KUPAGAWA COAST

KUPAGAWA COAST
This has become more of a trend than an occasional occurrence. However, surprisingly, girl schools are most targeted by these spirits. One cannot really discern if there is a divine control to this or if it just occurs randomly.

The recent attach at …………………. High school left some of the parents who had gone to assist their possessed daughters on the ground yelling and screaming. It’s a new trend other than the commonly known and feared Jini enigma. The Jini’s made the coast to be popular with evil much of it being associated with cats and beautiful women. The long ago Jini’s must have found a way to co-exist with locals a way to co-exist with locals or may be found a new way to send drills down the spine!

Trying to find the root reason as to all this, coast people just smile it off and defend themselves saying that it has never been meant to do any harm. They believe one has to have some protection on his/her properties. Failure to this, you do not own a thing. Some villages from the coast claim they have no use for padlocks as long as their spiritual protection is valid and active.

As we have discovered, it is quite expensive to keep up to the demands of these spiritual beings hence they break loose and that when they take possession of those around. It may be getting out of hand since the beneficial aspect has been over-taken by incapability and so they have to take matters into their own hands. Scary to hear but cannot be more scary than to hear that all they are looking for it blood and more blood.

Failure to provide this blood, owners have been reported dead mysteriously after having talked probably every member of their families in struggle to keep the spirits constant yearning for blood fulfilled. You wonder who the person really was protecting if he becomes victim in the end! But my worry is who controls the spirit after it kills its owner.

This could be the sole cause of possession in schools as there are so many abandoned spirits roaming without any direction to follow-if ever there is quite a clear call for divine intercession and discard of this practice.

NARRATIVE

This is my story about the people of Kanyading’ding’. It is not so long ago because Opuk my greatest grandfather was still there! And you know what? I’m here. Or you think if he were not there I would be here now? Wee usilete vako bana. You know what Puklu, these things have not started now, they have been there. Maybe, better.
Ehe Pakla,
I have never lied to you, have I?
A A never
So let me tell you about the Kanyading’ding’ people. (Clears his throat) there was this beautiful Nyadendi I have never known her real name, because every time I hear her story, emotions take me off, am carried by the winds to back in the days and at the feet of my greatest grand father I set myself, to be sure that today, I can tell you the same story. So, Puklu, allow me to call her Nyadendi. (A song in praise of Nyadendi, Puklu and Pakla both sing)
Hey! Hey! Pakla, you need some more kwete, and then you promise not to go there, but stay here, until the story is over.
Puklu, I have never said no to busaa. Let me tell you about Nyadendi, she was beautiful.
Must be the most beautiful woman any man has ever even had in his illusions. She was beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. (Drinks’ some busaa from the calabash) she had neither hip-star, nor spa-strap. But she left men staggering wherever she passed. Her breasts were covered in ondakla-banana bark- her waist was adorned in bright caloured beads do you know how they were called? Ah! Puklu, they are called winde. Wi
Nde
Wi
Nde.
Yes, winde. And beneath the winde, she had a round sisal skirt called owalo. I tell you, she was beautiful. On her neck she had tigo. The improvision my sister has named necklace. She had a pronounced gap on her upper jaw. Since these Kanyadin’ding’ people never wanted to leave anything without a name, they called her gap mbanya. Nyadendi Rambanya
Ooh Nyadendi, (a song - chogo min ohero nyadendi yo X2 ayaye nyadendi yo chogo min ohero Nyadendi yo) X2
Puklu, Puklu
Pakla,
Don’t finish the sweet song, before you see the graceful steps of Nyadendi balancing her water pot from the river. Her buttocks swayed in a rhythm that all of us have a tune for in the play ground. But the one Puklu and Pakla love is this
Kabich, Carrot X3
This is the reason, why many men went for amen (wrestling) until the strongest man in the village was found and allowed to marry Nyadendi. (Ululations) it was sigalagala everywhere, because the beautiful Nyadendi had finally found a mate. The village messenger ran to the transmission hill and lit a bon-fire that smoked above and beyond Kanyading’ding’. He sent happy celebration messages to the whole neighborhood and I no time, baskets full of roast meat or should I say aliya and ugali started trickling into the celebration arena. Delicacies like alenya and aluru were brought in plenty. People danced to ohangla tunes till morning and busaa was drunk in plenty. But, strength does not scare away death. Nyadendi’s husband died. Even Nyadendi’s beauty would not keep off tragedy. Puklu, Nyadendi is widowed.
But that does not take away a woman’s beauty, does it?
Puklu, because of this beauty, they say, Nyadendi’s husband died from chira!
He! Chira/
Chira! Nyadendi’s husband was long lilo. Umh, that strong man was impotent
Important?
Impotent.
Impoted
Impotent
Impotent
You got it Puklu. (Snaps his fingers) her husbands condition made her become a creeper, and not being too careful, it gave her husband the fever. The man died childless.
Wooii
But, Nyadendi was pregnant!
Mayie Pakla!
So she could not be inherited before she gave birth. All that could be done at this time was to shave her head. (Takes’ the calabash and returns it down without drinking) everybody watched and waited, for the birth of Nyadendi and Punglu, her secret lover. Nobody was to know, but somebody knew and now, everybody knew and waited. The day came, and nyamrerwa -midwife- was called, she tried, but as Nyadendi pushed and screamed out Punglu’s name, she breathed her last. The baby gave a shrill cry to signal both her birth and sorrow. An owl’s ugly voice was heard from a distance, a strong wind -yamo- blew and the trees went punglu pwap, punglu pwap punglu pwap. So the midwife called the child Oyamo Pwap. (Drinks) The village was caught up with mixed emotions. Some mourned Nyadendi’s death while others celebrated the birth of Pwap. Others hung in between mourning and celebration. You could see a smile on one side of the face and a tear rolling down the other cheek.
Pakla my friend, I beg you do no more talking, let us drink kwete to the end of our lives. For if my beautiful Nyadendi could die just like that, I should not live.
No Puklu that is not the spirit that brings forth a man. You must be strong for odds and good, expect twists and turns which shapes our livelihood and appreciate the rises and falls that come with it.

LOVER BOYS

Many may seem adamant and not quite ready to agree to the fact that young men have over-ridden the field of prostitution this has been since for quiet a long time it was an act mostly associated with women. Blame it on economic standards as many claim. But this social ill has definitely crossed-over to a new sexual regime. One is left to wonder what has become of our bread winners. Economy, umh, I agree. So they rather have it easy and cozy than be flushed and dusty on the roads fending for families.

Whereas women were best known for looking for fat pockets, men have taken over. He wants the best woman in the neighborhood and is even swift to claim less concern should the women be married. However, the major target is the single rich mama who has no time to shop for men. He gets her and “Oops! Oh! Am sorry, excuse me mama, what’s your name?” so the name begins and they know where to pinch with such manners.

Women are beings of sympathy and concern so some take advantage of this beautiful weakness in the ladies. They come with all excuses and before you know it, you are locked in a box and the key has been misplaced. Are we still blaming it on the economy or can I be joined in my bewilderment at the wits and skills of these young fellows. Because in the long run, he is the head of the family and wants to run al the financial matter if you really love him. Of course he wants to feel like a man. Soon, Oh poor girl, your account is empty and he is nowhere to be found.

Women were not known for being aggressive in fending for themselves to this sort of intimidates the males and I can say crushing you is the cutest thing they can do. It is so interesting that no matter what a woman does to get level with the man he is always has a way of bringing her down. So many women have been victims especially foreigners in earlier days but now this is spreading to the local ladies with no mercy at all. One needs love and affection at all time but if it goes to an extent of costing your livelihood and that of your children then you are on the wrong path dear lady.

DO TAKE A LEAP HOPE LIES AHEAD

Do take a leap hope lies ahead,
Tough times and headaches are company,
Worry, worry every minute of strain.

Lies put doubt in every head,
Capable to ease any present agony,
Do take a leap hope lies ahead.

Debts and on your table no bread,
Bleak and misty is your journey,
Worry, worry every minute of strain.

Smiles and joys of past are dead,
Casting masks of doubtful colony,
Do take a leap hope lies ahead.

MY SIDE YOUR SIDE

In your presence dear,
My soul stays calm,
Just like the moon,
Lighting the dark night,
Peering through nocturnal secrets,
Setting them not hideous,
Dancing in your warmth,
Drowned by strong breath,
From heaving want and desire.

Mi confusion is not in your eyes,
Speaking trust and commitment,
But in abyss,
Of tomorrow's secrets,
Should gentle turn stone,
And your heart no home.

Barefoot on tingly prickly grass,
And a scorching egg atop,
Bare skin on ice-cold night,
Abandoned with no one else,
My world would be complete,
If you stay at my side,
And let me at your side.


For my special and dearest Kim.

Poetry

Poems of Love and Pain

By Maurine Otor

Leon-Nel Ooh baby! French I’ll call you lion, So you are, I call you sweet heart I wanted something, A thing my own, I didn’t know what, Till you came along. You surpass my expectations, At times I feel, You are too good to be mine, But here you are, baby Moz. You are the salt in my life, After all, seemed unworkable, You are turning my life around, You arouse my determination. I’m living, Just for you, Love you baby, Mom moz * * * * * God If God were animals, Calm they’d stay till tended, What of birds? They’d chatter, And sing all day long, why worry? The trees! still, unbothered, Enjoying wind. Grass, powerless, un-defensive, Stars, little helpless glitters, Sun, short lived scorching fire, Moon, calm light of the night, Just for a little while, They seemed the best, When man couldn’t rest, Only air can be God, Ever, I’ll breathe. * * * * * My Fault I see you baby boy, Your eyes so meek, Your mind so humble, Unaware in your innocence, But you’ve got it, My poor Lee, I love you, but I can’t bear it, I weep all night, I am shaking like a leaf, The twing in my heart, Painful beyond description, My secret silent prayer, Is you are okay, Coz you deserve not, Paying for my negligence, Forgive me sweety, For my fault. * * * * * Uganda My Love I love Uganda, Looking yonder, I see the borders, So I grow fonder. Ask me why I’ll say because, He or she passes, 1,2,3, You lose a beat, She’s a catch. To her you fly. I love Uganda, Don’t ask why, It’s erotic, Like meeting her, While a hug can’t be, It’s possessive, My u-cord is Kenyan, Spiral cord, Ugandan. I love Uganda, But it’s mean, In kissing its bride, Let me die in longing, Before the wedding, I love Uganda, Uganda my love. * * * * * Our Mother Planting Time In the crack of the morning, She leaves, Child on her back, Water put on her head, Hoe on her shoulder, And a tin of seeds. Planting season routine, As our mother fights, To out do hunger, A mother, Every family’s back bone. * * * * * My Momma Sweet mama she is, I must confess, Having taken her sweet days, I in her, She managed to bring one to the world, None can overlook this, she’s truly sweet. My childhood sickness she overcome, Ever with me, in the hospital beds, Just to see happy the fruits of her womb, She is a gift direct from heaven heights, Her luggage I was on hot pavements, Pebbles pricking in to her feet, sun overhead, She preserved to her destination, Never once was I a cruel burden to her, Her bones are worn out from my weight, Through many stages she’s led me well, She’s forever at my side when I despair, Lifts me up and counsels me, Oh! Mom is wonderful and my greatest gift ever. * * * * * Yester Woman Cheek back in to the past, Women or objects? Battles, insult, rape name it, All on yester woman. Child on her back, hoe shoulder Water bucket on her head, She’s trying to shape her family, But no appreciation from a man. Yester woman has to be inherited, Refusal leading to poverty, Husbands property taken, She’s sent away empty handed. She has no say, as, Her farm produce is negotiated upon, Her daughter married young, Yester woman shouldn’t object. Arise, you woman, Don’t be stepped on, Stand out in the crowd, And voice your needs. Ignore discouragement, Fight for success, So as not to live, Yester woman’s life. * * * * * Raped Under the scorching sun she lay, Pondering over the next step, Tears coursing down her cheeks, Because of the under pain. She lay there thighs apart, Flies invading into them, Her dress waist high, But hands so pale and weak to help. Bleeding profusely for hours, She ran out of fuel, And feeling no more, She had to go. * * * * * Famine Struck The air was dry, Vegetation almost none existent, Children looked old having wrinkled skin, Desperation was in the air, None sure of reaching next minute. Water was a fortune, Green leaf, manna Surviving cow, a god! As they brought survival hope, Their scarcity haunted all, Of the village in drought. Many were stories like this, About determined mothers, From the village in drought, Exhausted the mother sank down, Holding in her arms the famished child, Thinking they are full, It made for the drained, wrinkled breasts The mother, never resisting. It continued to suck, But never got a thing, Disappointed she raised her head, Eyed the willing eyes of her feeder, And understandingly, slipped off, And lay beside her mother. * * * * * Departure I love home, I love my family, I love my friends, I love to be happy, But I got to go, Tears in my eyes, It is for a change, I have to depart, From my homeland, Kenya.

* * * * *

Maurine Akinyi Otor, born in 1982 from a family of nine, lives in Jera sublocation in the Nyanza province of Kenya. She studied at Sega Girls primary School then Lwak Girls High School after which she proceeded to the Kenya Polytechnic for a diploma course in Personnel Management. She is a small-scale entrepreneur with a basic interest in creative writing, which she began as a teenager. She has written several articles yet to be published. When not writing she spends time researching. As far as her social life, she interacts with different personalities who have made it so that she can learn and be mentored through their experiences. She wants to use her management skills to run a publishing house.

Check out also, Maurine Otor's Kenya Dear

Kenya Dear

Kenya Dear

By Maurine Otor (Kenya)

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This is for my country Kenya,
For the people of Kenya,
For all who love Kenya,
All about Kenya.

At the moment,
I have tears in my heart,
My eyes dry and hurt,
Can’t bear my arm’s cut,
A thousand times I spat,
Gore that choked my throat,
My intestines in spurt,
Rush which are not.

Could it be no more?
That chance I stand on,
For me to go home?
For I now know,
My own I got no.

Here in despair,
To myself no air,
For sure not fair
Who he does care!
Mend on me this tear,
Your much let’s share.

My all you break,
That much you take,
All now I make,
Is the smile I fake.

You know I need
Oh! now I plead
You stop this deed,
Just once do heed.
My Kenya , you bleed,
Bleed, bleed, bleed!

There have been gunshots and sharpening of machetes for three days now. The stench filling our crowded room is too much. Whispers are scary but I dread the deathly silence the most. Each time I hear heavy boots patrolling the estate and the quietness gives no comfort at all. A peep through the half-broken window showcases dead bodies sprawled in deathly poses. The soil is sticky red from innocent blood. Black tanned corpses are sweltering and puffed-up like balloons. I am scared, oh no! We are scared. All of us in this room, taking turns to peep through the window, see for ourselves. Some are too shaken to dare look out. The stench of rotten bodies, roast flesh and spilt drying blood is enough to jolt them from the sight. ”Nyamchom” has never been this plenty but now I swear I’d rather be a vegetarian. We are all in a state of vacillation between survival and fate. We saw it in movies and heard of it in stories. But now we live it.
It is nothing but a normal venture of our daily-hood, televisions and radios can only be sneaked for us to get abreast of happenings in other parts of the country. But we do not like it at all. All it carries is more depressing than the nauseating poop and pee stench filling our hell-hole. But who dares to puke? Hahaha! There is nothing to vomit unless one wants to risk his intestines yak! That might be grosser than seeing the man being sent back to the flames he was escaping. A whole family has been set a blaze or an IDP filled church has been set on fire. Elsewhere, women are being raped and men sodomized. We should actually anticipate our turn. Faces are solemn and pleading. Eyes are sunken. The mood in this country, which always knew peace and hosted refugees, is gloomy today. If our hearts were loud, their doldrums would hang on every ear to a never forgettable day. We may not be able to think straight when all this stops. It is too graphic. I hope it could stop once and for all.
Though never forgotten, emotions are intangible. You can never comprehend terror until you are in the same situation. Even in equal states, still we apprehend in our own individual ways. Maybe a psychic could tell. But this is the uniqueness God created us with. It is the weakness that makes some of us hurt others, even without realizing it. It is the source of all enmity in our society. The rot of our morals come from this indifference. That is why I shed another’s blood without a slight flinch in my heart, with just my menacing smile of mischief.
How crude my ways have become. Uncouth, to numbness. We all know it is too much, yet, we are all reluctant to do anything. Or, are we just unsure? Anciently, sack cloth and ashes would be a perfect recommendation. What will do for this a perfectly reconstructed modern society? When our sky is cleared of expectant dark rain clouds, and is overtaken by a fierce scorching sun? When the bare soil, hard baked and cracked, allows angry winds to blow away its nutrients instead of conserving it to feed dying nature?
Our hearts are troubled but we are too busy to follow the path of holy serenity. We watch helplessly as hope slips from our weak fingers. We plunge ourselves in unending depression. Each on his own, still too mean to share in agony, yet too proud to even weep for himself.
Never had it been seen, a large society like ours, in an unbroken chain of mourning. Bush fires sent wild animals from hunters’ hands, but the hunters were never consumed in the flames. How then would road fires roast innocent human flesh? In numbers, in turns, the essence of humanity being blazed down to ashes. It’s just unthinkable. None can surmise how painful it is to dry down to nothing. No witness can understand. All rejoinders and confessions are easily blown and scattered off by winds. But the last charred remains of breathing beings are lined up, piled, or crushed. This shall stain our hearts forever. It’s a nightmare we all want to wake up from but a reality none of us wish to accept. We wish that baby never clung to her mother at the hour of final consumption. It reminds us how much we desire to cling to loving arms at the end. It reminds us of the innocent who beseech love, affection and protection. But the bitter truth is how we are denied. Morals have been condemned to nothing, washed down the clogged drain. There is no refuge. No safe place. It’s all insecurity. Now, in this dungeon, - unless you have a better name for it - I am choking with pain and am trying hard to push away tears. But it is not easy when it is inevitable. Furthermore, you are amidst soft incoherent sobs.
I do not want to be the one to tell you these shocking stories, but someone has to. If I am the one, then so be it. Because, we can not allow atrocities like murder and gang rapes to go untold. Worst of all, being murdered and raped by those who are to be guarding and protecting us. The police. Or by those country defenders who have their dockets extended without warning or definition of extent. What a terrible humiliation to be raped in front of your children. Your daughters raped in your presence. Sons, brothers, fathers sodomized as you are forced to watch. The country is murky, It is such a hard thing to come a cross a smile. Only a fake one, but, even that is a treasure in this time and state.
Everything is sordid. The chatter of unaware kids is met with sorry stances of ‘if only they knew.’ The only children who could be wondering and worried about what has happened to their warm comfy homes are those out in the scorching sun, trekking bare-foot to nowhere. The uncertain faces of their parents scare them and they cannot dare ask a question. Some cannot, however, stand for the un-ending silence. Their many questions are longer than the stretch of path they have walked since midnight when their sleep was interrupted by noises from the neighbors. Their parents are worn from a lack of adequate answers because they know not as well. I am not at all disappointed by these quizzing children. All I also wish for is someone to answer the same, but maybe correctly framed and not full of childhood naiveté. Like, ‘if it has to be, when will it stop?’ or, ‘are all those behind these heartless?’ Of course we need some sanity just to quell down the atrocities. I am tired of this hell-hole. I just want to die, never to see or hear again. Only then shall I stop feeling.
They say a man is coming from Canaan with a brain full of ‘Manna’. But wait. Oh boy! For how long will that kill the pangs in our bellies before it is all twisted and converted through confusing legislative chapters and clauses, a formula that only favors the suitable and can only be understood – still partially - by the learned friends, each with his own individual version.
You better not answer me because the goons are all ears and, it is your brother who raised the machete that sent you here, over your head. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t. Listen more and talk less but always remember never to sell your soul by your own mouth. We can easily forget that sumptuous rat roast with wild berries which we hunted for all day and shared as brothers. Those money raining copters have agents that creep in our midst stealthily to corrupt our acquaintances with bloody cash. Actually, no one ever knew how bloody money could be. Until those holy veins were completely drained and the earth flooded with the saving, healing blood of our Lord Jesus Christ. Or worse yet, until the money greedy Judas could take no more from coins and had to return them and hang himself.
Anger and bitterness has preyed upon us continually for days and a deep languor has succeeded in this passionate struggle. We are uncertain and over expectant of what next could take place. Tear drops from our eyes try hard to drown our hopes. If ever there was a time when the world needed a Messiah, I am certain this is it. Just once again but full of hope it would be the last, as I would never wish for such a corrosive quagmire to flood another generation. The hardest part of all this is seeing tears in a brother’s eyes and not being able to wipe them or offer simple comfort because you are biting your teeth hard to keep your cheeks dry. It’s intense pain all over.
Grinding and gnawing of teeth has caught up with us. Doom is spreading its’ wings and flapping them so fast and hard that all must flinch at the chilling cold it spreads. The hard dry ground is gaping in awe and wonder. The air is dry and choking. I am told that the Ozone is wasting down, it sure must be going so fast because I can feel the impact through every inch of my nerves. We are drifting swiftly from ice-age to sun-age.
You know that Annan, whose coming I talked about, is already here. I appreciate of course, what leaves me dumb-founded is if he will ever achieve anything for me or for them. I sure would smile to get out of here but would rather never know what I would be getting into next. Of course if it won’t favor me. Like sheltering at an IDP camp when ‘Hagueists’ delay determining my case, or are not trusted enough to inquest themselves. It’s not like I am a perpetual coward, but, my friends, aha!
There are things you would rather not know. It doesn’t hurt. Ignorance is the vice, but unknowing is implacable. The only impending problem is that the masters of my CPU are over speculative. Seeing brave boys hauling the railway line as though they will never need energy for a worthy cause ever. Ngai mwadhania, or should I say, Obon’go Nyakalaga because some might complain that I am becoming tribalist even in this crisis. Kale! Kale! I shall get nationalistic baambi Katonda Gwange!!
The only thing am sure of is that these youths forgot about drafting a will. Some from Kisumu have met the fangs of fate. Others came so close, dragging barbs and slipping off –Omosh of Kibich- olympiciously. What of our human rights Messiah who took it all on chains! Hallelujah! Kudos our unsung heroes. Just that there are no more temples to be built in three days. Once you are gone, you are deaded for G. There is no rebound on this. No legacy left behind unless you follow my handy advice. Some protocols from the late…..

Dear Boys and Girls,
I am in a state of distress my children. I am not sure if I will hold you together in my arms once again and be able to rejoice in your beautiful smiles shining on your radiant faces. I do not know if I ever will come out of here alive or, if I should use my still valid state of mind to drop you a note. I am of course afraid to call this a will as I can not even decide on the correct format to use. More to that, it sounds like a death spell sent upon a young law abiding citizen like me, for wanting that old useless mheshimiwa off the seat. Or for whichever reason these others have for being here.
You know, children, that was just my thought. Coz he might be having splendid reasons for sticking on. Though through my opinion, he has been there ever since. You know, most of us have seen these people since we were in diapers. We have chanted their slogans in our childhood ignorance. But never did they know that as we grew our inner eyes became keen and more alert for more than just the brain washing slogans. We have been looking out for substantial deliveries. It is no longer about who was there first. It is all about who can give what to the community. We matter more than anything else. We are the grains of our nation. That’s why we sing. That’s why we match. That’s why we crouch under the ground, away from the flying bullets and breaking buttons. We are the voices of our country, that’s why we hold the determinant cards. Each possesses a decision to give sane direction to our country.
No woe to these cards, my children. Your turn is coming when you must use it to speak for you. Not a machete, not a rungu, but this card. You shall never shy away from it. It is the democracy that rebels and guerilla’s sought. A legacy left for us. Protocols to adhere to. That can not be gunned down, burnt or slain now. That was the nationwide will. You can always remind your friends about it, my children. My heart, just like many hearts, I know are bleeding at this point. Weeping and sorrowing for our beloved land. We are pleading for peace and brotherhood.
I have not much to allocate to you, my children. Other than my wedding gown that needs a few fittings for you my daughters and daughters-in-law - it was an original fabric you can agree with me - my rusted certificates are there on the top shelf in our shanty. Of course I still can not overlook education though my only worry is whether you will manage to find them in the rabble our house has become. Had I written to you before the vandals came maybe we would have saved them, even put them on a nice frame to honor a learned friend. Oh my! Too bad. But not to worry, I am leaving you an abundance of Peace, Love and Unity.

Yours Harmoniously,

Mummy, Mummy, Mummy

We are colonial gringos. But listen to me; we can not blame everything on that, my fiend. Before these people came, we governed ourselves. Regardless of how crude it might have been, that’s how we made sure that some order prevailed in our little primitive communities.
The problem comes when we are unable to let go of our hereditary leadership beliefs. Blood was shed to create this big family and now blood might be the source of destruction for its delicate fabric.
We then need a philosophic heir who will overlook tribalistic boundaries and steer free of corrupt deals. Such reforms are so incredible we are literally begging for them. His flood of supporters must be willing to take up his examples in whatever may. This means we must all be philosophically right and willing to change our ways. I am not splendid in character but I sure can discern when things aren’t right. For that, I can boast.
This comforts me with the assurance that I could never throw a so-called brother out in the muddy wet and cold darkness on an empty stomach. I would not rob him of his dignity turning him into a homeless begging pauper so as to guard my selfish desires. Our country is like a beautiful butterfly with its wings clipped; it writhes on the ground unable to enjoy the juicy garden flowers that surround it. It is drunk from their scent and aroma and can’t keep its soul from yearning for a taste from them. If only for a while. Or like scattered stars scared of reaching out to each other, we could dance in harmony. Instead, we are forced to hang out in distant solitude, longing for love and comfort. The warmth from our own throbbing hearts is not enough consolation for our desire for affection. Of course we are not machines. Come on country men; our nuclear fears instill the national treatment that treads upon us. We are enslaved and trapped to ourselves. We wish we could scream out our lungs in a call for help. Breaking off would be a relief, but with this selfishness, who knows!
Sincerely, there is so much need to check our labor laws. Whom do they protect? The employer, employee or the consumer? I read in some slavery stories that laws allowed run-a-ways to be captured and re-possessed. Was that human or inhuman? You tell me, to what extent would I swear to get into a 100% boiling pool to retrieve my employer’s car key just so he may not fire me? What does it matter anyway if I do not come out of the pool alive? Either way, my family would starve. But their love would never leave me if I can get back empty handed and not let them miss me forever. Could be our economic desperation has turned our bosses into gods. We forget ourselves and the potential in us and we work tooth and nail to protect other people’s interests. We recoil and refuse to pull out our intellectuality. We wish things to come easy, not knowing that we are following the roughest tracks just for peanuts. We cannot take personal risks and empower our capabilities. We have been jinxed into assuming inferiority. You make them billions a day and are incapable of saving a coin for yourself. Not ever once have your calculations ever come right and positive. Your budget is always in arrears, extending your strenuous hours in a hopeless wish just to add a few coins. Your bones ache and creak with pain. At only thirty, you look as though you have seen a century. The sun hits hard on you as you break stones at the construction site and, at night, the chilling cold leaves you numb by morning, protecting his wealth. No wonder your voice has become coarse, weak and distant. The last time you checked yourself in the mirror you sure could not recognize who was in front of you.
It was you, that chubby vibrant little boy. The one who bullied skinny and boney fellows - that enthusiastic little prince that everyone adored. Never once expected to be lost and aloof, distant with untold thoughts which can not be understood by anyone else. It was that brave and focused boy whose dreams everyone knew, admired and envied. Not a visionless illusionist who can not remember the meaning of his name. Where has that energy gone? Where is the bounce? You can turn back and pick yourself together. Letting be and staying there feeling sorry for yourself, assuming you are a loser, is utter nonsense. You can still be whom you were meant to be and get your purpose back if you try. Focus, lean close to the mirror and recognize yourself. It’s not over yet. Straighten up and walk out with your head high, repeating the world president’s words, ‘Yes we can’ until you get to where you had dropped off.
That is when we shall stop looking for places to point fingers as to why we became scoundrels who robbed, tricked and murdered innocents. We shall have found our worth and be in no more need for excuses. We would have no more room for being used. We shall be empowered and aim for the stars we adored in our child-hood. We would idle in the streets no more but be busy scrambling for endless opportunities.
That is the last of my dreams as I swelter in here. Though, I would like to share with you my secret discovery. This circumstance has not triggered only me to make references. I got hold of a cage-mates diary and this is what I could manage to retrieve.

Monday
There is so much anticipation and worry as we scramble into this small room. We all are trying to be as discrete as possible as we come in. Fear is written on all faces and traces of dry tears are not too scary a decoration, I suppose! Talking is almost automatically forbidden. All ears are tuned to the outside to keep abreast with the happenings. I am so scared. God come help us.

Tuesday
I woke up with a strange pain on my left shoulder, I definitely know why. My head is thumping so hard I can not get myself into proper concentration. I feel really lost.

Wednesday
I do not know why mobile phones are all over. Moral ethics warn us against lying, but with this gadget, you can’t help slipping off a small one. A thousand rumors have got in here, including one that the state house has been taken over by our soldiers. Coup de etat was only heard in my birth year umh! Could this be my death year? Another one that could have rendered us update-less was that safaricom had been seized and closed down.
Save my mobi-mouth Lord.

Thursday
Nervousness can break you down and too bad if it sends you on a scratching spree. I can’t seem to settle down. Even my fingers itch. I think I am contagious coz many others have caught up with scratching as well. Tomorrow will be a big day and all our vital senses are alert. The declaration of this country’s fate will be made and all eyes and ears are on two big men. I wish I could cross my fingers but the itch Oops!

Friday
As we are waiting to sneak in a technician for our broken down T.V. a damn cell-phone rings and the news is, ‘they’ve signed it.’ Don’t ask what. Another has married the other or vice versa and these sorts of things come with signatures, certificates and a cup o coffee umh yummy! The political shared responsibility has been set on foot. We hug our fellow greasy dungeon-mates. Who cares about the stinking grime? All we wish for is safety and peace for each other.
We get ready to go out and ravage in the dust and rubble for the recovery of any family possessions.

PEACE!!
CHIAO!!

Peace Be

Poems for Peace in Kenya

By Maurine Otor

A Call for Peace

You never know what peace is really worth until you experience its disruption. This is what we are experiencing here in our beloved Kenya, which since independence was undoubtedly peaceful. This now lurks in the shadows of subsequent endorsement of power on a man a good number of Kenyan voices deem not as their present president.

Despite all these killings, lootings, destruction of properties and even crude circumcision. I still can’t but hold my breath and admire the civic Education impact on my brothers and sisters. I can undoubtedly say without mass contradiction that, democracy is becoming a civilian issue, other than the traditional thing that has always ripped us of our rights and we only sat behind quietly or at least, only afforded hushed whispers lest we be heard by the long ears of the authorities.

We cannot forget the immediate post colonial era when most patriots had to exile due to diverse reasons which were mostly political. If we misunderstood them or basically did not understand why, we are now old enough to hear, see and judge for ourselves what their position must have been back then.

It is peace these hearts were yearning for I suppose. The same peace we badly need right now. No powers should rip us of this whatsoever. We should all know that no matter our grounds of disagreement, it is the common Mwananchi that suffers and has his heart wounded. Let us all pray for peace.

Peace My Brother From fear my heart wants to explode, Just for politics my peace is erode, Those we ate, talked and public rode, We’ve gone against, Or, against us gone, Oh, peace, peace we enjoyed, Peace to other us took, Noble as we thought us, Knew not, sure, knew not, We’d forget ourselves, Forget our brotherhood, And, as if nothing, Become stereotypes, Political gadgets, That maim, torch, loot and, ooh, this me you see, Is dead at three, When night beckons, And I doubt I’ll see day, Violence has robbed us, With my heart fearful, Of the sights I’ve seen, And warnings I’ve heard, Horror movies bring nightmares, This has brought life-mares, Oh peace my brother, Peace my sister, Peace my parents, Peace my child * * * * * Peace My Country My beloved nation, Your abundance of peace, Surpassed all, Now, Emptiness and despair, Stare me on end, You know what Dear land? I cry, I mourn, For burns and bruises, Defacing your beauty, I long for the glittered eyes, That kept me on against odds, Beautiful brotherly smile, That shun not my tongue, Big crystal heart That taught unconditional love, To come take this ghost That in me breed hate and disgust, Then shall I, have peace, Then shall I, speak peace, Peace everlasting, Peace for my nation * * * * * Peace My Child In your weakness dear child, I can’t get to ignore, That though all innocence, Your subconscious, uncertainty looms, Of happenings you cannot understand, And if you can, just but vague, This politically tribal atrocity, Pains my heart Even unto despair, Of the seed planted, That without joining hands, Never will be uprooted, The seed of prejudice and hate Where anger knows no boundaries That it trespasses a little baby’s innocent The value of tomorrow The purity of God’s sacred ground Baby, you must love You must cherish life, You must nurture peace And let it grow Coz mommy loves peace

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Maurine Akinyi Otor, born in 1982 from a family of nine, lives in Jera sublocation in the Nyanza province of Kenya. She studied at Sega Girls primary School then Lwak Girls High School after which she proceeded to the Kenya Polytechnic for a diploma course in Personnel Management. She is a small-scale entrepreneur with a basic interest in creative writing, which she began as a teenager. She has written several articles yet to be published. When not writing she spends time researching. As far as her social life, she interacts with different personalities who have made it so that she can learn and be mentored through their experiences. She wants to use her management skills to run a publishing house.

Check out also, Maurine Otor's Kenya Dear

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