My fountain of peace and love

Its hidden deep inside

There where no destroyer accesses

From it oozes the very happiness of my soul.

A breeze so cool it provides,

To soothe my weary and exhausted being

That’s my fountain of peace.

It provides love this fountain,

Love so dear and special to me and my course

That’s why I shivers at the thought of its disappearance

I better never loose this fountain

For with it, I believe in every course whatsoever

May it never find a new bearer for I believe I am best suited

But if it deems otherwise,

We, I will swallow my pride and watch the fountain change course

For I know that the swelling will soon subside

 

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Love in Limbo

A day is soon coming

When you will wake up to find my spot is empty

And in it, a glaring hollowness stares back

A day is coming

When you will wish that i ask you about your day

But instead, all I do is stay back and watch the trees sway in the wind

And as if in a comma, unperturbed, I will fix my eyes on my life

Not glancing sideways even to those who matter

Because as it is, we only matter to ourselves

No matter how hard you try,

They will never afford your love my brother.

Sometimes you better do the limbo dance

Rather than valuing love that is in limbo

That’s ain’t love!!!

 

MY STAR

You are a star,
A star on the start of my world,
Yes the sphere of love,
The one we built from that summer meeting.
You only radiate my own circumference
And from one end to the other,
You shine in my life.
You are a star ,you are a star.

I know how you care
Tenderly with tentacles of love spreading
And every moment we are together,
You drain me sanity.
It amazes me how you paint
With your warm winter cuddles.
Probably i got lost long on the way
And every time you shine,
Your tall tender and brown body freaks me out
No matter being winter,you will always shine
For you are a star.

You are my frontier
Back from that night kiss
The night when the moon led our way to church
And as if from a party night,
Our love set pace back then.
But still deep inside,
The love burns and glows
For you are a star,you are my star.

BROKEN HEART

Simple is how a day is made
Coupled hours effortlessly sum up to,
They pass with tickling evidence
Never stopping at a full round
But in it,
A heart was broken.

The love,
It made a soul proud
And trust was all it breathed
Whilst loyalty was all it smelt.
Fumbled in silvers,
I received my dungeon ticket in a minute
Not withstanding my agony,
It ticked past my fell off.

You fly with fishes,
Always turning my tripples into loud bangs
And with them,joy is kept in tenses
In disgrace and blasphemy,
They gigle in shifts
And now,your day got teeth.

DAWN IN PARADISE

Bring up the sun

Let the nature’s tranquility take charge

And as the rays lighten up the cascading dusk

do not open the heart of memories

for it has dawned in paradise.

The hills across,

They attest to your beauty and fragrance.

The dawn you are,

Itself is captivating.

Making me sleepless

As I yearn for a dawn in paradise

So that I may see the paradise in you

 

 

The mysterious princess

She made me happy

the mysterious mistress.

all day long

I made images of her.

I yearned to get her scent upon arrival

the scent; it made me whole

her touch reinstated my affection

an affection of not letting go

a satisfaction in making her the only princess

the princess of a mysterious kingdom

the most mistaken dynasty

said to be deserted,

the prince commands an army of beauties

but alas! none, and none pleases his majesty than her.

all he want is to strike her robes

decide the linen to make ’em robes

and possibly, welcome her into the royal palace

not for a day

neither is it for a moon

but for eternity if allowed.

 

The impeccable photo

Click, click and click

goes the shutter sound of my camera.

Impeccable photos I want,

Unobstructed and unblurred I pray they be.

I patiently wait to click.

Wait for stooping men on the sidelines to droop their heads.

And as if bowing in honor, they vowed not to bore.

The men they are,

A jury so proclaimed.

A panel best at giving with little for thy self.

Yes, the sky might be calm but it ain’t blindfolded.

A day rejuvenated is soon

And the clouds will pour so heavily that the so drown in the truth.

Drown from a true-self,

O self-love be so gentle

Lest, I allow thy self draw an abrupt finish line

One that will prevent an impeccable photo through her heart

And stop my shutter sound from taking a photo so dear.

 

Evening tales with grandma inside a Maasai’s manyatta (introduction)

It is evening again in the savanna woodlands, the heart of pastoralism. The daylong heat of the sun across the plains is peacefully paving way for the cool breeze that usually comes with the night that’s being ushered in by the quick settling dusk. Children, or rather herd boys, hastily lead the animals into the open sheds where their fathers patiently wait to ascertain that the herd is complete and examine the health of what they dearly adore. In this part of the world, cattle are so dear such that they receive care and attention almost similar to that given to fellow human beings.

As usual, the mothers will soon come equipped with milking guards to milk the lactating cows. Although the milk obtained is normally little, the pride of this milking activity is only shared by the Maasai women who use the opportunity to exhibit their singing prowess. Throughout the day, the women across the savanna land had been sharpening their singing ability for this moment. The cow must be enticed into producing more milk through singing. And true to their belief, the best singers always get more milk than the others.

As the homestead turns into a beehive with activities, it is the children that often steal the moment. The day had been successful, and now that there are no missing cattle reported, it is time to rest and live their moment. At the doorstep of the manyatta, grandmothers quietly stand as they watch their children and grant children perform their respective tasks. They are among the elite team of the society mandated to oversee the continuation of the community and more so, the preservation of the culture. They rarely talk in the evenings, maybe because they talked a lot during their days, apart from the low melodious sounds they make probably to reminisce their youthfulness. They are now retired having done enough when they were agile, and since they are relieved of their duties, grandparents in the Maasai homestead develops profound connections with their grandkids. Loneliness and idleness is part of them now and therefore; they tend to get closer to young children who are willing and ready to listen to them without judging as ‘being too old.’

They grin at the doorstep as they lazily pave the way for the children who are now racing to the manyatta’s door. At the far corner of the manyatta wall, grandfathers sat on their traditional three-legged stool chewing tobacco. They are either in pairs or in groups chanting harmoniously with interjectory spits of the bitter substance. Things are moving on smoothly if they don’t hurl cautionary remarks to their sons who are the head of the homestead. Today is such a day. They are unperturbed and on they sang their Moran songs.

“ootu ene irkuoo lainei” (come here my little lambs)

Grandmother will tell us once the short-lived manyatta race is over and the winner given his accolades. She knows it’s time to provide the children with a soul healing experience to cure their tiny exhausted muscles. To the children, no one needed to be reminded of what they need to do. Before grandmother took her position inside the low lit manyatta, everything is set for the occasion. The traditional lamp made of tin and fueled by kerosene was already lit and the fire, well, it was fed with firewood enough to last the whole session. No child dared to miss this moment. It was story time with grandma.

The evening chores, which usually consist of lighting the fire and locking up the calves, were hurriedly but precisely done to attend the opening ceremony of grandma’s evening tales. The milking mothers were politely persuaded to hasten the process to necessitate the completion of all assignments. And just before grandmother could grace the occasion with her story, there we were in tens, sitting around the fireplace on the bare ground that formed the floor of our manyatta. Our souls were burning with aspiration. An urge to hear the ancient tales that form part of our history. No one can ascertain if the creatures narrated in the stories indeed existed, but according to us, whatever grandma said in the story was a reality and defined who we are.

To be continued

The mountain Panda

Early in the morning,The mountain panda lazily opens its eyes.

To let in the hazy breeze of the mountain peak, the typical panda stretched its body as if catapulting.

Not obliged to hurry, it patiently resumed its peaceful nesting as it waits to maul on its natural reservoirs.

That was long ago.

Well, long before the urban fuming engines came to life,

Long before our children viewed wildlife on orphanages  instead of parks

Back then when oozing life beautified the remotest of all mountain regions

But since we learnt the importance of ginning cotton

And realized the boredom in the countryside

The typical Panda will permanently remain sullen

Its magnificent black and white stripes will fade and get replaced with a permanent sooty fur,

Like that of a Black panther.

Turning the peaceful mountain peak into a park for Black panthers

With no hopes to restore its white fur.

No wonder its tears are increasing day by day.

 

x-mas’ hidden meaning

It is about that time again when people suddenly become friendly and merrier. I don’t mind if someone will argue that its what gives the Yuletides its meaning, my stand still remains that the humbleness associated with Christmas is not genuine. Throughout the year, you have been arguing with your neighbor about the parking space in front of your house or about your dog shitting on their backyard. All over sudden, Santa times knocks and there you go relentlessly ensuring that the same neighbor have dinner in your house on x-mas eve.
Sharing a table with your enemies is the greatest thing that will ever happen to humanity but not on the night when the son of man is being born when hypocrisy is at its best. We are all hypocrites who are trying to cleanse our unholiness on a night that is ought to be the most holy of all. For those of us who have lived on the countryside, x-mas is the day when your relatives and rich urban dwellers will roam your village exposing almost all the wealth they have amassed over the years. They will bring loads of goodies in the name of presents but deep inside, all they want is you to recognize how wealthy they are, well, they seem to be. They wear white robes probably bought hours before their small “De’tour” just to ensure that the differences between them and you is conspicuous.
Now, the real thriller comes with the fact that most of them have taken loans so as to afford their expensive ‘micro’ lifestyle. Majority are riding on borrowed life that will automatically ends the time they return to their miserable urban lives. So, the sooner you realize that Christmas can also be commemorated on an urban setting, the better. The presents they offer during these times are meant to demean you while making them demigods in front of your eyes. After all, if all those who calls for parties during Christmas were genuine, bonfires would be lit in every children’s home and any other residence of needy people and not on billionaires backyards.