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WHERE DO WE GO

On March 13, what would later be known as patient zero was announced. A Kenyan Lady in her late twenties had tasted positive for what the U.S President dismissed as, Chinese Virus. Our worst fears had been confirmed and the media having vastly covered the health pandemic, a good number of the citizens was sure thar time on earth had come to an unlikely end. This was not to be. Six months later, after what the president called expert advice decided to lift most of the containment measures to curb the spread of covid. Unlike other countries that had been hardly hit , our country recorded a relatively low number of deaths. Among the measures lifted was that which prohibited the sale of alcohol and closure of bars. The drinking nation had been given the power to drink again, at their own perril. The announcement was met with celebrations from visibly sobber drunkards who had missed hitting the brown bottle. Keg enthusiasts also joined the bandwagon. Time to celebrate, tukunywe pombe! But t
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Recent posts

WHAT DO YOU WAKE UP TO?

It is Eight in the morning, the clouds envious of the sun's shine. They cover the sky forcing a false chill on what should be a bright morning. Being the type of people who visit  Twitter before confirming that they can breath, I log into the bird app and a " what do you wake up to" tweet welcomes me. Should I tell them that I wake up to their tweets? In the age of Amerix's Four Bs, it is wrong. So I won't. I look around, searching for inspiration to aid me in the reply. I wake up to nothing new, the air smells like yesterday.  I wake up to almost silent dawns. Cock crows punctuating the rather peaceful early mornings. I wake up to chicken flapping their wings, with a hope that they will fly higher than yesterday. I wake up to new blessings.  I wake up to battery low warnings, and data depletion messages with my phone acting as the blanket, resting on my chest. I wake up to news that I was blocked, just because I drifted to slumber before replying to her messages.
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Artful Deception.

That morning, I stood rooted to the tiled floor with my hands on the poorly done window grills. I had been examining the structure that we called home. The Sun was lazy, casting weak monotonous rays on the ground. It had sufficiently rained the previous night and the air was still fresh.  Since my childhood, I had enjoyed the petrichor, it had a way of pumping life into my dead hopes, and couldn't wait for a few droplets of rain to hit the ground. It was a moment I always craved for. Half past seven in the morning, if not for the birds chirping so melodiously I wouldn't have travelled back to reality. "Normal is boring." I said to myself reaching for my phone that was religiously playing my favorite Bob Marley playlist. Nobody can stop reggae. The tweets that day were not as snappy as I would have wanted. Something was eating me up but still I couldn't figure it out, at least not at a time when Bob was reassuring that things would be alright. Music to me had alway
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A letter to the king's daughter

Hello baby, It's been a while now Before I composed paragraphs for you. Lately, I have been around Being told of how roses are red and violets  blue And that love is only for two. But I hope that you have been okay And that my absence has not made you jump into other unnecessary conclusions and relationships. This time round I must admit I am an impressed fella and literally out of words maybe that's why it took me long to come up with this piece of literature You are a star, or maybe destined to be one, How you stay fly fighting gravity still is something that I can't fail to marvel at. Your smile is out of this world, it forms such beautiful curves and leaves me staring blankly at the beautiful photos you take. I heard them say that a relit ciggeratte never tastes the same, sure, they were right. But ever tried to re light  roaches in the morning ? Unexplainable level of high and thats really how you make me feel. I know that words alone aren't enough
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Please Get Tired.

I write, You notice, You assume, I get disconnected And curse. " It's hard to show love to a stone" of no worth it is  making love to a marble, Shinny and elegant, Only adapting to the degree of my loving when in the same room And nothing is the same when we hug and part ways. I write You marvel Share it to friends And say "That was master class" You find it hard to read between the lines. Not born for the art, so you wont relate Our connection is relative, Like an uncle to a niece It's hi when we meet and high time when we don't. I notice You care less I get disconnected I miss her But who listens? I refuse to build a foundation on a forced connection I don't want to end up losing myself when you finally slip away like she did. Please get tired, and let me try to win her love back. I write Get tired And hope That if tomorrow ever comes with the darkness it left with, Then I would sit and wait for her to come aroun
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If Yesterday was Tomorrow.

And, if yesterday was tomorrow, What would you have done differently? Would you write that which the mouth was even afraid to whisper? Be a little bit poetic and feed the world with feelings, Just like any other slave of the pen? If yesterday was tomorrow_ Would you let the sun set with your heart still hurting? Would you  still call men dogs Just because a few like bones like you do? If yesterday was tomorrow, Would you talk of how it never comes And sing, hoping that You finally became a star? Would you share the last piece saved on your diary? Or, you would just have written another piece to entertain the skeletons in your closet, those that really never come out? If yesterday was to come after today would you still be talking of a having gruelling day and still seat and swipe your gadgets all night long lost in the virtual world? If yesterday was the day after today, Would you still claim to ride with your friends, Would you still talk of them the same way? For m
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Groove back.

Njanuuuaaaary,, please hold up!! We ain't even got our seatbelts on, or did the Michuki laws get relaxed? The month is moving fast, as if trying to disapprove those who say it has 69 days. Anyway, hope you  are as fantastic as you had wished on new year's eve. Being consistent is hard, more so when you are writer. Sometimes you feel like writing, but the inner self disassociates  with such imaginations, not because writing is wrong. No, because as a writer, you meet many people and you feel the urge to write after each encounter . So the inner self doesn't want those people to think that you are writing about them. That was the case with Doluh, too many things happening and writing about them would have given those people some degrees of entitlement that they shouldn't be having.  But guess what? Your G' got his groove back, too many words crying, trying to escape from the mental asylum. It will be speedy and bumpy, remember to have your seatbelts on. Bon voyage!
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