A collection of village christmas tales.
For the son who never travels home…
Mama has not left the gate
we fear her neck will giraffe from peeping at the horizon
watching patiently with a swollen heart
her lips quiver, begging ngai to bring you home
clutching her favorite pot filled with porridge that raised you- her fine son.
I see you drowned in a pool of liquor,laughing
with strange zebra painted women
fishing for one to baptize ‘wife’
to rid you of shame and ridicule
to stand tall at the village and call her ‘mutumia wakwa’.
You wont even pick Mama’s calls, peeping from our mukimo and cabbage mountain peaks
we watch her pace anxiously at every dial
locked up in your room she will crash on your bed
eat her leso and cry,hours later
she will emerge with a plastic smile and a dead heart
she will bury herself in the kitchen to cry freely,blaming smoke.
Son of my mother
come home, it is not too late.
Come home, with a wife or not!
come and hug your mama
come and take away her heartbreak
it is her tears, the swell of her breasts with Joy
that will bless you with a wife.
For the son who never feels worthy…
I see you buried in your house cursing tomorrow
angrily,wishing away the season
merry and cheer, I see you.
You have nothing to sing and dance for
nothing to be proud of, or to brag about
to your family back at the village, I understand you
I too know how hard it is to smile all day,while your heart bleeds
to listen to stories of wealth, prosperity, love, while you have nothing to stand tall with
you walk with your head bowed, eyes fixed to the ground afraid they will laugh at you, mock you, pity you…
I have been there
I am you.
But listen, as sure as your village sun rise
I promise, tomorrow will not always be today
you will rise again,and when you do, you will struggle to remember today.
Hold on just for a while
don’t give up, or in.
for can you not see the traveler approach, heavy with burden
a messenger sent to gift you with a bag full of bigger and better
smile, wipe away that river flooding your cheeks,step out
love, live and laugh.
you are going to be fine
And for those who clear the kitchen…
Spread luxuriously under the avocado tree
You have become the village clock
Lazily rolling your bloated form chasing shade.
Once, green grass has since turned yellow
massacred by your exploding farts and bouts of belch that cause havoc
Did my uncle not threaten to straggle you if you farted one more time?
Enough with your Nairobi lies
Concocted gibberish about having a sensitive stomach
Were you not spotted behind the cow shed devouring boiled eggs,bananas and chapati?
My brother, your catwalk to the toilet almost killed ‘cucu’ with laughter,
Your hands clutched desperately on your almost breaking buttocks simmering wet puffs
You limped,run,moon walked to the wooden structure carpeted with ash
Small children let out a cry -Al shabaab Al Shabaab,
My brother,your gun fire and atomic explosions nearly summoned Chief Ngunjiri
We did not laugh,when minutes later you appeared worn out limping like you had sat on a porcupine
Flanked by an army of flies, We did not laugh.
Long after your departure
We will make a fire and roast potatoes
We will summon Kariuki’s son kiama
he who was chased away from school for being more clever than the headmaster
At the centre of the village hut he will recount your visit
With sisal on his head and ash on his lips kiama will march like your girlfriend in her crooked Gikomba heels while caressing the ‘sisal weave’
My grandmother will mock her tiny buttocks,those can not ferry water!
he will attempt to speak your ‘yoyo yea men’ language while holding his now loose pants with one hand
he will not miss your flamboyant steps in your tight jeans that suffocate your testicles
No wonder you have no children!
he will then let out a cry,just like you did when your pale girlfriend handed you ‘hatha’ that porcupine plant, to wipe your rear
It is then that we will laugh out loud until we too, billow hot air from our rear.
For the heart break that refuses to be forgotten…
If you are coming for Christmas with that skunk stuck on your arm, don’t make the trip
stay away from us, don’t defile my village with her presence.
If she must troll, keep her away from our tree
where you held me as we watched the sun set
Keep her away from the river, only my beautiful reflection dances with the waves
there is no place for her form there!
She must not take to my path down the stream,for
don’t you remember how I danced for you as we walked.
No! she must not seat on the black stones always bathing at the Chania, those are my stones!
Don’t you remember how you loved to stare at my naked breasts
while seated on those stones.
I beg you, she must not set her sight on the Aberdare
you promised me of love just as wide, just as vast…
and the little church near the school, Curse you if you take her there,
I died in your arms as you kissed me In the lord’s Presence,
when you left for the city to never return
I buried your love at the gate
let my love rest in peace.
For my handkerchief wearing sisters mmh mmh mmh….
A bra Santa, I wish for a white bra and black panties
this Christmas, to save my clan from Njeri’s shame
She came from Nairobi accompanied by a chest full of rioting breast
with every step she made we held our breathe in shock
old men flocked my father’s hut waiting to catch her falling breasts
the young men stood silently, biting their lips, shifting uneasily, sweating profusely.
I too planted oranges on my chest hoping to beat Njeri’s swollen army
they never stuck for long, one yellow breast rolled away while I washed clothes,
I still remember Karuga’s Chuckle as He picked and Devoured the orange, I did not die of Shame!
Santa hurry with the Panties, Njeri arrives soon with Her painted Lips, It was tragic last year
with her see through dress she left nothing to imagination
curse the wind for dancing around her, Mama rushed with her leso
but it was too late, we watched as her dress flew up to her nose,
she had on between Her thighs a tiny strip of material swallowed between the dimpled Pair
had she hid Her buttocks, she would not have become the village flag
Flying High, Hoisted on some Village Man’s waist-Every Day and Night.
and the Illicit bump and grind…
These children, eating soil and chicken droppings
in our grandmother’s collapsing huts,
These children, wading off sticky, salty rivers from their noses with their little hands,
These children, with swollen stomachs and red hair
These children, Children of their Mothers
These Children, With no fathers
Once upon a time rested safely in some young Man’s Testicles,
until He came Home to the village dressed in Tight Jeans waving a Samsung Phone, with a bag full of chips and Chicken for Wairimu,
It was at the cowshed, behind the CDF Metal Tank , Lying on top of the Banana Leaves that these Children were Conceived.
and more heartbreak…
Outside His little round shaped Hut he sits alone
silent like a stalking storm
his lifeless form sculptured perfectly under the mango tree
only his eyes wander, counting the sun’s steps.
He has not always been this dead
There was a time when his heart walked shirtless in the village
sprinkling beads of life and love, back then
when you danced and smiled for him.
Back then, when you listened to his heart sing for you
as you lay under the mango tree
outside his little round shaped hut.
We found him strangling life away
drowning in a pool of rat poison
he is yet to forgive us for letting Him live
it is fine with us.
it is you we pray over
Njeri he begged you to stay
to love him, if only for a while, he crawled after you as you run to embrace another,
never to return…
Njeri, this Christmas
as you wade through the village paths to parade your man and children
I beg you, stay away, from the little round shaped hut
death lurks, waiting for you
to return back His life
life that you stole.