The love song

By t. Michael Mboya

I grow old … I grow old …

An old man is a bowed chrysalis

Standing, he only sees

The ground around his feet

But his spirit, lately eclosed,

Criss-crosses time and space

And history, seeking the Truth

I am getting hot

The wings of my spirit are fluttering

My stiff fingers are fumbling …

I trap my truth. You. Tapo!

The Matatu Passenger

By Abraham O’Obunga

Twelve o’clock.

Into the matatu.

Beside me, a ‘plump’,

Behind,

A ‘slim’

With tobacco ridden breath.

A freight train, he is.

The ‘plump’,

Her fundamentals,

On my laps.

Gone

By Karani Kelvin.

I see you grope in the dark
Touching
Spaces that once were warm
Clutching
At my retreating shadow
You stretch to cuddle
But there’s emptiness there
No warm breath against
Your neck, no fingers dripping
Desire all over you…
You whisper my name
But even when I was there
I was already gone.

UREF[i]

By t. Michael Mboya.

I was afraid that these children would live like the birds of the air.

Bene[ii]

Prelude

January 2008[iii].

Our dreams

of making a home here

in this Eldoret Town

where we have lived

for fifteen years

are beaten

out of matatus

on the Nairobi-Nakuru highway

at Naivasha

and slaughtered.

Not guilty anymore

By Karani Kelvin.

Tell Laban Erapu

If you can find him

That we are not guilty of giving anymore

Used to seeing the “heap of rags”

With their begging bowls

We have learned to see them as us

Like NGOs finding it difficult to get aid

We see beyond their made to order agony

There is hardly an innocent soul out here

They fleece us by the coin like politicians

We’ve become the reluctant donor

Desensitized to peddlers of lies

Keni’s Visit to Grandpa

By Ajah Eric

Thanks be to God! Keni sighed. Enough of lengthy lectures, assignments and tormenting exams ….

Keni’s second year at university had just come to an end. Though he was keenly aware that the educational journey was not over, he was more than relieved that he was going for the holidays. A change is as good as a rest, his primary school head teacher used to say. And this break would be for a whole four months!

Literary Criticism in a Chest Thumping Generation

By Karani Kelvin.

There is a problem.And no Binyavanga, no one has fallen asleep in the toilet. Its not the kind of thing you want to try in Mpeketoni. But let us talk about that some other time.

Africa

By Karani Kelvin.

Your glowing ebony smile

sublimely spreads over your

soul, tattooed by years of

calculated turmoil. Your

seductive dance draws all in

 and haven’t they flooded

the dance floor of your life!

Like rain on sandy shores

torrents of hope, of resources

flow out like water poured

in a sack. In quiet moments

you hum with your children

of long ago: “We shall overcome,

someday!” How long shall we

wait for the chains to fall off

like wings of a fly over fire?

Family, friends

By Abraham O’Obunga

When I was sick,
And my mother,
My only parent,
Called on your help,
You all went silent.

Priest please

By Arnold Mutugi 

As youths yawn and yearn
Some spiritual and others sexual nourishment,
With an erect fatherly finger you
Condemn condoms and contraceptives…

On the Mpeketoni Attack

By Karani Kelvin.

It was the hour of death

Gunshots cracked, bombs went off

Buildings burnt and chaos

Drowned the silent night

The sky’s crimson face cringed

Our hearts beat hard in their cages

Frightened to inertia

Like a gazelle in a crocodile’s mouth

We stood each at his door

Waiting for our time

Are you the one?

By Ajah Eric.

           The second week of your first year in campus, a place you dreamt to reach by all means. You worked tirelessly to reach ……

These humans

By Vincent Lungai.

O’er Chinese roads and underpasses
We all converge in classes
Basking in bodily grease and political sludge
Watching the sky and waiting for the tide to bulge
Toyota, Nissan, PSV…matatus vroom past
Dust and smoke, like a bomb blast
Reawakens the sleeping contagions
Cough! Cough!
Sneeze! Ouch! Wipe off!
We tread along, balancing on slanting soles
Hoping for good tidings to appease lorn souls
As the moon calls the sun to sleep
We slither into our holes to weep
For dreams unmet and unconsummated promises
Like Thomases
Dreams of tomorrow thwarting today die unsung
In these places…our homes

They killed a dream

By Eric Lungai.

There was a healthy foetus 
That yearned to be born.
Its life was terminated
And a dream was killed 

Poacher

By Karani Kelvin.

She says:
You sing praises to me
Like you would a goddess
I am your princess, your queen
I am the one you’ve been waiting for
You have never seen hair this long
This black, this strong, this real
You’ve never seen eyes like these
And papaws this firm, full and ripe
Never seen hips and legs this curved
Chiseled perfectly by the master carpenter
Not bought overseas from a dingy shop
You’ve seen one ravishingly beautiful
With brains that can end global warming
But I know what you want, what you all want
A poacher has no business with the flesh
However sweet and tender. All they ever want
Is the ivory; you are no different!

When I’ll sing my own song

By Eric Lungai.

A time may come when I’ll sing my own song,
And that time is coming fast.
I’ll sing my own song,
Perhaps a lyrical song colored with joy,
And maybe a dirge bursting with sorrow

Clinging Memories

By Eric Lungai.

Teach me again
How to sleep facing the wall,
How to put on again,
Burdening pajamas at night;
And waking up clutching tight to a pillow,
As if that is the lone right.

Letter to the unborn

By Eric Lungai.

Do not feel the haste to come
Oh you, the unborn, the unsinned.
Why would you want
To come wrestle for survival
In this unending war of servitude
Of a life?

Kristie's Neighbours

By Abraham O’Obunga

Kristie nearly lost her life while she was giving birth to her third child. It came with complications that unlike the previous ones which she had successfully carried out at her house, she had to be rushed to the nearest hospital. The doctors operated her to reduce chances of her having a still birth. Although she gave birth to a bouncing baby boy, she lost a lot of blood during the operation. 

Is This Really Love?

By Abraham O'Obunga

When I text,
She says call.
And when I call,
She says, 'later,
I'm engaged.'
When I mute,
'I have another one.'
What do I do,
Cupid?

Abraham O’Obunga is a student at Moi University.

The silent housewife

By Vincent Lungai.

Beyond the ridge, lived a silent housewife
Who said, “I killed my husband with a penknife!
And buried him by the river
To share in the water’s shiver 
Poor dead husband of a silent housewife!

Follow Vincent Lungai on Facebook.

The nose

By Vincent Lungai.

There lived a young lad by the shore
Whose nose was covered in ore
And many traveled from afar to witness
And tell lore’s of his nasal fitness! 
Long live the famous nose by the shore

Follow Vincent Lungai on Facebook.

#TBT The Writers Cooperative in Pictures

Today we take a journey down memory lane (forgive the cliche) and re-live some of the wonderful moments of the collective. Are you in any of these pictures? Is there anyone you know who is?

On the meaning of life

By Karani Kelvin.

What

I wonder

Is the meaning of life?

You can be good

Or bad; rich or poor

Black or white; Christian

Or Muslim; Short or tall

It matters not what station you are

How long and tiresome the journey is

Or how short and thrilling

Or how great and fulfilling:

We all come to one predictable

End.

Fall of the shilling and other stories

By Karani Kelvin.

These are hard times.

The dance of the silver shilling

Has no lining

Like the cloud

It dances with the vigor of youth

At a sprinters speed

It is a new dance

To a painful song that doesn’t end

The dollar, is slower, stable even

Having curved its place

In the community of currencies

It reclines in the loftiness of its majesty

Daring others to usurp its power

Wet Fantasies, Dry Realities

 By Oyoo Mboya.

I have watched their bodies writhe
Lost in the pleasures of a wet dream --

The In-law to Alego

By Abraham O'Obunga.

Their two children were about three years old when they first divorced. That was in the fifth month of the year. Anna could not believe it when John broke the news to her one evening.

Are we worth redeeming?

By Karani Kelvin.

Christ, if you were to live again 
In this mortal form
Would you die for us?
Would you silently suffer the indignity
Of being beaten, spat on and abused?
Would you countenance mortal man
Who you can wish away by a mere thought?
Look at how we live!
We don’t care much, not even for ourselves
Are we worth redeeming?
Lord, would you shed your blood
For such a creature as I? 

Soccer Mania*

By Langat Japheth.

 I mourn for Manchester City, my team:
Thrashed by Arsenal, five-nil
Yesterday at ….field;
I forget the playground’s name!

I Mourn for the Beginner*

By Anorld Mutugi.

Who loves a beginner?
What counts except experience?
In every aspect and field
Of romance, writing and working
But where do you gain experience
Without a first chance?

My girlfriend waits for her man to return from Kismayu

By Karani Kelvin

My girlfriend is waiting for the return of her man
She tells me: Nothing makes me anxious than
His presence there, and yet, nothing excites me
More than this; that he is there for the country,
You and me. What greater love can there be?

My Facebook Darling

By Abraham O'Obunga.
 
‘Dear, I have just picked a letter from the post office. It is from Moi University and I tell you what…, I am so happy. I can’t believe it. Imagine, we’ll be at the same university. I am very happy. I can’t…’

Ninako Kwetu[i]

By t. Michael Mboya.

In January 2008 our dreams

of making a home

in Eldoretⁱⁱ, where we had lived

for fifteen years

were beaten out of matatus

on the Nairobi-Nakuru highway

at Naivasha

and slaughtered.

The blood

that flowed as runoff

was licked dry by rabid flames

in the market centres and villages

of Uasin Gishu.

And our hearts remembered

the songⁱⁱⁱ:

Sikuzaliwa juu ya miti

Ninako kwetu

Ninako kwetu

Kwa Baba na Mama.

Uref(i): The Founding

By t. Michael Mboya.

No cockerel is cradled

in the crook of my left armⁱⁱ

My wife’s head does not sway

under the weight of firewood

Her right hand does not close

a box of matches

No axe handle balances

on my son’s right shoulder

No gleaming axe-head

laughs away the sun’s darts

behind the boy’s back

None of Father’s brothers walks

behind us, to get down on a knee

to braid some blades of grass.

For #Jadudi

By Karani Kelvin.

Never thought it would be like this: 
Me lying prostrate on a foreign table 
Drugged to sleep, the well meaning
Bespectacled fellow digging my brain
With shining silver scalpels, like a
Chinese carefully having his meal.

I also want to be held

By Karani Kelvin.

Yes,
I also want to be held 
as spasms of mixed
emotions flow through me 
I want to talk
and be listened to
as I rave about my boss,
work, how the day was,
about life, about you
Its true
I also want to cry
Though no tears
may flow
So,
hold me
and for a moment
let me be you! 

Karani Kelvin sells insurance and writes poetry on the side. Follow him on Twitter and Facebook .

Mother, Come Back for Me

By Abraham O'Obunga.

Mother, Father Francis always told us and he still tells us in church that people do not die. That it is the body which dies and the spirit lives. But how can this be true? Your spirit should be watching over me, Mother. Since the day I was told you went to a sleep that people never wake up from, I have seen more than enough. And I don't consider continuing living in this world. I want to come over to where you are Mother. May be the place is better than here. What Mama Jacky and her daughter are doing to me is no good at all Mother. The two have made tears draw permanent lines on my cheeks. She makes me wash their clothes, wash the house. In fact, I do everything while they sit and mock me and call me names. Every day, they ensure I cry and frown the whole day even when I try to put on a smile. Dad left for the city and rarely comes back home. And whenever he comes home, Mama Jacky treats me well. But what difference does it make? In fact, she forces me to pretend they are so good to me. If I fail to do so, immediately Dad leaves, am beaten to plump. Mother, why did you leave me behind?

Bring her home son

By Kaumah Francis.

Bring her home son
The lady who has won the heart of Onyango, my son
Bring her home son
Let not the rumour of her beauty clog my aged ears
Bring her home son
Let me set my eyes on her while I still live
Bring her home son
The mother to my grandchildren
The daughter to my in-laws
Let me spend the last of my wealth for her dowry
Let her presence in my home, remind me of Raila the unbeaten bull
Let the joy she bring to this home, remind me of Nyong'o ebullient ram
Let the first of her son in my home, remind me of Oneko the potent he-goat

God willing

By Karani Kelvin.

My vest is soaked, the pillow drenched
Silence stands still outside, cowering
Under its own shadow. The winds are stuck
The breeze frozen. It should rain soon
God willing.

Wrong Turn

By Abraham O'Obunga.

When you were still in high school, your teachers could tell you to work hard so that you go to University. What they narrated as their experiences in campus were motivating. They told you that students only attend classes when they feel like.

I Too Shall Marry

By Pius Khisa.

Once they spot me
All my bakoki disappear
Like dew in the morning sun
Pledging to see their halves
Or take children on rounds
Leaving me desperate.

Redemption Afar

By Pius Khisa.

Those who sent their men to war
Still wait, forever wait
Their return at full moon.
Those whose men returned long ago
Still wait, forever wait
To be issued their fortune.

Water the Tahrir Square*

By Karani Kelvin.

Child,

Do not bother yourself

With those eating beyond their fill

Let them return to the queue for more

Like ill-mannered high school students

No Sex, For Fish

(Song of a female fishmonger)

By Oyoo Mboya.

Odongo --
Wuod jochula -

Son of the island,
My grandson's friend ...
For decades I've sojourned,
Bare feet,
On the dewy paths
That lead to the sandy shores,
Of Nam Lolwe -
The waters with no end.

The Road to Siaya

By Abraham O’Obunga.

By 3:45pm, I was rushing towards the bus stop; my black pair of shoes in my right hand and a rucksack on my back with my feet as white as wood ash from the village. My pair of long trousers were folded to the knee. When I reached the bus stop, there were hordes of students; one would think it was a political rally. Every student wanted at least a vehicle whether PSV or a Taxi; so long as it would take them away from the University. I started trekking towards the gate when I saw two anti-riot police land rovers approaching from the University main gate. A few other students followed me. Outside the gate, a matatu that was coming into the University made a U-turn and halted by our side. We rushed for the door. A 7-seater matatu yet we were more than 10. It was in the evening, and there was a traffic jam on the way to town.

I Will Wait

By Oyoo Mboya.

Elders
Guardians of the sagacious gates
Here, they bring me
Before your council
My cardinal crime
Is abusing time--
Yes!

Its five already

By Karani Kelvin.

Shit,
Its five o’clock already!
Gotta get up and run
Put on my cheap suit
Fake silky tie, fake Ethiopian leather shoes
And cheap Somali cologne
(Thank you Eastleigh!)

The bangs*

By Karani Kelvin.

When bangs

Rendered legs around you

Lifeless

Unable to support bodies

They had carried for so long

How did you feel?

Did you look

Straight into the eye

Of the gun and terrorist

When your turn came?

Did you hear the bang

That blew off your head?

I Always Think About You

By Pius Khisa.

I always think about you
Whenever I fail to tame tears
Flowing and overflowing like Nile waters--
Siphoning strength from a bereft soul
And chasing sleep at midnight;
Leaving me restless like an insomniac...

I Shall Leave

By  Pius Khisa.

When, out of exhaustion
To set hurries the sun;
I will be on toes
To respond to call of time.

Welcome to the Writers Cooperative Blog

By Prof. T. Michael Mboya 

The Writers Cooperative is a collective of writers and aspiring writers who at one time or another were students at Moi University, Kenya. The core activity of the Cooperative is the bettering of the work of the writers and aspiring writers. The work can be in any genre of Literature. The writers and aspiring writers share their work among themselves. The shared work is then critically commented on in the meetings of the collective. Through the comments the author is made aware of the (possible) takes on aspects of his or her work by different readers, who are themselves writers or aspiring writers. What the author does with the proffered comments is his or her choice and responsibility. The understanding that guides the core activity of the Cooperative is that work shared in the Cooperative’s meetings is Work in Progress, and as such it can be edited, corrected, tweaked, revised or even overhauled.