Silhouette

The driver wonders if the chill has gotten to me,

As I blow my nose and say my sinuses have “run amok”,

I look outside and close the window gently,

I wipe it to see your silhouette, with his, and inwardly I choke,

You seem lost in the moment,

You seem oblivious to the downpour,

Here I am; my mood dismal, drowning in my torment,

Stuck in this Nairobi gridlock, gutted, dejected, sore

****************************************************

It was yesterday, I saw you as the rained poured furiously,

I was engrossed in my own thoughts, but somehow my eyes beheld you & I gawked surreptiously,

It was near Yaya, you were talking animatedly,

I was ensconced in that Easy taxi, clutching the seatbelt, dying silently.

Is he the one you said you would never look at?

Cause* you promised me his texts were innocuous, at that Java chat.

Now here we are, miles and distance interwoven like a mat,

Part of our tapestry; now a torn relic, discarded like a dead cat,

My soul is now a war-zone, my heart "a city decimated by Jihad",

Never thought seeing you happy would make me bleed this bad,

I wish I wasn’t angry but your memory makes me so mad,

Like the churning in my system is magma and not blood!

Maybe I should be glad,

That you saved me from bondage, but I'm just a livid lad,

That I could never mirror your dad,

That I’ll never be the best you ever had….

It feels almost silly now, admitting all this,

Just the other day I was preaching like a new proselyte about eternal bliss,

Not once did I suspect something was amiss,

Not even when you cancelled Valentines dinner for your sis.

Now I see how calculating you were,

The way you used me to get this far,

A friend I let go of, you were smitten by like Magi with Bethlehem’s star,

Oh the vengeance inside makes my mirth black like tar

I hated loving you so much that all else became vanity,

Blindly I drank, and got intoxicated by the sweet nectar

I was mesmerized so much by your entity,

Our soundtrack was Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car,

Now all I see is your shadow and silhouette,

A mirage in the desert, sarabi jangwani, mazigazi,

No more will I allow life, love's appetite to whet,

I am done being fettered with emotions that drive me crazy!

Kibali

Image: Wiki Commons

Caveat: This was written as part of the Sanaa Book Club Challenge "A Taxi, an old friend and Valentine's day"

Sahara's Sands

I have an anger that rages like an incandescent fire burning bright,

Staining my heart with a darkness thicker than night,

I have anger so toxic it gives my sanity fright,

Threatening my soul with wilting worse than blight,

My eyes are blinded even though they perceive light,

My limbs are powerless even though this emotion gives me might,

For when I behold you with my “sight”,

I hope I do not do things I will pretend to regret, so that from incarceration my conscience gains flight

Oh my words mean nothing right now,

Someday they will be the evidence you wish you had,

They will be the irrefutable proof that evaded you somehow,

Because you couldn't decipher their meaning interred.

And I will make you bow,

At the very altar you desecrated and defiled lout-lad,

And the sacrifice will be your body, as my wrath into you starts to plow,

I’ll watch as you get erased like a fleeting fad…

Erased like footprints upon Sahara’s sands engulfing Chad

For you resemble the monster lurking in my shadows,

Whose genesis no one knows,

You resemble the demon that glows,

In the darkness, where hades rows,

You smile but death stains your countenance,

You are the spawn of (a ménage a trois between) Medusa, Behemoth and Leviathan; that rancid romance,

I hope I never get the chance,

To incinerate you to smouldering ashes with this same fire you ignited with your foul fragrance

My words mean nothing right now,

Someday they will be the evidence you wish you had,

They will be the irrefutable proof that evaded you somehow,

Because you couldn’t decipher their meaning; how sad.

And I will make you bow,

To the very altar you desecrated and defiled old lad,

And the sacrifice will be your body as my wrath into you starts to plow

I’ll watch as you get erased like a fleeting fad…

Erased like footprints upon Sahara’s sands engulfing Chad

Look at the way you gloat like Goliath

Look at the way the philistine in you roars like a lion,

Look at the way you smugly "scare" like Samson,

Because you assume Delilah cannot mess with “their” scion,

Watch out Ahab,

Jezebel will ensure you fall and get impaled on iron,

Hang your soul with the scarlet cord of Rahab,

And ensure there is no respite for you in Zion,

Kibali

Pic Credits: Wiki Commons 

Caveat: Don't take me too seriously 

Scribbling Sages (Underneath)

Solomon said guard you heart for from it, flows the wellspring of life.

Because trusting the wrong ones, is like stabbing yourself with a rusty knife,

You may heal, eventually,

Or die from the wounds inflicted so callously.

But how pray tell does one stay uninjured in strife?

When even love is a war-zone that makes sallow survivors of a husband and wife?

You learn to accept your scars though initially,

The pain tears you up internally.

For in accepting your flaws and your pain,

Your sanity you begin to regain,

And though your mind sings the refrain,

Of defeat, you learn the harmony of victory,

For in accepting the sunshine and the rain,

Serenity you begin to attain,

The floods blot out every stain,

As your future rewrites your history.

Underneath, underneath,

The storm rages,

To bequeath, to bequeath,

Sublime knowledge is life’s way in all stages,

Underneath, underneath,

Pain permeates the pages,

Seemingly, like ink writing on your pith,

Writing wisdom’ words, like scribbling sages

The harmony of victory,

Is learned though wadding in the darkness,

Stumbling through the misery,

Finding yourself whilst drowning in the murky waters that caress,

They caress at the onset but lacerate your skin,

For a saw is meant to draw blood,

But you learn to close off the world and battle the ogres within,

Until you find tranquillity, when enough you’ve had..

For in accepting your flaws and your pain,

Your sanity you begin to regain,

And though your mind sings the refrain,

Of defeat, you learn the harmony of victory,

For in accepting the sunshine and the rain,

Serenity you begin to attain,

The floods blot out every stain,

As your future rewrites your history.

Underneath, underneath,

The storm rages,

To bequeath to bequeath,

Sublime knowledge is life’s way in all stages,

Underneath, underneath,

Pain permeates the pages,

Seemingly, like ink writing on your pith,

Writing wisdom’ words, like scribbling sages

Reminding you that in accepting your flaws and your pain,

Life’s ebb and flow,

Your sanity you begin to regain,

Immortality the gods bestow,

And though your mind sings the refrain,

Of defeat as the burdens boat you row,

 You learn the harmony of victory in accepting the sunshine and the rain,

That teaches your soul as you go

Serenity you attain,

The floods blot out every stain,

Your future rewrites your history,

Your life becomes a glorious story.

It all starts underneath.

Kibali

Image Copyright:

Copperman

Wikimedia Commons

When Art Collides, Voices Are Unchained

Namaste! I should be gushing, nay waxing lyrical about a poetry event, but I am not one to turn down a chance to rant so indulge me good people! 

Kenya is a country of contrasts; a passive aggressive chamaa that suddenly erupts like magma when the right catalyst is introduced. We remain silent when we should be vocal, and vile when we should be subtle and scintillating. 

Look at our keyboard ninja proclivity, that says more about who we are than the Maasai images and elephants gallivanting in Maasai Mara under a sunset sky. Yes yes, sweeping statements, I shouldn't generalize!. All the same, we are an interesting lot.

It is with that in mind that this Sunday, two spoken word artists go “head to head” to shatter this festering fault of ours. Mufasa and Teardrops, have teamed up to venture where angels fear to tread. They will lay their hearts bare, for all and sundry to see. Dubbed "Unchained Voices", it will set the stage for what will hopefully be more people plucking up the courage to make their voices heard, and their truths told. LOUDLY

The icing on the cake will be their debut albums, which will be unveiled on the day ready to be snatched up by eager poetry die-hards. Teardrops, known for his flawless flow and Sheng mastery, will be unveiling his long awaited debut offering "Memoirs of a Wordsmith". 

Mufasa, known for his raging roar, juxtaposition of imagery and emotive delivery will be unleashing his debit masterpiece, 'Inside out". 

And since they decided to serve a bodacious buffet, music will be by the vivacious Vereso, salubrious Sarabi and heartthrobs Hart_the_band.  Talk of effervescent art! Unchained Voices will also feature mime, expressive dance, painting, and graffiti! 

Abeg, what more do you need to be told that this deserves prominence on your calenders people? 

Alliance Francaise, doors swing wide open at around 3;00 pm, although the show officially kicks off at 4:00 pm, all the way to 6:00 pm. Tickets are  KES 500 advances, and KES 800 shillings at the gate.

Tickets available at Pawa 254 though you can also contact +254 720 785 173 

Sabalkheri, Sayonara

Till The Thunder Is Still

I will question and I will speak,

Even in my silence you will be scorched by my wrath for I am no longer weak,

You will beat me to a pulp with many a stick,

But even though I crumble like dust I will rebuild my entity brick by brick,

I will raise my words till I make you sick,

You may snuff out my candle but you will never sever my wick,

I will be the bitter aftertaste in your mouth after my blood you lick,

You will remember Wangu wa Makeri when you encounter my stubborn streak

I will I will,

I will I will,

Never let you my opinions kill, relinquish my will,

I will roar till, the thunder is still.

Do not attempt to trivialize my anger,

Do not attempt to starve my spirit with hunger,

You may hack my credibility with your potent panga,

Call to question my “morality” forgetting even the wanderer hutangatanga

I will shout from Nairobi to Namanga,

I will remind you of your vicious visanga,

No I will not lazily lay down and die this is Tahrir not Tanga,

I will be a monument of resistance and my words shall embrace you like the kanga

I will I will,

I will I will,

Never let you my opinions kill, relinquish my will,

I will roar till, the thunder is still.

I will sing a song that will echo generation after generation,

They will build a shrine where my truth shall receive "vehement" veneration,

You may deny me today my vindication,

But you will never stop this provocation.

These words will go forth and not be forgotten,

This legacy shall outlive me like the wisdom of the begotten,

Even after my unyielding flesh is rotten,

I will be the conscience that screams at you, and the shadows that frighten

I will I will,

I will I will,

Never let you my opinions kill, relinquish my will,

I will roar till, the thunder is still.

Kibali

Caveat: I write what I feel even when it makes no sense to me at the moment...

The Love With Which I Love Your Love

You’re that flame that tempts me to burn,

The lesson life teaches but my heart refuses to learn,

You’re that shadow at every turn,

The rose I expect to bud from a fern.

You’re that wind that sails my sails,

Muffles my cries and turns to laughter my wails,

You’re that system the artist in me wants to fight,

The politician in me wants to perpetuate,

My birthmark’s birthright

You love the love, with which I love your love,

You hate the hate with which I hate hate,

You put no one above, above you there’s no one,

The dove in my eagle, the eagle in your dove,

Like a giant I stand tall even when I prostrate,

What’s done is done, a done deal; signed, sealed, delivered to the sun

My sun, your moonlight,

Your moonlight sheds light on my iris so I can see your milky way,

Your way leads me in the night,

My night leads you to the sunny day,

The rains fall like silky water drop kisses from Venus,

The thunders roar like the yawn of Mars,

Our love paints the midnight sky like Pegasus,

It’s the Florence Nightingale of our universe, earth’s nurse

You love the love, with which I love your love,

You hate the hate, with which I hate hate,

You put no one above, above you there’s no one,

The dove in my eagle, me the eagle in your dove,

Like a giant I stand tall even when I prostrate,

What’s done is done, a done deal, signed sealed delivered to the sun

Sun, stars, sky,

Fight, flight, fly,

A roller-coaster leading to the sea,

Then back again on land dry,

Deserts, darkness, dementia,

Halos, hate, hamartia,

I feel a thousand shades of emotions when with thee,

Swinging, nay soaring on chandeliers like Sia

Words

I want to say so many things but words fail me,

It’s like silence has overcome the fountain inside,

Where words once ran unbridled and free,

Nothingness was enamoured by me and decided to reside.

I want to say many things but words escape so easily,

I want to shout but I no longer know how,

Being outspoken was once part of my entity,

It seems so foreign now

I want to scream about the heart rending things happening today,

The way love died a cold death when the world was led astray,

How justice melted in fear when courage was whisked away,

To the guillotine, leaving behind a world drenched in disarray,

I want to express myself in this poem so vague,

I want to say so much yet fumble so miserably,

Maybe I stop here before I am carted off to Hague,

To answer for crimes against honesty. And Poetry... 

I want to call you and tell you I miss you

Write on your wall or send you a tweet or twenty,

But then I shall come off as a stalker, unstable too,

And I’m not ready for my head to have a bounty.

I want to see you, I really do,

Tell you how much you complete my mental pictures plenty,

But the few words I can garner sound untrue,

It’s like the soul of my truth is bound in antiquity

Because you are no longer here,
And everyday your memory dissipates,
You are a shadow untouched by fear,
A mirage for who my frail heart "palpitates"
I could cry and drown the earth,
But it would never bring you back,
I want to revel and bask in all the mirth,
You showered upon me before you were swept away by that gruesome attack

From Shanghai to Vermont.

Usijikoseshe usingizi,

Kuelewa ya wanadamu,

Wala sijifunge hirizi,

kujikinga na ghamu,

Yao maganda ya ndizi,

Ukiyatelezea utapoteza fahamu,

Ya firauni yatakufanya chizi,

Ukazama kwa bahari ya Shamu

People think they know you but they don’t

Think they’ll break you but they won’t

Think they know your life story down to the font

Assume the backbencher will never dine at the front.

(Dismiss the affront)

Never let the scars of their daggers haunt,

Smile at them them marks proudly flaunt,

Let them tirelessly taunt,

You; it’s your name they’ll hail from Shanghai to Vermont

(Revel in this jaunt).

Asikubabaishe mwizi,

Kukuvamia jambo gumu,

Hafahamu zako tizi,

Mwenyewe tajilaumu

Limbukeni na chipukizi,

Hata akutilie sumu,

Pwagu kampata pwaguzi,

Shubiri tamu kwa anaye dumu

People think they know you but they don’t

Think they’ll break you but they won’t

Think they know your life story down to the font

Assume the backbencher will never dine at the front.

(Dismiss the affront)

Never let the scars of their daggers haunt,

Smile at them them marks proudly flaunt,

Let them tirelessly taunt,

You; it’s your name they’ll hail from Shanghai to Vermont

(Let them have their jaunt.)

Sibabaishwi na taharuki,

Meona mengi nikakita,

Medungwa mikuki,

Ila kifo kimesita,

Asali mali ya nyuki,

Kuchovya mzinga watakupiga vita,

Mesimama tisti sitikisiki,

Revel in this jaunt,

Let them tarnish and taunt,

You, flourish while they remain gaunt,

Let them have their jaunt

Kibali

The Rarity That Is Kenyans Defending The Matatu Conductor

If there’s one trait that describes Kenyans apart from passive-aggressive, it’s ticking timebombs. We simmer like magma; waiting for a trigger to erupt. And we explode, sometimes to disastrous results, and then we go back to our merry lives like nothing happened.

So today, after my usual Wednesday song sessions with Ragz, I walked to my bus-stop of choice GPO. I’d have gone to Kencom, but the gridlock that greeted me as I snaked my way to GPO was heartbreaking. And waited I did, patiently for a bus to come. There was a multitude of people so I knew my chances of getting in first were slim to none.

Like clockwork, a KBS bus slowly made its way towards us, teasing our tired feet with the sound of its revving engine. Expectedly the conductor swung the door open and shouted “hamsini Kibera, mia Kawangware!” People let out their otherwise stifled sarcasm because let’s face it, we love to pretend we are polite. After a while, the conductor realized empty don’t pay rent and the fare ‘went down a notch.” I wasn’t impressed though, so I moved further back.

And then a compliant joined the foray, “fifty hadi kawangware” a shrill voice pierced the air. Suddenly there was commotion. Strangely though, no one was getting in. Apparently this was not its route, so they had to “cough” some money to a bunch of guys to be allowed to “beba watu wao”. The stuff you read about in books like Kinyanjui Komban’s Den Of Inequitues. I figured fifity bob to Kilimani was no so bad. I had contemplated walking, but the darkness was quickly setting in and who knows what monsters lurk stealthily in the shadows.

Traffic…traffic…soon we were on Valley Road when the lady conductor suddenly shot up and started collecting fare. Whilst doing that, she admonished us for agreeing to pay sixty bob on other days, when we know full well the fare is fifty bob. “Lady, who is your mother?” I wondered in my head. No one points out our faults so callously; we know we are being trampled upon but we are Kenyans, we just comply until we are at the end of our tether.

And then she got to this guy, who gave her forty bob. She respectfully declined saying she’d haggled for all of us to pay fifty bob, thus it was only fair that she be paid what was rightfully owed her. I found myself nodding in agreement. This conductor was a stark contrast to that fool in the Ngong matatus I used earlier in the day. Buffoon wanted to overcharge me AND REFUSE WITH MY CHANGE! “Kula vaco budah, chorea”. I told him I don’t speak gibberish.

Back to this guy, dude had a mouth like loose stool. I don’t get these assholes who feel that being rude to women makes them macho. Even after the passenger next to him offered to pay the extra ten bob for this nigga, he still went on insulting the “makanga” much to the chagrin of the men in the bus. I was gob-smacked, and for good reason. First he was Somali, and before you side-eye me for being a “tribalist” bear with me. We are in the month of Ramadhan, which means this nigga had just broken his fast. Who insults people after iftar? Geez! To be quite frank I have never met a muslim man let alone a Somali exchanging words with a lady in public during Ramadhan. In Mombasa my friends have this joke, that if you are born a Somali and you are not pious, you must have been exchanged at birth. “Wasonjo wameshika dini sie wengine utadhani makafiri” they say.

Suffice to say, eff words in Sheng laced Swahili, spiced with blatant arrogance don’t sound as cool as they do in the movies. In one fell swoop blows were raining on this dude like it was planting season. And then he started to yell that he was being victimized for being Somali. Nigga really? That was after he told this burly man in his fifties to “peleka” his “pang’anga kwa gazati na akaitombe” I kid you not, pardon my French. Asiye funzwa na mamaye hufunzwa na ulimwengu so goes the adage.  

I hate violence, I am the poster child of pacifism but this dude had it coming. You do not rile people who are grappling with issues from here to Kathonzweni. No. You shut up and “nyenyekea” as the man sitting to my right said resolutely. All this guy had to do was say he was cash-strapped, and even I would have paid that ten bob for him. Life happens, and I always pray that should I find myself in that precarious position, someone will bail me out.

Long story short, he was mercilessly thrown out of the bus, and a sweeping calm came over the bus like nothing had transpired. All I could here were hushed tones, discussing the incident in excruciating detail. Of-course whispers tend to be louder than screams. The one line that stuck with me was, “ma vijana wa sku hizi wana ufala. Wanadhania dunia ni ya nyanya yao.”

I hope he learnt his lesson, because it would have end badly for him. People have been thrown out of moving buses to the welcoming arms of hades. No one loves a man drunk with blind macho pride, it gets you killed in these streets. 

Caveat:

This post might offend. That was not my intention.

Image courtesy of World-Nomads  

Masalkheri

Dear irate Kenyan "fans of music", TAKE NOTES sweethearts.

I get so incensed when I read comments where we as Kenyans apportion blame to "the others" because we just won't accept we are full of sh*t. Pardon my language, the gravitas of this matter demands that I write as I truly feel. There will be lots of caps in this post because I will not stifle my thoughts for fear of suffocating. This post will be long and arduous, because ranting is taxing. Indulge me.

I love what events like Godown Gig are doing. They are holding free shows yet paying artists. Big up Muthoni and the Blankets crew, ensuring every month Kenyan artists have a platform to play. Choices Baricho Road, KI Clubhouse, Alliance, Goethe, and all the rest that ensure musicians have money to cater to their basic needs first so that they can channel their energies to growing, and releasing music. There are clubs and churches everyday that support the arts, don't stop. DON'T. 

I attended Fafa this weekend thanks to Manciny and those tickets were bloody expensive but THE ROOM WAS BRIMMING WITH HUMANITY. Sold out! I know caps shout, my exact intention! There were CEOs there, even the Botswana ambassador because a designer from his homeland was showcasing. The Kenyan CEOs in attendance were were all dressed by Kenyan designers. I did not hear of a Kenyan government official acknowledged save for Dr Dorothy Nyong'o, wife to Kisumu County's senator. Where do I begin?

Ah yes, crux of the matter. See image below 

It wasn't the status that got me worked up but the comments. The same ones you hear everyday calling Kenyan music crap because all these guys know three bands and five celebs that they all publicly hate but dance to when high as a kite. I like to avoid conflict because I am a natural pacifist. So I shared the status with my response. 

That however would not salve my conscience. The need to speak up gnawed at me. So I opted to post two responses on Kollo's status. I am coping my responses verbatim because that is exactly how I feel. See below:

"I'm just gonna be the one to say it, art is a mirror and if you think our artists are regurgitating crap then surprise, it's your own reflection you see! Let's just interrogate ourselves. We speak sh*tty Swahili but go bananas when someone butchers the queens language. 

We are out here learning sijui French and Mandarin because "those tourists need us to understand them". Why should we expect more of our artists when we will not DEMAND more of ourselves? The few artists you claim to love, do you support them religiously to ensure that they can pay their bills and THEN AFFORD TO RECORD MORE OF WHAT YOU CLAIM YOU LOVE? Nigerian, Tanzanian music etc is huge because first they support out of patriotism then demand for quality. They are so many budding musicians out here, in Taita taveta, in Kisii, in Turkana, in West Pokot, in Mombasa, in Kisumu, heck hata papa jiji letu, FIND them, tell them you love them, buy that one song they have, call your favourite radio station tweet them even until they block you! 

Go to that deejay or that club that will play that one song you love. The one song your supposed favourite Kenyan artist can afford to record because he already paid rent (euphemism for basic needs). Then after you've done all that, hope that your favourite artist is gracious enough to dedicate three hours of their day rehearsing, writing, reading, researching, growing, jogging and gyming and learning all the tenets of music from vocalization intonation to instrumentation.

And is brave enough to wean themselves of your stereotypes so they can actually create stuff their parents will love.

We just need to stop acting like we don't hate Kenyan stuff, we do consciously and sub-consciously. We sold our birthright to the highest bidder and now we are neo-colonial slaves acting like we are steeped in freedom. Some of the comments here reek of that mentality. To get, demand, most of all of from yourself.

I choose to search for artists I like, whether they sing in a language I understand or not. I will do my bit to support. Do your part. People kesha outside malls to buy albums, legally download music they love. You are the change you seek; if there is one, just one artist you love whether ni wa ohangla, benga, katitu, mwanzele, rhumba, bango, genge etc, do the same. And watch the market slowly but surely react to that erstwhile* latent demand for quality."

I am not excusing musicians, but we cannot be consciously apathetic. Who will break the cycle? Embrace your position as a change maker, be pro-active. The musicians will then go back to the drawing board and learn their musical history and in turn regurgitate that "newly espoused Kenyanness" you are claiming hawana. But first interrogate yourself, how KENYAN are you?"

We spend thousands every weekend drowning our sorrows, but will not fork out money to pay for music. There are free shows almost every week but all I see are the same "groupies", and expatriates who dance themselves lame genuinely appreciating the richness our musicians have to offer. Where are you? Where the hell are you?

If you spent 500, no 300 bab EVERY MONTH paying for a show, or an album, or airtime to legally download music of those your favourite artists, do you think there would be a vacuum in the market for amazing Kenyan music? Marslow law anyone? Musicians would have fiscal wind beneath their wings.

I am overly biased, I have been in a band, and my life is teeming with creatives let alone musicians. I know what these guys are going through. Heck I rehearse every week wondering if I'll ever record after I'm done offsetting those recurrent monthly bills. Those are the things I grapple with yet at-least I have something I do to sustain me and mine. What about budding unemployed artists? Who has time to dedicate to their art when they have bills? NOBADY!

Diamond, yes him of the "millions for a show" fame, started with one You-tube video. ONE. Just let that sink in. I am sure he had sang for years before you heard of Mbagala. Sit with any established artist and ask them how much of themselves they had to invest when nobody, NOBODY believed in them.

I sing here and there and people ask me, "when will you stop wasting that voice and record?" I smile and saying I am working on it. This is how most musicians respond in their heads ---->>>> "Do you know how much money it costs to record an album that can get played outside of Kenya? 200, 000 + to please you ego-centric music connoisseur. Sorry, potential fan. And then I pay for rehearsal space and my band after I am done paying for my plan B degree in-case you DECIDE my music is sh*t. Koz a job never hurt anyone. Sit down." 

My aim, is to have songs that WILL garner views and listener-ship all over Swahili speaking countries globally let alone the Kenyan diaspora. Taarab is huge is Arabia, just so you know. It costs. I save to have fare for weekly rehearsals that may amount to naught, I drink water, I sleep sufficiently, I exercise and walk to increase my lung capacity and ensure my voice has sustaining power. I avoid sugar and cold stuff, heck even dairy! And I haven't even recorded, music is still a hobby. Now pray tell, what do you think those ones whose music YOU DO NOT request on radio etc undergo to sound so good? YOU HAVE NO IDEA!

My point? All the greats we know, have invested blood sweat and tears to breathe life and form to their ideas. If you are not willing to spend your money to help them sustain that, shut the f*ck up. No seriously just stuff it. Gyms are expensive, eating healthy is expensive, "finding your own style" is expensive, voice lessons are expensive, learning an instrument is expensive, MUSIC SCHOOL IS EXPENSIVE! 

R Kelly who btw has seemingly sang since Elvis walked the earth doesn't worry about the basics.

That's why he can dedicate hours of his day chiselling his human temple, let alone his almost palpable voice vessel and mind to achieve that gruelling feat all of you bow down to. Nobody wakes up great, ten thousand PLUS hours were sank in! Ask Beyonce how many hours she sings and dances for a day, when prepping for a concert. 

Ruminate on that before you start complaining. I am done ranting. By the way dear musician, stop thinking those people who religiously tweet you are your biggest fans. Nenda mashinani, you will be amazed by the support you can garner at the grassroots. The people who toil day and night will support your hustle if you are deserving because they know what it means to be loyal. Wachana na ranters wa social media. WORK ON YOUR CRAFT DAY AND NIGHT AND GROW YOUR FAN-BASE. Grow it! 

And finally Kenyans, 

Kibali

My latest illicit (You freed me)

I read Aziz Mola's blogpost, The Other Man and I thought, how does one respond after the person you love gives you their blessing to move on and when you do then say they still love you? 

"I want to thank him but do not know his name, the other man...I hope he is past his cocoon and she finally finds the butterfly she deserves….'

This poem (someday-song) was written a response of sorts to a similar situation, after time has elapsed. I present "My Latest Illicit (Misfits)

Is it my face you search for in the sullen stars dotting the night sky?

Is it my voice that lingers when the rivers echo “goodbye”?

Is it my touch you feel when the wind’s whispers draw nigh?

Is it my emptiness you long for with every tear and sigh?

Willingly imprisoned, you freed me.

Tore through the darkness till you unchained me.

Told me there was better go find it.

And in your words I lost myself and sailed toward my latest illicit…

 Misfits and illicits, seems I have a penchant for those,

Dark-like-thunder-bound-for-six-feet-under, yet delicate like the rose,

Suffocating yet healing, their darkness my daily dose,

Misfit number two replaced you, now colder my heart grows

Because…

Willingly imprisoned, you freed me.

Tore through the darkness till you unchained me.

Told me there was better go find it.

And in your words I lost myself and sailed toward my latest illicit…

My heart’s vessel needed feeling…filling

You were wary that that overflow,

Would nourish me deep within,

And make me see you as whole, hold on and never let go,

You saw yourself as wounded, and happiness was the mirror’s reflection that you loathed,

So you asked me to sail till my soul was grounded, anchored by another, drenched in sweet sorrowful nothingness yet finally clothed…

Willingly imprisoned, you freed me.

Tore through the darkness till you unchained me.

Told me there was better go find it.

And in your words I lost myself and sailed toward my latest illicit…

Is it my fingers you reach out for in the dark?

Is it my smile you search for in the corners that shadows lurk?

Is it my name you call when you monsters bark?

Is it me you seek when your heart’s territory you mark?

Just remember it was you who freed me…

Handed me over to my latest illicit misfit. 

Kibali

Images from the internet.