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In response to a sardonic essay written in the recent Saturday Nation by Proffessor Ekara Kabaji, wryly  disregarding the position of Kwani in the global literary movement within and without Kenya , I beg to be permitted a leeway  to observe that any literature, orature, music,drama,cyborature,prisnorature,wallorature,streetorature , sculptor  or painting can effortlessly thrive and off course it has been thriving without professors of  literature, but the reverse is not possible as a proffessor of literature cannot be when literature is not there. Facts in support of this position are bare and readily available in the history of world literature, why they may not be seen is perhaps the blurring effects from tor like protuberant irrelevance of professors of literature in a given literary civilization.
A starting point is that literature exists as a people’s subculture, it can be written or not written like the case of orature which survive as an educative and aesthetic value stored in the collective memory of the given people. The people to be pillars of this collectivity of the memory are not differentiated by academic ranking for superlativity of any reason, but they are simply a people of that place, that community, that time, that heritage, that era and that collective experience. Writing it down is an option, but novels and other written matter is not a sine qua non for existence of literature in such situations. This is not a bolekaja of literature as Proffessor Ekara Kabaji would readily put, but it is a stretch towards realism that it is only people’s condition that creates literature. Poverty, slavery, colonialism, ***, marriage, circumcision, migration, or any other conditions experienced as collective experience of the people is stored or even stowed away in the collective memory of the people as their literature. Literature does not come from idealistic imagination of an educated person.
Historical experience of written literature informs us that the good novels, prose, drama and poetry were written before human society had people known as professors of literature. I want you my dear reader and You-Tube audience to reflect on the Cantos of Dante Alighieri in Italy, novels of Geoffrey Chaucer in England, Herman Melville and his Moby **** in Americas, poetry of Omar khwarisim in Persia, Homeric epics of Odyssey in Greece and the Makonde sculptures of Africa and finally link your reflections to Romesh Tulsi who grafted the Indian epic poetry of Ramayana and Mahabharata. At least you must realize that in those days literature was good, full of charm, very aesthetic and superbly entertaining. This leads to a re-justification that, weapon of theory is not useful in literature. University taught theories of literature have helped not in the growth of literature as compared to the role played by folk culture.
Keen observation will lead you dear reader, down to revelations that; professors of literature squarely depend on the thespic work of the people who are not substantially educated to make a living. Let me share with you the story about Dr. Tom Odhiambo who went to University of Witwasterand in South Africa for post graduate studies in literature only to do his Doctoral research on books of David G Maillu. Maillu is a Kenyan writer, he did not finish his second year of secondary school education but he has been successfully writing poetry and prose for the past three decades. His successful romantic work is After 4.30, probably sarcasm against Kenyan office capitalism, while his eclectic, philosophical and scholarly work is the Broken Drum. Maillu has many other works on his name. But the point is that Dr. Odhiambo now teaches at University of Nairobi in the capacity of senior lecturer in Literature. What makes him to put food on the table is the effort of un-educated person in the name of David Maillu. Dr.Odhiambo himself has not written any book we can mention him for, apart from regular literary journalism he is often involved in on the platforms of the Literary discourse in the Kenyan Saturday Nation which are in turn regular Harangues and ripostes among literature teachers at the University of Nairobi, the likes of Dr Siundu, Proffessor wanjala Chris and Evans Mwangi just but to mention by not being oblivious to professors; Indangasi and Shitanda.
No study has yet been done to establish the role of university professors on growth of African literature. One is overdue. Results may be positive role on negative role, myself I contemplate negative role. Especially when I reflect on how the African literati reacted on the publication of Amos Tutuola’s book The Palm Wine Drinkard. The reactions were more disparaging than appreciative. Taban Lo Liyong reacted to this book by calling Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus as well as taking a self styled intellectual responsibility in form of writing a more  schooled version of this book; Taking Wisdom up the Palm Tree. Nigerians of Igbo (Tutuola being a Yoruba) nation cowed from being associated with the book as it had shamefully broken English, broken grammar etc. Wole Soyinka had a blemished stand, but it is only Achebe who came out forthrightly to appreciate the book in its efforts to Africanize English for the purpose of African literature. Courtesy of Igbo wisdom. But in a nutshell, what had happened is that Amos Tutuola had taken a plunge to contribute towards written literature in Africa.
One more contemplated result from the research about professors and African literature can be that apart from their role of criticism, professors write very boring books. A ready point of reference is deliberate and reasonless obscurantism taken Wole Soyinka in all of his books, Soyinka’s books are difficult to understand, sombre, without humour and not capable to entertain an average reader. In fact Wole Soyinka has been writing for himself but not for the people. No common man can quote Soyinka the way Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is quoted. Achebe wrote Things Fall Apart when he had not began his graduate studies. However, he did not escape the obvious mistake of professors to become obscure in the Anthills of the Savanna, the book he wrote when he had become a proffessor. This is on a sharp contrast to entertaining effectiveness, simplicity and thematic diversity of Captain Elechi Amadi, Amadi who studied chemistry but not literature. He does not have a second degree, but his books from the Concubine, The great Ponds, and Sunset in the Biafra and Isibiru are as spellbinding as their counterparts in Russia.
Kenyan scenario has Ngugi wa Thiongio, he displayed eminence in his first two books; Weep not Child and The River Between. These ones he wrote when he was not yet educated, as he was still an undergraduate student at Makerere University. But later on Ngugi became a victim of prosaic socialism, an ideology that warped his literary imagination only to put him in a paradoxical situation as an African communist who works in America as an English teacher at Irvine University. His other outcrops are misuse of Mau Mau as a literary springboard and campaigning for use of Kikuyu dialect of the Gema languages to become literary Lingua Franca in Kenya. Such efforts of Ngugi are only a disservice to Kenyan literature in particular and African literature collectively. Ngugi having been a student of Caribbean literature has failed to borrow from global literary behaviour of Vitian S. Naipaul.  Ngugi’s position also contrasts sharply with Meja Mwangi whose urban folksy literature swollen with diversity in themes has remained spellbinding entertainers.
The world’s literary thirsty has never failed to get palatable quenching from the works of Harriet Bechetor Stowe, Robert Louis Stevenson, Shakespeare, Alice Munro, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, John Steinbeck, Garcia Guarbriel Marguez,Salman Rushdie, Lenrie Peters, Cyprian Ekwenzi, Nikolai Gogol,I mean the list is as long as the road from Kaduna to Cape town. Contribution of these writers to global literature has been and is still critical. Literature could not be without them. Surprisingly, most of them are not trained in literature; they don’t have a diploma or a degree in literature, but some have won literature Nobel Prize and other prizes. Alfred Nobel himself the author of a classical novella, The Nemesis, does not have University education in literature. What else can we say apart from acceding to the truth that literature can blossom without professors, the Vis-à-vis an obvious and stark impossibility.
Jane Smith Apr 2021
Her breath like the waters edge
And I, the poor sailor, strayed

Siren on high, weeping angel
Beckoned me, amorous, to the foam

Acceding her escort, fool evermore
I'm submerged, the glint in her eye

Machiavellian goddess and hellfire
Biting down on the neck

Choking through waves of aqua demise
Failing to keep afloat
anastasiad Jun 2016
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Shailesh Otari Jul 2014
Splendid was the thunderous night
Of stormy lightening serenade
With cold feet shivering in fright
Dismayed you, all afraid

Begged of me to walk closer
And make you feel at ease
Unaware innocently how
Passion in night frees.

We walked some distance, hand in hand
Drenched in blessed rain fall
Forgotten is the fear of storm
As love came on prowl.

As storm poured and doused the earth
Until late in the night
Kindled on dimly lit streets
Keen desire to unite.

Suddenly we halt, with eyes locked
Sensing a sweet fragrance,
Hearing our heavy breathing
Acceding to closing distance.

Never learnt how hands toured north
And reached our faces
In heavy rains what wet our lips
Were those passionate kisses.

Gradually the sweetness grew
Entangling us in embrace
Ironically a gloomy storm
bestowed us divine grace.
July 1st 2014
anastasiad Dec 2015
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Lindsey Williams Nov 2011
Pat Tat Tat Pat Tat Tat
Rain. Drip. Rain. Drop.
Slowly.
Rhythmic
On the window sill.
Time stood still.
Pat Tat Tat Pat Tat Tat.
Finger drawn across the cool glass.
And then I watched the path I traced melt and fade.
One moment I didn’t want to pass.
Wind rushes in through the cracks.
I pull the blanket closer.
I didn’t breathe.
I couldn’t breathe
I didn’t want this second to slip away from me.
Below, on the sidewalk I see a little boy
With a suitcase so big he has to drag.
Something tells me that’s his only bag.
His father at his side.
But even in the dark,
The worry in his eyes won’t hide.
Even the little boy seems to know the future doesn’t look bright.
Even he knows that things are not right.
Behind them, and out of their view
A woman follows with a little girl who’s missing her shoes.
A worn and torn rabbit dragging behind,
In search of a better life they hope to find.
Rain keeping time.
Like a heart
Thump Thump with mine.
Thump Thump.
Thump Thump.
Thump Thump.
Knock.
I don’t look.
I didn’t need to.
I knew who it was.
And trust me,
I wasn’t answering.
Knock.
Again.
Knock.
The very moment I wanted so desperately to never come,
And I knew it was useless to try to run.
The wind rushed in again and stung my eyes.
Then I turned and saw my baby,
She smiled up at me,
I was happy that at least she couldn’t see.
Thump Thump.
Acceding the stairs.
The men would take my baby away if they found her.
My one chance.
I had no choice but to take.
If only for my baby’s sake.
I pressed my lips to her forehead.
Then swaddled in my sweater
I tucked the bundle under my arm.
She was breathing.
I could feel it.
Her heart was beating
In time with mine.
Her heart was beating
In time with mine.

They took us to the trains.
I made it through the line with my baby.
My heart slowed just a little with that slight hope of maybe.
Thump Thump.
I felt her heart beat.
Her heart was beating
In time with mine.
She was fine.
But then my baby cried out,
And the man called me back.
He asked me what I had under my arm.
I didn’t answer.
I knew I didn’t need to.
There was nothing I could do.
He reached out for it.
I couldn’t refuse.
That was last time I felt the thump.
Her heart with mine.

We arrived at this place
Unknown to me.
And I saw a woman whom I knew.
She asked my where my baby was.
“What happened to your baby?”
And I said “What baby?”
“I don’t have a baby”
“I don’t have a baby”

Pat Tat Tat Pat Tat Tat.
The shower filled with gas.
My name is Saddam Hussein Al tikrit
Please don’t shoot me, I have complied,
Let me come out of my hideout
Out of this hole in which I have been hiding,
For sure ,I want to surrender to your might
By acceding to appalling condition of my Arabic folly
Imbued to me as a legacy of my childhood trials,
Perpetrated unto me by my foster parenthood
My Arabic uncle ,who often whacked me my skin
To thwart my good manners into defiance disorder,
He pummeled me often, as if I was  an African antelope in the trap,
He misled me to amass weapon of mass destruction,
Goofing in  my dreams to decimate the synagogue of Satan,
Only to ire  my holy big brother  of the capital cosmology,
Catapulting him in to an imperial overture;
Zero option but to declared unto me a holy preemptive war
In which I am beaten like a desert lout
By the global powers that  have been
In my foolish stamped of the clash,
Very classical  clash about civilisation.
Apachi Ram Fatal Oct 2017
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out zipper little dipper stick
love without pain set my soul free
anastasiad May 2016
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Evan Stephens Feb 2021
A black ****** slips stars
into the withered
low-tide triangle
at Sandymount -
     Where are you?

My clenched chest beats bruises
into a defaced molt of moon
& down the quay, pursuing you,
before acceding to reality:
     You are missing.
David Lessard Dec 2018
I sit in the non-smoking section
of the restaurant. That's a laugh.
The smoke from your noxious
**** still finds me. It makes me ill.
I am going to ask you to extinguish
it, or else heave in your face. I'll
pursue the former but actually favor
the latter. I could just up and leave,
but that would be acceding victory
to the American Tobacco Industry-
and to you, the original Marlboro Man.
As politely as I am able, I walk over to
your table and ask you to put it out.
It's made me sick. You smirk and ask
me if I'm serious...the favored response
occurs.
dorian green Aug 2020
sometimes i'm afraid people don't like me.
it's my whole problem actually,
that i so desperately want to be liked by people.
i take myself and i scream at it,
i throw plates and vases at myself,
i tell myself to go hide under the bed and stay there,
and all im left with is the rest of me.
i try to pick those bits up,
sew them together
recycle and refurbish, blow the dust off a little,
and i create something that is totally inhuman.
a creature that moves on inorganic beats,
that stumbles and falls right down the
slippery ***** of uncanny valley,
that talks too much,
smiles too much,
apologizes too much.
it's not fake,
it's me,
just, not any of the parts i like.
it's more palatable, i guess,
but it never goes any deeper.
that's really all i try to be.
palatable.
a real people pleaser.
i take all the jagged edges of my person,
and iron them out until it's more
appealing than the next
hottest number one billboard single,
but the critics hark it all the same,
because generic niceties only
really get you so far.
so you either have to push a little,
give the universe a little shove,
remind it you still exist,
or let yourself get folded up
as you cave and cave
and cave again,
never asserting,
always acceding,
because of that
deep-seeded hatred you
harbor, towards the one person
you could never forgive for as long
as tried, towards your oldest friend:
yourself,
the pathetic ******* that looks back at you from every mirror, from every picture, every poem.
so you cant be them,
because no matter how much you try to make amends, befriend
yourself
you always end up
disappointed.
so you burn the bridges
you tried to build
and create a monster,
an amalgamation of every
polite smile and fake laugh
you've seen, gathered,
like youre playing
customer service
your entire life,
and you scare off everyone anyways,
because there's not a script,
there's no rehearsal,
nobody's running their lines,
they're living their lives,
and you parrot back all the
lessons you've learned from the
acting school of social osmosis
and it comes out wrong and ill-timed,
and while they don't hate you
you just don't vibe,
and you repeat this process
for the rest of your life.
and why do you do this?
no really,
why do you do this?
i wish i could be softer,
not ironed around the edges,
all cauterized and raw,
but more blurry,
a gentler sort of person,
fuzzy and less uptight.
it's a me i think i could be,
if i just were able to take a walk with
me,
let him explain himself,
learn to value him
more than i value
people's perceptions of who i am.
he'd tell me to relax, stop being such a
control freak.
but at this point i would uncomfortable
and i'd say
well, you're such a hypocrite
oh look at mister high and mighty,
calling me a freak
listen, i may be miserable
but at least i'm not you.
my pride gets in the way,
(everyone always says i'm stubborn)
and i cant accept
that one pill i won't swallow:
"be less afraid."
Volition, orientation familiarization aahing
and oohing within restrictive paradigm molding
inviolable honorable gentility -
flagrantly, desirously, clearly boyz abandoning
willfully skirting, panting (heavily)
forfeiting abominably, (no Joe King) abiding

chomping at bit, damning delineated, or obscure
parameters, between one acceding
Earthlinked selfish living
psychosexual pining human bing,
and another ardently avowedly ambitious
altruistic agent provocateur (lol)

at first blush hinting Moulin Rouge adulation
under dim (witted) lighting accenting
individual randy salient
traits savoring tête-à-tête
tasty hors d'oeuvres accentuating
nuances highlighting flirtatious countenance

initially unconditionally stubbornly accepting
dire hormonal straits
as prickly fledgling acquaintanceship
quivers, negotiates, kickstarts abolishing
inchoate biochemical protracted coupling
conveniently interpreting accessing

breeching, catapulting Dickensian estuary,
non verbal communication nsync abridging
painstakingly erecting complex edifice
suavely, urbanely, wittily accessorising
tried and truevalue tricks acclaiming
debonair heroic manliness princely

qualities dutifully dominate directing
demure damsel in distress absconding
convincing, foreplaying, jimmying,
rollicking readily acclimatizing
challenges ****** up gracefully parlaying
most savvy serious similarly sophisticated

totally tubular testosterone tactics
versatile repartee accomplishing
dynamics cultivating atavistic romantic ballet
on duh poe whit tick abutting
metaphorical foot accoutering

trappings adorned since mythological
Adam and Eve accrediting
latter, sans virile unavoidable temptation
savoir faire verboten fruit, accelerating
action whereby unsuspecting, slithering,
lurking serpent teen accounting
rattle unheard by apse cent church fathers

subsequently excoriating, condemning, accusing,
nonetheless indomitable transcendence achieving
pinnacle of prostrate poignancy
inexpressible ecstasy acquiescing
nonpareil acquisition adulation activating
ascendence assaying administering
amorousness activating. aching.
Wake up to the sound of the roaster
See the chimney smoke,
water gush through the nearby stream,
Nature painting a dream.
With a song in the heart,
acceding little things in our life's part.


Hear the sparrow tweet ,
A fresh morning greet,
The dew on the Jasmine leaf,
Ants crawl away from the feet,
the distant sheep bleet.
The bus beep ,
the sound of the gardeners broom sweep.
Listen to music that soothes the mind,
thankful for the playful hands and little chuckles heard from the yard behind.
Making way for a few little things.


Hear the cycle bell ring ,
smell the flowers dwell in the sunny spring,
Bask in the drop of a golden ray ,
witness the green carpet array,
feel the grass on the feet
Sip on a hot coffee treat,
a welcoming smile or a greet,
Just a few little things.
  

Set your table with lilies and roses, fragrances  running through the house ; house you turn into a home.
Toasted jam and bread,
a healthy meal spread.
a little prayer to thank for the same , just a bit in God's name.
Open the windows (of your mind )and let the fresh air in,
Burn incenses and clear your mind off pain and sin ,
Being thankful for your very being.


Every moment takes its positive course, keep no space for remorse.
Pat yourself,
Put on your best smile,
Look into the mirror ,
Say "Thank You" God , for everything that life brings,
aiming to value just the little things !

@MRUNALINI NIMBALKAR
29.05.24

— The End —