Three am

A cock just crowed and I just snapped back to normalcy. It’s three in the morning and I haven’t even bothered to check my bed out. My head is a perched desert of thoughts and every desert needs an oasis for caravan traders. Right Lulu? Yeah right. So my life is basically in an optimal place. I am not quite sure if the author of Mombasa Raha My Foot agrees with me though but anyway I am happy. My mum usually says I am incomprehensible, a strange melody or just some weird solo with no chorus. Ah! That aside.

So throughout the night, I have been over thinking like every other person that has adopted a nocturnal lifestyle. I mean it’s really hard to have your eyes open when rats are engaging in the Ineos challenge from one side of the ceiling to the other. So while racking my brain up for things to think about other than rats of course, something I read in The Silent Patient pops up in my notifications bar, “Music hath the charm to soothe a savage heart. “ So I hit YouTube up real quick.

I don’t understand what happened because I suddenly thought about weddings. Don’t get your hopes high, I don’t fancy weddings at all. I have never understood where one gets the courage to kiss before people. Scratch that, before the crucifix. As if that’s not enough, you have to sign your certificates after the kiss. Wew! I can’t. I don’t know how married people managed. After kissing before people I believe your hands would shake so how can you sign such an important document with shaky hands? I love my work legibly structured so to digest the idea of shaky hands and sweaty palms, my brain can only come up with one word, scribble. I mean can’t we sign later? Anyway that aside I’ll ask Gabriel how that works or revisit my past paper, Diary of a Miaha maybe I missed something.

As I go through Ethereal music and The Good Melodies, the vibe still is off so I take my chances with wedding songs. Doesn’t YouTube have maneno? Adventist wedding songs line up on autoplay so I listen to them one by one. So there’s one thing about Adventist music that leaves me proding for more. The music is arranged such that you can feel it in your toes as the words are inscribed in your heart. One song in particular catches my attention (https://youtu.be/8a2L_C02_Pk). As the voices like whispers softly prick into my heart like a summer breeze, I feel like I am in for Spring or Christmas concert at Maxwell Academy. I can smell the music all the way from Kajiado. Voices boom in my ears and thumping makes me feel like I am standing in an orchestra pit. Sheet music on metallic music stands and wind instruments in capable hands. This time though, the music is more than just the wind ensemble. It’s blending with the voices and the hands skillfully smoothing showers of strings. Turns out this isn’t a scary night after all.

Another cock crows. It doesn’t bother me this time because couples are singing nicely to each other, before my eyes. I think I have changed my mind about weddings. Speaking of weddings I remember Johny Munyao and Ms Chebet and I can only imagine how their wedding would look like. Ms Chebet would definitely raise her angelic voice with the sound of music. I don’t know if Johny would move his swift hands over the keys or he’ll sit and wait to be knighted as his bow strikes the chords of his violin. I don’t know if Neema would be interpreting or not. What I know is, weddings are beautiful (minus the wearing heels part )

Stay home and stay safe. Sanitise! Oh Sanitise! I want to watch more weddings at three am.

Jepkosgei Marion.

The Animal Farm-Book Review.

Title :Animal Farm
Author :George Orwell
Published : 1945,London.
Reviewer :Jepkosgei Marion.

George Orwell introduces this novel by vividly describing Mr Jones drunk evening. He weaves up a web of the activity that followed Mr Jones drunken-induced sleeping stupor; The animals on the farm ranging from hens and dogs to horses and a donkey Benjamin gathering to listen in to what the wise and benevolent 12 year old pig, Major had to say about his strange dream.

Major, aware of how fast old age was catching up with him took it upon himself to impart wisdom to those that lay before him. Major clears the fogs of ignorance by crystally bringing to their attention the injustices directed towards them by man.
“The life of an animal is misery and slavery: that is the plain truth.”

Major quickly snaps a shot of what their situation is by quizzically approaching the state of England as a country; “But is this simply part of the order of nature? Is it because this land of ours is so poor that it cannot afford a decent life to those who dwell upon it? No, comrades, a thousand times no! The soil of England is fertile, its climate is good, it is capable of affording food in abundance to an enormously greater number of animals than now inhabit it.” This analogy coupled with Major’s dream of the song The Beasts of England was enough to spark the animals in manor farm towards a rebellion they knew not of the day or the time it were to occur; though they felt obliged to prepare for it even after Major’s death three days later.

George Orwell exploits symbolism to its great depths in this novel set as an allegorical representation of the Russian revolution of 1917. Rebellion, like a prophecy comes to pass when Mr Jones having lost a lawsuit battle laxes on the duty of feeding the animals. This prompts an action by a cow that led to animals helping themselves to the feeds and driving away Mr Jones men when they tried to lash out on them. A hungry man is an angry man.

After rebellion came freedom that saw the animals ruling and working for themselves. Under the supervision of Snowball and Napoleon, two polar opposites the dream of ‘Animalism’ had seen the light of the day; Freedom.

This new-found freedom, saw power being bestowed to the pigs who were considered wise. With power, come jealousy and hunger. Napoleon took to no interest Snowball’s ways of educating even the old animals. This brewed am endless debate in every assembly and Napoleon deemed it fit to separate offsprings of dogs and pigs from their young ones so he could teach singlehandely.

With a Napoleon-taught army, Napoleon chased Snowball out of the farm, fabricated lies against him and made his minions of underlings secure him an unopposed position as a new leader. Power swelled in him that he threw the cares of the other animals in the farm to the wind. He even did away with whoever tried as much to audaciously question him. He changed the commandments of animalism as it pleased him and even traded with man, the enemy. Benjamin could even attest that this wasn’t the life they expected after rebellion. With Squealer reassuring them with lies, the animal farm was definitely not a place to live.

Pigs and dogs ate to their fill, slept in beds and wined to their satisfaction while the entire animal family suffered reduced rations in hard times. The commandments mattered no more. The old, who knew about the concept of rebellion died, rebellion was passed only by mouth and soon it became like a figment of imagination. Napoleon called it a truce with man and lifting the final straw to the camel’s back, the commandments ceased to be, man and pigs dressed alike and ate a table while playing cards; restoring the name Manor for the farm.

This novel although set in 1945 regarding the French Revolution of 1917 is nothing far from the political situation in Africa. Resource curse or rather the paradox of the plenty is the reality we are living in. The Dutch’s disease is clawing deep into the flesh of society, yet there’s not a voice loud enough that can redeem us from present day colonialism. Polar opposites shake hands to end political conflict yet states still lay in ruins.

Reading this awakened a nostalgia to The Dawn of Planet Apes in regard to power that births hunger and rebellion: Koba seizing power from Ceasar and manipulating the ape community against humans . It also heightened my thirst to read The Rodentdom.

Kiswahili Version : Shamba la Wanyama.

Sit a While with Me.

Sit a While with Me.

I love a gay sky. Today however, the sky is everything but pleasantries. It’s like a teen chain of smokers met up there and blew their bullshit the cloud’s way. I love to sit at empty benches on abandoned ways and so today, like any other day I am seated on an isolated concrete block by the roadside. There’s an 8/10 possibility of a downpour but that’s not according to me. It’s drizzling slightly and this sets off motorists who now are hooting at each other, their tires skidding against the asphalt as they try to catch a ‘break’ from their over speeding. Everyone is expecting rain, well everyone except me of course and they bustle around, gathering their groceries in readiness for a fall. They pass by me, unaware of my eyes so, sit a while with me.

I love to earwig into conversations, it makes a basis for my psychoanalysis. Okay I am a bit weird but since everyone ignores me, I decided I’d always listen into conversations; one word and I’d have a whole play rolling out in front of my eyes. Today however I am in no position to eavesdrop, I am in a county where people speak a language I don’t understand; gives me a creepy mathematics kind of feeling (I stopped digging math at form two so math gurus, my apologies). This therefore renders me hobby-less and I sulk as I count the number of counties that stand between me and home.

This county is clothed in an emerald lushness as my home county but my heart can’t be taken for a fool, I suddenly miss home. The thing about home is that there’s little to no noise from boda-bodas.  Scratch that, the murram roads at home are empty unless it’s morn or evening and fathers are to and from work.At home I wouldn’t be seated on a concrete block; rather, I would stand atop the hill my home is found in and listen to the whistling of trees, the melodies of sons heading home with their goats in tow from grazing  or I would  lie on the grass and admire the panoramic view of the red-orange haze cast by the evening sun on the hilled horizon as it tries to outdo the trees. I would then head home and like every sister at evening, you would hear me call out, “Pkemei it’s getting cold, you need a sweater!” at my playful younger brother whom I probably don’t know his whereabouts. These thoughts about home almost darken my mood and as I look up to prevent a tear from falling, I decide I’d look at people instead.

A beautiful lady in a stunning dress and immaculately gel laden hair walks past me and I am awed. You probably among the many people that think girls looking at other girls is weird but I don’t blame you though I care less about that. I look at my shorts and my hoodie and sigh. Let me not even start with my hair; I think as my fingers touch my hair; usually an afro (a weaver’s nest at that) but now threaded in what looks like wannabe dreadlocks. Speaking of dreadlocks, there’s a super handsome guy a few feet away from me with killer dreadlocks and I was thinking he could start off my crush list (Haven’t seen my crush since EPL suspension) until I found him chatting off over bunches of miraa (khat). Crushing but what do we say? Diamond Heart. I catch the last glimpse of the stunning lady as she struts away in her heels and the voice in my head chimes in, you try heels and girl you’ll trip in them, break your legs and no one will ever believe you’re Kalenjin since you can’t run. With this in mind, I checked on the laces of my vans, thanked God for them and looked across the road.

Black is my colour; God’s personal choice for me and my own so don’t chastise me for getting shocked at seeing red boots. A lady walks to a green grocer’s shop (one who didn’t pack) in red boots and my eyes bleed. I don’t have anything against red, I mean it’s the colour of blood, love and I am a Manchester United fanatic. Exclusive of my high school sweater, jacket and previous entities, red isn’t it for me. I have never dreamt of waking up in this Christmas-y colour but hey Beatty, I still love you. Having had enough of these boots, I decide to look at cars instead. Did I say I was right about the weather prediction (Nation FM would be so proud of me), it didn’t rain in the end and as I craned my neck to meet strange faces in cars, something strange happens; strange for strange. Familiarity starts masking itself on the faces of people in the cars (I even see my favourite auntie lol!). Blaming this on missing home, I fix my face mask and walk back home before illusions cloud my entire existence. I am safer from them at home, I conclude.

Broken Silence 034.

I Miss My Diary

I sit here with a whirlwind in my mind.  You must be thinking why you don’t put it down on paper then; you see that’s the problem. My diary or rather my journal is 181.9km away from me and I am a mess of emotions right now; safe to say I miss my diary. My big brown leather diary with a sturdy fountain pen acting as a bookmark from when I last had it.

I don’t even want to pour my heart to its welcoming pages. I want to run my hands across its rough weather beaten covers paying attention to the smoother edges. I want to read my name tattooed on its belly and caress the golden ink splattered on that inscription. I want to flip the pages and let my eyes roam the pages my ink earlier splayed on. I want to rediscover me; to understand how open or closed a book I am.

I miss my diary. With it, I am never hungry. I feed on the dates that come with it and drink from the fountains of my ballpoint pen while I bathe in the sun warmed springs of my bed.

I want to go for my diary but I am so locked down thanks to COVID-19. I want to write on my diary once again; this time with my eyes closed. I want to let my hands work its way as the whirlwind of emotions in me fades with every line the pen touches.

I bet I have to stay home if I really need to get to it. Ironical but that’s it.

I miss my diary.

Broken Silence 034

HOLD MY HAND: OL PEJETA CONSERVANCY

OL PEJETA CONSERVANCY.

Photo courtesy of porini.com

Last year, I embarked on an academic trip to Ol Pejeta Conservancy. Twelve seasons and a fortnight and I have been receiving a monthly e-newsletter from the conservancy keeping me posted on what is making newsflash in the Laikipia based conservancy. You might be wondering how this concerns you in the first place so let me keep you abreast of what this entails.

Ol Pejeta is a rhino sanctuary as well as a chimpanzee rescue centre that relies on input from tourists that pay homage to this legendary site that has an array of wildlife ranging from elephants, rhinos, dung beetles and birds of different species; be it aquatic or terrestrial as well as plant species that are as indigenous as they can be. Input from tourism as well as funding from KWS isn’t sufficient and so every month I read with a sunken face their call for donations in my Gmail inbox. Being the broke 20-year-old that I am, I usually press the back button and hung my face in shame and guilt at the reality that I can’t lend a hand in saving the lives of very endangered and other nearly extinct species of animals the Ol Pejeta family is taking under its arm.

My friends and I love wild animals, the patron of my Writers club loves birds, my grandmother relies on indigenous plant species for medication and all my classmates are environmental scientists. I hope you too have acquainted with wildlife in one way or another. This month’s e-newsletter is what prompted me to write to you wonderful people. As the dark shadow of COVID- 19 sinks its unwelcome claws in the flesh of the globe, the human race is in a frenzy and that means tourism as an economic sector has been hit hard by this tornado; though to our dismay, wild life except rats are oblivious to this pandemic.

 Ol Pejeta family expresses their need for financial support to be able to go forth with its calling to protect lives in the wild and conserve the environment at large. Ol Pejeta conservancy has not only a responsibility to the wildlife and their biological environment but also to the wonderful communities neighbouring them. In the wake of climate change and the need for adoption of environmentally sound livelihood has seen an ally of this conservancy; Namene Solar Light Company taking to changing the game of lighting in 48 households from the gear of kerosene lamps. Wading the murky waters while trying to stay afloat, the conservancy like any man wary of the possibility of drowning is bidding you to support them in the following ways:

1. The Art of Survival

This is a global competition for children of up to 18 years aimed at raising money for wildlife and the environment through artwork and winners will be rewarded with a once in a lifetime holiday in Kenya with their family.

• Fundraising with Ami Vitale

This fundraiser only requires you to donate from as low as 10 US Dollars and stand a chance to win an all-expenses paid trip to East Africa’s largest rhino sanctuary with a guest of your choice, at a time of your choice. Enter this draw and you might win a trip of a lifetime! Exciting right?

To learn more: www.olpejetaconservancy.org

                           reservations@olpejetaconservancy.org

Interestingly Ol Pejeta is fixing you an adventurous sofa safari; a live broadcast on Instagram and Facebook with their managing director, Richard Vigne and their champion guide, Samuel Mbogo. A game drive from the comfort of your living room.

Catch them daily from 4:30pm EAT.

This ladies and gentlemen is my appeal for you, ease me off the guilt of being broke that has rendered me helpless in the bid to protect what I love the most; wildlife and the environment. Environmental conservation is a universal responsibility so let’s pool our efforts towards this and protect what protects us.  The environment has never neglected us so let’s support Ol Pejeta black rhino sanctuary and one last appeal, please stay home to be safe so you’ll visit Ol Pejeta for Safari of a lifetime. Share this to the stretch of your sharing lists.

Thank you in advance.

Jepkosgei Marion.

Midnight Cries.

“AND IF HAPPINESS EVER FINDS YOU AGAIN, DON’T MENTION ITS PREVIOUS BETRAYAL; ENTER INTO HAPPINESS AND BURST!”
He stood there staring into space, smoke rose out of the smoldering end of his midnight cigarette. It’s like he had left the world behind because I had seen him couple times in the balcony. My insomnia kept me in the wake of darkness but I wondered what haunted his nights. The mere sight of him gave me peace of mind for it proved I wasn’t a weirdo like my mates thought.

“Why don’t I shine my weird light bright so other weirdoes can know where to find me?” I thought as I opened my bedroom window.
“Hey there?” I asked excitedly as I waved at him. Fixing his black hoodie, he turned to look at me. With eyes so distant, he answered back, “You’re too loud for a scrawny girl. Go to sleep!” Snarky it was but he ended with a peace sign which was pretty contradictory and my lack of sleep cracked.

“That was rude you know?” I replied as I closed my windows and my blinds. I fell on my bed but still I couldn’t sleep so I chose to stare into darkness instead.
Morning came and I went to the balcony to let the sun bless my melanin. The previous night’s occurrences fuelled some curiosity in me and I trod to where the boy from the previous night lay. There was nothing impressive on the floor except for a few used matches, burnt ends of cigarettes and a body spray graffiti that spelt ‘MURAL’ with a hooded figure at the end. Nothing stirring but as I was about to walk away, I saw a small book hidden between two pillars and I took towards it. “Bestseller! I see,” the bibliophile in me whispered.
‘Midnight cries’ that was the title. Nodding, I flipped the pages without hesitation. The words were illegibly handwritten and in black ink, but I strained to read them aloud. “Dear world, why are you so loud? I am running away but I am tripping on your withies. Your flames are engulfing me and I am just a moth. I am screaming but all I can hear is an echo of my own screams. Y’all just wining and dining while I am dying inside! Why are you taking me through the night? Why are you pushing me to the dark side? What happened to lullabies? Doesn’t anyone want to sing me to sleep? I am fading!” The first piece ended there and the poetess in me rose to applaud since it hit far greater than Irrow Allan level of poetry my guild praises. I ran my fingers through the page and my poetry joy was short lived since I could feel some dried tears on the page and it hit me. Anna Baker and ‘The whole thirteen reasons why’ style, it was more than poetry!

My curiosity pressured me to take the book with me. I ran with it to my bedroom and settled to have a look at all the other pages. I decided to read the most recent pages. A pencil in the shape of the cross was in between the pages and on it wasn’t Christ, but a man dressed in a rugged pair of jeans, an Eminem hoodie and black Fila shoes. I was awestruck, but something was iffy about the portrayal. I flipped to the next page and a lengthy poem filled the page, “The insurrection. ” I read the title as I nodded, it was an epistolary like the previous one. This time, it wasn’t addressing the world. “Hello sweet grief,”  that was the starting line and the entire piece was in a continuous prose.
“I have called amnesia for quite some time and always had to leave a voice message. The world keeps giving me some blue ticks. I have decided to pay you a visit. Maybe the grass is greener on the other side. Today is Friday so I can’t afford to come since Easter always starts on this day. I’m planning to avail myself this Monday if silence itself wouldn’t have invited me to the underworld that drinks my blood every evening; the same world whose claws ripped love off my life. I know Monday is His resurrection but what else can I do if I spent my early years believing what the priest taught that thou hast promised to give me rest and now he is turning His back on me?” At this point I closed the page. It’s like I could hear his voice. A voice distressed. A heart; like a whole glass window breaking into shards. Hand held on my chest, I sighed then went back to reading the piece. “Death is the reason for my grief but maybe my own death would be less painful or sweet even.” At this point, my heart was racing and I couldn’t control my tears. He wanted to die. To run away from the grief he was facing. The air was thinning and I needed to run. I put my sport shoes on, the book inside my t-shirt and sprinted out of the house. Someone had to do something. That piece triggered something in me. It summoned up an article I read on one of The Gilder Magazine publications about stories from the lakeside. Stories told of fishermen who died in the deep waters of the lake, as told by other fishermen who survived. I didn’t want to live up to the title. I didn’t want to tell stories of such allusions. This mystery boy was definitely drowning in his lake of grief but suicide wasn’t the option.

Thoughts like this gave me the adrenaline rush. I increased my speed as I passed between well pruned tea bushes. It was ironical; the tea bushes were healthy and to perfection but someone’s life was like a thrown chewed on piece of gum ;Tasteless and now worthless. “Scratch that,” i
thought. There wasn’t a way life could be useless as to be thrown away. Then I bore in mind the piece on the first page of his book;”Y’all wining and dining while I am dying from the inside.”
” Was it possible he had shone his bright lights? Was it possible for a lake not to have an anchoring point?” I asked myself as I paced up. I passed by busy tea pickers who didn’t seem bothered by my running considering I am from an athletic background. Then I recalled that he had said the world keeps giving him blue ticks and it sunk deep in me. In my moment of running I was overwhelmed that I couldn’t see ahead. I rammed into someone and the book fell out of my t-shirt. As I reached for it, the person I ran into beat me to it. “Give me that!” I uttered as I scrambled to reach for the book. However, that was cut short when I realized I had collided with the owner of the book.
“Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrgggghhhhh!!!” He wailed out as he tore the book apart. As he fell on his knees it’s like his heart ripped out and agony poured out. His cry was laced with fear and his outburst was knotted with trembling and rage. I bent to pat his shoulder but he shoved me to the tea bushes and hotly hurried towards Omollo dam. He was fixed on ending his life but I wasn’t going to let him. I rose to my feet and went after him. His hooded figure was evident from a distance. The back of his hoodie written I can’t let go was the only thing I could see as he rounded the bushes that sided with the path leading to the dam. My adrenaline rush heightened with every landing my foot made. Never had I ever been determined in life like that moment.
“Gracious Father!” I cried out to the Lord of athletics moments after I had pinned him on the ground after pulling him by his hoodie as he hoisted himself to jump into the cold yet so hungry waters of Omollo dam. “Why are you stopping me from doing this?” he croaked out mid sobs. I had not the words to tell him so I embraced him with a hope that my hug would hold a few if not all of his breaking pieces together.
“Do you even know how many times I have listened to Linkin Park ask why everything is so heavy?” he broke out as he grabbed a fistful of my t-shirt. I didn’t know his story but the weight thrown in his voice had me tighten the embrace that the heaviness of his heart would melt away; that his heart would only be touched by nostalgia.
“Tell the healing I’m home, ” Pascal ended the spoken word; a story of the tragic road accident, one that led to the death of his parents. Six months in a rehabilitation unit was slowly piecing him back. Midnight cries were now of those who attended the Art for Wellness concert he was first performing at. ‘Hello Sweet Grief’ wasn’t the first line of his poems but ‘Dear God‘ by Joanah Madzime (Poets in the autumn) ruled the blast of his stereo every morning. John Grayson’s ‘I’m Fine‘ (YouTube) became his reference material. ‘Midnight cries’ was no longer my thing either, I was ready to read different stories from the lakeside from Vincent Owino’s collection. Healing, that’s the name Pascal knew as mine. Crying me to sleep at midnight was long gone. I was home.
Jepkosgei Marion
@Broken Silence 034

Mural.

I sheltered my eyes from the streaks of the blinding light.
My eyes beheld a mural.
A man tall and slender, befitting a regal.
He stood tall in his ordinary jeans, hoodie and cap.
And his artist a step from him in admiration of the works of his hands.
I shouted, “God’s Masterpiece!” But even that was a cliché , I say it all the time.
My eyes squint and my mouth couldn’t help but curve ‘o’ in wonder.
Crowns were hidden under his jean cap, he was a laurel.
“Like what you see?” The man said a smirk at disposal.
Blushing inwardly, I scurried off, It wasn’t a mural, he was human!
As if on cue, he spoke again:
I know you’re an artist, So how about a deal?
Dust me up like some old manuscript,
Rhyme me up in words and spit me to the world,
Paint me up on canvas and hung me up for the world,
Ink me on the pages and let them read me.
I froze, but then, that wasn’t so crap a deal.
I watch his every step like some old telescope.
Like kush, so fly yet so illegal, he held me captive.
Maybe I could rise a pulchritude with this crown prince,
Or maybe he was just a mural and I was on with illusions.
Because all works of art are up for show.
He was a graffiti for the town,
Done so fast yet with grace but like I said,
As Marijuana he’s so fly, yet so iLegal.
©brokensilence034

The italicised part is by sinjymystiq.wordpress.com

I am Your Favourite Book.

I Am Your Favourite Book.
You wore confidence on your gait. Your eyes held mischief. Your smile plastered adventure and your clothes replicated Victorian times. Yet you couldn’t hide the shocking air you breathed when you absent-mindedly walked into the community library. Ideal wood for lost deers it is; the library. Your smile at the librarian couldn’t mask off the awkwardness that surrounded you at that moment. Charm. That was your strength. i silently beckoned you to find me at the fiction shelves of the library and it’s like the good Lord of literature said an Amen for me. As the librarian led you to the fiction side, I couldn’t help myself thinking about how it would feel to have you caress my spine like you did for other books as you passed by them. Jealousy bred its offspring on me at that moment until you held my 800 paged self in your strong hands. Lean fingers, trimmed nails and soft skin. “The Girl from the Rift,” you mouthed as you contemplated flipping my pages or leaving me lying aimlessly at that abandoned table. Sigh. I sulked as I waited upon you to open me up.
“Flip! Thank you peep,” That would be it if I read the acknowledgements.
“Flip! Flip! You probably are interesting,” That would be the deal if I read the acknowledgements and actually finished them.
Here goes nothing, you muttered as you ran me in your hands. Smooth. You thought. And as you held me against your nose, I closed my eyes and let you breathe my woody scent. A rainy March, the scent of polished wood, freshly mowed grass and a warm cup of chai ya maziwa all in one serving. You were hypnotised by my wholesome homely scent. Bingo! I melted inwardly as your eyes closed and your fingers sought the bridge of your nose to pinch. You took me in again but this time, allowing yourself to get lost in the splendor of grass I carried with me.
“Probably one of those cliché’ Kenyan narratives that end with sponsors and fleets of cars and a crying boyfriend or rather, a gooey scene of two lovebirds on a safari at Maasai Mara,” you said disbelief laced in your tone. Quite hurting that was considering I was a journal of a girl who travelled the world with her camera on her neck, weaving tapestries of adventure in her brows and braiding in lessons from the stories of life nature wrote every fleeting second. The rock of doubt about me stood stronger than the Nandi rock but I didn’t let this stop me from being the beautiful book my author so skillfully designed me to be. My cover page, a 5’6 girl whose melanin shone at the blessing of the hues of the sun as it took a dip at Lake Victoria caught your sight. Her crown, a perfect example of the ultimate afro spooked your urge to know more about her, yet you couldn’t keep your eyes away from her pearly whites that showed from her smile. You needed to know about this girl from the Rift.
I wasn’t just a book that needed to be read. I was a culture hidden from the face of explorers and as you flipped every page of me, you graced my existence with admiration. I could see the longing in you to make me rightfully yours. How I had waded in fantasies of being in someone’s library; to be referred to as my book.
“I am taking you home with me tonight!” You whispered as you looked left and right before dashing out via the back door of the library. What a thief! I exclaimed at your mischief. I had fallen in the arms of a mischievous boy huh!
Despite throwing me off to the bushes and retrieving me in utter clumsy at the chase of the library’s security guard, I managed to come out clean, my pages unfolded and my rims still white. I had let you steal my heart. And as you held me against your chest, I felt needed; like a powerful tool that could keep you and your heart racing for me. As I stood tall on against your bookshelf, I felt loved and a sense of belonging took over me. I was your first. The Girl from the Rift wasn’t just a closed book but a source for the rivulets that followed suit. Diary of the Miaha became my reference material. I had found myself a new home in the heart and hands of a boy who was smitten by the wild girl in me. My wife and kids is what you watched on mute everyday as you pondered over me. I had become your favourite book.
Jepkosgei Marion
Broken Silence

Live

Live
“…Live, where your heart finds life…” Kavya Dixit
I pen my heart out for you
My voice is breaking but your cheers keep me holding that key
I’m a stranger battling insomnia while you fondle over my graffiti
“Break a leg” you shout atop your lungs every time I gracefully land and stand en pointe
“What a finesse!” You jump in awe every moment I shoot a perfect goal
You fall before my feet when I grace your streets…

…yet you can’t kiss my goddamned feet
The paparazzi are hot on my heels, I can’t moan at the bite of a tasty mutura
I am a god for millions but the only cathedral I ran to is the confines of my studio
You claim I am a motion picture, is that why you always want a selfie with me?
I own no diary; I have spent all my ink signing autographs
Yet I can’t post a picture of my own; I lost my Polaroid to a crowd in KQ

“Wait until you are somebody’s favourite choice…”
When my ink runs dry, will 500 letters for you claim I’ll Never Write?
What if I lose my voice, will you press the forward button when my song comes up?
Will you brush paint on my graffiti if I get arrested?
“You’re too thick for a ballerina,” will you spite me with this after my delivery?
Will you cry when I split my knee and can’t finesse forever?
Will you blow my head when I present myself to the streets and claim its street justice?

“It only takes one good song to bring back the good memories…”
I want to remain in your IG stories; the caption to your photographed moments
I want to be plastered on your bedroom walls despite the mic drop
I want to be the topic over your tea at the art gallery
I want to stand tall on your neck chain and earrings
I want to see your jerseys bear my name and number
I want to live in your hearts forever
Jepkosgei Marion
@Broken Silence 024.

RHUMBA LOVE

RHUMBA LOVE

He parked his black Alphard at the Ngabunat falls. Turned off Les wanyika’s voice as he had been blasting Safari ya Samburu and killed the engine. “Sweet Jesus!” he muttered as he took slow steps towards the group of women that were dancing to Fally Ipupa’s associe. Slow but sure he thought as he took his phone out to get the moment in the record. How he loved seeing things through his lens. The camera was his best friend, travelling was his muse. Trees breathe life to him, rivers and birds were part of his accapella glory. The ambient air was his inhaler. Ngabunat was just the getaway he needed from the battle scars that were tattooed in his bachelor pad. Afro had left him claiming he speaks less. Did he? Yes. His back muscles rippled like waves while his exposed abs glistened in the sun, yet he was not sweating.  Saying he cleaned up real well was an understatement. His kitenge short and blazer did his melanin skin a justice. He smiled at the ladies and the only response he got was that he was the fire to the sun.

He bathed in beauty. His skin was clear from tattoos. He needn’t any art on his skin; he was a masterpiece on his own. He walked towards the mouth of Ngabunat caves and stood in awe at the sight of what awaited him. In disbelief, he turned around and the beauty of majani chai he beheld curved his mouth upwards in a smile. The sun caught sight of the gold crown on his tooth and in contrast, his pearly whites were out for the world to see. Suddenly, the greenery intensified and it’s like the cave’s mouth widened beckoning him to get in and unroll the mysteries scrolled in it. He sighed and the air got wind of his broken heart and warmth clothed his displayed chest. The cold hearth that had covered his heart ebbed off, “I have finally found piece in my vibe,” he muttered as he held his hand to his chest.  Nature had set fire on his savannah and it spread real quick. Just like every glass, he was welded back to shape. Hurt and weakness melted in shame and his heart was no longer broken.

Beautiful things had revived him yet he sought reformation. He swore to Mother Nature not to find comfort in the drain or let his heart turn to paper from blowing smokes that taint Mother Nature’s frame. “Show me where love lies then,” he asked the water that fell from the roof of the four meter high cave.

Love lies in the streaks of the sun on revile trees as it rises

Love lies in the dew that moistens the flower of grass

Love lies on the faces of athletes along Lessos-Chebarbar route

Love lies in the tongue of a cow that just gave rise to calf

Love lies in the chirping of an emerald cuckoo

Love lies in the tightness of a monkey’s hug

Love lies in every strum of Mike Rua’s chord, in every note of The Mushroom’s symphony, in every key of one minute spirituals, in every beat of Samba Mapangala’s drum, in every verse of Atemi’s song.

Love lies in the tooth gap evident on mama’s grin

Love is in every drop of mursik you down.

Love lies in the colours the sunset paints the horizon in.

Love lies in us and outside us

Love lies in the hands of malkia strikers, the heights the morans scale to, the swing of harambee starlets’ legs.

Love lies within.

With this in mind, he stretched his 6’2 frame and proceeded in the cave. He was ready to unravel histories.  The cave held more narratives from the memories of admirable men who fought for the independence of the people of The Rift and had set the cave as their fortress to recent memoirs of lovebirds that had visited the cave and gilded the walls of the cave in soulful poems and million-worth murals.  It stood on foundations of strength, defiant spirits and the pillars of love. It surrounded itself with beauty; it chased not the butterflies but watered its own flowers for the bumblebees. Bats kept the jukebox of the cave on repeat; no blast could shut this music down. Tied to the generosity of monkeys, Ngabunat cave and falls spells beauty all around.

The trip to the cave proved worthwhile and as he sat to nibble on a juicy steak of nyama choma with ugali moto he begged Samba Mapangala ampatie kachumbari. Flesh and bones, he was full again. Instead of 7Up in his red car, his octave rose to sing Love Lifted Me! Mpongo Love echoed in the background.

I do not claim any copyright for these pictures.

Jepkosgei Marion.

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