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Wednesday, December 30, 2009

You may want to call it Nationalism or even Patriotism, but would you change citizenship for money? "Stephen Cherono" So, is it Money or the Box

"MONEY OR THE BOX"
On 27th July 2002, Stephen Cherono lead a pack of highly promising Kenyans' athletes to a clean sweep of Gold, Silver and Bronze in the Commonwealth Games held in Manchester. With him were brothers Ezekiel and Abraham Kemboi who won silver and bronze respectively. The celebrations were however short lived; Stephen Cherono switched citizenship and to the dismay of many, he even changed his name to Saif Saaeed Shaheen! This is where and how my poem below was too born.....! Later, he appeared on track for Qator and so passionately trounced his 'Kenyas' compatriots to win the Gold. I have all the respect for this great athlete and this poem is intended to arouse the debate on Patriotism and Career. Remember the Qatars' offer of 100 million shillings to Denis Oliech? He thou declined the offer and as well became a hero at home. For the earnings, he still seems to laugh all the way to the bank!

KENYAS STEPHEN CHERONO: QATARS SAIF SHAHEEN

STEPHEN CHERONO

Poor lad of Rift Valley
I ‘hear’ you got a new name
They are calling you
Saif Saaeed Shaheen
What happened?
Just how did you dare?
To cut your own roots
Tap root in specific!

Poor lad of Rift Valley
I hear you got a new home
Qatar! Is it true?
You are now swimming in oil
Leaving the fresh waters of Rift Valley

Poor lad of Rift Valley
‘Mwacha mila ni mtumwa’
Just see how they are frustrating you now
Soon you shall be a nuff
Only then shall you know the extent of the damage

Poor lad of Rift Valley
Slavery is long gone
It’s forgotten!
Only that you are now reminding us
Of those bad old days
Poor lad of Rift Valley
Look back at your mother land
Look at your mothers tears
See how miserable you are now

Poor lad of Rift Valley
You got a brother in Denmark too
Kipketer is his name
Abroad a hero
At home nothing but zero
He too basks in the white gold
To your motherland you are big shames
Brothers, who are we to blame
Before you become lame
And they send you home
But not without some shame


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009
RE-PRODUCTION OF THIS POEM IN FULL OR PART IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED. THIS IS AN ORIGINAL WORK; ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. MWANGI MUTHIORA.


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Monday, December 21, 2009

You may have heard about them, "THE ABORIGINES OF AUSTRALIA" I have felt it worthwhile Honoring the people with the oldest living culture in the World


THE ABORIGINES OF AUSTRALIA



THE ABORIGINES OF AUSTRALIA

Just like the sun dies a million deaths and
Resurrects every morning, the same way the
Aborigines gives birth and dies un-noticed
Discriminated, hated and ignored
Aborigine of Australia
Cursed

Blinded by trachoma, a disease as old as the bible
Preventable and with a known cure
Poverty ridden and disfranchised
No proper housing or clean running water
Burst sewers are now wiping them out
Chained to their death beds,
By the affluent white
Aborigine of Australia
Cursed

Diahoerra to the soils
Malaria to the soils
Cholera to the soils
Typhoid to the soils
Aborigines to the soils!
Aborigine of Australia
Cursed to the soils

Once happy hunters and gatherers
Reduced to despondent creatures
Soon, they may become the subjects of
Sydney museums

Poverty and dispossession
Diabetes, deafness and gastroenteritis
Has now finally crippled
Once happy hunters and gatherers
Aborigine of Australia
Cursed

Robbed off their citizenship
Basic services-health care, basic education, housing
And indeed a future robbed off
By the merciless affluent
Aborigine of Australia
Cursed

Their extinction has never been this real
Real people in a real predicament
Aborigine of Australia
Cursed


ALL RIGHTS RESEARVED
MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009

THIS IS AN ORIGINAL POEM. TWO HOURS BEFORE HOLDS ALL THE RIGHTS

Reproduction in any other media is strictly prohibited.
Several years ago, (may be five years) I wrote this poem on Aborigines of Australia. I was inspired by the story of the men and women suffering in the clear watch of the elite white who literally commandeered the lives of this vulnerable community. Though they are not the only vulnerable community in the world, i have felt it worthwhile raising the predicaments of the Aborigine Community to even a bigger audience. Back here in Kenya we have read about the Ongiek Community who are as well a threatened community. Listening on the debate on Mau, you may have heard how very affluent politicians and senior civil servants benefited on land originally allocated to the Ongiek Community.

Further to this, its only this week the grand corruption in implementation of the Free Primary Education was exposed. As we celebrate this years Christmas, let as also ponder on the future of Kenya. Our rapacious politicians continues to rape and disfranchise this great nation. And just like the Aborigines of Australia or the Ongiek Community, we might loose this Motherland that we so dearly cherish.

Finally, It has been a great year been around and i must admit that TWO HOURS BEFORE has really achieved alot in just under an year. It is my very sincere hope that next year we shall be bigger and even more entertaining. To celebrate our achievements this far, we have launched the TWO HOURS BEFORE brand and coming soon we are having the Polo Shirts in the market. Have a great holiday and may your new resolutions be smart. Cheers and thank you once again for your kind support.

Do you have an event and you want it beautiful? Get back to TWO HOURS BEFORE. Ok, what topic do you think I should write about? Get back to us on: +254 725 385 654, Email; fafdays@gmail.com
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Thursday, November 26, 2009

THE UNTOLD STORY, is a story you will love to read. It has no plot though, neither does it has characters, Its characters have no characteristics....!

THIS IS THE STORY


The untold story
The story of the past
The story of today
The story of tomorrow
The story about a story- untold

This story has no plot
Neither does it has characters
Its characters have no characteristics
Their characters already dead
It’s a utopic story.

It’s a story about everything
The story tells us nothing
No one likes telling the story
But everybody listens to it.

It’s not written anywhere
It has no narrator
Nobody knows its origin
The only story that makes one laugh
And cry at the same time

Its prologue is unending
Just like its epilogue
It’s a story about many stories
Stories about other stories

It talks about birth
It talks about death too
It’s the story about the righteous
It’s a story about the wicked

The only story about the
Past, today and tomorrow
It’s the story that compares men to beasts

This is the story about the unknown
It talks about America, China, and North Korea
The story is strange
It even mentions Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran and Israel
It idolizes Wall Street



However, the story is shy
It is the only story that misses the word Dafur
The story does not talk about Zimbambwe
Nor does it mention DRC

It’s about rape- fathers raping their daughters
Mothers fornicating with their sons
It’s a strange story
Where characters abuse human dignity
It’s the story that compares the incomparable

The story is set in unknown country
A wonder country
Where true stories are told in whispers
They are not written
Nor sang or narrated- only in whispers
It’s a story of sorrow
A story of bewilderment
Set in illusion

ALL RIGHTS RESEARVED
MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009


THIS IS AN ORIGINAL POEM. TWO HOURS BEFORE HOLDS ALL THE RIGHTS
Reproduction in any other media is strictly prohibited.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

YOU ARE GIVEN 30MINUTES ONLY..........TOPIC; WRITE A POEM TO YOUR MOM AND DAD thanking them for what they have made you to be. Start now...........!

Well, I am not giving you an assignment but this is what a friend of mine told me last night. He called in very late in the night and told me that he wanted to prepare a surprise gift to his mom and Dad for what they had done to him. I felt stuck at first since a had very little myself to celebrate about my parents. If anything my friend who we went to the same high school together made me feel somehow bad.....reason been he reminded me about my Dad. Remember my poem LETTER TO MY FATHER which a posted a couple of weeks ago. Anyway, thats enough commentary, THE BUD is a special one for Mr & Mrs Muroki: "You have such a darling Son- Paul Njuguna Muroki, its a bud you so dearly brought up and he is happy with you."


THE BUD

Not so long ago
a bud sprut out,
Each day, a new leaf Developed
Growing stronger than
the previous one.

In the morning, Mom watered the bud
In the evenning the usual nourishment.
During sunshine, Dad offered the shade
and the bud grew stronger and stronger.

The bud is now gone
It has grown into beautiful flowers
Bright and Adorable
The envy of all buds.

Soon, the flowers shall disappear
Only then shall Mom and Dad
Leap the fruits.

Big, Round, Juicy and Sweet
Dad and Mom!
“Thats what you have made me,
I Cherish your love and care”



NOTE: This poem is a special appreciation to Mr & Mrs Muroki, its reproduction in any media is strictly prohibited. TWO HOURS BEFORE holds the rights to this poem and thus it cannot be used for any other purpose, other than the one intended to by the client.
PAUL NJUGUNA MUROKI

It took me exactly 45minutes to compose and post this poem. Did you like it? Would you like a similar appreciation to a close friend, mom and dad, brother or sister, husband or wife? Do you have an event and you want it beautiful? Get back to TWO HOURS BEFORE. Ok, what topic do you think I should write about? Get back to us on: +254 725 385 654, Email; fafdays@gmail.com
We have some of the best offers in the market; Our charges are affordable. Call us now.......!
TWO HOURS BEFORE

Monday, November 23, 2009

"WHO AM I" is a special one for the only woman in my life.


WHO AM I

Who do they say I am?
In the vast savanna
They call me daughter of the sands
The beleaguered woman
The shelter maker

Who do they say I am?
At the coast, I have several names
Saumu, Fatima, Harsia…..
Daughter of the deep seas
The mummy water; others quip
Who am I?
The beleaguered woman
The pilau cook

Akinyi yoo
Akoko yoo, Atieno yoo
Daughter of the fishes
They say my omena is the best
And you, whom do you think I am?
Have you ever seen me dancing?
Off course not to those silly instruments
Not at all
Dancing to the tunes of otutu
Daughter of Ramogi
The beleaguered woman

Irio is my favorite
I also make good matoke!
Many a man fears me
“She is the money manic; the gold-digger?”
Wanjiku, Gaceri, Waithera
All are my names
The beleaguered woman
Pillar of Mt. Kenya

Kitu cha mtongoea
What does this mean?
Others say I am the daughter of the salty waters
The face of the vast plains
The hip buster
Others call me a witch
I am not one,
I am a bed wizard
Look at my curves- my bait
The beleaguered woman
The bed icon


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPRODUCTION IN PART OR WHOLE WITHOUT PRIOR CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

This is an original work by Mwangi S. Muthiora.

Friday, November 20, 2009

I have not posted a poem for a while, but 2Hrs B4 has now made a comeback. No complains today, I have forgotten the cries its time to CHEER AFRICA.




CHEER UP AFRICA

Sing, dear mother land
Of your richness at hand
No better place one can find
Cool serine air of your land

Sing songs of acceptance
Though must be a rare chance
Sing a song
Dance a dance
And your image you enhance

Quiet beaches you have
Beautiful forests you have
In your waters sweet fishes thrive
Dear lives you saves

Mama Africa oh mother Africa
Sing a song
Dance a dance

Civil war the bother
Conflicts should weather
We dance in clean weather
Donning white feathers

Heal your wounds mother land
Mourn no more
A change is always good
Sing of your positives
And not negatives
Sing the righteous hymns
And leave the wicked dance

Sing a song
Dance a dance
Cheer up mother land,
Cheer!



MWANGI MUTHIORA
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TWO HOURS BEFORE is a Registered Trademark!

Thursday, October 29, 2009

"ANOTHER BIRTH" 24 GIRLS IN A CLASS OF 25 HAVE DROPPED OUT OF SCHOOL-ALL OF THEM PREGNANT.

Last week there was a very sad story on Kenya's leading newspaper the Daily Nation about the high rate of early pregnancies. This came at the time when there has been a debate about contraceptives and the HIV prevalence rate going up. The story on the Daily Nation was about this school that twenty four girls out of twenty five have dropped out of school because they are pregnant. This are girls well under 16 years and infact most of them are just 10 years or slightly above. This has made me think about Birth especially the young mothers most of them barely 15 years old yet expectant.

Could this be the new tread in the rest of the world? I have just one more question, how shall tomorrows birth look like?

Below is the Poem, " Another Birth"




ANOTHER BIRTH

Yesterday’s birth was good
The new born survived
There were pains- as usual,
Every woman cried,
Wailed,
Screamed, to welcome the guest
Many of them are used to this treat and test

Today there will be another birth
There will be more pain
It will be unbearable
The wails and screams will likely be louder
The first experience- more to come
Today’s birth will be different from yesterdays
Today’s birth may be better than tomorrow’s

Everyone is talking about it
The women are talking in whispers
The grannies are dumb
How about the men?
Only a few are shocked
After-all this yet another strike
A strike from an iron rod
That she handled without care

Young and tender
She let it tore her fabric
She let the ink spill on her fabric
She let the sword pierce the fabric
She let them, him, skin her alive
She let it happen nine months ago,
Innocently

Everyone is waiting eagerly
For tomorrows birth
To see the little thing
And how it shall look like
The day after tomorrow
Another birth
Then, the world might
Listen and reason
For the fruit is not yet ripe
For that birth

Simon Mwangi Muthiora
COPYRIGHT: MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009
AUTHOR: MWANGI WA MUTHIORA

Monday, October 26, 2009

"WHO AM I" came into my mind when I came across a batterd Woman and I wondered howmuch we appreciate our DAUGHTERS, WIVES, SISTERS and MOTHERS.......!

WHO AM I



Who do they say I am?
In the vast savanna
They call me daughter of the sands
The beleaguered woman
The shelter maker

Who do they say I am?
At the coast, I have several names
Saumu, Fatima, Harsia…..
Daughter of the deep seas
The mummy water; others quip
Who am I?
The beleaguered woman
The pilau cook

Akinyi yoo
Akoko yoo, Atieno yoo
Daughter of the fishes
They say my omena is the best
And you, who do you think I am?
Have you ever seen me dancing?
Off course not to those silly instruments
Not at all
Dancing to the tunes of otutu
Daughter of Ramogi
The beleaguered woman

Irio is my favorite
I also make good matoke!
Many a man fears me
“She is the money manic; the gold-digger?”
Wanjiku, Gaceri, Waithera
All are my names
The beleaguered woman
Pillar of Mt. Kenya

Kitu cha mtongoea
What does this mean?
Kitu gain hii
Others say I am the daughter of the salty waters
The face of the vast plains
The hip buster
Others call me a witch
I am not one,
I am a bed wizard

SPECIAL ONE FOR THE WOMAN WHO BORE ME; PURITY MUGURE, "You are such a darling to me. Despite those very ugly episodes in your life. I attest to the fact that you are the greatest Woman i have ever known. I love you!

"This post will never be complete without the rare mention of WAIRIMU KAIYEHE; You make me proud baibe. I have never known any better way of appreciating our love. But one day i am certain we shall kill the distance. You are special too"
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

TELL ME NOW what i was writing about, first it was a Spoon, then on the way i thought about a Woman's 'Eye'



TELL ME NOW

Oh tell me now
What I have never known
Throughout my long journey
I have had encounters

No one has ever told me the truth
What pleasures they derives from me
I have never explored myself
I may never get the opportunity
I may never feel the taste of myself

Tell me,
Would there be taste without me?
You may say yes,
How then do you crave to scratch my back?
Your finger has always pointed at my eye

During my long journeys
I have been to the corridors of power
I have been to the most holly shrines
I have been to the murkiest forests
I have also been to
Battle fields
Many a night I have slept in tents
In slums
In palaces alike

Tell me now
What pleasure do you derive from me
Your finger always pointing at my eye
None of you has ever exhausted me
That’s why I fly on
Run on
Walk on
Swim on and
Crawl on

Oh tell me,
What pleasure you finds in me
Your finger always pointing at my eye
What pleasure do I give you?
I am tried, tested, tasted and trusted
Your finger always pointing at my eye.


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009 2HRS B4

"AMPUTATED ITCH" is the story of our childhood jiggers that reminds us how far we have come from. Amputation reflects the change of Fortunes in life.


AMPUTATED ITCH

Until the accident
That road accident
I had my toes- I would feel them on
That reminds me of my childhood
Those little creatures
That some time gave me a sweet itch
I would love to scratch between the toes
Not before they breed
And their white eggs
Oozed out!

My leg is now gone
Gone with the scalpel
Knee downward

That reminds me of the accident
That crippled and condemned me to a wheelchair
It is many years now
After feeling the scalpel rip my leg off
After the amputation
But I can still feel the itch
Through an illusion nerve
Reminding of my childhood
The wrong gone days,
Gone long away!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
MWANGI WA MUTHIORA

Saturday, October 17, 2009

"APPEAR TONIGHT" is a poem about wife inheritance. A practice as old as time, it remains deep rooted in our society! But we can all say no, TONIGHT.




"APPEAR TONIGHT|

Oh my poor man
Man of a woman
Son of a woman
Did you have to leave?
At one million hour
When I needed you most?

A son was not all I wanted
One was not enough
Three or four would have been better

Could you be watching this?
Your lustful brothers
Your cruel mother
Oh! I hope I left instead

I remember those days
When we soiled and toiled together
Remember the ever dying promises
Promises of a prince to a princess
The kisses
All those adventures,
Now gone and washed away

The moment you shut down,
A part of me went under
It went with you
I hardly live again

Why did you have to go?
Was it natural?
Could your mother have a hand in this?
Probably she is the bad omen

Your splendid smile
Is still fresh in my mind
My body is nostalgic
Missing the golden touch
Warming the loins and
Illuminating my womanly faculties
Were you here tonight…?

To share my wet dreams
Did you see him force me?
Please forgive me my dear
They forced me
Threatened me with eviction
If I declined!
I am sorry I lay him, I know you saw that
But I had to, or else your sons would loose
The land would go
And ‘home’ is no better, my brothers are no better
Neither is dad any good!

Your lustful brother has made me swell
Is this the way to sorry a widow?
Lay her night long?
It’s him to blame, eating from your plate.
This could never have happened, if you were around

I miss your smile
You would be cheering me up
Please cheer me tonight
Let me see beyond
Let me feel you
Only for tonight
Creep below my blankets
And warm my loins
Creep deep in, and
End my thirst, the thirst of a widow
It is only you who will know how!

Before they retires to bed
I don’t know who will be the man tonight
But, feel me before ‘he’ comes
I want you one last time
Touch me
Appear tonight
For a night


This a special one to all Inherited Women in Kenya and other parts of Africa. This practice is as old as the Bible yet women continue to suffer silently. Besides been inherited this women are battered and treated like deities by preying male who use them as sex tools.

ALL RIGHTS RESEARVED
MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

He was young at the time of his death, but his strong Will & Love was enomous. Simon Kamatu, your typical young saint, "My Tribute To Simon"

DEAR SIMON- "MY TRIBUTE"


"DEAR SIMON- MY TRIBUTE"

I doubt you will read this
I hope you will anyway.
It hurts to think about you
Atleast not now

How much I wish you are on a short journey
Oh, how much I wish you are just somewhere
Smiling as you always did.

Simon, my pen is refusing to write
Its innocence is open
My mind is refusing to think
My guilt is open
This paper is refusing to bear you
Its innocence is open

Why did this happen to you?
Why?
At that tender age!

When you lived
Very few people cared, just a few
Many didn’t bother.
Very few
Wanted to be with you,
To know you,
To help you,
To feed you,
To listen to you,
Or even to think about you.

You were always jovial,
In an empty stomach
You smiled
In torn shirts and shorts
You laughed
When no one showed love
You simply praised God.
What a heart!

Now that you are with us no more
We are all crying our hearts out.
Our eyes are swollen
A true sign of guilt
And even pretence

Wish we loved you when you lived
Wish we made you laugh
Wish we smiled together
Wish we appreciated you
Wish you would live again.

Simon, all and sundry gave eulogies
Young
Cheerful
Playful
Prayerful
Faithful
But they were all regretful

Your love for the world was not in vain
It was the best lesson for us all
That the ‘will’ is bigger than people, years, and it
Can conquer this world.

As we celebrate you Simon,
We just make one request…..
That we are all guilty,
Fill our hearts with joy again
And heal this cancer
That has eroded and eaten away
The Love of our hearts!



Simon Kamatu was my cousin and he died young. He had the spirit and will of a real gentleman.

All rights reserved. Simon Mwangi Muthiora

Saturday, October 10, 2009

"A WOMAN'S MEAT" is my next Poem that is about Female Genital Multilation. STOP FGM TODAY



FGM continues to be practised in many countries. I read the Novel; DESERT FLOWER and this book inspired me to write this poem. How many of our sisters are suffering quietly in the hands of this merciless act? God apparently created the clitoris for the sole purpose of generating pleasure. It has no other purpose. There is no instruction in the Bible or in the writings of the Qur'an which require that the clitoris be surgically modified. Thus God must approve of its presence. And so, it should not be removed or reduced in size or function.

Mutilated genitalia reduce or eliminate a woman's pleasure during the act. Besides its in-human to subject a woman to this suffering that continues to haunt many.

A WOMAN’S MEAT


Early in the morning
Before the birth of the sunlight
And the death of the moonlight
The old gypsy woman appeared
Her motive open
Clad in the humor of guilt
For a woman’s meat
Was all her target
In the name of cleanliness

Grinning, she closed in
Ha ha ha ha, ha ha ha........
“It is not painful granddaughter”

In her kiondo, gawky instruments
A near rust knife
Stained with dry blood-from yesterday’s cut
“Part your legs child, culture does not hurt”
She spit
With no opium she knelt between
And the slaughtering started

“This knife is blunt”
She knelt again between the tender thighs
And searched for the bottom of
Her womanhood with the finely filed teeth

Within no time she spat out the ‘meat’
A woman’s only meat
Ha ha ha ha, ha ha ha........
“You have graduated daughter
You are clean; you will now get a man
You are a woman; the dirt is now gone......
Ha ha ha ha, ha ha ha........”
She laughed, her lips red in fresh warm blood
From yet another cut, or munch-amid ‘her’ yells and screams

“You are not dirty anymore”
Wearing a grin of terror,
She picked a long sharp keiapple thorn
Teared across the fabric
Of her wounded womanhood

Amid the young girls wails and screams
The gawky woman makes the stitch
In the name of cleanness
Besides the ailing girl
Stood the mother
And a dozen of smiling aunts, all
Celebrating the cut
Of a woman’s only ‘meat’

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. SIMON MWANGI MUTHIORA(O) 2009 2HRS B4

"The importance given to virginity and an intact hymen in these societies is the reason why female circumcision still remains a very widespread practice despite a growing tendency, especially in many urban settings, to do away with it as something outdated and harmful. Behind circumcision lies the belief that, by removing parts of girls' external genitals organs, sexual desire is minimized. This permits a female who has reached the dangerous age of puberty and adolescence to protect her virginity, and therefore her honor, with greater ease. Chastity was imposed on male attendants in the female harem by castration which turned them into inoffensive eunuchs. Similarly female circumcision is meant to preserve the chastity of young girls by reducing their desire for sexual intercourse."

IMAGES ON FGM SOURCE
FGM HAS VARYING COMPLICATIONS; THEY INCLUDES BOTH PHYSICAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL
The physical complications associated with FGM may be acute or chronic. Early, life-threatening risks include hemorrhage, shock secondary to blood loss or pain, local infection and failure to heal, septicemia, tetanus, trauma to adjacent structures, and urinary retention.13,14 Infibulation (Type III) is often associated with long-term gynecologic or urinary tract difficulties. Common gynecologic problems involve the development of painful subcutaneous dermoid cysts and keloid formation along excised tissue edges. More serious complications include pelvic infection, dysmenorrhea, hematocolpos, painful intercourse, infertility, recurrent urinary tract infection, and urinary calculus formation. Pelvic examination is difficult or impossible for women who have been infibulated, and vaginal childbirth requires an episiotomy to avoid serious vulvar lacerations.

Less well-understood are the psychological, sexual, and social consequences of FGM, because little research has been conducted in countries where the practice is endemic. However, personal accounts by women who have had a ritual genital procedure recount anxiety before the event, terror at being seized and forcibly held during the event, great difficulty during childbirth, and lack of sexual pleasure during intercourse."

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Paul Kibe makes a return with the "NEW SEASON" Where are the rain Gods? Kenyatta Day is my D-day. I perform in public for the first time.




NEW SEASON

The enchanting sun spread its wings across the barren vastness like a warm and sensual soothing light,natural yet surreal.
For six seasons,the skies looked down scornfully as the streams turned into valleys,crops choked under the scorching heat while an army of vultures banqueted on sumptuous meals of animal carcasses that dotted the countryside.The farmers watched helplessly as the fields became a furnace,the sun the executioner.
But the afternoon still crawled on as the once vibrant village drowned in silence of blood-cuddling screams of anguish set out to break the coldest of souls.Mathioya's life of quiet desperation was slowly becoming a nightmare,a fleeting shadow on a cloudy day.
Then without warning,pregnant cumulonimbus clouds gathered hurriedly above the jagged Ngai hills pushing the crimson sunset rays to the western periphery as the sun dived into the ocean blanketing the village into near pitch darkness.
Whirling dust to skies infinite,a violent breeze gushed scattering the clouds momentarily and giving way to bolts of lightning punctuated by incessant roars of thunder.And as a multitude of drops coalesced menacingly,a wolf howled from a distance as a mother scolded a truant child who was still playing outside just in time for the long knitting needles of rain commenced their choreographed dance of clatter on the thirsty soil.

Muhunjia was still lying on the concrete floor of the cell of the shrine almost lifeless when the three horns trumpeted in unison.He stirred laboriously as if to scare away his sealed fate,the stench of death threatening to suffocate him.
He reached for a matchstick by the side with much difficulty.Striking it on his left earlobe,he lit the sooty lamp and as the wick hungrily swallowed the last few drops of oil,he propped his bones on the wet wall.He clutched the rosary beads with trembling hands unsure of what prayer befitted that hour of need.
He was still mumbling some caned lines when steady footsteps approached hurriedly.Then the black door creaked open allowing in the three wizened clan elders.
The mesh work of cobwebs clung defiantly almost indignantly on the door frames,the streaks of freedom preying into the room briefly.And as they mopped their soggy faces,one staggered onto a dry bone.The intruding clatter reverberated,scaring a curious lonely rat.
The rat dived into the pile of bones as it scampered for safety disturbing their ordered sleep and like a house of cards,the heap came crushing down in a deafening scream of mercy.
A gush of fresh air stole through the half open door whistling soft commands to the ears of the warring parties in a jig of pacification.Then it rushed out violently,unsteadying the precarious lamp on its belly as the door banged shut.
For a brief moment,the village shook as the explosion resonated in unison with an ear splitting rumbling thunder from the mountains.
Panic stricken ,the entire village poured into the shrine but a moment late.They found the charred bodies of the three elders prostrate on one side alongside their sharpened machetes while that of the new village pastor was sprawled on the other still clinging on his rosary.
That planting season was marked with less fanfare for there were no seasoned elders left to lead the celebrations.And as they toiled in their farms,the peasants would occasionally share snuff or cut sweat in small hushed up groups exchanging notes of that fateful evening.Some blamed it on the lightning while others cursed the lamp.But they all unanimously agreed that time had come to stop spilling innocent blood at the onset of the long rains.The rains had not only brought hope on the dry fields but also watered the seed of tolerance in their hearts .
The Thai faithfuls took an oath at the eve of the bounty harvest to uphold their beliefs and allow other doctrines to take root in memory of the three Matathi elders.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

The War in Sudan Dafur region has left all leaders talking without much action. I resume my Poetry postings with the Love story of Fatima & Lino

The war in Sudan took over twenty(20) years to end, but long after the deal that was signed in Kenya's capital between the North and South, human suffering continues and lifes are lost daily. However, Dafur has never seen the light of the day several years since the power sharing deal.

This made me think about Fatima and Lino. This are characters in my novel and the letter From Dafur is one of the poems and songs in the novel that i hope to finish writing by mid next year.
SOURCE

"LETTER FROM DAFUR"

Dear Fatima,

You are fine I know
I should be telling
You how I am
But first, how is Khartoum?

Peaceful as always I believe,
Running taps and security as usual,
All that real life
Unfortunately, am aware
It’s not all that peaceful
I lost a relative
In the capital, I hear
They said a fatal accident-road

Am dubious thou
What kind of an accident it was
Fatima, my uncle’s death has
Only widened
The gap between us
Heaven and earth has never been that distanced

Look Fatima….
Can’t you see the shame?
See what your people have done
I don’t intend to hurt you
But my heart is already hurt

I was not writing to tell you
About my uncle’s death
It is his death that now threatens our love
He is one person who meant the world to me-us
I adored him

Look Fatima, my love is fading away
Look around you; cast your eyes far and wide
What can you see?
Peace, just peace
Imagine what you have…..
Roads, clean water, decent housing
Your lifestyle is real
Very human

Look again, look at Dafur
Its all cries and wails
Joy is no more
Sorrow is spread all over
Its people are bare and dying
Flattened like an envelope
By your brothers in the North

Do you too like it this way?
Life here is a nightmare
Its is no longer a living but
A mere existence
It is no-longer a hustle but a struggle
The wounds are un-healing

Few days ago, a mass grave was found North of Dafur
Bodies riddled with bullets
All smelling and shouting innocence
A fatal accident it was!

Not long ago,
Our camp was raided
Tenths of women raped
Men mutilated, driven to death traps
Our children battered
Whole generation locked off a future!

Fatima,
Can I say am fine with all this mess
Your brothers have severed our love
I can only say am struggling to love you now

I remember those good old days
When we shared a lecture room
Our-my, dream was cut short
I never knew that it was never my-our, dream
Someone had other ideas
To our hearts

We no-longer hold to our destiny
Your brothers in the North do
My papers are long charred
Masters wasted and projects uncompleted
Today am teaching young children the basics

Your men talk
We die
They talk
We die

Dafur is a land of uncertainty
No haven for sanity
Let me hope you receive this letter
Chances are it disappears in transit
Before yet another accident
Fatima,
Please write back
Let me know how you are doing
I love you, I truly love you
Its only you who can make my face shine
However, each day in Dafur tests my love

I hope the accidents shall come to an end
That I can visit you freely
And dance to the tunes of your sweet whispers
I love you Fatima.


Your love
Lino Mario Bike

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Hi everyone...! How does it feel to loose your treasured copy of your Un-published work? I lost tenths of my poems (soft copy). My flash disk missing.

"I ASKED MY SOUL"


My Soul's Conversations; 'I asked my soul'

Did I care too much
Too much that i forgot about Me?
Did I share too much
Too much that I was left without me?
Did pair too much
Too much that the only left partner is me?
Did i stare too much
Too much that my eyes blinded me?
or
Did I scare too much
Too much that u left me?

SO I told my soul

do care
do share
do pair
dont stare
dont scare
and only bear the rare
so breath in fresh air
and forget their

Lord I always fall shoYou shine a ray of light
I refuse to call it my light
And keep walking in the darkness
You bring a cloud of rain
I refuse to call it my cloud
And keep living in dryness
You send me a guardian angel
I refuse to call him my angel
And I keep walking in the worldly ways
You whisper the word of life
I refuse to uncover my ears
And let death to engulf my life
Oh Lord I always fall short!


Every time sin comes my way
And I always fall its prey
Because long I’ve forgotten to pray
From your path to far away I stray
My heart fills with sins so much it weighs
More and more and more everyday
And my legs get so weak and I sway
Till I fall down and there I stay
My ears hear the fray
Of my three lives white, black and grey
I know this might even slay
Why don’t I choose your heavenly way?
Oh Lord I always fall short!

Lot of times I try to fulfill my needs
It causes me so much greed
Blindly I let this be my lead
And I forget all your Good deeds
Lord your laws I fail to heed
And unto the worldly ways I concede
My heart pains so much until it bleeds
And still in the wrong way I proceed
Thinking that one day I will come to succeed
And you never fail in my heart to plant your seeds
But Lord my sinning chokes them just like the weeds
Oh Lord I always fall short!


All over the world I have restlessly wandered like Cain
Looking for a cure for my endless pain
I have not found anything my heart to sustain
My sins are just tying me up so much like a chain
And why do I keep walking down this lane
Am so tongue tied I can’t even explain
Now I think its time for me to refrain
I need something to purely cleanse my heart stain
I have tried the waters of the rain
But oh Lord I have seen no gain
My God I am ready to join your campaign
Lord to your holy words I say Amen
Oh Lord I always fall short!

Now my heart, God unto you I surrender
Forgive me for all the times your way I followed never
Make my heart so strong and yet tender
And always lord be my only defender
Help me always to beat the devil my contender
Cause my life to gracefully slender
And lord let me not be just a pretender
But a representation of God Forever
Use me lord to change other lives to better
And grant me enough strength for all my endeavors
Don’t let me go for I will fall short
Oh Lord I always fall short!


POEM BY JUVENALIS G. KARUMA
ALL RIGHTS TO THIS POEM RESERVED
juvgkaruma(o)2009


Quick Reply
To: karuma gitau

Monday, September 21, 2009

"The Shine Set" is a poem written by my one time school mate Juvenalis G. Karuma. I never knew he had become a writer since moving to the US........!


"THE SHINE SET"

The shine set
It's the shine set of the shimmer

Now that I have lost all the glitter
Life has suddenly become so bitter
I was known as the hardest hitter
am just getting worse instead of fitter
Am the new cause of their daily titter
I will give up and let them call me a quitter

It's the shine set of glamor

Now that my life has become such a drama
I can no longer enamor
and they will not listen to my clamor
I feel so ashamed like a revealed scammer
Somebody hit me on the head with a hammer

It's the shine set of my smile

Now that i have lost my style
my name will appear in the losers' file
and my number they will never dial
They were friends but now they are too hostile
To them am more like a vile
I will walk so far and jump into the Nile

because this is the shine set.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR- BY HIMSELF
JUVENALIS G JUVI KARUMA

Now that am spending alot of time by myself. I'm going back to my old favourite hobby. I have been writting poems and short story and a novel by the name "Father Of Sin" is in tha making though it might take longer. I will be posting some of my poems for all of you to comment and tell me how you feel bout my writting. I am hoping to publish my poems before I turn 25 though am just doing it for charity not for money. Anything else ask me at info Juvenalis Gitau Karuma I love fine art and good music. You can also find me at Welcome to my space and enjoy my work..

MEET "DR MENO; THE VILLAGE DENTIST" IN THIS HUMOR SEGMENT, I ONCE AGAIN FEATURE MY FELLOW UP-COMING WRITER & HUMORIST PAUL KIBE.....THE DENTIST!

THIS WORK OF FICTION IS SOLE PROPERTY OF PAUL KIBE. RE-PRODUCTION IN FULL OR PART IS STRICTLY RESTRICTED. THE SAID AUTHOR HAS THE RIGHTS TO THIS PIECE OF WORK. 2HRS BEFORE B4 DOES NOT HOLD THE RIGHTS TO ALL WORKS BY PAUL KIBE AND APPEARING ON THIS BLOG. HOWEVER, THIS ARE ORIGINAL AND UN-PUBLISHED HUMUOR WORKS. INTERESTED PUBLISHERS CAN CONTACT PAUL KIBE AT pkibe79@yahoo.com

All Rights Researved(o) Paul Kibe 2009



DR MENO; THE VILLAGE DENTIST


One fine morning,I reported to work as usual. Like all junior clerks,I hang my coat on my chair and pretended to have gone to spit saliva. I ended up in Rumuruti, some 300KMS away instead of the unisex office toilet.

My visit to Rumuruti was inspired by some Lucifer waters I had consumed at Kwa Maiko's the previous night. Kwa Maiko is a watering hole in an estate that answers by another person's name;Kwa Maina. It is in this devil's birthday party in the heart of the city of many lights that the idea of eradicating poverty was conceived.

After irrigating my throat with some liquid that had the power to propel a locomotive, Kwa Maiko's liquid started whispering some wisdom to my naked ears.
"Son of Maritha, he who sat on a spear one cold morning by the riverside and faced a knife without blinking an eye, you got a finger for making money. "The voice intoned.
"Wa Maritha tell me;didn't Maritha exchange her only cow for your ticket to kambi? Didn't you chew all the books without constipating? Wasn't the entire village present when you graduated with a Bachelor of Anything(B.A)Degree? What can you show the world for your toils except an advanced plot to send Maritha to the next planet minus her cow?" The inner voice chortled.
"Listen carefully." The words were as if from an oracle. "Go to Rumuruti and declare war on all the rotten teeth."It commanded.

Now you know why I landed in Rumuruti armed with pliers,cotton wool and some liquid calling itself local anesthetics ready to face teeth of all shapes and sizes.
Thursday happens to be a market day. It is the day when all Rumurutians worth any salt became mobile world banks after selling livestock. To me it was a day for them to give Caesar what belonged to Caesar.
Like all other Kenyans, Rumurutians prefer foreigners to locals.That is why I erected a poster that did not read, "Daktari wa meno kutoka Dundori." Instead,the poster screamed, "Daktari wa meno kutoka Zanzibari. The very one capable of sending a tooth to the next world by just staring at it!"

The news of my arrival spread like bush fire on a hot season. In no time, I was cutting sweat from counting real money bearing the diagram of the former state house tenant.
I had just pocketed the first coin bearing the image of the man from Othaya when people calling themselves medical practitioners and dentists board paid me a courtesy call accompanied by Kiganjo boys.

In a flash, I found myself staring at a real judge clad in a head gear made from the hide skin of Rumuruti sheep. I was charged with attempted massacre and robbery without violence.
The judge seemed to realize that sending me to Kamiti in eternal peace was of no value to her mission of crossing the valley of poverty.She ordered me to surrender my ill gotten wealth to the honourable court instead.

The enemies of development had yet again conspired against my idea of eradicating poverty.



One may ask why I have decided to feature Mr Paul Kibe soo much on my blog, however, the first time i read his work i was very impressed. Surprising thou is that my fellow upcoming writer has not been published either. He tried a blog and unfortunately it didn't take off. This has convinced me to just make the world know that there is still unexploited masters of good Humor, their works gathering dust or going down the drain un-noted. Myself am NOT published beyound this blog and have thus thought about giving my fellow up-coming writers the opportunity that remains very elusive to many of us.

I believe the greatest gift one can give a writer-artist, is recognizing, accepting, appreciating their works. It really gives one the drive to do more and actually improve on their various fields.

Next week I am resuming my Poetry. Keep tuned and you will enjoy reading each posting on this blog. To all my fellow bloggers, THANKS for your continued support and very encouraging comments. We got a long way to go but so far so good. I wish ti further inform you that the Poem on Kenya About To Burn Again has received an award and a peace initiative identified it for its activities in its Peace Initiative.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Yesterday i posted a very interesting piece of Humor written by Paul Kibe, today i have published yet another in the series.....Laugh...Laugh...Laugh!

HUMOR BY PAUL KIBE




MY FUNERAL !

The other day i coughed like a tractor all night long.To make matters elephant enough,power had taken a vacation to the land of Museveni.Meaning that all my neighbours suspended their sleep and other nocturnal extracurricular activities to listen to the music of my lungs.
Next morning,the same neighbors who had acted like strangers for years were bonding in small hushed up groups.I did not need a college diploma to know what they were deliberating on.I had seen such sombre scenes before.In short,they were organising for my funeral!
With the economic melt down reality looming large,i knew my neighbors were incapable of meeting all the cemetery expenses.When that truth sank deep in my grey matter,i immediately made an emergency courtesy call to my third rate doctor for a self paid postmortem.
A few minutes later,i laid on the doc's couch going through a thorough interrogation.Don't mind that my doc was once a sweeper at a government dispensary but discovered his medical talent after retirement.As he was taking measurements of my urine and stool,i kept asking him if i were still alive.Of course he begged me not to depart to the next world before settling my bill which was meant to settle his overdue rent.
Finally came the verdict."Smoker's cough is what is chewing you!,"He eulogised.He went on to assure me that it wasn't a dangerous disease for the worst it could do was send to me to the next world prematurely.He also said things to the effect that i was in fact lucky to be the owner of such a coveted ailment for i could sue B.A.T and hence meet my maker with a fat wallet.
Biting my postmortem result slip between my front teeth and with a molar to molar smile,i strolled back home puffing my B.A.T stick.All what i need now is a third rate lawyer to be able to meet my funeral expenses all by myself.

THIS WORKS PUBLISHED ON THIS BLOG WITH KNOWLEDGE OF THE AUTHOR, RE-PRODUCTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED All Rights Reserved. Paul Kibe (o) 2009

Friday, September 18, 2009

Hi, am back from Nyeri and with a beautiful trophy too. Our CDF stand was the 2nd best Nationally, thus i literaly met the President.

Anyway, thats enough for the show, this weekend I am hosting one of Kenyas' newest humorist who is not published or read beyond his facebook notes or this blog. Paul Kibe- I read this piece of art and could hardly avoid sharing it out with my followers and visitors to this blog. He is certainly the new kid in the humor arena. Sample this......



ABEDNEGO

I salute all motor vehicle surgeons alias mechanics.It takes great courage and determination to attempt to resurrect dead automobiles.Being a proud owner of a car that is supposed to have rested in peace decades ago,trust me i know what i am talking about.
I remember vividly that fateful day when i acquired that piece of misery.Early in the morning before even money could open their eyes from the night's slumber,i strangled my bank account with the sole intention of buying safaricom shares.
As i queued waiting for my chance to be a shareholder while clutching my life's savings nervously,my throat suddenly felt like sand paper.I decided to obey my thirst first by rushing to the nearest Ruaraka watering hole for a swallow.
I had only taken a few rounds when my head started telling me things to the effect that a real shareholder doesn't attend annual general meetings in dusty shoes.In other words,my grey matter was asking me to acquire a logbook before owning a CDS account.
That unholy idea propelled me to the nearest car graveyard instead of Nyaga stock brokers' offices.Of course by that time i was seeing double.My hands were also like reeds on the steering while my feet felt like jelly on the pedals.
Now you understand why i anointed Abednego to help me chose a car that was not very dead.Though a stranger,his name suggested that he had a plan of meeting his maker one day.His oily outfit was also a clear indication that he had dissected many more dead automobiles.
Abednego who also doubled as a security consultant alias watchman seemed to know all the cars by their local and christian names.He was also conversant with all the ailments that had converted those lovely machines to past tense.

It took a few minutes for Abednego to lie his hands on a yellow coloured hybrid automobile. Without much ado,i exchanged my entire wallet for a tattered logbook.
I had hardly pocketed that piece of paper when Abednego started calling the engine a devil,the radiator a lucifer and the gearbox a shindwe.For three hours,he tried to bribe that image of a car to breath on its own to no avail.
Finally,he emerged from under the belly of my newly acquired wealth with a list of items i needed to purchase in order that he could discharge it from ICU.In other words,he was asking me to buy another new car to revive the old dead one!
Frustrated,i left it in the same position i had found it.I now visit it once a month to see if it has decided to stir from its coma or whether another foolish Kenyan has decided to bequeath my misery!


Have you loved this humor? Imagine this talent wasting away.....where are the publishers? Dont scout beyond "Two Hours Before" Email Peter Kibe


PAUL KIBE

THIS WORKS PUBLISHED ON THIS BLOG WITH KNOWLEDGE OF THE AUTHOR, REPRODUCTION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED

Monday, September 14, 2009

This week I am representing our Office in a national Show at Nyeri Show Grounds. I have this poem by Joseph Kariuki from USA. You will like it


IDEOSPHERE


In the void wilderness of my barren skull,

Harbors the ideosphere

The bank of my ides

Where colonies of my ideas mutate



Until my brain sags,

And my brain sneezes

And my skull explodes

And my skull drools

Colonies of my ideas virulently spreads

Causing mayhem among the pavements of our daily lives



Faster than ants they migrate

Spreading the great aroma of victory

That therapizes the noble minds

While; their souls, their hearts, their lives, their spirits

Celebrates the fruits of their own bloody sweats

And the success of their daily toil



(C) 2008 Joseph Kariuki
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. THIS POEM HAS BEEN POSTED WITH THE FULL KNOWLEDGE AND CONSENT OF THE AUTHOR. If you have read this poem by Joseph and would like to contact him, send an email to
Mwangi Muthiora

Friday, September 11, 2009

"Kenya about to burn again" I wrote this poem in mid 2005 several months before the Post Election Violence broke out, Very soon the frame may be back!





ANSWER ME MUMMY

Mummy, why are we freezing?
Why is everybody in our village outside?
Why did they do it?
Please mom tell us,
Why did they burn our house?

I heard them tell you to leave
Everyone in our village was forced out,
Why mummy?
Where do we go mummy,
Isn’t this our home?

Are we going to school tomorrow?
What will I tell teacher?
My books
My uniform
All charred!
Will I take my examinations tomorrow!
My lunch box is burnt too mummy.

You said they killed daddy,
Why did daddy and you build on their land?
Or grandpa took their land?
I remember him tell us a story about msongari river
How it was hijacked and
Its cause diverted.

That’s when they killed daddy in the protests
That’s when this village was widowed
I remember grand pa give us the story about
The big battle that orphaned him
We got uhuru though!

Is it really uhuru mummy?
We are shivering in this cold
Our house is gone
They drove away the few cows you had

Why have they changed this fast
A few weeks ago we were playing with their children
We laughed together
Went to the well together
Fetched kuni together
But we are together no more

Mummy, we need msongari river
We need our playground back
We need uhuru mummy!

Daughter,
I am sorry. We got uhuru,
That’s why they want to push us out
It is the vote that has made them hostile

They call us aliens
That is why we are now outside here
They want to see us leave
Immediately!

Daughter, we have to go now
It’s the only option we have
Let us go now
And meet our luck somewhere else
Or face our fate here





This Poem is dedicated to men, women and children in Dafur, Iraq, Somalia, Afghanistan, Congo, Tibet, and the rest parts of the world who are suffering in IDP Camps. Not that they deserve to be in that state but because somebody who has no place for mankind has deliberately subjected them to that fate.AUTHOR:MWANGI WA MUTHIORA

During the post election violence in Kenya, life was lost...but why? Will world peace ever be a reality for this nations? when shall our leaders agree to listen and reason? when shall we see each other as one people?

Who got the solution to all this human suffering that our leadership seemingly basks in? Just who shall listen to the "Cries For Justice?"

Copyright © Simon Mwangi Muthiora

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Each one of us has friends, but friends are not equal, Hellen Mbugua is one such who can never escape a mention. "This a Special One For You Hellen"


THE GREEN ONE

Your green is irresistible
A hue that fables many
Too green
So green
As green as green

Oh the green one
Your green irresistible
In flood plains you flourish
In drought you blossoms
Green as green

Oh the green one
Hair as green as your face
Showing the abundance of your heart
A green smile you boast
Green, shinning green
Two green dimples
The oasis of your smile
Oozing nothing but
A green soft smile

A waist that is not
Navigable, too long for
A short brain
As green as yours

Two full thighs
Natty and guile
Very green
To entertain annihilation
Your green thighs
Hardly gullible

Your green strides
Leaving a green trail
A trail of originality
A trail of greenity
A trail of quality
A trail of ability
And a trail of deity
Oh the green one
Smelling green

Your lifestyle a cryptograph
Monastic though
Withstanding strong ultraviolet rays
Ready to destroy your greenness

A witty green heart you have
The envy of many

Your green thorns are alert
Protecting your green rose
That many wants to pick
Green roses are beautiful
That everyone wants a petal
Oh the green one!
Keep your green thorns alert
Or else someone picks your green rose
And your beauty goes with it.
Oh the green one,
Please, sample my greenness
Together we protect our green roses!


COPYRIGHT © MWANGI MUTHIORA
TWO HOURS BEFORE



Friends-true, are very rare. When I met Hellen Mbugua several weeks ago, I hardly expected to walk this journey with her. I first introduced her to my Blog when I had just five followers. Within the first week of meeting her, this Blog managed a membership surge and we have continued to have new members every day. Amazingly, Two Hours Before is having an average of five new followers each week and several comments daily.

However, this success has been possible with the encouragements of many other friends who find time to read my postings and leave comments. I would like also to mention the support of Ms Lucia Ndiba (Githunguri), Ms Caroline Njoki (Githunguri), Dr. Joel Chege (Gathanji), Ms Wairimu Kaiyeye (Dubai), Mr John Muya (UK), Emma Kabucho (Nairobi), Ms Beattie Wairimu (Karia, Kiambu),Winnie Njeri, Nikki Allasher (Nairobi), Ann Njugi (Nairobi), Loise Njihia (Nairobi) Joseph Njoroge (USA), Julia The Star (KIM), Simon (Copyfast) among other trusted friends. To my Facebook networks who have always visited my blog and left comments, cheers to you all.

Not forgetting my fellow bloggers whom I follow on Blogger or any other network.Dulce, Steve, Jol, Wakagwe Mburu it has always been a big pleasure to visit your blogs and meet you at 2Hrs B4.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

"ANOTHER BIRTH" 24 GIRLS IN A CLASS OF 25 HAVE DROPPED OUT OF SCHOOL-ALL OF THEM PREGNANT.

Last week there was a very sad story on Kenya's leading newspaper the Daily Nation about the high rate of early pregnancies. This came at the time when there has been a debate about contraceptives and the HIV prevalence rate going up. The story on the Daily Nation was about this school that twenty four girls out of twenty five have dropped out of school because they are pregnant. This are girls well under 16 years and infact most of them are just 10 years or slightly above. This has made me think about Birth especially the young mothers most of them barely 15 years old yet expectant.

Could this be the new tread in the rest of the world? I have just one more question, how shall tomorrows birth look like?

Below is the Poem, " Another Birth"





ANOTHER BIRTH

Yesterday’s birth was good
The new born survived
There were pains- as usual,
Every woman cried,
Wailed,
Screamed, to welcome the guest
Many of them are used to this treat and test

Today there will be another birth
There will be more pain
It will be unbearable
The wails and screams will likely be louder
The first experience- more to come
Today’s birth will be different from yesterdays
Today’s birth may be better than tomorrow’s

Everyone is talking about it
The women are talking in whispers
The grannies are dumb
How about the men?
Only a few are shocked
After-all this yet another strike
A strike from an iron rod
That she handled without care

Young and tender
She let it tore her fabric
She let the ink spill on her fabric
She let the sword pierce the fabric
She let them, him, skin her alive
She let it happen nine months ago,
Innocently

Everyone is waiting eagerly
For tomorrows birth
To see the little thing
And how it shall look like
The day after tomorrow
Another birth
Then, the world might
Listen and reason
For the fruit is not yet ripe
For that birth

Simon Mwangi Muthiora
COPYRIGHT: MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009
AUTHOR: MWANGI WA MUTHIORA

Sunday, September 6, 2009

The Woman In The Village

The Tablet Of Memoirs- My mother Purity



THE WOMAN IN THE VILLAGE


THE WOMAN IN THE VILLAGE

Contorted and wrinkled
Though last night’s bride
Kerchief well curled
Less the lustful eyes
See the raven hair

The woman in the village
An early bird
A yawn then a cough
Jumps over a snoring log- tired of a
Work well done,
Sowing on fertile land

A little shilly shally
She throws legs a part
Eyes half open
The right hand raising the skirt in front
Left pushing the knickers aside
To allow a jet of warm urine pass

Feeling withdrawn and tizzy
Woman in the village
Ready for life’s undying routines
A panga and a hoe
After all it’s the measure of her beauty
The village woman.

In the evening, nothing on hands but soil
After a days toil
Back at home
A sizzled husband waits eagerly
To rape her quietly
In return to add to her priorities
A son or a daughter
The village woman

Tomorrow comes
Only to find yesterday nagging
And the woman in the village
Waits quietly, to receive the ‘baton’
From the unfaithful husband

Yesterday’s bride
Faces the blade
Loosing her pride
As her life fades

The woman in the village
Exhausts her mirage
For that marriage
That she cannot manage
That woman in the village.


Copyright (o) Mwangi Muthiora
TWO HOURS BEFORE


Twenty seven years ago, My mom gave birth to a weakly son. Not even the doctors would belieave I would survive the miscarriage- Luckly, miracularsly, I did! Mother never left me neither did she regret marrying the man who almost saw me leave this world unceremoniously. A heavy boot had landed on moms protruding tummy six months to her pregnancy and what ensued was my longest journey. I Love you dearly mom!


2Hrs B4

Friday, September 4, 2009

I lived to see this day............The Foetus has made a come back!

RETURN OF THE FOETUS



Your cruelty sent me
To certain oblivion
Robbed me, the very basic
Right to life
Was it my error?

Why did you?
It was foolish of you
You are the one who messed up
You made me a runt
A victim of your selfishness

Smell the air, ooh
Smell!
Smell again my ‘mother’
Ummm, rich
Very rich
It’s saturated with my soul
And those of my fellow comrades

Remember the poignant moments
When you visited that killer
When you forced me out of
My haven


I resisted the overdose
You tried to flog match me,
I declined.
It was not for long however
You managed to silence me,
And I honorably gave up

I too silenced you
I did it for my likely sister and myself.
I carried our haven with me
The ocular proof of your selfishness

Och aye! Look…….
Look at yourself now
How many sons do you boast?
Where are your daughters?

You are an oddity
Who can entertain barrenness?
Who?
You are a total nonentity
If only you spared me
I could have spared you too!



Copyright: Simon Mwangi Muthiora.

Following my earlier posting on the return of the foetus, i promised to dedicate a poem to anyone who got the best picture to use on this poem.The winning poepix was by Hellen Mbugua . However, i received tenths of pictures and i must admit that most were very touching. I wish to also mention Ms Wairimu Kaiyeye among other readers who participated and commented on this sensitive issue. Thanks all for your contribution to this blog.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

The Rain God seem to be 'dumb' in this part of Africa-Kenya. It has been a bad expirience to see polititians bickering about on the face of hunger.

When I met Joseph Kariuki Minai(Author of the following poem) online, he was moved by the news of Kenyans facing starvation in what one would refer to as a well endowed country that boasts expansive tracks of land. Irritating to him is the advert that has been running in major television networks abroad that market kenya as a Tourist hub. Kariuki who now lives and works in Boston poses; "Tourists are now making a funny joke, they wants to visit this country that has animals who are healthy than its people. That is Kenya."


"MY EMOTIONS"




My emotions

Am sick and tired of

My pains, my rugs,

My hunger, my poverty,

My insignificant voice.



Fighting for freedom,

Fighting for food

Fighting for intellectual thirst

Shooting to the wilderness

Searching for peace



My soul wails

Tears from scars hurt

On the outskirts of my abandoned soul

I feel the pain

The discrimation

The unjust laws





I will soar, spread my wings,

Fight till my strength quivers,

I see the victory

For the hopelessness

For orphans, for poor

I will reform their souls

I will celebrate their victories



(C) 2008 Joseph Kariuki
Joseph Kariuki Nai Minai was born in Kiambu Kenya. He was orphaned at a very young age and left to tender for himself barely sixteen. Today he lives and works in Boston USA.

Monday, August 31, 2009

Few years ago Victoria Shem was my student at I.EC, She read one of my poems and i believe got inspired. Few weeks lator Vickie Shem wrote this poem!


THE UPROOT MISSION

To us a girl was introduced
Promised so much
She produced

Out of her beauty
We treated her
Like a deity

We would tend in morning
Yet in the evening
Yawns, and more yawns

Should we go with her keeping?
When we are reaping
Nothing!

Or should we end her persistence
And then risk our existence

To uproot her is a vision
But in real
A suicide mission.


Copyright © Victoria Wangari Shem 2003

This poem was written by one of my students, Victoria Shem, who had passion for performing arts.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Last week I posted a very interesting poem- Letter To My father, The response has been overwhilming. So is it in a Mans' Gene? Enjoy the Dying Hobo



A HAZY TOMORROW

Hoary hoary
Slave of vision
So much dreamt of
Today a total hokum
Brain arching with
Honet sting of regrets
Doom is inevitable

Outlandishly you lived
Mistresses haunch always your hassock
You were study and hoity toity
Today womby and despondent
You have no place for haven
Nor a shade for rest

Cirrhosis an enemy
Inextricable though
A cryptography too complex
you cant not decipher or stop either
Your youth totally wasted
leaving a lean future for you

Hoary and helpless
Waiting for cirrhosis throes
feasting on honeydew
your last option
and absolute resort

A would be successful pundit
is now reduced to a dying hobo!


All Rights Reserved. Last week i posted a poem titled Letter to My Father. I was very glad to read your responses. One reader asked me in my email inbox: fafdays@gmail.com What genes are men made of? Well i must admit it was a tough question.
This made me remember a poem i wrote sometimes in 2002. A Hazy Tomorrow that you have just read. So is it in a mans gene to drink, stray, smoke and all that women use to refer to 'a failed man?' Ok, that is a topic for another day.


I read todays daily nation and I felt the zeal to watch 43rd Tribe of Kenya. The talking point really moved me......! "A fat man has an ass! 2. My Daddy is fat...... Well for anyone who is having a kid in the lower primary, you must read the Talking Point on todays DN 30-08-09

Saturday, August 29, 2009

DEATH HAS ALWAYS LEFT US WONDERING WHY.....! NOT UNTIL IT HAPPENS TO CLOSE FRIEND AND YOU JUST WISH IT WAS A DREAM. "WE LOVED YOU SHEM........R.I.P"




THAT HOUR







That fateful Wednesday
Is undeletable,
Sometimes, we may forget
But your memories remain.
We thought it was a bad dream
We hoped it was a dream after all
However it was neither of them
It happened, very fast.

That morning you cheered your
Lovely son
You joked with your charming wife
Not aware of the roaming danger
Jimmy- some of us saw you,
At least make your last movement
It never occurred to you or us
That we were bidding farewell to you

As early as the day started
The angle of death had been traveling
With each second tickling away
He neared
His wings flapping rhythmically
Each second tonating the flapping

Unaware of the impeding fate
You joked, smiled and laughed.
Unknowingly, time was flying out fast
We too, joked, laughed and smiled back
All this time
The angle of death was advancing
Now swiftly

A few meters from home
He finally caught up with you
And off he went
Holding you securely on his flap
Or else you slip back to us

In a short while Jimmy was gone
We watched the angle disappear with you
His face was not happy either
Guilt spread across it
“What have I done?”
He seemed to wonder.

At your young age you slipped
Past our fingers
Our minds are now numb and blank
Trying to restructure the jigsaw
But the pieces are still missing

Now that you are gone
In heart we got your memories
The joy you shared with us
Still oozes from your undeletable memory
We live your ambition- to be happy

Jimmy, our dear brother
We know you are in the next room
Laughing, smiling and giggling- you always did.
You may be locked behind that door
But we can peep thru and see you
We are more unified than ever
Because your memoirs are
Etched in the tablets of our innermost feelings
We love you our brother.


All Rights Reserved. Reproduction in part or full is strictly prohibited. Simon Mwangi Muthiora.
SHEM died in a grisly road accident that raised more questions than answers. His love for Art inspired me to write this poem. To Vickie- Though I never hardly enjoyed the luxury of holding you close to me, you always lite my heart whenever I entered that class to teach you literature or Geography. It was my dream that one day I would tell the world that I once loved you. This a special one for you and your family. I believe that Shem is smiling and wishing you all well

THIS IS THE UNKNOWN STORY.....SET IN ILLUSION



THIS IS THE STORY

The untold story
The story of the past
The story of today
The story of tomorrow
The story about a story- untold

This story has no plot
Neither does it has characters
Its characters have no characteristics
Their characters already dead
It’s a utopic story.

It’s a story about everything
The story tells us nothing
No one likes telling the story
But everybody listens to it.

It’s not written anywhere
It has no narrator
Nobody knows its origin
The only story that makes one laugh
And cry at the same time

Its prologue is unending
Just like its epilogue
It’s a story about many stories
Stories about other stories

It talks about birth
It talks about death too
It’s the story about the righteous
It’s a story about the wicked

The only story about the
Past, today and tomorrow
It’s the story that compares men to beasts

This is the story about the unknown
It talks about America, China, and North Korea
The story is strange
It even mentions Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran and Israel
It idolizes Wall Street



However, the story is shy
It is the only story that misses the word Dafur
The story does not talk about Zimbambwe
Nor does it mention DRC

It’s about rape- fathers raping their daughters
Mothers fornicating with their sons
It’s a strange story
Where characters abuse human dignity
It’s the story that compares the incomparable

The story is set in unknown country
A wonder country
Where true stories are told in whispers
They are not written
Nor sang or narrated- only in whispers
It’s a story of sorrow
A story of bewilderment
Set in illusion


All Rights Reserved. Reproduction in part or full is strictly prohibited. Simon Mwangi Muthiora.

SEVERAL YEARS AGO MARTIN LUTHER KING HAD A "DREAM" ITS A DREAM THAT CAME TRUE,BUT LAST NIGHTS' DREAM WAS DIFFERENT......!


THE DREAM

A mystery unknown
Unknown and not solved
Whether a thriller or not
Still a complex experience

Last night I traveled
The country very new to me
A place I have never been to
I recall the food
Very new to me
I was somewhere in Monaco
The streets glittering with neon lights
Or this is Holly Wood?
The swings and pods
All resembling the ones in Navada Ranch
I was there last night.

The limo was striking
Life has never been this beautiful
The chauffer always smiling
Pouring their hearts out
Innocently I smiled back

A few days before
I was languishing in poverty
I knew nothing beyond
That kiosk next door
Despondent but hoping for the best
I never thought my dream
Would come this fast.

A few days ago,
I was running away from a vicious
Animal- a very big predicament
Indeed, I tried to rise and run
Walking away was
Too risky business
Flying a way was an option

My will too strong
My limbs too weak
To rise and walk,
Run,
Fly or
Swim away.

Some fresh I lost,
When the animal
Caught up with me!
All in my dream
Last nights’ dream.
My wails were even weaker
They were mere whispers
No ear could hear
Its roar was not bare
Ready to snarf and devour

It was no ordinary night
It’s the night I had a dream
The dream that lied to me,
That I was in Monaco

It’s the dream that lied to me
It told me a story
A story about my home far away
About the new chief in our area
It also lied to me about the
Former chief who was now ‘dead’
The ‘cancer’ had finally taken toll on him
I now missed home without him

He too was a liar
“I will repair the roads,
I will build a clinic, I will
Revive the water taps…..”
He had severally promised

Last nights’ dream lied to me,
That he was now gone.
We now had a new chief
The new chief had finally
Agreed to listen and reason.


All Rights Reserved. This an original poem by Simon Mwangi Muthiora. Reproduction in print or any other media is strictly Prohibited. AURTHOR: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA