Posts Tagged ‘Wordplay


u & i

There is no ‘u’ in love, but there is ‘u’ in hurt.
There is no ‘u’ in happy, but there is ‘u’ in blue
Cause ‘u’ are unhappy, ‘u’ are the unknown
There is ‘i’ in hip hop and ‘u’ in blues.
I’m the ‘i’ in Biggie and you are the ‘u’ in Tupac
There is ‘u’ in us cause ‘u’ are unique, there is no ‘i’ in us coz i am imperfect
‘u’ are in my outbox, ‘i’ am in your inbox
The ‘u’ in yours is more important than the ‘u’ in ours.

There is no ‘i’ in good but there is ‘i’ in sin
On the good, there is no ‘i’ in lose but there is ‘i’ in win
Be my third ‘i’ for I’m incomplete
‘u’ are like tunes in my head, i make ‘u’ my itunes
There is ‘u’ and ‘i’ in insecure.
When ‘i’ come in you change from secure to insecure
Cold, ‘i’ become ice

This is my bid so i add ‘i’ to ibid that last chapter
I am glad there is ‘i’ in fire and there is ‘u’ in lust
There is no ‘u’ in divorce, there is ‘i’. There is no ‘u’ in marriage either, there is ‘i’.
But there is ‘u’ and ‘i’ in union. This is our reunion.
Looking for ‘i’ in Christ for I know there is ‘i’ in evil
Take the ‘u’ and ‘i’ in Lucifer and turn it into the ‘u’ and ‘i’ in the Supreme Being, the ‘u’ in Jesus.
I choose the ‘i’ in life for I choose to live.

The ‘i’ in me looks for identity but the ‘i’ in my idiocy keeps the ‘u’ and ‘i’ in fucking up!
I am obsessed with the weight of a girl instead of the weight of the world.
What they say is hard for a pimp is harder for a man of faith. The ‘i’ in Pimp.
The ‘u’ who feels unloved by the ‘i’ who is interested, at times.
The ‘u’ who is in truth vs the ‘i’ who is in lies.
‘i’ am impeccable, ‘u’ are undefiled.
Then ‘u’ and ‘i’ are immaculate or untarnished depending on what letter ‘u’ and ‘i’ are

‘u’ and ‘i’ are the illuminati yet ‘u’ and ‘i’ are just an illusion.


Breaking Beds to Break Bread..

Truth be told, there is this old killer habit that never dies. A habit embraced with lies a habit that plies within the society, within villages and in the big city. Meet them often at the corners. Some are graduates with honours bracing the cold, glancing at on coming cars, waving and smiling as they approach. They will strike a pose or throw you a rose. Who should we blame? Are we exempted from reproach? These tales remind us of choices and chances expected. For every hoot, every raving engine, every flashing light brings about hope and expectation. The man hopes for pleasure. The girl hopes that the pressure will go away. She has bills to pay. Maybe she was molested. Some girls are just orphans. Some just want to play. She will do just about anything to break bread in the morning; he will do just about anything to see her break beds moaning. This after all is the infamous Koinange Street, Nairobi’s red light district.

You are spoilt for choice regardless of your age, tribe, race, the size of your wallet, your swagger, your name or your game. This is where many men go to rejoice and abuse their little freedom away from that cage be it a boarding school, a church or that marriage. School boys, married men, priests, members of parliament, the haves and have-nots the same.

Remember how at first, you used to cruise around probably eight of you jammed in a 5 seater, late in the night, high like kites. Uncouth, you have never been that knight in shining armour. There was no honour, you were just high school or college kids rather, looking for a happy hour. You would pass by that pub get a bottle of liquor. Pick up one girl on K-street, or try to. Still, there is no change hitherto this absurd behaviour. Some never paid. They just got laid. Some used them, abused them living life in the fast lane; makes you wonder whether you were insane. And the question, did you use protection?

It was routine to cruise around town before hitting the clubs downtown looking for a good time. Club-hopping from pub to pub, crossing from street to street sometimes just to get a glimpse. They don’t discriminate whether you are underage or not. It’s the wallet that does the talking. She does not want coffee dates, dinner or any wooing. But in the morning you will be ruing. You will curse when you recollect your previous night’s foolery. It might be too late to correct.

This Street, therefore, was and still is, a sad place to reprieve: a foolish way to relieve your stress, your pain, your anger or your frustration. We try to re-live the years that pass us by. Like fools needing to learn and the street is the teacher: a teacher with a harsh lesson. A lesson that we seem to never learn. We get burnt, we get hurt, the girls earn from it, some of us try to run from it. But most of the time we run with it.

What is it about these streets? Skimpy clad women of all ages, size and complexion. Filthy rich men of all ages, size and religion. They all pass by regardless of their wealth and status; regardless of their health status. For a fee, for free. Is it because of pain? Or maybe there are those who gain. I don’t know. Choose to let go. This path, this street’s wrath is real and death is not discreet.

We whisper about it, we whimper because of it. We leave wives and kids behind; sometimes we come back to them. Some times we don’t. You see, you pay her to lay her but life plays her to slay you. She will give you a good time for ten minutes and give heartaches to your loved ones for eons when they visit your grave. Be brave. Whether it’s an STI or HIV, this red light district with its predators will get you.



No “ifs”, “ands”, “buts”

Lift me up. Put me in a higher place. Next to the stars where my hut is in the cosmos, my outer space where I do not have to chase after girls with glasses of cosmos.

Help me think very deep like a philosopher and travel faster than the speed of sound. Maybe I can think far at the speed of a greyhound just so my thoughts could be profound.

Shape shift into a musical note that I belt out for you and love it unconditional. Love it unproportional in a way become irrational.

I know ignorance comes and takes over my show. The same way love takes over and I have nowhere to go.

Sometimes its ridiculous. I am meticulous at it and will raise hell so we can sleep in heaven. I will scream and yell like a young heathen.

Pound my proud chest but caress your pronounced chest. Profess my ways to calm your stress not only on the mattress.

I thought I needed you but I was wrong. I should have been more clear, I should have treated you more fair. Like paid for that hair, built you an elevator instead of that stair-way that made you stay away.

Charisma, like Africa the mother of civilization, we are meant to be for infinity that’s why I let u see my two faces. Take you to my two places, my body and soul. I know my mouth is foul and I have fault. But I was taught by my forefathers to respect a woman. I was taught to expect more from a woman.

But we are only human.

You are so influential like a lit candle. You can be part demon part angel. Your eyes turn black when angered like a shark feeding. And off-white like a cayman underwater preying.

That’s why I have a smile on my face but with tears of a sad clown. Thats why I’ll walk a mile to your place with fears when you are down.

A rebel without a cause. A vessel with no course on a river without a source. We need to let it go. We both know it’s over but we try to keep our heads above water. Aware of the alligator underwater. Aware of the shark with black eyes. And still trying to break free from the lies so we can soar up above the skies.

So I give up my ifs, my ands and my buts meaning I give up my hesitations, my worries and my uncertainty. Let’s chase that infinity.

I want to take you back to the good old days with pet names and home cooked meals. With long conversations, talking forever till it gets dark. I am stuck here alone missing the long walks in the park.

Let’s take it back to, cuddling till we sleep, saying sorry even when you are wrong to flip, coz love is…

And we were the true definition of love incarnate.. Two lustful people who laid to rest the carnal to embrace soul love… And i love you still… Now, tomorrow and always will…

But if…



She gazes outside her window as the sorrow fazes her maze of a life that knows not what tomorrow holds. Her little wooden window lights this small room casting a shadow of a widow whose life reflects nothing but regret. She misses him and fourteen seasons later she still finds reasons to hang in there. They wrote her off too early. The thought that she had it was too scary.

See, they took all she cared for and worse still the ancestors took whom she cared for. The father of her two sons. Taken by the father of the two suns. Two suns that rewind the seasons and remind her of how her strife has shaped her life. The day and night suns. The day one giving her hope yet the night one creeping with ghosts that quench their thirst with the tears she has shed over the years. Years shaped by her fears of not waking up the next morning. Fears that make her shudder with thoughts of her sons mourning. Her death. An outcast because she had it. An outburst in the village after they heard it. The pastor and witch doctor did not have an answer. The elders did. They heed the outcry to send her away never knowing their deeds would push her to find a way.

You see, she never knew that good life. She did not have that good job in the city. Her lifestyle knew no danger; her life knew no anger. She was just a stranger, a village girl who had never traveled the district leave alone the world. She lived on instinct and the taught word from her forefathers. Then she met him. The wild one who swept her off her feet almost dropping her six feet deep. He came back with it from the city. His riches had made him sort of a village celebrity. They all wanted a piece of him and so did she? It has been long and she matches on strong than ever before. Her two sons in school as she builds their foundation. She is now a stranger to doubt. She stands out, having made it in this shanty doing odd jobs but never having to sacrifice her morals.

Tomorrow is a mystery but her kick will pick her up and keep her going. Living knowing that she who doubts is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. Her regretfulness would have everything in this world cursed and lost in all forgetfulness. So she reflects on her refracted past and her hope is in the name of the most gracious, the most merciful. Her life may have a refracted ray of light but it still lights her up no matter how bent it gets. She has shown a spirited bent to live.



Style. Nyathi if u like, and I have it. Out with the old and in with the new shit. Close your eyes, I might blind you with her shine. Her kind is what i’d make mine. I’m talking Adidas, Nike, Ben Sherman, Louis V, Levi Strauss. I’m talking Dunlop, hush puppies, Reeboks, vans, pro-keds. Someone I’d kick with all weekend.

Style. The price i pay. Tv and magazines taught me to walk this way. Talk this way. She is my swagger. May my bumptiousness not lead me to stagger. She is mine, my size nine. You can Mess with me, but watch my shoe. Do your did, but watch my feet. Spent to loot if i had to. Shoot if it came to. Like my new suede shoe. She lifts me when i am blue. She is my beaut and i’m her beau. That makes us beautiful. Filling me with a beatific smile.

These baby legs at times tire. so much work to march the attire. Colour co-ordinated but not fitting. Fascinating but defeating the purpose. Don’t believe age is nothing but a number, people lie but numbers don’t. She has to be new, the correct size and for the right price. All numbers. If i have it, i will spend it, and that makes me independent.

I got a new shoe. A shoe with a sad hue. A hue whose whole gamut is blue. I am a nine but she is a size ten and makes me sway like an aspen. She does not fit. I call her my closet misfit. I can’t wear her for long. She feels all wrong. She is not a shoe for all occasions. A shoe that gets me in motion, my catalyst or magic potion. She feels like wearing an Ozwald Boateng suit with chucks or wearing a turban in church. This is no ordinary shoe, she is not Chinese. She is handmade from the finest cut of English leather. She makes me a thug and at the same time, an extraordinary gentleman. She is my Ben Sherman.

Sometimes she makes me pull a B-Boy stance, a roc boy dance and party like a rockstar. She might be from venus or from mars. A star.… Sometimes she makes me smile when what i really want to do is furrow my brow. She may be a pair of ice creams by the neptunes fact is she is a star. The problem with stars is you can’t have them and this northstar shoe might leave a scar. A deep scar like from a bullet. A scar from my pair of Bata Bullets. A fallacy? Maybe. A fantasy? Possibly. She is my a.d.i.d.a.s.. Why? All.Day.I.Dream.About.Sex…i mean shoes.



6th January the year of the coup, God breathed air into my lungs. Lungs that in turn sprung to life a small heart. Lungs that oxygenated a small heart that bravely jump-started the journey of a brave heart. A heart that learnt to love, laugh, hate and hurt. Hurt, pain, heart-aches. Heartbreaks that taught that same heart to choose, loose and part. Part of which led me to party to drown away pain. Pain that cast a mould around me and made my heart cold with fears never to be told. A mould dolled up with a name. A name that i was given by my father. A name that I gave up, call me insane. A father that saw no need to be in my life any further. A father that i needed but he needed a another life rather. A life that God gave me but also took away a life that i needed through my father. A father that only was after i solely faced my seventeen seasons never giving reasons to account for the abandoned years. Years that echo a mother’s love in my ears. Ears that listen but don’t hear.

I became a teacher way before i was a student. I became a seeker whose ways were prudent. Prudence that required patience. Patience that i lost busy being all grown up rather than being a child. A child that went wild with ideas, all lies. Lies that dimmed my light but redeemed my plight. A light that flickered my life but sparked those lungs to fight. Seeking insight where my right was when he left.

Tens of seasons later and that heart is still on a quest. A quest to rest, to be content, to rid off the contempt. So until my coup de gràce, these lungs will not hold their breath for the word of grace. These lungs will let me live and at the same time believe it is getting better. I do not have to make a call or write a letter. These lungs.


G-3000: Evolving

I dream when I sleep and see those dreams evaporate as soon as I open my eyes. Nightmares. Sometimes I feel like I need an upgrade: a new version. I wonder whether God would soup me up to George-3000: The evolved version: A superior species. Throw in a bionic eye so I can see past these nightmares when the lights go out. I want to dream with my eyes open. Life has punched my lights out. All I see now are fragments of my broken life lying sparsely, scarcely refracting my dreams and ambitions. I can’t spend all my life behind that velvet rope. I want front row seats. Should I relocate to the gold coast? Is that where all that silver and gold is? The gold that never gets old. The gold that would have my soul sold. I need an upward crescendo to boost my ego at the very least. Is it a pre-nervous breakdown? Throw me in a straitjacket. I might need an angel too. I am not Mr. Supremo anymore. I am that bird whose wings have been clipped. I am that Sniper whose scope broke. Take me under your wing. Make me that beggar who became rich, that villain who became the hero, that student who became the teacher. I am that seed that will become that tree whose fruits will feed that beggar who became rich.

Kinyua Gichohi

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