HE’S AN ILLEGAL THOUGHT

Beautiful words

Nairobi Poetry House

close-up-of-couple-holding-hands
I keep thinking
He could be mine
Maybe even my forever lost love
Everything about him
Screams he is perfect for me
I love the way he moves
His lips keep talking
But I look at how they breath
Like I am taking the same air as his
I love how he laughs
Gives the hairs on my arms
A light caress
Why can I not forget him
Knowing
He is an illegal thought

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Hijabi Librarians — Discover

We should have this in Kenya

This group of librarians works to give voice to Muslim literature and books with Muslim protagonists: “We aim to recognize, celebrate and honor the books and authors that get it right.” As the site’s authors cleverly say, “We’ve got it covered.”

Hijabi Librarians — Discover

The “D”

If your mind did not immediately go to the gutter, please step outside, Elijah and his blazing chariot await.

I did not choose these words (The “D”), they were uttered by my son in reference to something said to him by his pal. This is how the conversation went.

Him: Mama do you know the “D”?

Record scratch

Me: What did you say?

Him: (looking amazed at my lack of knowledge) The “Deeeee”, do you know the “Deeee”?

Me: (Unable to hide my shock and with a quivering voice) What are you talking about?

Him: You know *Kim said his dad is the “D” and insisted that he is the “D”

Me: (exhibiting slight relief and having resumed breathing) What is the D?

Him: Mama! The “D” is the devil!

Me: (Thawing with relief) Oooooh! The Devil! Why is Kim calling his dad the devil?

Him: I don’t know, but he said that is what they call him.

Me: Who is they?

Him: Everyone in their house I guess. I tried telling him the devil is not his dad but he said he was.

Me: Kim must have not understood what he heard, but tell him the devil is biblical and not living in their house.

Him: (scratching his chin…as if he has a beard) Kim puzzles me.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Which made me very aware of the conversations we have as adults assuming that the children are not soaking up everything we say. *Kim now goes around calling his father the devil, he obviously picked this up from someone, who was not aware or does not care that these words will be repeated before an audience that can not be controlled.

Little ears, innocence, shaping world views from our own homes.

Good people, let us be more careful and conscious of what we are saying in-front of our little ones. It is easier to hold your tongue, than to try undo damaged.

 

*Kim, not the little boys real name.

 

Image credits.

 

My birthday

I usually do not care for birthdays, not even mine.

But this year round, I feel older, significantly older.

I have been put through the wringer, but I am still here! In this space, the place I presently occupy in spirit and in truth, I have come to appreciate that I choose not to give a fudge about anything that even remotely irritates. I am embracing the “walk away” approach, and possibly cuss under my breath, but I will waddle away.

Things I am over: Bad debt

Am I the only one who gets amazed at people who refuse to render payment for goods or services rendered? As in why do you need to be REPEATEDLY reminded to settle your dues? Apart from being an irredeemable ass wipe, why would you do that?

Anyone who owes me, I have blessed you with my money. It will not buy you decency or anything between your ears, but you can try.

I am sooooo into: KC!

Where has this drink been all my life? All of it!

I was introduced to it by a good pal of mine, and I have not looked back. How is it that it has absolutely NO hungover! NOOOOONE!

Good bye team whiskey, I will miss you dear Rum.

I am riding this KC wave ( Kenya Cane for those who have not had their morning coffee) like a woman possessed.

It might not be 4 o’clock anywhere on earth, but I do not care. Cheers mates!

 

 

Image credits.

Dear tribe-less Kenyans!

A fresh perspective.

This is how it starts.

This is how they play us.

They pit one side against the other, asking us to lay down our lives for their personal pursuits.

Certain birds tweet and chirp accusations. Eventually, the bird droppings fall to the grassroots, fester with ignorance and grow into violence. Everyone ignores the writings on the talking walls.

The skirt no longer greets the headscarf when they pass each other on the road as they drive to work.

Misinformation and propaganda give rise to full-blown hate.

People eventually pick up guns and rally in the streets.

Three killed, one injured.

The word person isn’t even used. A newsroom somewhere: “Foolish Africans, killing each other again.” There won’t be a #PrayforKenya. The world is bored; you did this before in 2007. Plus you don’t have the charm of Paris and you’re not white. Oh and that singer just had quintuplets. “If it bleeds it leads” doesn’t work anymore. Get those retweets. Priorities, people. Priorities.

Headlines fly, a TV screen reads: “Kenya Burning.” The producer assigned it three sentences on the script. A description on the demise of the only country you’ve ever known is reduced to a highlight.

More people call for blood. They have the taste for it now. The inner demons that slumbered since 2007 are now fully awake and starving. Almost a decade, a long time for evil to be suppressed….

One by one their sons are called to fight. The colour on the skirt fades and the headscarf starts to loosen. They don’t talk so loud now, but still tap their feet to the rhythm of hate.

The politicians they loathed, the politicians they loved… they’re all gone. They had their visas and hired choppers long before the bombs started to drop.

There is a crater now, at the corner where they stopped waving hello to each other.

Clean water and food are scarce. An entire decade of children has never stepped into a classroom. Schools are now makeshift hospitals for the remaining sons who volunteer to get killed because at least the rebels feed them.

The mothers search for their children. Skirt queues three people behind headscarf, waiting for the WFP food ration. Death didn’t care: from the Ketepa hills to the Chale sands. A body is a body is a body, and Grim’s quotas have to be met.

They cannot remember why it started and now they cannot find an end.

The mothers walk, empty and shelled into a waking death.

The generation of their futures lie rotting in unidentified graves, bone fragments mixing into the rubble of the building where Mama Njeri no longer sells the oil that Mrs. Owino needed for the deep-frying. Buried is the laughter they shared when they discussed the youthful idiocy of their sons and how expensive everything was getting. How neither the government nor the opposition ever really cared.

Their sons are dead. The women are dead. The future is dead.

Kenyatta and Odinga

The Llama Thinks…

… leaders come and go, citizens remain. Nairobi is not burning: majority of western media is already hoping isolated protests turn into countrywide large-scale violence. I pray that after all this, they feel they have wasted money on all those extra journalists they flew into our beautiful nation. The future is still unwritten, “Sit down, be humble.”

The So Necessary List:

Awesome Kenyans winning gold medals at the IAAF championships in London
#Githeriman memes

Something I wrote minutes after I heard a patriotic member of the IEBC was brutally murdered and my mind went into overdrive. Today, it had to be shared.

via When The Ink Wears Off — TAZAMA LLAMA

 

Image Credits.