Imagine truth showing up at Sunday brunch,
marinading confrontations while Grace overpowers words of advice
Imagine “yaasss sis” not greased with envy
Imagine sisters who mean it when they say. “I got you”
Parts of me are stuck in time’s farrows
I have dug in the gutter for pieces of me
Still, I am not whole
Echoes of my forefathers’ songs call me
Muffled howls of ghosts of my tainted past mock me
Wandering souls wrap edible lace around my mouth and beg me to resist
They are snakes reincarnated,
Slithering in bed with me
Robbing me in my sleep
Laughter is their voice of victory
Chasing me to ditches, hands clenching my womb
Leaving trails of edible lace
4 years was the age I knew taunting,
it came in small packages making comedy at 10a.m. in the playground
two decades later it comes in a small package,
stuffed at the back of my head echoing 4 year olds making comedy in 1997.
Heavy in my heart , and over my head
Pesky, overstayed guests
Still, I desperately call to them
We dance all night
my feet hurt and my heart races, beads of sweat adorn my head
Still, I follow their lead
Tears reject me
I laugh, scream, and they join in
In such tragic harmony, we are a legion
It’s 3 am and they refuse to leave me
Nothing has been more afraid to lose me
I would break free and run again – but solace grips my wings, and tries to clip them
I have been running back and forth for so long, I am weary
Brandy run out faster
KingSized Rizla is no match for the beads of sweat that bolt me awake
Holding my head high is futile, they own me
Raising my hand in protest, I am forced face my stripes of war
I could grow my wings back and fly away,
But outside is made of spraying bullets and forced lay-away
I married them at 3a.m
I plan to kill them in their sleep, drown them with every liquor sip
I have brewed this poison for 1 month and 29 days.
But their lives are built on my back I am afraid I must die so they do too
I know you have seen better days
I know Monday feels like Wednesday and Saturday bum day , I know Sunday brunch seems like a memory far away
I know some days you wake up fired up
Ready to work, ready to make things better, to start a routine that will help you come out of hiding looking, acting and working better
I know some days, you wake up to wake up
You would rather be between the sheets being nothing close to sexy and uninhibited
Just being.
Being away from something you cannot understand,
You are fighting, my darling, and you do not even know it
We come from an age of African Kings and Queens still learning to live out loud
We may reveal our fears and hope but maybe not our anxiety, our numbness, or lack of hope; not on the same day
We are still learning to live out loud and talking about everything is not baby steps, I get it
Emotions are brewing and they are intoxicating.
So do not feel guilty if being in the house makes you drunk
If you are lightheaded, swaying aimlessly and forgetting what day it is
Do not feel guilty for resting days in a row
Rest up, my darling
And when you wake and you are not as fired up as you were yesterday, sit down and scroll through your gallery
Look at old photos of you and yours
By all means, wallow, pity yourself, wail, cry, and beat yourself up
Then pat yourself on the back, brag about what you have done that no one else can,
Brush your eyebrows and do not cut your hair this time
Drink a glass of wine, maybe nine
Binge watch fam, or New Amsterdam or FBI
But do not forget to breathe
You are a force even when your mind lies
You are fighting even If you are not on the front line
You are going to be outside but now, you are inside, so breathe
Breathe and marinade in that imperfectly perfect aura of yours
Maybe I will learn to make a decent stew and you can stop burning Ugali
Maybe then we will stay seated at the dinner table listening to the awkward silence that has plagued our home
Maybe I will stop ordering take out and eating cake and coffee at midnight
Maybe you will stop lying awake texting things you know I need you to say to me
and we can conjure up the ghost of our relentlessly passionate past
I still hoard memories of us; but you left when you heard we were going to be a family
A real one- not this shack up mess you like to call a test
Maybe you will stop saying you love me and calling me dramatic when I call you out on your drama
Maybe we need to have a sit down,
Make food,
I will let you put blueband in our ugali and you can let me call Royco a spice
We will stop the lies from dressing up for dinner and let the truth show up in roasts and you telling me if you are ready to be a Dad
But this is a pocket full of maybes
Maybe you can let me be a real drama queen this time
Call you out on shacking up and being hypocritical about my fornication
Maybe I will let you ask me if “it” is really yours
As if we made a thing, just like the one we have had for the past two years
But he is not a thing
He is my little fire
Burning so bright inside me that I have to gobble on antacids
Grams says it is because he will have a fro like mine
But I know for a fact it is because this Little Fire is my sign
He burns bright, my little fire
And maybe this house has become too small for the man that he is
I sure will not let him know rejection the way you serve it
Like your ugali; cold, bland and out of place
And he will not learn not to love himself from his mother
So I am throwing out this pocketful of maybes
I am packing my clothes and Royco
and I am choosing my little fire
Nyokabi's Poetry 