POEM

Knead me with a disciplining touch,
Let purity and clean personality engulf me,
Forgive me,
Fumigate my wretched soul,
Compassionate me, please.

Media Freedom- How free?

(copied and pasted from the DailyNation,Kenya)

Police have arrested journalists and activists in Nairobi as they protested over a bill that seeks to curtail media freedom.


The protesters were arrested at Nyayo Stadium, the venue of Friday’s Jamhuri Day celebrations.

Police rounded up Kiss FM presenter Caroline Mutoko, activist Mwalimu Mati and his wife and other journalists as they arrived at the stadium.

They were arrested on the strength of wearing t-shirts with inscriptions critical of MPs refusal to pay tax on their allowances.

The group was taken to various police stations in Nairobi.

The ICT Bill contains contentious clauses that will severely limit media operations.

For instance, it gives the Internal Security minister the powers to seize broadcast equipment once he has declared an emergency.

The minister of Information has powers, under the Bill, to control what can be broadcast, when and in what form.

He will do so by giving guidelines to a Communications Commission of Kenya made up of people hand-picked by him.

It also restricts cross ownership.

The Bill was passed in Parliament on Wednesday and now awaits presidential assent.

On Thursday, media owners petitioned the President not to sign the bill into law. And on Friday, most of Kenya newspapers editorialized on the issue.

{I wonder what stories I'll be writing if I get back-the weather?Safari?}

Growing Up

To this day, whenever I meet a primary school teacher, I give them a thumbs up in my mind. In primary school, I remember the kinds of cases they had to solve : ‘He called me a dog’, ‘she stuck out her tongue to me’ and my favourite- ‘she called me a boy’. Well, there is nothing wrong with calling a boy a boy, but when you call the same boy, boy in my mother tongue, it becomes a very big insult. I mention this because I was amused by this term and would use it liberally whenever I had the chance. So you’d over hear a boy almost in tears telling the teacher- I kicked her because she called me a boy in Kikuyu- A boy in Kikuyu is ‘Kihii’, an un-circumcised man. To better explain to the teacher the intensity of the insult, one boy Swahilinized the term Kihii and made it kipii, which was acceptable and the teacher understood how hurt the boy was.
One time I screamed the insult at a boy for throwing my keys out of the window and ruining my key holder.I never said I was sorry but he looked at me and thought of the meanest thing to say to me,, he said- you were born as a mistake.
Insults aside, in standard 6, my desk mate and I got very bored . I asked him if he could draw me something. He drew very well{ I wonder how he ended up. Maybe he does posters or is a graffiti artist now but back then he drew like a pro}
He took out his pencil and I pushed my Maths exercise book to him.
‘ How about Daniel’s foot,’ I suggested.
Now Daniel was a boy that walked 25 km every morning to come to school. He wore no shoes{ shoes were not compulsory then} and so his feet had adapted . The bottom was very tough and along the sides, the separation between the top and the bottom was so distinct it , both feet looked like a nicely baked block bread. In this case, the common bread was broadwayss.
So my desk mate J, drew a loaf of bread, and when I burst out laughing, the girl sitting behind looked over to see just as J was putting the final touches, 5 fingers.
‘ Is that Dan’s foot?’
We all laughed, and Dan, having heard his name came huffing to see what was going on.
He grabbed the book and we all looked at him smiling. You guessed, he didn’t see the joke. He did 7 steps to the staffroom. We got a nice beating.
The teacher on duty had asked in desperation, ‘ nyinyi watoto kwani akili yenyu imeoza?’
‘Kids, are your brains rotten?’

poem

I’m gonna re-write my story
Write it in bold letters on iron tablets
See, the past has been reeling me in too many times
Spiraling me inside it’s vortex like a helpless leaf in a storm.

Nights of tearful contemplations, breathless internal fights
Disclosing and admitting fears embedded within me,
Tonight I’m re-writing my story.

See, I may not have started out clean cut and definite, pre-meditated.
I may not have been of good stock
But I look upon the stereotypes with aghast.
For now the small bits and pieces have been stitched together-
And reinforced with strong seams.

Yeah, I may not spell and say words correctly.
I may not put together colors alright,
But inside; The colors match, the words make sense
Tonight, I loosen this rope

safety man

You hands,
The nails that you bite
Your arms,
Your hands that hold me so.

Your voice,
When you talk to me
Your laughter,
When we think of funny things.

Your kindness,
When I’m in trouble
Your concern,
Over the little things that nag me.

Your smell,
Resides in my mind
Your smile ,
Breaks my heart into two.

29.

9a.m


Rise me up
and let me breath the sweet scent of morning.
Wake me up
when the sun begins to shine at nine
let me see day
Give me hope
like tabs give relief for pain,a chance to see light
Let me open my eyes
to give thanks to my maker
at 9a.m.

He Was a Friend of Mine

So we each sat in the dimmed room
Each lost in his own sorrow
Each searching his brain for a reason-
To blame, to excuse, to seek the truth.

In a crowd yet alone
Tears filling our eyes, heads paining
So lonely, so worried, far far
Away from close confidants
Unsure, insecure, mourning.

And so we sat, palms on chins,
Afraid to look anywhere but in front
Afraid of the slightest movement
If only there could be an explanation.


Empathetic, of what must have gone though his mind
Did he suffer?
Did he anticipate it?
Was he scared.

We were, afraid, in shock, sad
We would miss his laughter
and Chris Daughtry playing in his laptop
and his trademark shorts
'I'm Allan, 'he'd say, 'not Allen'



( Our classmate had a bad accident, died last week. This has been a very sad week. There's nothing to say really.One can never get used to death, especially of someone you know. I feel it for his parents. If I feel this much sorrow after knowing him for two months,,,how about his mother who's known him 20 years ? He pronounced his name as Allen, but corrected us when we called him that. He was always smiling and nice, asking- so Sis-li-a, how's Cyberia?- {my condo},Miss X, Did you tick my name?- He carried his laptop everywhere. In our Human communication group, he wanted us to review- Baby's Day Out, his favorite movie. I thought he was jocking, he wasn't. We'll surely miss him. I keep thinking- poor Allen, he was so happy )