Friends made in Heaven, MAUREEN WANJA, you are one in a million.

MAUREEN WANJA - On this auspacious day, I wish you the very best in life. Through your very kind gestures the first day I met you, I learned the power of appreciation. I have never known how to tell you thank you for your encouragement, however I know that someday, I shall have the joy of knowing I put a smile on your face. Thanks once again for been such a friend. Always know that there is power in your smile. Happy birthday and may you live to see your Dreams & Aspirations come to live. Love you dearly.

"COUNT THE BLESSINGS"

Instead of counting candles,
Or tallying the years,
Contemplate your blessings now,
As your birthday is here with you.


Consider special people
Who love you, and who care,
And others who’ve enriched your life
Just by being there.

In the memoiers of your heart
Remember this wonderful woman
Whom several years ago,
Sweat, cried, and wailed
Simply for you to be here today
Remember the many times your love has cried
To see you through the Journey of life

Maureen,
Look back not!
Raise your head and walk the talk
For this day is here with you.

Think about the memories
Passing years can never mar,
Experiences great and small
That have made you who you are.

Tonight, lie in the comfort of assurance
That you shall meet the purpose of
your existence.
Don't let desperations weigh you down
On the down days, let your dreams pull you up.
On the up days, let those dreams
push you even faster ahead.

This is your life, and
even the difficult stretches
are very much worth living.
In fact, it is during the challenging times
That you build new capacity for greater richness.

Look around you. See and appreciate
what a magnificent world
you live in and what a tremendous
opportunity you have to make a difference.

Another year is a happy gift,
So cut your cake, and say,
"Instead of counting birthdays,
I count blessings every day!"

TO; MAUREEN,

YOU ARE TREASURED AND THIS IS A SPECIAL POEM FOR YOU. AM HAPPY TO HAVE KNOWN AND MEET YOU. HAPPY BIRTHDAY ONCE AGAIN.

FROM SIMON WITH LOVE.

AUTHOR: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA@2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME

You can't buy Love but you can heavily pay for it they say; Tim Wideman is at it again with a love letter: " A LOVER'S WISH" Every mans' night

WARNING/DISCLAIMER:
This is an original work of Art and has only been published by 2Hrs Before. All rights reserved. This poem is published at TWO HOURS BEFORE and all rights held by the AUTHOR. Reproduction; in whole or part is STRICTLY PROHIBITED. Two Hours Before is a Registered Trademark. This poem can only be reproduced with written consent from the Author or Two Hours Before.

"A LOVER'S WISH"


A LOVER'S WISH

I want to be the night’s darkness
That hugs you closer than I ever will,
Caressing you in a velvety feathery touch,
The inky blackness that fills your every pore,
The soft nothingness that feels your every curve,
Your every breath, every flutter, and every sigh.

I envy the dreams that fill your night
And flood your mind with blissful thoughts
Flattering, daring, telling worries to take a walk
Floating within your mind without a care but your happiness
Rolling back the hands of time in happy memories,
Touching your future before your morrow comes.

I wish to be the golden ray of a brand new sun
And bring a joyous sparkle to your big round eyes
The virgin touch on your ebony temple,
To brushe your lips with a morning kiss,
Kiss the dimples in your chubby cheeks,
And draw out your smile and the angel in you.

Let me be the glare of a blazing noon
To melt your heart and will away,
And burn on your soul my blessed name,
I shall wilt your fears and cares away
And make a shadow for your blessed feet
While you walk watch your step, while you run, break your stamp.

I want to be the red hot blood within your veins
So I’ll know your every crook and every nerve
Know what you tickles and what you ails,
When I touch the fountain of your sacred love,
And rush the breath and width of your being
To keep your heartbeat alive and make you tick.

I wish to be the evening’s breeze,
Fresh and cool to feel your skin tingle,
From my lazy touch on your rounded hips
And savour your scent when your skirts flutter
Running unseen fingers and ruffling your hair
Unseen, carefree, dancing, whistling our love song.

I want to be the dawn that breaks your day
The shadow, at noon to ever kiss your blessed feet
If only I would be the sunset; paint you a beautiful ending
Or the night to hold your dreams, so you’d ever cherish me.
I wish to be this and I want to be that
But I am only me, my love, and you love me for who I am.

AUTHOR: TIM WIDEMAN WAINANINA @2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME

A FEW DAYS AGO, WE CELEBRATED "MASHUJAA DAY" IN KENYA. BIG NAMES WERE MENTIONED.........AND THE TRUE HEROES WERE FORGOTTEN........!

A JACK OF ALL


My name is Broom
I sweep your trash and your children’s filth,
Mop your vomit on the polished marble
And your wife’s piss on the waxed wood
Where you lay yester night, belching from bloat,
Pregnant with drink and foreign smoke.

My name is Carwash,
Your limo is clean and the hood all waxed
The black jaguar is, the pink Ferrari is revving!
Julia daughter must speed off to school!
And Jimmy boy must rush that tender.
Mama, your Benz in a minute! One more snore!

My name is Chauffer,
To this gossip meeting and that women’s workshop
She needs to learn how to tend her own husband
And that from a bachelorette and a serial divorcee
“Do as I say not as I do but if you must, do as I do!”
The women laugh, high fives, and money flies.

My name is Cook,
Oh midday it is! How soon! Where’s my breakfast?
Wait, the cat is meowing, the bulldog needs bone
Madam is calling, gossip luncheon is due
The workers are cursing, their lunch is overdue!
Utensils need scrubbing and the lamb needs chopping.

My name is Shambaboy
The lawn needs mowing and these weeds, oh my!
The kennel needs cleaning and the bitch must bathe
This sty is stinking but the cows need milking
Where is my breakfast? Oh it’s evening already!
The Boss is hooting but the sprinkler needs moving!


My name is Yaya
School is over; Julia’s boy needs picking
Feeding and changing, a child’s child, this one!
Homework then supper, lullaby or bed time fables?
Mama is screaming, Yaya, my back needs scratching!
And Julia is snapping “iron the nappies, will you?”

My name is Watchman,
The night has began but my day never ended
Mind the gate! Its Friday again, VIP dinner!
Roast lamb or boiled pork, champagne or ginger tea?
A bite of air for me will do, as I yawn and hope
When the VIPs leave, for a half chewed bone. If I am lucky.


AUTHOR: TIM WIDEMAN WAINANINA @2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME

"A MOTHER'S CRY"

Why do you cry, and startle the women,
Why does your shrill cry split the silence so!
And drown the ululation of these mothers
Who have come to hold your mother’s hand
And usher you to your second life
While your father roams the city, searching
Searching for a drink and searching for women?

Why are you so ungrateful, child,
Why do you bite my nipple and scratch my hands
These hands that hold and feed you
These hands that clothe and dress you
While your father roams the streets, working
Working the drink and working the women?

Ah! Child, are your eyes too small or the light too blinding
Do you not see the glint of the circumciser’s knife
As he cuts you and gives you a name
The name of your father’s clan
While your father roams the fields, gathering
Gathering a drink and gathering women?

Are your ears still too wet, too small perhaps,
Do you not hear the drums, hands clap and feet thumping
The soloist’s climax and the chorus of your kinsmen
Praising your mother and your father’s clan
While your father roams the country, dancing
Dancing with drink and drunken women?

Why do you kick like a restless donkey,
And clench your fist tightly like one holding a stone
Are your fists not too small to clasp, your muscle too supple to throw?
Will you also hit me and kick me
While your father roams the earth, hitting,
Hitting on drink and hitting on women?

Why do you cry and shame me, child,
Will you not grow tall, and strong
And hold my back when my spine is gone
When these limbs grow old and shaky
Will you not guide me to my death bed
While your father roams the earth, dying
Dying with drink and dying of women?

Author: Tim Wideman Wainaina

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME

They are our own Sisters, Brothers, Sons & Daughters.....Only that fate has pushed them to the darkest corners of this life. STREET CHILDREN

Its a hardly discussed topic- Plight of Street Families, across the world. In Nairobi, there are over 50,000 street children living in deprolable conditions. A staggering 300,000 more living around the country. With such fugures, the number of children addicted to glue has the potential to be astronomically high.

It is easy to forget children; they won’t raise a militia, they won’t vote you out of office, they won’t affect general productivity if they die their small deaths in their filthy slums. This is what happens when families cannot cope and governments cannot or will not react; society accepts that children and their potential are allowed to wither away, drugged, abused, uneducated, unloved and forgotten.

In the following poem "The Street Laughter" Timothy Wideman Wainaina captures the imagination and plight of a street child who is not only lamenting but in a personal crisis trying to find his/her place in the society. Though I have never meet Tim Wideman, his poetry style captured my attention as you will find in the poem. Due to the humor and metaphor soo evident in the poem, I have changed its title from "Who Am I?" to " Street Laughter" with the authors permission.

Commentary by: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA.



THE STREET LAUGHTER
Am I the child of man,
That my uncircumcised shoulders
Should bear the burden of a man
My tender heart crucified
By endless quests for love?


Am I the child of woman,
That though still a virgin
My body has become a hive
Where drones hum and fuss
And only steal my honey?

Am I the child of beast,
That rogue dogs claw at me
And bark in hateful affection
While we grope for a stale piece
Discarded by a bloated glutton?

Am I the child of jungle
That the sun prides in roasting my back,
And morning frost in chewing my limbs,
As the rains pounds my bare head
And launders these tatters that gird my loins?

Am I the child of all
That you spit and curse and hit me
When I beg for a coin for a plate
Or a penny for a bottle at the cobbler’s
And kill me with the look of an eye?

Am I the child of none
That none should love me,
And ever wonder who bore this shame
This being with neither home nor kin
Whom am I?

(This is the lamentation –in monologue- of an unwanted child trying to find a place in a society in which he/she finds himself/herself out of place, uncared for, harassed and abused). All rights reserved to Author: Tomothy Wideman Wainaina.
You can reach him on: widemann5@gmail.com or his blog at Wideman World

Copyright Timothy Kiarii Wainaina 2010.(Wideman)

This is just another example of what crushing poverty will do to the priorities of a family, a government and a society. While Kenya is not the poorest African countries, there are too many in these countries who live in garbage dumps, slums with open sewers running outside their doors, huddle in doorways or out on the muddy sidewalks. In light of this, abandoning children to their fate on the streets of the city may seem like a necessary option for families stretched too thin; but how can this option be tolerated by the society at large? How is an 11-year old girl prostituting herself for the glue, it will take to forget, her hunger and cold not considered a priority for any government?
Commentary by: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME

"FOR A MOTHER'S LOVE"

FOR A MOTHERS LOVE

Mom

Sometimes I lost the sunshine
That used to be my shepherd
In this world of calamities
That robbed my maternal love
I keep wondering why:
You left me; in this chaotic world
A burden to the society
That cant give the ultimate rest


Mom, who is worth your smile
In those golden days
Of cheap expensive advices
That washed bleakness of
My life like Jesus washes sins


But, I met a glimmer of hope
An angel, whose rays;
Washed my unhappiness
And brought a wave of passion
That reverberates my peace
Of tones of happiness

AUTHOR
(C) 2003 Joseph Kariuki

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME
For more details contact Paa Ya Paa on 0733270109 or me on 0725385654

ALL THIS IS NOW FORGOTTEN.......KENYA can now sing a new Song......! A song of liberty and Hope.

Last year (on 27th November 2009) as i was celebrating my birthday..... i just thought about the millions around the world who were not as happy i as i was. Right here in Kenya...thousands of my kinsmen were in dilapidated tents even as heavy rains continued to ponder most parts of the country. This lone imagination made me think about the Untold Stories of children suffering in Iraq, Southern Sudan deaths, rape in Congo, IDPs in Kenya, Aborigines in South Africa, the thousands homeless Americans, the abused women in Saudi Arabia, the suffering Monks in Tibet, the AIDS victims in Siera-Leon, victims of Kony in Uganda the minority in Russia, and the millions of vulnerable people across the world.....! All suffering and facing death in their darkest and forgotten worlds. This provoked me to write the following poem that i must admit is shallow but talks a million words about this near hell stories.

As Kenya celebrates it second liberation, TWO HOURS BEFORE joins the party but nevertheless reminds the world of the other untold clandestines that threatens human existence. Kenya can atleast now sign a new song and a Liberty Song to be specific....however "THE LONG JOURNEY TO PROSPERITY AND POSTERITY HAS JUST BEGUN"

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, Somalia, Tibet or even Moscow
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

AUTHOR: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA

(I wrote this poem on my birthday last year 27th Nov 2009)
DEDICATED TO THE SUFFERING AROUND THE WORLD


Read about the Author on the February issue of Parents Magazine 2010 and read his untold story. Also Join Two Hours Before on facebook and twitter. NOTE: Two Hours Before is the fastest growing poetry blog in the country with over 27,000 visits and several reputable Reviews across the world.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME
For more details contact Paa Ya Paa on 0733270109 or me on 0725385654

"THE MAN ON THE BOAT" is an intrusive poem written by an upcoming poet and writer George G. Karanja

The author of the following poem is a little known writer called George G. Karanja. Though he is not published, Karanja has written tenths of poems and he is currently writing a novel based on the Dafur conflict. All rights are reserved to the Author and this poem has been published here with his acknowledgment.

Reproduction in any form of media without prior written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Karanja can be contacted on: ggkaranja56@gmail.com or fafdays@gmail.com

THE MAN ON THE BOAT

He gazes at the silvery sea,
And struggles to bide a wee;
To look back into the dark caves
From whence he began riding the waves.

He rows the creaking fisherman boat,
The wind assailing his old coat.
Into the water he tosses the hook and the thread,
Hoping to catch a trout and break the trend

He pores over the horizon,
Searching soulful for the sign of dawn,
But grey clouds abounds, discolouring the morning light,
Pushing the sun back into the nooks of the night

He looks over there,
Beyond the mangroves of despair,
Where the graves of his dreams forms seven rows
Their spirit pushing up the daisies of woes.

He reminisces times past,
When he rode the world in howling gust
Sweeping off the strongest of trees
That sought to hinder his ways.

AUTHOR: GEORGE GAKURU KARANJA
MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
Managing Director
TWO HOURS BEFORE
P. O. BOX 147-00216
GITHUNGURI, KENYA

Tel: +254 725 385 654 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting +254 725 385 654 end_of_the_skype_highlighting
Email:fafdays@gmail.com,
fafdays@yahoo.com
fafdays@hotmail.com
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Blogsite: http://www.twohoursbefore.blogspot.com
Facebook: Two Hours Before
Simon Mwangi Muthiora

IT'S THE MOST FEARED MONTH....."AUGUST"

MONTH OF AUGUST

Back with a bang!
May be it the power of superstition?
Or you are merely a jinxed month?
Now you are back
To test the strength of our spines

The Nairobi bomb blast
Whispers death
The coup de’t
Just a spoonful

August!
Who branded you an omen?
Why are you this selfish?
Why do we cry whenever you are here?
Why?
A month of ill will
A season of fear and weeping

Whenever you approach
Women of the land weep
They cry their hearts out
Their wombs arches with fear

August, are you selfish?
Or it’s our imagination
Have we become eccentric about death?
Or we are just parochial
Each time you close in,
We are engulfed in a premonition
That we are hitting end of the road

Fear is deeply etched in our hearts
Even as we engage in spiritual warfare
Trying to arrest your jinx
Less we mourn and mourn again
August, save us the wails
As we await the next moon.

AUTHOR: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA

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

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
Managing Director
TWO HOURS BEFORE
P. O. BOX 147-00216
GITHUNGURI, KENYA

Tel: +254 725 385 654
Email:fafdays@gmail.com,
fafdays@yahoo.com
fafdays@hotmail.com
fafdays@ovi.com
Blogsite: http://www.twohoursbefore.blogspot.com
Facebook: Two Hours Before
Simon Mwangi Muthiora

Join me tomorrow for "Lottie Da, Poet I Am" by Lottie Porch at Paa ya Paa, 1st August

This is to invite my fans and poetry lovers and especially members of TWO HOURS BEFORE to a "Spoken Word Poetry Event" tomorrow at Paa Ya Paa Art Gallery, Nairobi starting 2:30pm to 6pm. Paa ya Paa on Ridgeways Road, Off Kiambu road next to Ridgeways Boys Academy.


Two Hours Before shall be performing the poems...... 'When I Am Gone', 'Return Of The Foetus' and my other captivating poem 'A Woman's Meat' Other poems include the sensational 'Letter To My Father', The Midnight Visitor', 'Appear Tonight', 'The Wrong Turn' and the horror poem....'The House Of Pain'

Guest artist-poet, is America's renounced poet and educator Lottie E. Porch who is currently an adjunct professor at New York University. For over thirty years Ms. Porch has shared her talents in the realms of performing arts, written word, and cultural education. Whether she is acting on stage, publishing written works, teaching students in an African village, or singing a late night set at a jazz club – Lottie Porch brings her creativity to all aspects of her life and work.

The event will enable Kenyan poetry lovers to sample some Spoken Word from this amazingly multi-talented lady. It will also be an opportunity for Lottie to hear what Kenya has to offer in Poetry and Spoken Word.

Also present at the event is Kenya's sensational Poet, Njeri Wangari, who is the Author of the book 'Mines & Minds Fields'. Njeri, my fellow blogger and poet is an IT expert and one of the newest 'spoken word' artist in the country. She runs the Art blog called Kenyan Poet

Entertainment shall be lead by Grand Master Masese. Other performing poets includes Rhoda Jura, Mwangi S. Muthiora, Wario Helena, Bernard Muhia, Valentine Kamau and Denis Ikwa.

ENTRY IS FREE..... INVITE YOUR FRIENDS

You can follow this link to see the map/ direction to Paa Ya Paa Art G Off Kiambu road Ridgeways.

Read about the Author on the February issue of Parents Magazine 2010 and read his untold story. Also Join Two Hours Before on facebook and twitter. NOTE: Two Hours Before is the fastest growing poetry blog in the country with over 27,000 visits and several reputable Reviews across the world.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME
For more details contact Paa Ya Paa on 0733270109 or me on 0725385654

Mines & Mind Fields- My Spoken Words, By one of Kenya's top poet Njeri Wangari

Mines & Mind Fields- My Spoken Words,
Author: NJERI WANGARI
On 16th June 2010, I received an extraordinary text message from one of Kenya's newest poetry sensation,Njeri Wangari, She was inviting me to the launch of her first poetry collection book, Mines & Mind Fields- My Spoken Words, published in Canada by Nsemia Inc. International Publishers. Though Kenyanpoet, as she is popularly known, had inspired me to start my own blog, I did not expect the author to mention me in her book especially alongside the reputable Daily Nation- Kenya's Leading Newspaper. I had learned about her blog from the DN several years ago and despite the fact that we have never meet in person, we developed a strong bond online. It was a very big surprise when I learned that my blog Two Hours Before and I were appearing on the jacket of this pulsating publication.

Going back to Mines & Mind Fields, I can only term this book as a gem in my home library. Njeri Wangari has captured both the mind and the soul of any poetry enthusiast who is by any standards looking for realism. Her work consists of a wide range of sounds and styles; free verse, traditional verse, narrative, lyric, dramatic and even experimental. In 'Maisha Ya Hawker- Life Of A Hawker', she has exhibited a very powerful voice in both style and content. In this piece of work, she focuses on the reflective power of word to inform the public and create awareness about significant issues, like police brutality, unemployment, class struggle etc, through frequently meaningful observations and vastly different poetic style.

One of the traits that makes Njeri Wangari(N.W) collection unique, is her range of themes and her use of very simple and coherent style, unlike the typical poetry of 'yester' years. Whileas all art is meant to be appreciated, the real beauty of this poetry collection is its inspiration. In some ways, all of us can relate to the topics and themes expressed in these poems which address important and often timely issues that we might otherwise ignore or suppress. In 'Fire She Said' the author captures news breaking in a very simple way. This poem conveys its own message, and provides a vehicle of expression for diverse attitudes and fresh insights.

This book appeals to a broad spectrum of poetry lovers, and forms a strong and intimate bond with any adventurous reader. From the poem '10th Daughter Of Mumbi' to Digital Hearts....Mines & Mind Fields, is just but a good read.

Mines & Mind Fields- My Spoken Words by Njeri Wangari is available in all leading bookshop in the country.

Njeri is a multi talented Kenyan poet and performer, IT specialist and Art Blogger at Kenyapoet.
The 114 paged book contains over 40 poems that explore themes on Urban Blues, Love, Identity, Traditions, Cultural changes, Exploitation and Politics among others. Njeri’s poems are mainly in English with a few in Kiswahili, Sheng and in Gĩkũyũ, making it an appealing mix to wide audiences.

For more info contact:-

Nsemia Inc. Publishers Ltd.
1011 Upper Middle Road East, Suite 1124
Oakville, Ontario, Canada L6H 5L2; Tel: 1-888-587-1150
Email: info @ nsemia.com.
www.nsemia.com

NOTE:
You can now 'follow' Two Hours Before on facebook by clicking on this link.

Tel: +254 725 385 654
Email:fafdays@gmail.com,
fafdays@yahoo.com
fafdays@hotmail.com
fafdays@ovi.com
Blogsite: http://www.twohoursbefore.blogspot.com
Facebook: Two Hours Before
Simon Mwangi Muthiora

"WHEN I AM GONE" is about an exit that is both celebrated and cursed! It is a poem about a troubled 'man' who is reflecting on his Death.

The following poem came into my mind after loosing a friend whom I never thought would die so soon and become forgotten. It has made me think about my own exit and how the world would behave and react to my own death. Whileas many of my fans have failed to understand why I have written about death severally, it is prudent to state that, it is possibly my greatest inspiration. I have always wanted to live each day preciously such that, in my death, my age shall tell a million stories and I shall exit smiling for the 'great achievement'.
However, this is a work of fiction and events, descriptions and plot are not necessarily true. In the meantime, TWO HOURS BEFORE has the pleasure to thank you for your continued support and various nominations to Poetry Events around the world. Asente sana!



WHEN I AM GONE

My little world shall cry and mourn
It shall probably miss my smile
My alarming sense of humour
It shall not believe that I’m gone
‘How did it happen?’
‘The man is gone?’

When I’m gone
I shall leave a dent
In the hearts of my friends
And adversaries as well
They shall cry and weep
Their tears I shall not wipe
Neither shall I end their fears

When I am gone,
They shall also speak
Others shall whisper
Many shall shout
‘He is gone,
It took him away’
Many shall chirp

When I am gone,
They shall ridicule her
She shall cry and cry
The beasts shall be mused though,
and throw a party!
The breasts they shall want to see
And who knows what else.
They shall try to console her
And make her forget me as fast

When I am gone,
I shall carry my love with me
I shall take my presence
And leave my absence
They shall lay me on cold cement
Stuff wool in my mouth, nose, and ears
And God knows where else

She shall probably burn my clothes
To erase the memories and
Keep my dairies, to remind her of the ‘man’
She shall weep and then stop weep
She shall cry and then stop cry
She shall mourn and then stop mourn
Because the ‘small man’ shall always
Remind her of the 'big man'

When I am gone,
They shall all come to say bye
Their eyes shall see differently
One eye shall only see good
The other shall see bad
One eye shall see happiness
The other shall see sadness
One eye shall see righteousness
The other shall see evil
But the ‘man’
Shall remain......
Gone!

When I am gone
There shall be all sorts of theories
It is the Steam, Tusker, or Richot Brandy!
Some shall whisper!
No! It’s the ‘big disease’,
Kweli…..! He brew all the Vuvuzelas around
And kicked all the Jabulani’s
In the neighborhood
No! he hanged himself!
No, they shot him!
No, it ran over him in town
But the man shall remain gone.

That night, after I am gone
My shell shall lay trapped
In the middle of my shamba
My pillow shall be lonely
My pajamas lifeless
For the man shall be gone

And my epitaph shall read;
'I told you I was Sick,
and gone I am'-The Man
When I am finally gone!


AUTHOR: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA

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

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
Managing Director
TWO HOURS BEFORE
P. O. BOX 147-00216
GITHUNGURI, KENYA

Tel: +254 725 385 654
Email:fafdays@gmail.com,
fafdays@yahoo.com
fafdays@hotmail.com
fafdays@ovi.com
Blogsite: http://www.twohoursbefore.blogspot.com
Facebook: Two Hours Before
Simon Mwangi Muthiora

LETTER TO MY FATHER; Are your children born of a man or a father or may be a beast? This is a special one for all victims of Domestic Violence.

Happy Father's day

Many of you have requested me to re-post this poem that I wrote and posted on my blog TWO HOURS BEFOREseveral months ago. Today been Fathers' Day, I have found it worthwhile to post it to all group members and possibly help us make the opinion on what kind of fathers we want to be or we are.

In the meantime, my fellow Blogger and Poet; Njeri Wangari has finally released her poetry collection book published by Nsemia Inc in Canada.

I am greatly indebted to Njeri Wangari whom despite having never met her, quoted me and my blog at the back cover(Jacket) of her book. Its such a great honour and privilege to me and all my fans on 2hrs B4 for getting such a rare mention in a book that I strongly believe shall be read world allover.

The book called Mines & Minds Fields shall be launched next Saturday at SilverBird Media Store in Nakumatte Westgate, Peponi Road @ 2.30pm. The book costs Kshs 750 and is available in all leading bookshops. Get your copy. I invite all my fans to grace this occasion and celebrate this tremendous achievement by Njeri Wangari.

The poem bellow is my real life experience. Whilst I rose above this challenges, there are thousands if not millions suffering out there because of domestic conflicts. This poem is a challenge to all of us on what kind of fathers and mothers we want to be to our innocent children. It can take a minute to become a father, but it can take you time to be the right father. Its up to you to know what your children are born of; a Father or a Man. Enjoy your read.

LETTER TO MY FATHER

Dear dad,
I don’t know what you will
Say about this,
But, I have to let you know

One: I am not dubious
You sired me- certainly
You did.
Mom can’t lie, nor cheat!
However this fact has been put to
A test,
Moreover, am not alone, we are many of us
From your own blood

It hurts to write this down,
You don’t seem to be my dad
Despite the fact that I resembles you

Dad- Father, you know…..
I detest you!
I hate you!
You did it first
The distance between the two of us
Is enormous, its growing each day
Why are you this mean?
Why is your heart this rotten?
Where did you get this cancer from?

Remember this;
When you beat my love
The many times she cried because of you
How your mistresses scolded her
They did it the way you do it.
Dad- a man called dad, recall all this,
Your brutality to innocent souls
You see why I hate you dad?
You are ballooning each day

Dad I don’t like you to say the least
I will always do
The more you hate my love
The more I hate you

I know you don’t care
But the world cares
I will tell the world
What you are,
What you breaths and what you smells
HATE!
Brutality and bitterness

Had my mom not met you,
She would be happy today
But you mean misery to her
I know non of my sisters and
Brothers would dare tell this
But, certainly they don’t like you.
Just like the way you detests each of them-me

Why did I resemble you?
Why
Fate, who is to blame?
Dad,
Mom?

I like several things about you
Your smile- dry!
Big shoulders
Intellect and academia
But not your heart
Black as coal
And that is my greatest worry
That my love sees’ you in me
And you know what that means

Finally, am giving the world
A copy of this letter
Because I know you care not
Not because I cares either,
But, so that they can get to
Read your epitaph- His Hate Killed His Love
No one will come to bury you
But you’re loving family.
Your loving son,
Ekwe.

Aurthor: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA

NOTE: This poem is an original work by Author. Reproduction in full or part in any media is strictly prohibited. Two Hours Before owns the rights to this works.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. TWO HOURS BEFORE IS THE SOLE OWNER OF ALL WORKS APPEARING ON THIS BLOG AND REPRODUCTION IN FULL OR PART WITHOUT PRIOR PERMISSION BY THE AUTHOR IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

Read about the Author on the February issue of Parents Magazine 2010 and read his untold story. Also Join Two Hours Before on facebook and twitter. NOTE: Two Hours Before is the fastest growing poetry blog in the country with over 27,000 visits and several reputable Reviews across the world.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

DO YOU HAVE AN EVENT/ OCCASSION YOU WOULD LIKE THIS AUTHOR TO GRACE? WRITE BACK TO US ON THE CONTACTS ABOVE AND WE ARE JUST A CLICK AWAY FROM ENTERTAINING YOUR GUESTS. TWO HOURS BEFORE........WE ARE ALWAYS AHEAD. DREAM IT AND WE SHALL MAKE IT BECOME

'THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR' came into my mind when I shared with few female friends on how it felt to loose 'Virginity' and then face a failed relationship

THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR


“THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR”

The visitor came
And left
As the sun lost its vigor
Choking in the murkiness of
The engulfing night
Giving in to the big moon

The visitor came
After feeling the emptiness of
My void soul and left
After filling my bodily faculties
With its infectious scratch

The curtains flapped,
As the trees swayed in the darkness
And the visitor continued to steal
Mincing me with zeal
Making me his meal
Plucking my milk teeth one after the other
His iron rod screwing tooth after tooth
In the choking darkness

The visitor came and left me
Writhing in pain
The pain of loosing the coveted milk teeth
The one that reminds me
Of my origin
and his origin too

The visitor had pretended to be good
And thus I welcomed him in
His hands were bare and his face was fine
Wearing an infectious smile
And a grin of a midnight visitor
And then; came the hidden rod
Plunking and plucking
My milk teeth

My cries and wails persisted
And the visitor continued
Plucking my milk teeth
One after the other
The curtains flapped
Letting in the flashes of the midnight storm
And I would see him galloping for air
As his rod, trapped in the bottom of my lips
Continued ripping me helplessly

The visitor came and left
Leaving my mouth agape and
All my milk teeth gone
My eyes swollen
And my lips bleeding
The midnight visitor
Came and left me
Writhing in pain


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. TWO HOURS BEFORE IS THE SOLE OWNER OF ALL WORKS APPEARING ON THIS BLOG AND REPRODUCTION IN FULL OR PART WITHOUT PRIOR PERMISSION BY THE AUTHOR IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

Read about the Author on the February issue of Parents Magazine 2010 and read his untold story. Also Join Two Hours Before on facebook and twitter. NOTE: Two Hours Before is the fastest growing poetry blog in the country with over 27,000 visits and several reputable Reviews across the world.

MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
EXCECUTIVE DIRECTOR
Two Hours Before
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654

"THE LAST SMILE" is a my special poem. Today the whole world shall be switching off all lights for an hour in an effort to conserve the Environment.

"THE LAST SMILE"

To mark this auspicious day and make a contribution to Environmental Conservation, Two Hours Before has posted the poem 'The Last Smile'

NOTE: This is an ORIGINAL work and reproduction in any media is STRICTLY PROHIBITED without prior permission from the Author, Mwangi S. Muthiora. Reproduction permission can be obtained from the author through: fafdays@gmail.com or +254 725 385 654. or his Attorneys on: luciandibs@gmail.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 2010


"THE LAST SMILE"

Do not remind me of the last smile
That giggle
The tough laugh
Let me remind you of the danger ahead
Do not remind me of the yesterdays
When i delved in my innocence
Do not remind me of the gone purity

Do not remind me of my lost fortune
When you freely explored
My physical anatomy
When you smiled, laughed and giggled
All this time, licking my innocence
But you have finally made me a nuff

For centuries
I have restrained myself from madness
I want to go mad, i have to
I want to regain my smile
That you smilingly stole from me
Yet you still gives me a smile
A pretentious laugh

Your dirty breath has choked me
My lungs are now ruptured
And my skin scorched
And my hair? its also long gone
Smilingly you have proclaimed my extinct
Yet, giving me a last tough laugh

Look at my bald head
All my hair is gone
Smilingly you have chopped and chopped
A hair after the other
Leaving me as bald as the plains of Kalahari

Look at your cruel cruelty
Yet you give me a smile?
I will not let you lungula me again
I will roar, shout and wail
I will erupt, scorch you, and drown you

Its only then shall I feel contented
And then give you the last smile
Hosting your lifeless you
In the depth of my earthly faculties

The waters of El nino shall flood your grave
And the midday sun shall scorn your kids
Thats when I shall have a reason to smile
The last smile


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 28TH MARCH 2010
MWANGI S. MUTHIORA

Today, 28Th March 2010, the entire world shall observe an hour of nonessential lights off. This is an effort geared towards marking "The World Earth Day" Its expected that lights in major cities and towns across the world shall go off simultaneously and remain off for a record 1hour. While as the Governments across
the world have been desperately trying to cut down their green house gas emissions, touchable achievements are yet to be realized. By arresting and reversing the upward trend in greenhouse gas emissions that started in several countries 150 years ago, the Kyoto Protocol promises to move the international community one step closer to achieving the Convention’s ultimate objective of preventing "dangerous anthropogenic [man-made] interference with the climate system".

Simon Mwangi Muthiora
EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR
TWO HOURS BEFORE
fafdays@gmail.com
+254 725 385 654
www.twohoursbefore.blogspot.com

"THE DEATH OF MAKMENDE" is next. The "Makmendes Bug" has hit me; but mine is a different story, the "real Makmende" is a typical Kenyan politician.

‘THE DEATH OF MAKMENDE’

His character was elusive
No one could understand him
Today he would look like an angel
Tomorrow an ugly devil
When hungry, he would chew anything
Indeed ‘everything’ within his able reach
But it’s when thirsty I feared him most!
Then, he would drink, and drink, and drink
Anything- everything
Funny enough, he had a liking
For the gravesides
This what made him vicious!

Makmende was good at times
He would listen and reason
May be it was pretence
When he promised heaven on earth,
he literally made it hell
Somehow, his name sneaked
Into the good books
Though albeit lies and pretences
He whispered detest, hate and death
But his roar was full of love, affection and purpose
Most of the times, he ‘roared’
He preferred a roar over a whisper!

Makmende loved women too
Or may be they loved him
His queer character was the bait
They flocked his threshold
He would be heard roaring love serenades
To the lucky ones he just roared love
And to the unlucky ones he whispered
Whispers of desperation and multiplication
Amazingly, he would just whisper
The ‘f’ word, and nine months later,
A small ‘kakimende junior’ would sprout
Probably to guarantee continuation
Of the ‘great’ Makmendes dynasty!

Makmende was a queer man
Severally, he had stolen a neighbor’s cow
He had learned the tricks
He would milk it and invite his neighbour
For a cup of tea.
He stole everything,
Cows, goats, donkeys, votes, knives and even wives
Each time he stole votes and knives,
There would be reprisals

Makmende is arguably a bad person
He killed his spare-wheel
After the death of his love
Occasioned by his love for sweet lungula


His death is now a mystery
Some says it was the ‘dear maize cob’
He minced the grains
One after the other
He chewed; relaxing on the cosy ‘lazy boy’
After-all he had no bills to pay
This a real ‘f’ deal!
He had made yet another catch
From his naïve victims
Then came the shouts, and he roared back
“I better die, than resign”
That’s the closest he came to death

Makmende it’s said got choked
Maize grains stuck in the wind pipe
He staggered out of the ‘Royco Place’
To the Triton oil pump just across the road
As usual he drunk, and drunk, and drunk
Makmende then remembered the story
‘Highway To Sacharngwani’
And a fireball exploded in his belly

That’s when he started writing his ‘will’
To avert reprisals in his death
Son after the other got their share
From the shores of Indian Ocean,
To the water pillars of the great Mau
From the plains of Taveta hills
To the floor of Mt Kenya

Surprisingly, Makmende reserved his last catch;
The graveyards of Kitengela
That he and members of his ‘great’ dynasty
Shall lay in pieces! And find solace after
Leaving a trail of destruction

His short epitaph continues to tell the lie
“Your Super hero’s super hero”
Makmende, ‘Just A Brand’


Aurthor: MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
All rights reserved. Circulation of this poem in part or full without prior written permission from TWO HOURS BEFORE is strictly prohibited. 2Hrs B4 is a registered trademark under the LAWS OF KENYA. Two Hours Before is the sole owner of the rights of works appearing on this blog.

You can contact the Author on: fafdays@gmail.com or call: +254 725 385 654
All rights reserved.
Do you have an event (wedding, birthday, commemoration, anniversaries, etc) and you want your guests entertained? Two Hours Before has introduced self-tailored entertainment where you just gives us the theme and we create the best poem or narrative to suit your event or occasion. Give your event a 'golden touch' through 2Hrs B4, the home of creations.
'DREAM' your event & let us make it 'BECOME'

Mwangi S. Muthiora
EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR

"THE UNTOLD STORY" A story about birth and death, wails and laughters, the truly untold 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.
THIS POEM IS A WORK OF FICTION, CHARACTERS AND PLOT IS ALL SET IN ILLUSION. CONTACT THE AUTHOR ON: fafdays@gmail.com or http://twohoursbefore.blogspot.com

"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.

Simon Mwangi Muthiora, 28, got engaged in human rights campaigns and activism from his days in secondary school. This was by chance.

"HUMAN RIGHTS CRUSADER; DIPLOMAT IN THE MAKING" The story of Mwangi S. Muthiora. Founder of Two Hours Before and the Managing Director of Fafdays Foundation.

When i started this blog, i hardly expected it to grow this fast. In under an year, TWO HOURS BEFORE has maintained a very high number of visits and new membership. Our sister facebook group under the same title has also managed an impressive 950 members within a very short time. I thank you all my fans and friends for your support and encouragements. I resume my poetry posts next week with my Valentine Special poem for this valentine season. Below is short commentry followed by extracts from the super brand Parents Magazine that has carried my personnal untold story. Buy your copy and read the whole story. In the meantime, enjoy the extracts.

Several years ago, I helped Lieutenant General (Rtd) Gonzana Bukenya get freedom from the oppressive Ugandan Military that had kidnapped and secretly ferried him out of Kenya. Bukenya, a former Personal Aide to President Museveni had been accused of planning and masterminding an alleged plot to over throw the government together with some other dissidents. Further, he had been accused of collaborating with the Opposition and the infamous Lords Resistance Army of one notorious Joseph Kony. When I met Gonzana Bukenya, he was a man on the run and he was trying to get a Visa to Denmark or the USA where most refugees were seeking asylum.

At the youthful age of 32, Bukenya had managed to climb the Military ladder to the coveted post of a Lieutenant General and a decorated Presidential Aide- normally reserved to high rank military officials and personal confidants to the president. This inspired me and we immediately struck a very strong rapport. After all he represented what I had always dreamt of; success and ambition.

“Ambition can be dangerous at times” that’s what I later learnt as my association with Bukenya had squarely put me on the wanted list of the one feared Museveni. In more than one incident, I practically cheated death as ‘special security agents’ hovered around me and my family………………..read on the extracts below. However, the story has been highly edited and thus some very key incidences have not been captured. I though intend to someday write my Memoirs and share my untold story.

Below are some extracts from my feature story “Human Rights Crusader, Diplomat in the making” appearing on the February issue of the super brand Parents Magazine, published by Stellan Consult Ltd and Distributed/ Circulated by Nation Marketing & Circulation Group




Simon Mwangi Muthiora, 28, got engaged in human rights campaigns and activism from his days in secondary school. This was by chance. A major personal challenge he had could have broken a weaker person, but this young man used his weakness at the time to discover a strength that had been dormant.

“……………….many people blamed me for sticking my neck out too much in Bukenya’s case, but I thought I did the right thing, as I am not one to shy away from challenges. My journey to bravery and human rights started when I joined Kanunga, a provincial high school in Kiambu District in 1997. Despite my excellent performance in the Kenya certificate of primary school (KCPE) exam, I could hardly communicate in English. All the teaching and communication in primary school had been done in my mother tongue and switching to English was extremely challenging.”

“Teachers did not understand how I managed good grades yet could not orally communicate fluently. It bothered me too, especially after being made the schools laughing stock. I was embarrassed and confused, and turned rebellious, seeking solace in the company of ‘bad’ boys, just to avert attention. To get acceptance in the group, I safely stashed away their bhang and other contraband wares in my school box. My uncle was a senior teacher at the school hence my box was bypassed during frequent and impromptu inspections to capture anything illegal that had been sneaked in by students. Thankfully, I never did drugs and my role stayed the same, that of safekeeping. With time…………….”

“………by the time I did my final national examination, i was aware of my potential in articulating important national issues effectively. I started participating in public forums where human rights issues, my favourite subject, were being discussed. Coincidently there was a lot of hype and political realignment in the civil society movement between 2001 and 2002, something that heightened my zeal for human rights discourses.”

“The formation of the Youth Parliament in 2003 was a major blessing in my life. I was confident it would give me a forum to articulate my agenda for the youth. I put an application and successfully went through an interview to become a member of parliament (M.P) for a three year term………………………….”

Buy your copy of the Parents Magazine and read the rest of the story. To contact me kindly refer to my Blog address at: http://www.twohoursbefore.blogspot.com


MWANGI S. MUTHIORA
Managing Director

TWO HOURS BEFORE
P. O. BOX 147-00216
GITHUNGURI, KENYA

Tel: +254 725 385 654
Email:fafdays@gmail.com,
fafdays@yahoo.com
fafdays@hotmail.com
fafdays@ovi.com
Blogsite: http://www.twohoursbefore.blogspot.com
Facebook: Two Hours Before
Simon Mwangi Muthiora

"ALMOST A VICTIM" is a poem by Gladys Njehu; Its flow and plot thrilled me and I have to share this with you.

ALMOST A VICTIM

It wasn't in the dark,
Nor was i in a park,
No light of the moon,
As it was at noon.

Thought it was hot as he undressed,
But he grabbed me and caressed,
Held me tight,tighter,n tighter,
Thought i couldn't be a fighter.

Realizing i was in a battlefeild,
But had no sheild,
I felt weak,
As i tried to speak,
To plead,
And be freed.

I even opted to scream,
As if that was the theme,

Miraculously i think the gods spoke,
Though they didn't poke.
Or rather his senses got to work,
As before he was acting like a jerk.

And almost a victim,
Out i kicked him,
My very own friend,
Opted to offend,
Friendship suspended,
Wonder whether we'll amend.

AUTHOR: GwLADYS ENE NJEHU

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, REPRODUCTION OF THIS POEM IN FULL OR PART IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED. ENE NJEHU HOLDS ALL THE RIGHTS TO THIS POEM. SHE CAN BE CONTACTED ON: Email: gladysnjehu@yahoo.com


GWLADYS ENE NJEHU was born somewhere in central province but brought up in the great rift; Nakuru Kenya. She attended Bahati Girls High School before proceeding to Jomo Kenyatta University where she is pursuing a Degree in BCom & Administration; Finance option. She worked with KLB as an Intern Assistant Accountant. She is a highly motivated young lady and has been writing for several years now.

The Island nation of Haiti has been hit my a Devastating Quake, I dedicate this poem to the people of this country! "May God be with you"

"REMEMBER HAITI & ITS WOUNDED PEOPLE"



REMEMBER THE REST

Below this rumble
I try to mumble
A word or two, but its all a whisper
Above me is a heavy slab
Slapping over my face
My heart is making a whisper
Before i weather
and like a feather, in the air
I will soon disappear

Now that you have heard my whisper
Worry no more about me,
Soon I will be gone
Abeit painfuly
Am i lucky though?
I will no more see this light
Neither will i ever see
The wounded motherland

In the next rumble
I can feel the cries
All natures hostage
Before the slab slaps me
I remember the lovely motherland
Before the angle of death
Flapped and flapped
As he neared Haiti


Cough....cough cough!
The dust is choking me,
I can feel the slabs smoldering me
Remember my brothers and sisters
Remember my wife
Remember my husband
Remember my son
Remember my daughter
and my parents too,
Remember Haiti, and its devastated
thousands, dilapidated, wounded and shaken

Remember,
The quake just struck once
And you can act once
And help Haiti overcome the disaster

Cough.....cough, coooough!
Over to you.....!


All Rights Reserved
MWANGI S. MUTHIORA

This is a an original poem. You can share it and help raise funds for Haiti Population that has been hit by the worst earthquake in several years. Incase you shares this poem, kindly make sure you recognize the author; Mwangi S. Muthiora, +254 725 385 654 or Email: fafdays@gmail.com

TO GIVE DONATIONS, CLICK ON 'DONATE' AT THE SAVE HAITI WIDGET ON THE RIGHT HAND SIDE OF THIS PAGE.
JOIN THE REST OF THE WORLD IN THIS NOBLE CALLING AND YOUR ASSISTANCE WILL GO ALONG WAY IN HELPING HAITI BACK ON ITS FEET. TO SEND YOUR ASSISTANCE FROM KENYA....VISIT THE RED CROSS OFFICES OR JUST SEND YOUR DONATIONS TO THEIR HELPLINE NUMBER

"Two Hours Before" Wishes the people of Haiti quick recovery from this disaster.

Haiti's worst quake in two centuries hit south of the capital Port-au-Prince this week. Thousands of lives have been lost, many are still missing, and hundreds of thousands of people have been affected. Haiti's Prime Minister Jean-Max Bellerive says he believes more than 100,000 people may have been killed.

The earthquake has destroyed much of the already fragile and overburdened infrastructure in the most densely populated part of the country. A massive and immediate international response is needed to provide food, water, shelter, and medical supplies to the people.

September 11, the Twin Towers crumbled down in the hands of Alqaeda; But this are no ordinally towers because not even Osama can bring them down.

TWIN TOWERS


'TWIN TOWERS'
At the slightest provocation
You sprout out, soft, tender, and innocent
Before a sense of shyness
Creeps in
On your fertile land

Gradually, you become visible
Standing against all odds
From afar you are visible
you distinguish your fertile plains
From your brothers plains

Soon the harvesting will start
Not without a season of planting
Your tenderness
The irresistible bait

Your shy land
A naff in your absence
Denying you freedom
To bask in the plains
With fear of intrigue
And the unending intimidation

Amazingly you got strengths
That makes the brethren salivate
Droll oozing from corners
Of their lustful lips
That's the intensity of your grip

Emotions overwhelming
Temperatures escalating
Spurious glances
Only after your mention
A measure of your might

Who exactly hates seeing you
The paupers or the opulent
Spirit chasers or the priests
Black, white or yellow
You are simply the same
Your jinx immeasurable
Just who detests you?
Who would dare fondle your volume
Without hurting their emotions
Just who?

A cassock you are
To the tender and young
Your crater oozes goodness
The young and elderly crave to feel you
Your texture an oasis of bodily hope
Waking up other bodily faculties
Both within and without
Who says you are bad?

A bond of the past
A tablet of memoirs
Good and bad
Bad and good
Ooh great twin towers
Don't come down yet
Rise and rise

All Rights Reserved
MWANGI S. MUTHIORA



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED MWANGI MUTHIORA 2009
REPRODUCTION OF THIS POEM IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
TWO HOURS BEFORE IS A REGISTERED TRADE MARK.
Twin Towers- THE WOMANS BREAST that all of us crave to see, feel, fondle, and of course suckle!