Mariko.

Clashing with teachers was inevitable. Hatred and violence erupted like volcanoes. But we overcame. The worst of all was the mere misunderstanding with our maths teacher, Man Chalo. It emanated from our desire to dictate the quantity of content to consume. So the guy was infuriated. A student telling the teacher what he wants was unheard of. He salivated to thrash us. He prescribed a punishment dosage for us. We refused. He chased us out of class. So while he taught, we were away digging a latrine pit. Giving back to the community eh! But our game didn't go far anyway. His dues were met. He eagerly thrashed us, particularly Mose, Melo, Achesa, Anto and Lawi. They had not attempted doing his damn assignments for ages. Poor dudes!

Anto, Auncle and I were members of a wonderful gang. Anto would later pursue a gun; as we follow the pen. In dilapidated and archaic lecture halls. He is now a policeman, walking about with a deadly piece of iron strapped around his neck. Serving our bloody nation. We are busy collapsing under piles and piles of books; going crazy over nasty exams. Uncertain where the wind of fate will drift us.

The Things We Sing: An Overview of Contemporary Music.

Music and the soul are soulmates. They are (or ought to be) intertwined. Inseparable. Thus attempts to divorce them renders music lifeless. Dead. See?

Music speaks volumes about and for the soul. Thence it heals, soothes, uplifts, pleases etc etc. Such music, when sung, apparently informs us who is singing their heart to be felt and who is exercising their jaws and contorting their face to be heard.

Good music is invaluable; it is of timeless significance. Like the infamous 'zilizopendwa' and 'rhumba'. It hardly runs out of taste. It is highly honoured and accorded utmost sacrecy. Really! There is ever a sense of newness and freshness when they reach our ears. They flow in our blood. And we nod, as we dance with our hearts. Unlike the awkward dances we perform in the face of alien tunes.

Our society has always relied on music for recording history, socialization, education and cultural preservation among others. However, modernity has infected this noble medium with lots of wonders. It is sad to note that negativity outwheighs positivity. Mostly, the content--sometimes x-rated, rhythm and dances have, more or less, ruined the value and taste of music. Music isn't music today. Just mere things. We yap and shout obscenities behind a computer, in the name of singing.

Okumba Miruka in ''Encounter With Oral Literature'' argues that not everything that has a rhythm and can be sung is a song. This therefore implies that not all lyrical compositions are songs. See? Well. Some of them are just things. They are sung to make money. They are sung to gather fame. Most of them infact hit briefly prior to veering into obscurity. Out of shelves. But they do well in smuggling filth and moral decay into an otherwise morally upright society.

Good music is defined by style, thematic concerns, originality and didactic function. Songs are fashioned from poems. And since a good poem, Taban Lo Liyong posits: must have a moral to convey, music is not an exception. The content should be drawn of the inherent society's traditions. It should speak to the people, and for the people. Something they could easily relate to. Such songs will evolve into classics. They will withstand the test of time.

I have been watching my uncle play litungu since I was a little boy. He sings in our local lingua, lubukusu and sometimes in swahili. In drinking dens; at cocktail parties and in public functions. The worst one, which perhaps I dislike, is entertaining and praising politicians. Anyway, his content, originality and approach to social issues have enabled him to survive in the industry. He still grapples to remain afloat in these troubled waters. But it would have been a different story-- a sad one of course had he gone contrary to the societal expectations.

To ensure that we remain in the public limelight and win people's trust and attention, we disguise our 'music' with unfathomable flavours. There is a new meaning attached to genres today. For example, what is so gospel in Willy Paul's 'Lala Salama' and Juliani's 'Utawala?'. I am Jose Chameleone's hit 'Tubonge' is also a gospel. Oh, sweet Jesus! Mentioning God here and there, especially there is not enough to make what you are singing a gospel. Which gospel would you be preaching? Spirituals are felt.

In attempt to meet the prevailing demand, music is construed or rather is fashioned on foreign models. Nudity is stylish. A video without nude or skimpilly dressed women is not worth watching. Apart from the Western music, this is also dominant in most Jamaican dancehalls and riddims. Obscene, uncivilized and awkward feats are significant. What nude women showcase is astounding. You can imagine its moral implications.

Whether we have lost music or music has lost us is disturbing. Really! What is the use of wasting time rapping about women, money and praising oneself amidst critical issues in need of address? What is the use of leaning on alien cultures and tastes and leaving ours desperate, ailing? Well. Only we know what. But are the things we sing relevant anyway?