Reminiscence

I am thinking of sunny days,

dropfulls of golden sun,

rolling hills and sprawling fields,

covered with ripened fruit.

I am thinking of forgotten songs-

warm meals cooked over wood fire;

the eye-stinging naughty smoke

that chased us round the fire, and the

riveting stories that salted its cooking.

I am thinking of forgotten dreams;

dreams of cow herds and goat hoards-

a little house in the valley, plenty crop,

and simple longings like

a quiet life sheltered by the hills-

tucked away from the stoic sepsis

of modern ways and their sterility.

I am thinking of rainy days,

dropfulls of dewy hopes-

the healing scent of wet anthill-soil,

and ancient myths and fables

Like the story of a sunny rain hailing

the birth of a leopard cub.

Round these parts it doesn’t rain.

It pours.

And I, peering up at a weeping sky,

wonder,

What story does each drop conceal?

The Graceful Ngata

The graceful ngata dances peacefully

Like a resting leaf upon a lawn’s head

She strides with easy poise

Her hips swaying from side to side

With tantalizing rhythm

Like a veiled pendulum

Beneath her tightly wrapped lesu

That betrays only an impression

Of what her true shape be

Her breasts bounce off her chest in song

Twin mysteries

Streamers of wisdom

Bedrock of passage

The beginning of life

The beginning of history

Her child sleeps silent on her back

His expression the impression of heaven

At peace in the calmness of her being

Soothed by the rhythm of their oneness

Calm and serene at a casual glance

No telling of the misery of her life-

The prospects she abandoned for him

Or the beatings she bears for him

He will grow and leave her one day

She does not deceive herself of it

But this bond

This pure little mesh she carries with him

He will remain hers to keep

And keep she will

©2007

Ode to Patrice

On a starless and sightless night,

Still and dark- not one drop of light-

A moon draped in garb, funereal-dark,

Mourned the doom of a dwindling spark,

As mortal drones of eye- soulless and stern

Broke the breath of our Nation’s truest son.

All giant mandibles, snapping and snarling;

A great engine, fuelled by greed so startling,

Pummelled its great metal feet into our land,

Smiting a swelling will which made its stand:

But then rose our Lion, to roar the gates shut.

Interred or interned, his name foiled,

Schemes of cogwheels by profit soiled:

And so begun a game, that marked his end;

On squares of black and white- where hands

Unseen- ebony and white, moved with malice,

To checkmate the voice, which cracked the sky;

But their pawns were no match- for Patrice.

His name is the drum that roused the ground

His feet trod. His faith in our hope never failing,

Our hope in his faith never flinching:

From all the winds of our great Nation,

Our children perched their notions

               In his firm fiery eyes;

For his voice was their voice.

And his words their dreams.

With pellets of their copper death in his head

His life he gave to the dignity of our children.

His lifeless shell, hacked to parts by drones,

Was ravened by acid in the dark of a forest,

To bury his name and mute their shame:

         But Lumumba was no mortal man,

         To fall by the greed of greasy men.

He was our dreams and hopes,

Clothed in flesh and bones;

Glowing like the rising sun in our hearts,

Guiding as the patient moon in our eyes.

On a dark forest night, an African martyr fell.

On a bright forest morning his legend woke.

The Reckoning

We are mere specks of dust we mortal men:

Plodding and plucking through the mystic dark

Of this abyss we call life.

We plunge headlong into the thaws of its belly-

Our fate to sate its blistering boiling ulcer,

Drowning in the acrid juices of its bitter bile!

We enter this world as babes;

Blind, feeble and vulnerable-

Groping our way through the dour corridors of life,

Our scopes blotted with obscure cataracts,

Our reach balefully blurred by veiled visors,

Each time we venture to lift our gaze…

The ancient lodestone has lost pull.

The paved path the once led to its sacred door,

Lies petered out beneath the barren sands of time.

The way of the truth is now but a fabled trail;

And buried deep in the bowels of the earth-

In realms lost to memories gone,

Dwells our only deliverance from

   this great-never-ending-fall!

NOVA

And when our eyes we strayed upon the night;

A mark of bearing beastly- espied in constellation-

Drew sign of a star sputtered with false light:

Our breasts, rattling, quivered with consternation,

For was this star not our own? She was in nova!

The land of forgotten dreams

I saw a little girl today-

about 3 years old.

She was bright and sunny,

laughed and cackled,

And asked lots of questions;

they were funny.

I met a little boy today-

about 10 years old.

He was broody and moody,

curious as a policeman

And studied me a lot;

he was funny.

She might grow into

a doctor or nurse.

He might grow into

an engineer or mechanic.

Two lives young-

and unstained still.

Eyes white with innocence,

pupils black with possibility.

Will they too join

our long and listless marching?

Will they too grow

and forget how to dream?

A Letter to a Black Brother

Blackness, my brother, is not a fact of trite science-

It is more than a pigment of skin. It is a way of life!

It is a cloak of an infinite state worn by our kind-

Born of a tragic tradition of systemic denigration,

By centuries of living on the wrong side of history

But I am black. And I am proud.

Blackness, you say is no more than a charred hue-

An aftermath of birth beneath a burning sun

A shield sewn to skin by Sol’s furious flames 

Alas you can be no more wrong!

Blackness you tell me, is not a battle scar

That I should wear like a badge of gallant valor,

To flaunt in people’s faces like a warrior’s spear.

Black consciousness, you hold, is an empty spin

A wanton ideal to nourish shadowy wannabes

A wand to cast fashionable illusions of intellect

A respite for famished consciences-

Far from it, black pride is about consciousness …

Blackness is a heritage

A legacy of resilience in the face of adversity

It is a heroic story of a people’s stoic buoyancy

Of a people cast in a sea of endless tempest

Who learnt to make juice of life’s lemons.

It is a story of a proud people-

Who took the harsh whips of slave drivers,

And sang hearty songs that soothed the soul.

A people who took the horrors of colonial occupation

And made proud nations- measure for measure.

Nay, my pride’s not born of solidarity with lost children.

My consciousness is neither gifted by fevered books

Nor some play of social script on trendy conversation;

I wear my blackness with pride,

Because amid the falling bombs and landmines

Our gentle smiles still light the sky every waking sun.

Because amid failing states and treacherous leaders,

Relegated to subsist at the bottom of the food chain;

We still find a reason to dance and make merry.

I am proud of being black

Because blackness is strength-

A sturdy mark of endurance!

My blackness is not a state,

To explain away with science-

It is a presence of mind.

It is a symbol of love-

Of triumph amid torment

Of poverty spiting passion

Of shining sun on rainy day-

I am black and I am proud-

Because blackness, is our way of life!

©2011