My DEaR Wa-jee-raw*!
I would want to break into your thoughts with what’s written in my heart!
Hey wait, waiiiiiiiiit, let me tone it down as you would when you smear your Kimbo-vasirini* and the layer is too much for your mothiririmos* liking and those soft hands rise over and above your chocolate thighs…
Oh, the sighs that come out unbidden out of my lips when i ritho* you do your rishio*.
Surely, there’ll be no rats to interupt your animated grunts as my rhumbas serenade and refresh your body, soul and mind (in that oda!) like the ka-Novida*drink i brought you from the big city!
Shy girl, shy girl, hear, hear, give me your ears for all these years i’ve wanted to see you draw that map on the red earth with your big toe…for such a market day like this, when your mother and mine rush to sell ndumas* and ikwas*, i’l invite you right into my hut…and what’s more, into my heart!
See, see, Wa-jiro, my rav*…i bought a brand new kanyitera and, tsk tsk, suprise, supriiiiiiiiiiiiiise, a pink lacy one…the kind cool girls in the big city wear!…don’t blush, don’t blush, Wa-jiro, don’t blush, because even as rains have disappointed, i shall stand to appoint you with countless reasons…reminiscent of the days we rolled carefree on the green grass carpet and it’s viridity merged with our childhood innocense….
Hold on, hold on…Wa-jiro…i know you got no humor tumor in your head and i can not be simpler than this…but i can assure you, in Uni-verse-City, they don’t award degrees for virginity!
So, pris, pris, un-insure your thoughts from mindless chastity…
Ok!Ok!OK!My bad!I fixed the bed, i swear i did…that by the time the sun bleeds over Gaichanjiru Village and the mishumaris are loose, i bet the crickets will swallow the creaking with the rhymes of their chymes….
Oh…there comes your nyukwa, i must go!
laughter in that language – i told you!
*Wa-jiro > Wanjiro- the name of a young maiden Kikuyu girl.
Kimbo-Vaserin >Kimbo is a cooking fat brand- folks in the village back in the day applied it as you would Vaseline…vaserin is, yes, Vaseline!
Rishio> Ritual, hehe
Ka-Novida > Novida – a refreshing non alcoholic drink from the Schweppes and Cocacola stable…assumed to be ‘up-market, mobile…with-it city folks…
Ndumas & Ikwas > Arrowroots and…Arrowroots…they’re all dug out!
rav >love, lol.
Kanyitera > a smoky lamp made of tin, a wick and paraffin…emits a lot of smoke!
Nyukwa> A derogative term to refer to ‘your mother’.
Tags: fiction, sixsentences
the following are the expression of the above, without fear or favour but with some fervor, my little unannounced Christmas present for y’all bloggers, unwrap it with care.
to the the prim and proper, allow some of this stray light to spray your righteous content, for once. i am liable not, though, but of course!
Camera, lights, darkness.
Grunge guitars, hoarse coarse voices, somber tones, a nudge at my grudge.
Frozen anger. Still stiff air. Hair rises, overhead sprinkles spit cocaine to ease all pain, not much to my disdain.
Shush, silence, a pause. Then a finger strums. Drums roll. The beat bounces back, cymbals wash, supreme gream reigns.
Blood red lights sway over us, not mean fete but defeat? my neat heart and meat negates!
Shove, push, a single amorphous bloody lot, some rot, high on Rock, hop wildly around demented lyrics, DOG SI NATAS, hell flows over.
In my bucket list, it had all been contained, now, in reality, my saliva is acidic.
Shove, push again, am drenched in a semi-suffocate state, their sweat, acridic, strikes my nostril dead, but my eyes, very alive, trace the punkers on stage, insane men sodden with terrific madness and energy.
Shove, push, my heart is almost squeezed out,like teethpaste…but the mood, now elec-trick soon ingests me…
Strings are strung, clads are flung
Metal reverbates, intermeshes with horriffic screams of a white-face-black-eyed Rocker, mouth open so wide, the mic is now to matchstick.
I pull out my big stick of spluff for a piff and it cracks as i sucks.
the grateful dead
Even when the dark times are growing dim and darker.
Even when reality is getting more unreal and starker.
Even when italicized thoughts streaming into my subconscious make no bold sense.
Even when my life is taking a downward spiral into an abyss of hopelessness.
And even then, if death ever swings its cunt my way, bury this savage, this side up that even in the grave silence, i can still mock and moon the damned universe and it’s cruel rulers.
For they don’t make them like this anymore, the grateful dead.
am sincerely sorry for misleading you, but this is in preparation of a year ender post, no surprises i’ll do for y’all readers of this blog. the above is part of my unmentioned quest to express myself (though sloppy, thanks i know, lol) in six sentences.
…hoping they will never show up? But sure enough, you are dying to see them?
in fact, the whole of the past weekend, minutes were punctuated by their very thoughts, thoughts of how they have suddenly started upsetting you in such a sweet way.
how they are making you suffer.
how you are aching to tell, express,rain, pour- explode! Yell to them about the bounding spell they have pronounced on you…
sleep has been a rare commodity. it’s a cliche, yes you know. they write about it, right from nursery pick up lines that ‘silali juu yako‘…but its so fucking real to you, you ashamed of it. so real like sex and taxes and yes, its already taxing your nerves.
yaani, like the thrones of capitalism the reign of your sanity is at stake.
but you know you are not going mad about anyone.
even though every time you lie to rest, then begins a journey in your mind, like shakespeare wrote.
you’d like to leave it at that, but the dreams, oh! from the fourth dimension and animated like an award winning hollywood flick, they puncture into your over-stretched consciousness.
where is she? where is he?
then, you remember. uhm, you never forget it. you just chose to ignore it.
…that many have tried.
no longer are you the cynic.
” ati hakuna kitu kama love ” is now a forgotten mantra, one you chose to avoid ka ngotha ya kitambo
Like Luther, you’ll are sworn to never say never again…
maybe it’s even more than that.
” Hebu imagine”- you consort your sane brain cells.
this person has such a history. they have upset so many, you have gathered.
but like the temperess of talmud, they still appeal.
all you need is audience…you console your pride.
and this morning, you hoped it’d end.
that they’d saunter into your life and dispell all doubts, unload the burden on your thoughts, quench your sexcessive obsession.
…maybe she is a workmate, your best friend’s sister, that forbiden distant cousin, or if you are in my vantage point, a class mate.
sadly, and sure enough, they don’t appear.
a desperate sigh parts from your lips, on this realisation. your eyes stare blankly, probably beyong the ceiling, unto heavens- take this cup away from me, you’d like to scream…but complete inability to think, act, sweeps over you.
phew! another entry is made in a dreamers diary – maybe one day, the torturing illusion will crytallize into this unbelievable wonder woman.
dreamed up this in class, as i looked accross the lecture hall…hopr u gitch the flow.
boss, there is always,
a comforting thought,
in time of trouble,
it is not our trouble