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Forgive me Lover for I have sinned.

Forgive me Lover for I have sinned.

It has been 6 weeks since we last kissed.
It has been 42 nights since we last touched.
It has been 42 days since we last danced.
But I promise all that will be erased
By the joys of a simple embrace
Your white on my black is all it takes
For the steps to be retraced
Into the intimacy that once was.

Forgive me Lover for I have sinned.

It has been a while since I last looked into your eyes
You must have thought inside I turned to ice
A cold winter night or worse
But it has been hard
Inside I’ve been dead
I almost forgot about you
But I didn’t
Am back for more
Hear me out before you throw me out the door

Forgive me lover for I have sinned

But I promise never to leave your side
It’s so cold outside
Allow me back inside
Let my pen once again slide
Over your virgin purity
And your whiteness
And my blackness
Will create a history
Immortalised in words.

So dear blog, am back and I missed you so, take this as a long overdue apology for my long absence from the blogosphere.


I once met an interesting question:
“What’s the style of your soul?”

I thought about it for some time. What exactly is my soul style? Is it casual? Official? Neat? Smart? Gothic? Renaissance? Modern? Traditional?

Do I even have a soul to style?

How can I prove that my soul exists? What exactly is it- this soul?
I guess it is what keeps me going. Where and how, I don’t know. It’s like a hidden turbo engine that turns on automatically when my spirit hits rock- bottom. It refreshes me when I am so deep in shit that a mere whiff of fresh air hurts my lungs.

My soul is what pushes me on. And sometimes, stubbornly holds me back for no reason. It is as arrogant as a well educated rich fool, but at times as humble as a life giving angel.

When my soul is mad at me, nothing goes my way; it will delay my fortunes and fast- forward my tribulations. All at will.
When I make it happy, the heavens open up for me and I hear angels singing with the clarity of fire crackers during Diwali. Each time I argue with it I am left bruised and torn inside.

My soul's shadow was once seen. It was in the form of the reflection on my mothers face when she held me in her trembling hands after I had made my way out of the warmth of her womb.

My soul is what pushes me to do things no one else would understand. It makes me defy every inch of my body and the rest of humanity, and do what will make my conscience rest easy.

My soul is voiceless, but when it speaks I listen and obey. It is my master. I, its willing servant. It is formless, but there are times I have touched it.
It is weightless, but its presence can burden my heart and make it sink.

Each morning, I know it is looking at me. In me. Over me. Knowing how far I am from mortality and how close it is to immortality. That is my soul. In one word, restless. It describes my spirit and gives expression to my face.

It charges me up and continuously protects me from the ills of humanity. It protects me from evil eyes, and endears me to admiring ones
It is the one true friend that if lost, will never be found again.

That is why it will profit you nothing to gain the whole world and lose your soul. And like Hitler, you will be pampered by crowds on the outside, then choked slowly by the vacuum created by the absence of your soul in the inside.


inspired by you...yes you...not you..YOU. Yeah.

My own,

Each night before dawn,
My guava eyes dream on,
Of only you being my own,
Sweeter than cane,
You possess my soul
Like the spirit in Luanda Magere
Or like satan did Jamin Mukhobero
For you I’ll climb the crying stone,
And come back with its tears,
To wash away all your fears

Your skin is like a healthy pawpaw,
Soft and sweet and smells like nature,
Smooth like simba’s tongue,
I like the way sweat droplets form on it
Like simsim drying on my mabati roof.
I like how it rolls down your back
Like a ripe mango down a slanting branch.

Your hips kill me.

But unlike Elijah Masinde I resurrect.
Not to form a cult,
But to eternally look at them,
Beautifully jerking from side to side
Like the choreographed hump of my fathers prize bull.

Your eyes are perfection.
Bright and clear.
Like the star studded skies of circumcision nights.
In them I see much more than black and white
To the colour that fills your life.

Your legs are not bamboo reeds.
Like twin sweet bananas
They are thin and fat in the right places
Sturdy enough to support a baby within.

Your lips are like a wise grandmother

Never offending.
Always caressing the ears around
With a voice that can lay hungry babies to rest.

You nurture me with your touch.
Like a cow’s first lick to its calf
Like the midwife’s cradle of the chief’s son.

When you are in my arms I feel like Kimathi
Holding down a colonial informer.

When we part you leave me deflated
Shrunken inside like sunbathed kunde.

I may not wear the red shirt and black pants
I may not buy Dutch chocolate and gifts
But my heart will always be stained
In red from ochre that colours our house
And in black from the fields that nourish our maize.

For to me it always is

Another day

Given to me to love you more.

आफ्टर Four

Had to pull t out again after last night's 'Fist to Five'...

Hope it touches something within you...

After four

Step outside into the cold
For a minute from your hold
From the light into the shadow
From the calm into the storm.

Forget your joy and feel the pain
Embrace the loss ignore the gain
Humane, not this time
Mundane, a bit like Caine
Rejoice in blood it’s just a game
And take it like Abel
Unless you’re God and able
Whose tears make things unstable.

The prick of the thorn loses its pain
But scars remain
Like those on the heart of a woman scorn
Open the door and let them in
Unless of course you’re deep in sin
Let the crawlers through
Never do the shoo
Or else they’d blow
Spear or arrow
You and your kin
Come next election.

Caress the flames

And lick the sparks

Fan your passions

Draw the swords

After four

It will be twelve

And then again

We destroy ourselves.