It was the way she looked at me when I first met her
Her eyes had a dangerous calmness 
They were like the big ocean under the clear blue sky
An unending expanse of beauty with the sun dancing playfully on her waves
Even the wind blew silently as if to not awake her from her afternoon nap.
If Jonah had sailed across, I bet he would have continued to Nineveh.
I always wondered what it would feel like to swim across  through the stillness
And feel the layers of water caress my skin as I listen to the warmth of the music from her waves.
Or what it would feel like to dive into the cradle of her very depth
And see the beauty that she held within, hidden safely from the fangs of the outside world.
I wanted to see what would make her dance like a mad woman in the market square
Or what would rile her and set her off like a whirlwind in the desert.
But, i am a shy man and i could not hold her gaze.

©Maathe

Writing is hard!
Sometimes, an idea comes to mind
like a strong itch in the back
the one that needs you to scratch it vigorously
or rub your back against a rough surface like a goat
but you ignore it because it's just that; an idea.

On a random day, you get inspired
and finally decide to write something
because it has been months since your last piece.
You decide that maybe you will write about the rain
about how you longed for it as a child.
Because then, you would take off your clothes
and run around singing nursery rhymes
unbothered by how you would be shivering later that night.

But you are an adult now, and dancing in the rain no longer excites you.
You now see rain as an enemy, an impediment to your adult plans.
You had wanted to go out with friends to an open concert
but now have to choose between sleeping and folding your clothes.
Besides, when it rains, your electricity is disconnected
and you have to endure hours of darkness
as you wait for that perennial fault to be fixed.
So, you see, you cannot write about the rain.

Or maybe you will write about flowers.
About how you loved plucking them on your way to school.
About how their scent filled the air in your father's compound when it rained.
About how you rubbed the red and yellow petals
on those love letters that you sent to your crush
the one who snorted everytime she laughed.
But now, you no longer love the smell of flowers.
because they remind you of death
and the unending pain and uncertainty that comes with it.
The last time you held a flower was when you were plucking its petals throwing them one by one into the grave
as you sent off your best friend who died in a car accident.
So, you see, you cannot write about flowers.

Or maybe you will write about love
But then again, what can you really share
besides the fantasy you always hold onto every night before you sleep.
The one of you playing with your daughter in the tall grass
and your wife taking pictures to frame for your grand children to see.
However, the last time you were in love, you almost died
because she stabbed you after going through your phone
and seeing those messages you sent to Natasha.
The one with the eyes like those of a calf
The ones that you looked into and did not know what to say.
But you found the words and those got you stabbed.
So you see, you cannot write about love.

Finally, you decide that you will write about God
About how his love is the purest you have known
and how it has kept you standing even when your feet became clay
You want to write about how this love formed scars of your wounds
and touched your failing heart when the machines in your hospital room beeped in monotony.
You want to write about how when your lungs almost ran dry
a new breeze was blown into them bringing you back from the edge of the abyss.
After a few lines of writing, you realise that you are unable to put your thoughts into words.
What you have written down feels disrespectful
It is a grain of sand compared to the mountain you had envisioned.
So you tear the papers and flush those thoughts down the toilet.
You then get up from your desk and pick a cold beer from your old fridge
And do what you have always done best; drink!

©Maathe

It had been three months
since I last saw my face in the mirror.
One might wonder, why that long?
You see, there is something about mirrors
something about looking at yourself
and not having a conversation
just looking, observing and looking again.
That, does not sit well with me.
What if the other man talks back?
Or, what if he comes out and strangles me
and becomes me?
I do not want to give him that power.

Today, however, I looked in the mirror
My heart clenched like a baby's fist
when I saw how old I had become
how the wrinkles on my forehead curved
as if to make a mockery of the trajectory of my life.
I had never noticed the changes
because I had always embraced the child beneath
forgetting the child had become a man
and no ritual had been done for the initiation.
I had blossomed beneath the petals but I had
chosen to ignore the feeling
Right there, I could see all the talent
and the potential I had slept on
each time I snoozed my alarm for another 15 minutes
hoping to get more rest from my dreamless state.

But you see, one cannot sleep forever
unless they choose to do so.
And this is a path I told myself never to take
for I still want to travel to the far lands
and see how the children yonder dance to the rhythm of the winds
I still want to listen to the cracking laughter of my lover
when I retell one of my old jokes,
the one she has heard 42 times so far.
I still want to drink some of the local brew at the old shelter
and dance shirtless on top of one of the wooden tables
and feel my skin vibrate to the sound of the drums
coming from the big old speakers placed in the corner of the dark room
Most importantly, I want to move away from this mirror
and stop looking at myself
because it is making me talk a lot.

Her voice is like the cold gentle wind that passes
when you have been working in the mid morning sun
and your lips have dried up from dehydration.
She blows against your face and you forget
the aches from your lower back and the cracks from your knees
when you finally straighten up with the *** on your shoulder.
When she speaks, her words are like the first sip of water
landing on your cracked tongue
A perfect sweetness that electrifies your body and makes you anew.
You have heard her speak before but,
each time always feels like the first.

When she laughs, she just does not ha-ha!
Her laughter is like the rain that falls at night when you are tired.
Shattering your old iron roof with its might
but the loud sound comforts you
for you know that you will sleep soundly
and dream when you are a bird flying beneath the stars
with your wings spread out wide to feel the warmth of the clouds.
And when you wake up, you will have cold water
to run down your body as you listen to that French song "Belle"
The one that played when you had your first dance.

You were shy at first
But when her hand locked into yours,
your spirit calmed like the storm in obedience
when Jesus awoke from his slumber in the boat and said "Quiet!"
Together, you moved in perfect symphony
finally forming one shadow under the dim lights of your front porch
until the night fell asleep peacefully with a smile on her wrinkled face
for a new love had just been born.

There are days you will look in the mirror
and you will not recognize the face you see.
When you will sing in the shower
and the melody will fade quietly into the air
leaving you only with the cry of a dying man.
But, you will be blind to it all
or rather, deaf
because it is just a song to you.
But, that is the problem with songs
for sometimes, they are a reflection of our spirit.
On some days, they will come with the full force of a youthful river
tearing through the rocks as it heads to the sea to meet its calm lover
the one whose bed is soft and warm like a heap of wool.
On other days, they will come like a dark cloud that covers the heavens
and makes the sun creep back into its castle in fear and shuts its doors
because she knows that the rains will not be for children to dance in
nor make paper boats that sail with the tide of the flowing water.
She knows that these are the rains that will last hours on end
falling quietly and yet, ferocious like a serpent
that waits for its prey in the long grass where the goats graze.
She knows that the skies will be dark and the houses will flood
with angry water that will take away the little children
as offerings to Njaa, the hungry god.
And when they finally stop, the village will be quiet with grief
because everyone lost their voice wailing in the rain
begging the water to return their children.
And, when morning comes, parents will bury their children in silence
without priests to say the final prayer.
When you start singing this type of song,
I hope you will not stop.
I hope you will go on and sing every word until the very end.
Maybe then, you will know.



© Maathe

At the end of the dusty road
where the road yawns with boredom at the stillness,
you would meet a man.
One who walked like he did not care,
laughed loud to hide the tears behind his eyes
and the chest pain from his heartbreaks.
He also scratched his thick beard
just so you would be distracted from its length when he laughed.
Watching him laugh was a sight to behold
for he shook his head up and down
as his jaws tightened with the force of sad stories.

In the afternoons, he sat in his rocking chair
because his bed with the thin mattress had hardened his back,
from the thoughts of his failed relationship.
You see, his woman had promised him, seven fine children.
But she had left him for his best friend, the one who drove a noisy Subaru.
At night, he spent hours staring at the ceiling
twitching his face in thought as if to ask questions.
But, the ceiling as always remained unexpressive and silent.
Providing no solutions for it was made of concrete.
And when he slept,
he did not sleep like a child after breastfeeding.
He instead slept like a man with a ransom on his head.
Today, he sits and pauses for a picture beneath an art piece
the one he received when he left his father's house
to venture on his own because he had become a man.
As the camera clicks away, he smiles and freezes
to give the viewer the illusion that his life is perfect.
But deep down, all he needs is a cold Tusker and a loud laugh
that would make him forget how his back hurt
when he lay face up in bed every night
wondering when his big break would come.

On the night when the world fell silent and the stars crept behind the dark clouds in fear, I waited for you.
It had been long since I had listened to your voice
the alto that calmed my storm and brought down the tide.
To my ears, your voice is a sound that envelops my body and wraps around me like a jasmine, never letting go.
But to my spirit, it is a sweet gentle whisper that commands me to be still.

There, in my old brown couch, I lay down, counting down each second
as I waited for your face to appear on the other end of the line.
Will she show up? Are we going to postpone this again like the ones in the past? I wondered.
I did not want to spend another cold night alone without seeing your radiant face.
Nor did I want to dream happy dreams without seeing your smile in them.
For your smile is the fire that lights the wet wood on a rainy day so that you can warm your hands
and then sit back and listen to Alicia Keys while drinking your favorite gin because you do not drink beer anymore.
And so, I continued to wait, holding my breath in like a leopard in the tall grass that watches and waits as the antelope grazes a few meters away.

When the clock struck midnight, you appeared like lightning on a scorching hot afternoon
Your eyes, a bowl of sleep, like a child who had spent the entire day playing hide and seek in the neighbor's garden.
You laughed your usual laughter that shakes the curtains of your house like the mid morning wind
throwing your head back in your true signature fashion.
Despite the time of night, your beauty still stood out like a giant cross on a cathedral
and all I could do then, was bow down in worship.
When you finally spoke, I knew then why I fell in love with you in the first place.
And I understood why I could let no other man have you.

Every morning, I walked past her with a violin in my ears
Like everyone else, I never greeted her
I have no idea why
Maybe it is because of the peace on her face
peace I had not felt in ages
Or maybe it was the wrinkles on her face
that held the stories of her many years of life
unlike mine which showed the failure in my youth.
She always worked with grace; something I admired
Like an angel, she picked up the leaves from the road
and with sublime efficiency, tucked them away forever
just so the music played by the tyres on the road could be uniform.
I always wondered if she got paid
or worked pro-bono because of the harmony it brought her
or this was an escape from the demons of her past
that rendered her awake so early while the sun was still asleep.
Did she ever wake up to the laughter of her children
or the clucking of chicken?
I wondered daily.
The more I did, the more I got bothered
and realized there was no need to care.
Would it make me a better man if I found out
that she had children that cared for her
or a lover that embraced her when she returned home
and rubbed her feet in a bowl of warm water?
I did not need to know.
I am just another man on the street
On a journey whose destination I do not know.
Only God knows the color of the next day's sun

My face longs for the rays of the evening sun
for the days have been dark and the nights filled with melancholy.
The sky has been dancing to slow songs of despair
and the wind as always gentle with misery.
It has been long since I heard the cry of a baby
or tasted the banana wine at the old man's bar.
The evidence is now unmatched
I have lost the sense of youth.
All I know now is the sound of my fingers
making endless love to the keyboard
in the guise of changing the future.
But why change something you do not know?
The failure to get that answer bothers me
for I do not subscribe to "Ignorance is bliss"
I am not ordinary like other men
I shall have to keep coming to this precipice
until I see the moon smiling in the water

Like the sun, no one knew what made her shine
Because no one could unravel the mystery that was her face.
When she laughed, you could tell it was genuine
For it came from the depths of her womb
Curved from the perfection that was God’s own hands
Her eyes always glittered when she smiled
And one could not help but smile as well
For it was infectious and airborne.
Her aura and presence was pure
When she walked by, you could feel a cold wind of peace.
When she spoke, you just had to pay attention.
Hers was not the voice to just listen to.
Hers was the calm water from a forest river
That runs over your body and you are set free
Scentless yet filled with life.
Her words would leave you pondering for hours on end
Because she was wise as well
Complete like the garden of Eden.
Her body was a complete piece of art
Only the finest potter could make something as comparable.
But she did not mind the praise
And just like the sun, she shone anyway.

It was the early morning breeze at the mountain top
The one that blows against your face
As you smile at the distant horizon
Watching the orange sun awaken from its slumber
With the birds in the valley below
Starting to sing, one by one
And slowly combining for a beautiful melody
One so pure and beautiful
That it fills your heart with a unique ecstasy
Like the orchestra you watched on your sixth birthday.
To your parents, this was an ordinary birthday gift
But to you, this was the moment.
This was the first time you fell in love.

It was the large tree in the middle of the lonely field
Branches spread out like arms as if to show the size of her heart
It had a shade like none I had seen
For within, you could listen to the whispers from the leaves
Tales of all those that had sought shelter
But left suddenly like they had come
Leaving only a scratch on the bark
A mark  that would later become permanent
Just to show that they were there but not there
To them, it was a label
But to her, it was another mind wrenching heartbreak
One she would have to shed her leaves for
And be reborn in the next season’s rain.
I always told myself I would be better
Because I always found peace in this place.
Here, I was finally free and nothing but a man.
I could sob without a care
Confident that the wind would not blow away my tears.
I could speak and watch with wonder
At the leaves roaring with laughter
And when I lay in the warm embrace that was her branches,
I did not dream of the fun times I had as a young boy
Dancing around naked in the mid afternoon rain
Nor of the wild times spent grazing the drunkard’s cows.
I instead dreamt of the future
Of me playing the flute to my favorite song
My grandson seated a few paces away
Smiling with tears in his eyes
Knowing fully well that this was the place.
This, was where love was pure.

©️Maathe

For a long time now, my mind has been in prison
In the beginning, I enjoyed it and basked in the seclusion
but with time, the claustrophobia took control
and the words started to scream at me.
That is what makes me talk to myself.
The pleasure of insanity is insatiable.
This lyrical madness is inborn
and my legs are too heavy to run.
I will therefore sit down
and give birth to a story that will brighten the sun,
fill the sky with tears of joy
and give new names to the angels.
The earth shall tremble when I put my foot down
for I bring forth something it has not seen before

Down this street, I walk
my legs soaring with pain
My throat is dry like a dead wound
since the sun has quenched his thirst with me captive
My toes curl with pain as my muscles wail with fatigue.
However, I cannot stop moving
for where I seek, the sun shines with a smile
and the moon dances peacefully
like a mother soothing her baby to sleep
while the birds sing songs
that change the wrinkles of the elders into laughter lines.
The utopia is indeed exquisite.
However, before me, I see a people dead
I shudder in disgust at their ignorance.
Their indifference pierces my soul
and folds my face into a ball of rage.
For how long shall we be held captive in our own homes?
For how long shall our property be taken by the less deserving?
Those that do not even know
how much of our blood we lost to nourish the earth
and bring our structures to life.
How long will the children spend walking naked
and drowning in their own *****
while their parents queal in fumes of *****.
We need to wake up,
wear the spirit of a soldier during his last battle
give our enemy the fight of our lives
and then, we can lick our finger
to turn the pages to a new life
beyond the dark horizon.

He lost his mother when he was five. His little brother was two.
His father remarried five weeks later but he was no longer his father.
He was just a man he lived with in the same house.
A shadow, always hovering over the entire house with darkness
Filling even the spoons with melancholy.
No words were ever spoken between the two.
Perhaps because he looked like his mother.
Mostly, he had his mother's smile and he believes that is what made his father angry each time he looked at him.
His father never tickled him like other men did their young sons.
Nor did his father throw him up in the air like their neighbor Banda did with his boy.
He always thought that maybe his father hated him.
But, it is his smile that his father did not want to see. 
Because it reminded him of death, his wife's death.
And he chose to keep things that way. Dead.
His little brother died just after turning five.
He does not know what killed him.
Back then, anything could **** a child. Even the shadow of an angry father.
For it's cold wind would wrap around you and you would feel your heart go cold until the beat stopped 
Like the night drums at the village square.
He was only eight then and that is when he left home.
Home was no longer a place of comfort.
Home was a grave in which he lived, fearing that one day, someone would throw soil or a flower down at him and bid him adieu
And he would be forgotten like his mother and little brother whose names no one even bothered to whisper.
He never wanted to be forgotten. He wanted his name to mean something.
He too, wanted some one to look at his smile and lose their breath.
He wanted someone to hug him and hold him tight for the first time.
Most importantly, he wanted people to remember his name.
And so, he ran away. 
Never looking back to see how his home looked like.
Today, he waits in the locker room
Slowly wrapping the band-aid around his hand. 
Four times around his wrist, four times around his knuckles, through his fingers, twice around his knuckles again and finally twice around his wrists.
He does this as he nods to "Many Men" playing in the background
A song that has been his anthem since he ran away from home
Each word from the song tattooed on the walls of his blood vessels.
A blood covenant to remind him of his dark past and the hope of a future filled with sunshine.
He is a fighter now and today, he takes on the reigning champion.
The one who just left jail after battering his wife.
His journey to this moment has been uphill.
Like Atlas, he has always carried his world on his shoulders 
Never putting the burden down for only he understands the pain of the weight.
But he wants his punches today to mean something
to cause immeasurable pain to his opponent
and maybe break his jaw partly as retribution for his opponent's wife.
He takes three deep breaths as he hears his name being called out in the arena
A sign that the hour has come.
Unlike his previous fights, tonight he walks out to the ring in silence
Listening to no music but the shrill cries of the ghosts from his dark past
Confident that they will all fall silent in the fifth round when his opponent hits the canvas.

Beneath this moonlight, I sit
Thoughts of you cover me like the sunlight
while my mind is soothed by the cold wind.
My heart instantly melts to distant tunes of a techno song
I danced to as a child in my grandfather's hut.
This feels like no ordinary night
for babies shall walk
the blind shall play the drums
as the deaf dance to the thunderous beats.
The mute shall sing songs of joy
and the clouds shall open
to reveal the stars in their heavenly wonder.
Then you, my precious, shall take my hand
place your soft face on my chest
and together, we shall dance the night away

Looking back into the past always warms my heart
A child so lovable I was
Every time I spoke, my mother smiled
for she knew I was a little genius; her baby 'Einstein'
I challenged many to feed the hunger of my young mind
and with the wrath of a starved tiger,
I crushed them with pleasure.
With this, I blossomed like a mustard seed.
Embracing the gentility of a crested crane,
I made many friends.
My siblings always cackled with laughter at my jokes
for my humor surpassed that of a he-monkey.
The rain was my ever faithful friend
for in it, I danced my sorrows and fears away
hoping the next day's sun would grace my heart with it's rays.
And at night, I slept like a prince
hypnotized by the dreams of greatness to come

When I am in silence,
I am thinking about the one
for whom beautiful is a word not enough to describe.
All miracles have been seen except the sunset
that leaves its presence irreplaceable.
A wonder always crosses my mind
as to why the stars never fall out to kiss you
because they shine brighter than the sun on you.
I bet the moon is sad when you stand in it
for then, no one can call it fair
as your smile is as precious as a pearl
but abundant as sunlight in the day.
Not that I am a liar, but the sun wouldn't dare pass
without letting your face grace its rays more

Night by night,
my thoughts race back to you.
My mind dances merrily to those beautiful times.
The moments we shared together are unforgettable
because your name is written across my heart.
Seeing you each day was my kiss of life
for then, the day could not proceed any better.
Your early morning smile exorcised me
and left me cleansed like the glacial waters.
From far, you were an enigma
Yet your heart was pure.
I bet the trees wilt so they can fall for you
For your beauty surpasses twilight.
Being with you was worth more than having gold
because you are priceless.
However, the winds of the world blew heavily at us
and we fell on different paths.
Since then, life has never been the same.
But if I was to choose again,
I would still choose you
for you are the fairest I have known.
The first, the last, the only.

There was a time I was angry with God
And I wanted to challenge him to a fight
I had cried out to him on those dark lonely nights when sleep eluded me but he never answered.
He stayed quiet like the darkness.
You see, I was tormented and needed his refuge
but he stayed silent each time I called.
I wondered what kind of God would watch his child crushed down by pillars of heavy concrete
and have their skin pecked at by starved vultures but still not interfere.
If he was the Almighty, he would surely move a few pieces and the tables would turn.
Or, maybe, he would come like a gentle song in a cold wind
and the sound would comfort me.
But no, he stayed silent like an owl on a lamp post.

Slowly, my anger suffocated me and filled me with the rage of a whirlwind
And all I wanted to do was punch through his ribs with the force of a King's chariot escaping from the battlefield.
Maybe that would shock him out of his daydream and get his attention
Plus, I knew he could take it.
And so I called him out to the arena
the one where I had been crowned the wrestling champion when I was 12.
I asked him to step out of the shadows in the sky if he indeed is God
But just like before, he remained silent
As he always was when I made love to my lover in the violent rains of April.
I screamed his name again, this time calling him Jehovah.
Thinking that his insolence was because he might be picky with names
And, just like before, he did not come.

Finally, I stared up at the sky, straight into the sun
because I wanted to show him that I was a more than a man now
And the sun did not scare me
I believed that maybe if I stared long enough, he would blink
And reveal himself behind the sun.
I shouted out to him and beat my chest five times like an angry ape.
Remembering how Jacob had once wrestled him from dusk till dawn and did not relent
So I thought that I too, stood a chance.
This time, I wanted to be the one to break his hip
And make an eternal name for myself
But God did not show up.
Only He knows why.

©Maathe

When I walked by the little children who played in the field near my old house, they stopped me to ask what changed me.
They wondered what took the light out of my eyes because now I half smiled when I met them playing by the palm trees
They were curious to know why I now smiled only with my mouth and why my eyes never beamed with light each time I met them like I always did.
They wanted to know why I now walk with my head down and arms behind my back like an old widower yet I had no wife nor children of my own.
They wanted to know why I was balding and had the lines on my forehead.
Deep lines like those of their grandfather.
Most of all, they wanted to know why I now talk to myself a lot like a madman.
I doubt they would understand if I told them I was my own best friend.
So, I gave them half a smile with my lips and walked on because I did not want to be tormented by the innocence of their childhood.

When I went to church, the usher asked what was wrong with me. She wanted to know why I now sat in the backseat and not in my usual front seat that directly faced the pulpit.
She was curious to know why I no longer sang my heart out during mass like I used to and instead folded my arms across my chest and simply hummed each song like a mute person.
She was worried about how I swayed from side to side like a dying tree in the wind when the piano played.
She wondered why I was always the first person out of the church when the priest said “Go in peace, the mass is ended”
I could only shrug my shoulders and give a deep sigh because she would not get it.
It would have been like feeding a whale to a crocodile.
For how could she understand if I told her that I no longer felt the presence of God.
That maybe God was tending to sheep and not listening to me when I prayed or sang his praises.
For sheep, unlike humans, were simple creatures with no emotions, no laughter, no unending demands and no tears.
All they need is grass and a staff to direct them to the next green pasture.
So, I left her at the church entrance and sat quietly at the back seat Where I was immune to her critical stare and overly joyful personality.
Joy I never felt even when in the house of God, my omniscient father.

When I went to gatherings, everyone wondered what was wrong with me.
They all wondered why I always showed up alone unlike my age mates who always came with their wives and their little fat children
Or nicely shaped young women with perfect teeth.
They wanted to know why I hadn't found myself a nice young woman to marry
One who will iron my shirts on a Sunday night, serve me luwombo to fatten my sunken cheeks and make me laugh
For I looked like a man who hadn’t laughed in weeks.
They believed that the sadness on my skin could be exterminated by the gentle touch of a woman.
They were curious to know why I danced like that when the music played.
With my body off tune like a man fighting against the sinking tide of quicksand.
But, I shrugged my shoulders at their perennial complaints and dusted my mind of their demands
the same way i always slapped the dust off my trousers after a long boda boda ride.
For they would not understand the weight I carried on my shoulders nor the worries that drowned my mind.
Love, for me, was a luxury.
I had long made peace with the fact that I would walk to the barbecue and only smell the aroma.
If love was to find me, she would have to look for me and knock on my door, and hope that I am home.