Democracy
Democracy will not come
Today, this year
Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.
I have as much right
As the other fellow has
To stand
On my two feet
And own the land.
I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.
Freedom
Is a strong seed
Planted
In a great need.
I live here, too.
I want freedom
Just as you.
Langston Hughes
A Freedom Song
Atieno washes dishes,
Atieno plucks the chicken,
Atieno gets up early,
Beds her sacks down in the kitchen,
Atieno eight years old,
Atieno yo.
Since she is my sister's child
Atieno needs no pay.
While she works my wife can sit
Sewing every sunny day:
With he earnings I support
Atieno yo.
Atieno' sly and jealous,
Bad example to the kids
Since she minds them, like a schoolgirl
Wants their dresses, shoes and beads,
Atieno ten years old,
Atieno yo.
Now my wife has gone to study
Atieno is less free.
Don't I keep her, school my own ones,
Pay the party, union fee,
All for progress! Aren’t you grateful
Atieno yo?
Visitors need much attention,
All the more when I work night.
That girl spends too long at market.
Who will teach her what is right?
Atieno rising fourteen,
Atieno yo.
Atieno's had a baby
So we know that she is bad.
Fifty fifty it may live
And repeat the life she had
Ending in post-partum bleeding,
Atieno yo.
Atieno's soon replaced;
Meat and sugar more than all
She ate in such a narrow life
Were lavished at her funeral.
Atieno's gone to glory,
Atineo yo.
Marjorie Oludhe-Macgoye
This poem is a throw back to way back when. It reminds me of those hideous English lessons in scorching January afternoons. A Freedom Song has always been a favourite of mine, childhood memories notwithstanding and this does not detract from the important issue at hand. Thematically it is a common story told with a bizarre detachment of one who has seen this happen all to many times. Atieno didn’t meet her prince charming in real life, societal and familial obligations took care of that, robbed her of innocence and shrouded her in shame, malice and disillusion. Like all parables, Atieno is a cautionary tale but Macgoye cleverly (and ironically) turns her wagging finger not at the poor orphan girl but at us, we who did not save the girl from her perverse prison. We who killed her in her childbed whilst she fought to give birth to Vain Hope. Atieno the hapless victim/ Atieno yo!
Marjorie Oludhe-Macgoye went on to tank the high school careers of many a Kenyan Youth when she published Coming to Birth. She lives in Nairobi.
For a Dead African
We have no heroes and no wars
only victims of a sickly state
succumbing to the variegated sores
that flower under lashings of hate.
We have no battles and no fights
for history to record with trite remark
only captives killed in eyeless nights
and accidental dyings in the dark.
Yet when the roll of those who died
to free out land is called without surprise
those nameless unarmed ones will stand beside
the warriors who secure the final prize.
Dennis Brutus
Mashujaa day is all about remembrance. Not much has been done to honour the lives of those who died for or freedom. Countless others who actively took part in the Struggle remain banished to obscurity. Dennis Brutus, a South African, wrote this poem at the height of apartheid when no end was in site. Nonetheless he had hope, a hope that was not in vain, the false naivety of the rhyme scheme does nothing to shroud the horrors of an oppressive regime. This was political writing at its most ironic.
So on the 20th of October let us salute the lives that were lost to build this country and the countless sacrifices not forgetting the barbarous aftermath of the 2007 General Election, “the nameless unarmed ones”.
Dennis Brutus, poet, political activist and instigator of change died on December 26th 2009. He was 85.
Half Caste
Excuse me
standing on one leg
I'm half-caste
Explain yuself
wha yu mean
when yu say half-caste
yu mean when picasso
mix red an green
is a half-caste canvas/
explain yuself
wha u mean
when yu say half-caste
yu mean when light an shadow
mix in de sky
is a half-caste weather/
well in dat case
england weather
nearly always half-caste
in fact some o dem cloud
half-caste till dem overcast
so spiteful dem dont want de sun pass
ah rass/
explain yuself
wha yu mean
when yu say half-caste
yu mean tchaikovsky
sit down at dah piano
an mix a black key
wid a white key
is a half-caste symphony/
Explain yuself
wha yu mean
Ah listening to yu wid de keen
half of mih ear
Ah looking at u wid de keen
half of mih eye
and when I'm introduced to yu
I'm sure you'll understand
why I offer yu half-a-hand
an when I sleep at night
I close half-a-eye
consequently when I dream
I dream half-a-dream
an when moon begin to glow
I half-caste human being
cast half-a-shadow
but yu come back tomorrow
wid de whole of yu eye
an de whole of yu ear
and de whole of yu mind
an I will tell yu
de other half
of my story
John Agard
Sometime ago while talking to a friend from the Caribbean the subject of race came up. He was shocked that the word 'half-caste' was in regular usage here in Kenya et it was nearly taboo where it came from. Agard, a man from his part of the world, puts his sentiments into a whimsical yet poignant poem.
Launching Our Community Development Fund
It was announced in the Daily Times, the New Nigerian,
the television, the radio and other acclaimed megaphones.
Today we launch our Community Development Fund
to complete the project the Government abandoned from start
for lack of funds; the Treasury looted overnight
by those elected to generate national wealth.
Dancers are back again from their holes, gyrating
in front of the Chairman and the Chief Launcher, millionaires.
The booths are painted bright in national colours.
In those days as dancer twisted themselves out of breath
to the applause of the Governor and his vast entourage,
we laid foundation stones with party blocks that dissolved
with return of Honourable Guests to the capital –
the budget allocation went with the civic reception.
There was no attempt to build what would outlive the builders,
and this disregard for afterlife was unfortunate for us
Christians and Muslims; heaven could not be gained here.
Today, as before, there are dancers to excite the chiefs
to pledge millions of naira to build their egos.
Always before new lords that rise with the fall of old patrons,
the dancers live eternally digging the ground that swallows
the Very Impotent Personalities. And after this launching,
the proceedings, the names of donors, will be announced
in the Daily Times, the New Nigerian and other acclaimed
megaphones.
Tanure Ojaide
This was one of those poems I studied in school years ago, you know the one that came from one of those ubiquitous potry anthologies with an obvious title like Modern Poetry for the African Child or Wole Soyinka's Clever Use of Satire -The Simplified Commonwealth Edition.
Anyway, now that Promulgation Fever is over maybe we can settle in to the task of Nation Building and finally put an end to any parallels between Nigeria's Organised Chaos and Kenya's Fuck-it-all philosophy. Ojaide's wry observations are none the less witty and broadly applicable.
A Dream Deferred
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Langston Hughes
A leading figure in the Harlem Renaissance, Hughes' celebrated poem gave title to the 20th Century's most famous and poignant portrayal of the black American experience, Lorraine Hansberry's critically acclaimed A Rasin In The Sun.
In light of the last Friday's Promulgation, I to dedicate Hughes' words to those who fought bravely and valiantly for our right to self-determine our destiny and to the 1,500 that died at the hands of our collective rapaciousness and ignorance.
May we never forget those who came before us, may their sacrifice be forever etched in our minds, may we never cease to dream.
When the shoe string breaks
On both your shoes
And your in a hurry-
That's the blues
When you go to buy a candy bar
And you've lost the dime you had-
Slipped through a hole in your pocket somewhere-
That's the blues, too, and bad!
Langston Hughes
This is one of my favourite poems. Langston Hughes was a central figure in the Harlem Renaissance tha begun in the early 20s - a Black Conciseness movement similar to the Francophone African idea of Negritude. The former had a significant influence on the latter in forming the African identity. The movement died out in the last century but their poetry is no less significant nor inspiring.
