MP- It is quite humbling to host this young rising star , an African patriot , a fast rising versifier with Africa flowing in his rude ,crude creative arteries fertile with metaphors and rich with refreshing satire to reshape the once beautiful Africa back to its real shape . Jojji is a 19 year old Kenyan poet celebrating with us in solidarity on the fall of the once full time African dictator Robert Mugabe . Jojji like any other sane human being under the sun want to see a new Zimbabwe awash with peace and abundance , hence his captivating and reflective poetry in support of the Zimbabwean CAUSE. Readers kindly continue to contact us at email@example.com. The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign continues with its journals and Voices – ALUTA- Mbizo Chirasha,
(written for the dawn of new Zimbabwe)
I shall tell a tale about the shackles of oppression, Solid masses of impunity To which our feet were bound before being caged behind stronger than alloyed-steel dictatorship.
Sunk deep amid wild whirling waves of yet to be felt economic crisis. In this sea of sorrow;a composition of terrified tears and gallons of guilty greed.
We were sent to exile from our own motherland and struck nude of our democracy.
Keep silent… (wails). Those, those cries you hear are hymnal compositions of revolutionary realization.
Loud liberation calls we used to boldly recite.
The ground on which I now stand boasts of housing hostages of this hostility in the tale I’m telling. A rude riddle.
(sounds of riffles)
Worry not descendants, the beat of the gun and the pace of your heart beat fuse into a beat for a rhythm of this new choral I am composing about a new dawn.
Before the sun on the east Rise beyond those big hills, my sons, we shall see on the other side a buoyant life.
Before the light shades violently the demons of ethnical origin,
We shall sit and sing a dirge for this fall we prepare for.
Sons and daughters, before we set into this direction
Brace yourselves to encounter the enemy among the people.
For my old bones won’t fight anymore.
But these hands will on this scroll
Write of your Victory when you return
To take this naive hermit
And burry the remains of my grey hair
In that same land my ancestry lies.
THE STRAY LIONESS
The movements in the streets are scarce. Although the street lights shine in bright amber streaks, the atmosphere is filled with humid wind blowing through the well lit sky crappers on this vice city.
On the street shops, she leans, one leg at an acute angle to the wall. The other leg supporting her to the ground.
Her scarlet garment that covers only a fraction of her nipples, leaving a ‘spectacular’ view of her breasts, runs down to few inches just above her waist.
On one hand, a smoking pipe, the other hand strokes her blonde hair at a seductive pace.
She is known to many as Ivy the provider.
She must have been named Ivy because she poisons the streets. Those are my thoughts.
As I walk past her with paced steps, she holds me by the hand “niaje mhunk” (swahili for hello handsome)
I quickly read her intentions and try to walk away as my now excited prostate hormones wail in disgust.
“mtoto wangu atalala njaa boss, ntakupa discount”(my young one will stay hungry sir. I will offer you a discount.)
This made me freeze to my tracks. Not that I was excited about the discount. But it had never crossed my mind that sex workers would be mothers.
I turn back and meet her toxic smile. She holds me by the hand and leads me to her “field of work” as the others look in disgust.
Once inside the brothel, she locks the door and throws a pack of condoms at me “shot ngapi” (how many rounds)……
“Ivy, I’ll pay for your time. Not services.Why do you have to do this.?? ”
The stray lioness
” it’s time for work darling ”
Ivy kisses her three year old daughter at sunset
Down the streets she walks
Smiling at every beast
Hoping they would share their fortune
With this stray lioness
So her cubs would find a reason
To wake up the next morning
Already at her spot,
No luck yet
Its been hours of standing
Surviving the harsh weather
To ensure survival of another
….. Tears of amid pain
Rolls down her cute face
As she recalls the events.
How the once cherished cub
Of the lion king
Fell prey to scavenging predators
Who seek nothing but blood
She recalls how this scar
The same one that festers
Making the society reject her presence
With accusations of a demonic background
This scar she has to live with.
She cannot undo it
Because to her it is attached
A sad reminder of how
The same predators who were after her veins
Are the same ones she now seeks refuge from.
Deep in the heart of the night
She Braves the darkness.
She dares her demons
And walks home.
In hand a piece of bread
Butter and a little book
As she enters the house
Her little one is asleep
She kisses her a goodnight
Looks at her sleeping angel
Then to the items she brought
With a sigh she says
“for you, it was worth it ”
That is the stay lioness
The hunt after sunset.
Sometimes we mistakenly judge people by their behaviour which we might consider unclean to us in terms of ethical morals. It is however important to note that not every bad thing is propelled at self interests. The stray Lioness is just but a poem I wrote based on the inspiration shared as in the few words above.
THE MAKING OF APAINTING
I hear the footsteps from a far
The stampedes shake my heart
From the east, the red sun shows its glamour
The queues stretch far west
Down the hills to the south
Stands a shadow,
A shadow of grass growing amidst rocks.
As dawn breaks
I sing in my soul
Peace, wherest thou….
In the void of the growing dark
I find my peace in crayons
I seek my peace in papers
I speak my peace, this time not in letters
I seek a refuge in my silent song
Among the chirping of the pegions
As slowly but concisely
I make sweeps with my pen
I draw curves and edges of certainty
I erase shades of ethical origin
Sharpen the bluntness of my pencil
To bring out distinctive appearance
To mark out my prior decisions
All these I do
In utmost amidity
Of a bruised past
Now a healing scab
With rejuvenated emotions,
but as I take the final look
As I grab my crayons
I make a thick line of black;
My paper is white;
A crimson shade;
The blood of our restoration
And a tone of green;
I take a look at my painting
The shape of Kenya
The shape of unity
Shades of my flag.
Symbols of humility
There I find the peace I desire
On my door
I hang my painting
It is the eighth of August.
I do my motherland justice
I take a bold step
Into the daring dark
To crow out hope
Just before dawn
I crow out
On my rectangular patches of what used to be a mattress
Lies afew kilograms of my 18 year old body
The aura around is calm
But my mind is disturbed
I look around the corners
Darkness is slowly fighting for its place
With my candle light
Rain drops start splattering on the roof
Like the days plums would fall on our tree house
In the back yard
But now covered by cobwebs
Cobwebs of uncertainty
The wind blows the pines in a distance
It blends into a sad rhythm
The cavities of my tear glands,
Unable to supress the effect of the depression
Rupture in disgust
And Involuntarily gush out litres of tears
As I slowly rewind my ancestry days
Because I consider myself one
Of the days when everything was buoyant
When on blue waters id float
But the tale takes on another course
Down sank the titanic
On its maiden voyage
And in the same spirit……
Down sank my soul
And I slowly put out my candle
… And wonder into the night of nightmares
Jojji_Kaka O yea Sun (Jojji Kaka)
When behind the eastern rocks you rise
O you early morning sun
At the crack of dawn I shall have sung
Chorals of my belief.
My ink pot shall have run dry
My smile wry
Quill crooked and face sweaty.
When on mid-sky you stand robust O yea bold noon sun
The faithfuls shall have mastered the religion
The chords on the nyatiti plucked
So she shall spill out wails of perfect lure
When on the western horizon you shall have sneaked
O you exhausted daughter of the evening sky
To welcome eerie deep darkness to the soil
My scroll shall be full of marks
Perfect yet so imperfectly written marks
Of pain, of pain, of buoy souls and of not yet felt feelings.
Of the sound of sickly crickets.
At the mid of the night
O yea cruel sun
Where shall you be?
At the comfort of your habitat..
Maybe shining to the angels
Or perhaps walking with the Deity.
Down here, I shall be composing an unsung tone
My hair shall have turned grey
My bones exhausted
And when you shall in the morning return….
When behind the eastern rocks you rise
O you early morning sun
At the crack of dawn I shall have sung!
Oluoch George Patrick, going by the pseudonym ‘jojji kaka’ is a young Kenyan poet who believes in the power of writing to diffuse positive influence to the greater mass.