Coffin Maker

 

Gather your tools, coffin maker

Buy a ton of nails and a bale of cotton

Grease the chain saw for we shall slaughter trees

Make comfy, scented and studded coffins if possible

Peak is coming, the demand of coffins shall surpass the supply

The smell of the dead will dance in the air

The flies will camp on the dead bodies

Worms will fight for the fresh corpse

Vultures will feed on the rotten meat

Caterpillars will hatch on the dead’s blocked nostrils

The undertaker will reign and resign

He will not stand the seduction from the pretty dead ladies

He will not stand the bullying from the muscular dead men

He will not stand the innocence of the little dead kids

He will not stand the cries of the half dead people he will have to kill

The coffin maker, we are waiting for their commands

We are worshippers of men, remember?

They will spit venom and we shall swallow it smoothly

They will buy us machetes to kill our neighbors

They shall pay us to light our “Vibandas” in their demonstrations

The coffin maker, make more coffins we are approaching peak

We shall bleach their faces with battery acids

We shall evict different tribes from our village

We shall kill everyone who didn’t support our politician

We shall carry their heads in town as we sing and chant victory slogans

Coffin maker, after you have sold the coffins

The accelerators of the violence will disappear

They shall fly to abroad, and our roads to success will be cursed

They shall pay casinos and whores with what they took from us

I bet before the coffin maker makes the first coffin we will have learnt

That humanity was there before politics

That political differences should never call for clashes

We may have different tribes but same blood type

And peace will help us fix our broken pieces

©2017, #ItutorPoetry

Daughters Of No One In Kenya 

I am a daughter of no one and my siblings sons and daughters of no one

I have no godfather and my mother is a peasant immigrant.

I don’t know who my father is, my mother never mentioned him we didn’t try asking.

She did everything in her power to raise us. She toiled on your Lands(Kenya) and sweated blood to feed us,sometimes it took a whole days job on the fields to get a glass of maize and beans for dinner to be shared by all of us.

Our only hope for ever tasting bread or milk was to work hard in school or so they told us.

“Have good grades, go to the university and you will be somebody someday.”

All I wanted was to taste fresh bread and eat vegetables cooked in oil.

So I worked hard.

So I burned the midnight oil for good grades

So I made the school library my other home

So I borrowed books.

So I read every book in our school library.

“Knowledge is power.”

Knowledge I acquired.

My grades in school were flawless.

My disciplinary record flawless.

I followed the rules or took great care to not get caught when I broke them .

The first time i tasted biscuits, the ones sandwiched With icing sugar, was in an English class when Mrs.Otieno thought my composition was exquisite and i deserved a reward.

I had only read about such biscuits in Novels and tasting them felt like heaven.

I had always admired my English teacher .

If memory serves me right, I used to dream that if I worked hard enough I will would someday; drive a car like hers, master the command of English language like she did and afford mouth watering biscuits like the one she had awarded me. She even told me that the secret was in working hard,Get good grades, go to the university.

I did all that.

I studied hard.

I made it my mantra.

finally I got into the university.

I graduated college.

Here I’m five years later and I think my immigrant mother probably had it better. My papers lie under my bed.

I stopped photocopying my CV because there was no point.

Kiptoo asked me to sleep with him so he could consider giving me an interview.

Wafula wants me to be his third wife for a job offer.

Liteitei asked me to scratch his back, he didn’t even bother explaining.

My story is long and boring,nothing worth writing home about.

Someday may be I should head middle East and probably Slave for a few dollars but that Also got some scratching and backs for it to be a reality.

Another fantasy.

Another dream.

It’s like i never learn when they sell me fantasies.

I stopped telling my mom the reality am living in.

That am broke.

That I do odd jobs that pay piss to get by.

That I live with three other girls, struggling to pay rent.

That I live on a single meager meal a day.

So I send her cash often so she would think am okay.

Some nights while I lie awake, I fantasize on taking Wafula on the offer.

Then when Sunrise comes up I remember why I have to fight another day.

I think of pink lotus and how it blooms after a long period of mud and darkness and I fight to survive another day.

Hope is a dirty word than Fuck but hope has been my only faithful friend.

She,Hope, has kept me going,afterall the alternative is hopelessness

I would rather hope even if it kills me sometime.

I have heard of success stories, I tattooed a Phoenix on my belly and a lotus on my back, on the days I forget I trace my hand on the Phoenix, to remember.

Someday I will rise from the ashes but today I have to get by in the ruins my life. Abandoned ghost towns have a better chance of being Rich and famous than my life but that doesn’t mean I will stop trying.

I think of Dubai, a desert that became a dream and I fight on.

The promise of Canaan is no longer lies in good grades, not in my reality, Kenya . Maybe the promise of Canaan is in playing dirty but I was raised Christian and No matter how I try I can’t seem to bring myself to deal drugs, teachings from a tender age,keeps weighing on my conscience.

Maybe someday things will change. Maybe I will find a godfather or my father will come save me.

Maybe love will save me.

Maybe things will change.

Maybe they won’t.

I fight to see another day.

I look at how hopeful sunrises are and I carry on.

The glory of sundown reminds me that just because the sun is setting in my life That doesn’t mean it’s not beautiful and glorious, it makes a good story after all. i talk to the moon a lot. Her cycle reminds me that I don’t have to be bright or show up to called a moon. I’m still Riri even when I don’t show up.

I carry on.

I take it a day at a time.

Just another day, in a daughter of no one, In Kenya.

She keeps on.

The Brutal Rape Of Africa 


 

Seeing that Africa was young and endowed with treasures,

There came many kings seeking to lure her and dominate her.

And Africa, much to their disappointment rejected all of them,

But the kings went and took counsel how they might put down Africa.

Behold, with deceitful pretenses, they seized Africa and raped her –

 

The king of the tribe of the British,

The king of the tribe the Dutch,

The king of the tribe of the Spanish,

The king of the tribe of the French,

And the king of the tribe of the Belgians –

 

Each king holding each limb, they took turns and raped Africa.

And in those days Africa was barely a teen.

She lay on the ground in pain and agony.

Her blood flowed through the gold mines of South Africa and the Gold Coast,

Through the diamond and copper mines of Sierra Leone and the Congo,

 

Through the rubber plantations of Liberia,

And finally through the uranium mines of the Niger.

Vagabonds, did Africa produce as offsprings.

And I saw an old queen wearing a gold crown stolen from none but Africa.

Suddenly there came a loud voice from Abyssinia saying:

 

‘We shall wipe her tears and we shall restore Africa to her people.’

And after the voice, I saw Africa anew, adorned as a bride

For her groom – for her people.

The old Africa is long gone – this is a new Africa!

And I saw her people embrace her – and there was no more war nor strife nor

Disease nor ignorance nor even revenge in her heart.

 

©2015. Tawia Tsekumah.

 

 

Dear Libra 

You is broke.


You is barely surviving.


You is in debts.


You is behind on rent.


You is losing friends 


You is losing money.


You is trying to lose weight and failing seriously.


You is failing in almost everything.


You is finding it impossible to get a job.


You is almost losing your house.


You is having a hard year.


Worry not… survive 2017. We had an easy 2016, in retrospect. It’s alright. It’s written on the stars. 2017 was meant to humble us. We are a proud lot, it was bound to happen someday. 


Let’s get through 2017.


After all odd numbers have always done a number on us.


2018 we will reclaim our lives, our dignity and most importantly, our pride.


We have survived 4 months, 8 to go or less. Maybe when it gets to September, our star will change things and we will reclaim all we have lost 


So we sip our morning coffee. We sip our wine. We empty cups and glasses. We get by. We survive. Something will give,maybe, or maybe it won’t but we won’t break. We are stronger than most. It’s just 2017,duh”. The worst that could happen is not survive 2017 you know.


Namaste 

The Girl 

I’m never going to be the girl who is half loved 


I’m never going to be the girl who apologises for her feelings.


I’m never going to be the girl that gives up on herself 


I’m never going to be the girl that gives half love.


I’m never going to be the girl that forgets to let her hair down and chase the moon.


I’m never going to be the girl that chases boys.


I’m never going to be the girl that cries herself to sleep.


I will be the girl That bleeds diamonds and runs with the moon.

Ghost Story 

It was one fine Sunday, Paul, one fine lady was having a little lazy morning. Yes. Her name was Paul. An unusual name for a female,a usual male given name. Growing up kids made fun of her for having a male name but that was long time ago. Now she is a woman and she made peace with it. She is even proud of her name. She somehow used it in her favor, or so she claims, how?I don’t know. Her best friend Pauline had come over and the girls were catching up on the weeks event. It’s a girl thing 

So how was your week Pauline?”

“Amazing, Charles from the office asked me out.”

Half listening Paul.

“What did you say?”

“I said no.”

“Why?”

“You look distracted Paul. Are you okay?”

“I guess. I just feel weird.”

“Hormonal weird or sick weird?”

Only a girl can understand a girl that much 

“Something in between”

“You either pregnant or on your periods.”

“Hahaha I can’t be pregnant. Am on the pill, duh”

“Pill pregnancy is a thing. When was the last time you had your periods and how exactly do you feel?”

“Tired. Sleepy. Dammit and have been peeing often.”

“Yessss”

“What? You are the nurse here. What do you think is happening to your body?”

“Shit! Points to pregnancy. There’s some kit somewhere in this house. I better find out for sure “




Paul takes the test. It’s positive. She is thirty. Pregnant doesn’t seem like such a bad thing,maybe this is it. I mean she had a good job,a supportive boyfriend and good friends, her best friend Pauline has always been there. She even thinks Pauline will make a great aunt and godmother to her unborn baby. The child she was carrying will have an okay place to grow up in. They(her and Wayne her boyfriend) weren’t trying for a baby but here they were.

Since she confirmed she was pregnant, she started taking extra care of herself. She realized that she wasn’t just living for herself but for two now. 
Wayne was thrilled. Everyone at work was excited for her . It wasn’t such a bad thing, she thought. Her boss was being nice since she realized Paul was carrying a baby.She felt a little guilty for getting pregnant without a ring on her finger. She knew her mother will be a little disappointed but she also knew dearest Mommy will come around, she always does. I mean that’s what mothers do. Even though she is having a child out of wedlock, her first child should count for something. It’s special and she had never disappointed her before. Besides she wasn’t getting any younger after all. she can’t believe she will be a mother soon, motherhood didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Six months into it and she miscarried. She took her IFAS supplements, she attended pre natal clinic, she reduced her working hours, she was off alcohol… generally she took care of herself but somehow she miscarried. Her baby that defied science and nature the first time also defied the rules of pregnancy and left her wounded. She didn’t get to hold the baby . She went through the motions of recovery; depression, insecurity and finally acceptance. 

One year down the line they decide to try again. Wayne had witnessed what she went through, it somehow changed her, even their relationship felt strange. You can’t go through such a thing and survive without a little change. .
She gets pregnant, she is off the pill, not some miracle baby that defied science or anything. She doesn’t even tell people. They all notice later own. She takes extra care of herself. On her labour, she smiles, even proud of herself, she is looking forward of holding her baby, it’s a surprise, she didn’t want to find out the sex of the baby. 

“It’s a girl”, the doctor announces. She smiles. 

“Can I hold her?”

“Still birth . Sorry. You don’t have to do this “.

Madness takes over. She screams. She shouts. She wants to hold her baby. Labor is madness and still birth is worse. The doctor surrenders and gives it to her. She sobs for her baby. She mourns for her baby. A baby she didn’t get to hold…….
She broke it off with Wayne.

She stopped talking to her best friend 

She isolated herself.

She quit her job.

She went to India, there is magic in India, she was told. To find her chi. 


Now she is a yoga instructor.

Childless.

Alone.

After what she had been through…. 

Blessing Galore 

Finally we hit 200 posts.

I feel blessed. 

Now that Easter is here, I would like to thank The Guy above for his unending love and blessings He sent my way and for The gift of life .

 Thanks to my readers for your constant support. For reading my work. For validating my struggles by commenting and e-mailing me. Sometimes all it takes is to hear from you and I know I don’t have to stop writing for the internet 
Thanks to my friends, family, strangers and beautiful glorious sundown for inspiration, sharing moments with me and your stories.

 Thanks to insomnia I get to write at night. 

Special thanks to my hormones, that girl, surely, makes me bleed words and literally.

Today it’s all morning sunshine, coffee and gratitude. It’s truly during Easter weekend, just  after the glorious ecclesiastial full Moon. The universe is all awesomeness and gratitude.
It wouldn’t have been possible without y’all sharing your stories and life with me. 
It wouldn’t have been possible without the glorious beautiful sunset that inspires me to want to create something beautiful.
It wouldn’t have been possible without conversation with the moon. She inspires conversations in my head for the book I will never write.
3am is a beautiful place. It’s where my favorite pieces come from. 
Thanks to bloggers for supporting and editing my work. 
My hormones, she is the best. 
Thanks to everyone and everything that made blogging worth the work, vulnerability and the pain.
Thanks to WordPress for giving me a platform to project my life. 

It wouldn’t have been possible without the internet community. I may never meet y’all but surely you have been the best. Your support, hate speech, spam messages and constructive criticism has been for the best.

I hope my words have not been in vain. 
Keep the love. Keep the support.
Yesterday and other days from yesterday I have had moments of walking away from writing. The vulnerability of sharing my thoughts online sometimes literally hurts. But it’s the posts that leave me most vulnerable that matter the most. It’s the posts of my struggles that make a few people feel less alone and for me that’s enough.
Namaste.