Me in the Old Album, Part 4: What I Miss
A picture is worth a thousand words,
words that in here I try to employ
in my quest to describe the nostalgia
cast upon me by time the judge;
from days of childhood through the middle
ages that I will soon occupy. I must learn to grow
old, but I still cling onto memories of childhood,
for the umpteenth time, I say I miss a lot.
I believe in angels and the dreams
I used to dream of them. Their presence
in everything I did, the success evident
throughout the old album
was inspired by them. I miss the days I knelt
on the altar praying, asking God to take care
of the dreams I dreamt. Asking God to take care
of those who loved me. Asking God to take care
of those who had no strength to ask for themselves.
I miss school that seemed a hard nut to crack
in those days, the difficult moments,
the times I learnt something new and was
proud of it. I miss childhood friends, with whom
we would trudge to school, sharing laughs
and posing for a Kodak moment or two;
playing football using an improvised ball,
barefoot, digging the big toe into the stone
and leaving the sausage toe to heal by itself.
Fishing for fun down the river with family,
often to not much harvest,
growing different species of crops,
eating fresh food and drinking fresh water.
I miss the Christmas season with new things
plenty, sharing joy and laughter with those
closest and brother with his dear camera,
through which such memories could be preserved.
There is a picture of me
in a light blue suit, smiling ear to ear,
evidently enjoying my mamas pleasant
surprises; they were not too frequent but
when they came they were tantamount to Dolly’s
court of many colours, in every knot of whose
was knitted pure love. I miss the gratification
I derived from the little, the genuine smile that
did not struggle to convince.
Nostalgia from the choir competition
in which I had sung as an alto, the weekly
trips to first communion classes, the FIAT tractors
my age-mates and I made out of clay,
the pigeon I kept as my first pet, followed
by rabbits and their many children. My puppies,
my Sunday-best and the white shirt I wore for
Confirmation. Pictures of me having fun with
whatever I did. A past that I do not hold on to.
I try to remember it, as a reminder of who I am.
Me in the Old Album, Part 3: The Change
I flip the page onto that which contains
the picture of a little me, cute, lovable,
playful and if observable in a picture, funny.
I cannot help but grimace, a tale of days past
populates my mind amidst my current scare,
a present nervous state of the mind and a
feeling of resentment towards more than one
of those I once considered my cronies.
So what has changed?
I have had to explain every single one
of those jokes I was born with,
sometimes it goes wrong and am in trouble;
paying the price of misunderstanding to a world
too gloomy and sad to process fun has been
the daily norm. Or perhaps those I was designed for
have not been around any more. And I have ricocheted
into my own cocoon, a comfort zone, a darkness of quiet
but for the sound of a scribbling pen.
From the pictures of a vibrant, dynamic dreamer
to the mirror images of a scared thoughtful femur,
I have known not where to be, what time to be,
and who to be with! Whatever I have trusted
with the childish faith I was taught to have,
has baffled and scared me out of my own skin;
they have all attempted to draw a sketch of a beast
out of a humility that I see in these pictures,
scaring a good childhood away from its owner,
in the end, imprisoning me to my own corner.
Nostalgia preserved by the Old Album
invokes a tear or two, a visible revolution
towards the expectations of a modern materialistic
world, requiring too much more from me than I am
naturally adapted to offer. Seeing in me what
can never be in me. Hearing from me what
I can never say. Yet ignoring the songs I sing
and believe in. Refusing to dance to the rhythms
produced by the dreams I dream. Belittling the
little guy. And I see no audience out there!
So I grew big. But I still talk. The truth.
A rat in the kitchen isn’t more confused
than what has become of me with age.
So I talk confused truth; I get into more
trouble, and the cycle is endless. But these
pictures reveal the corner stone with which
I was designed. Deep inside I am still the playful
baby, the funny kid if not the cute and lovable one,
and I still sleep like a baby, and dream dreams
even when the world is not dancing to my rhythms.
©J.Kisiah 28/05/10
Me In the Old Album, Part 2: Her
I see pictures of her but I don’t look,
I stare right into her eyes and
see the moonlight of good days shining
invitingly and nagging me to rekindle
something. Something that back in the day,
I did not have words for. Just emotions;
or may be one of those things whose name
is overused. Something right there. I can feel.
I was once a little being. Innocent and novice
in knowing how to think or what to think.
She was just part of me, I could not tell;
her face meant the world to me and my dreams
either started or ended with her angel face.
Perhaps I did not have any emotions,
it could have been a wave sweeping me aside
tearing and turning me inside out.
I was wallowing in unknown territories but
all I could muster was the courage to give a
thumbs up. I said nothing.
But I look at these pictures and feel what she
meant to me in the good old days. A comfort
deep inside pushes me back to my seat,
I feel a completeness, a happiness, an excitement
that speaks a million more words now than then.
From these pictures it seems
I have never paid much attention to the
tricks of the game. The fancy hair, the walking,
the unnecessarily big words in conversations,
the expensive, expansive and unfathomable fashion -
something that must have dug the grave
where I was to lay sadly ever after.
But I knew what I felt, and nothing else
could facilitate the respect – shall we call it -
with which her name vibrated inside my mind.
It was a small world that I owned,
deep inside of which there was something great,
the juice that kept me running day after day -
a sight that was enough for my eyes
whose ears I could not revoke.
Something in her triggered another in me
and now perusing through my old album,
I see LOVE written all over it,
from the start until age made ‘us’ part.
©J.Kisiah 25/05/10
Me in the Old Album, Part 1: Me
When I look at those pictures,
I feel something tantamount to
a forgotten dream, a lemon freshness
that seems to evict me from a dreamland
and cast me into another. I cherish my childhood
and anything good and tricky that came with it;
my first love, but before that, me.
So me:
I mean, if I were wine, I probably would
get better with age but my looks? Nope!
Those pictures convey a beauty that
sometimes leaves me clutching my face,
looking in the mirror, thinking, wondering
then asking: what happened?
Whatever happened, I know I had my share
of the first half of the beauty and the beast.
Those days I dreamt of my nanny
going to heaven and returning to me
clad in white and giving me the purple bananas
she used to give me. And I would retell the story
to willing ears of my mama who would give me milk,
or anything I wanted, take very good care of me
when Malaria was chasing me like I robbed it,
and just sit there with me, praying;
and I would dream of one day becoming a doctor
learning to the highest levels achievable.
Aunt Kezia, with her remarkable cigar
taking care of little me when mama was at work,
feeding me and pointing at the passing aeroplanes
and saying ‘eat so that one day you become a pilot’
and I know she wanted me to soar above the clouds
and not resting until I reached my final destination.
As little as some things looked, they are there
part of me and ineradicable from my memories.
Memories of a village child attending
First Communion classes, then Confirmation -
White top, black shorts. Kneeling. Receiving.
Blessings from second nanny before the exam.
Ndururu my beloved pet cow, Sophia,
Ndururu’s daughter and Mrembo,
Sophia’s daughter.
Issa the old dog succumbing to cancer,
Then Simba, Issa’s son who inherited the estate.
Cats were a handful, so we did with none.
Some photos in my mind remind me of love.
Just love. The love that was there whether
or not I was there and the love that was not
always smooth but there nonetheless. The love
that didn’t shun me when I made mistakes,
the love that was rarely in words but always
in actions. The love that has lived as long as I have;
that from those that mean the world to me.
There are so many changes negative -
not limited to looks! But that childish,
playful, mischievous soft spot dies
only with the last breath
and these pictures tend to bring the spot
to new life and spring a new identity in me,
I sink back to my childhood days,
and I try to remember who I am.
©J.Kisiah 22/05/10
Walk the Talk
You have never fallen at the sight of squirrels
They have come, danced themselves lame
They have even fought you and scared you.
But you have kept your head high
You have fought on and won the battle.
You always said how life is hills and valleys,
You told stories from lands afar
Taking us through journeys of tales
From those who lived before us.
You kept the chorus at the end of each chapter
And always paused to say:
Whatever life brings, keep your chin up.
Sir, those words are engrossed in many,
Your words have inspired the young and old
They have stood the test of time and won.
Your words have been the double-edged sword
That has torn difficulties apart.
They have been the fountain of inspiration.
But you must know sir,
That these troubles don’t pick faces.
You must not let them put you down my friend.
I know you feel bad and let down.
But please remember that whatever you feel
You must always get up, dress up and show up.
So long my friend.
What Will Be
Waking up in the morning
To the chill and frost
The debris of yesterday.
Birds chirp naively and squirrels awaken.
The sun shines from afar half-heartedly,
Through the rays you see promise.
Suddenly bad memories are evicted.
Change is rest, it goes.
This to yourself you do say.
Toil across the day, dig the garden.
Run your socks off, think your brains sore.
Bear your fantasies and dreams in mind.
Pay that price as the day rots away.
When the sun goes to bed,
Dry bead of sweat is to be washed away
By the honesty of your toil’s promises.
Don’t chase the promise.
Que Sera Sera -
What will be, will be.
I Look Too
Even after throwing in the towel.
The good memories haunt.
Nightmares changed from the sweet dreams
Are left of a soul that once was united
With one made in heaven. They are scary.
The distance between us does discourage,
It does send the heartbeat in an infamous frenzy,
Despair encroaching and days turning into deep thoughts
Thoughts of days-that-were but now no more.
When we were both here
We spent every evening together,
Looking at the beauty of the gibbous moon,
Filling the fissures of life with company and laughter.
Each of us provided the shoulder for the other
Respecting, understanding, forgiving, forgetting,
Loving more and living so.
But the lightning struck us apart,
And dignity reinforced the split…
Down our gut the unprecedented pill went
For what was to be a new beginning.
Oh, new beginning!
As day begins and expires at dawn;
As night starts with the moonlight fading in,
The constellation of stars flowering the nightly skies;
As my thoughts of you inhabit my mind
And as truth bears the bad news that
It is no more for both of us,
The beauty of our good old days is eternal.
The new moon shall always be there for us
And when you look at the moon,
I look too.
J.Kisiah
Working Nation
Working Nation
There is a lot of talking
A lot of hating, walking
Enough eating of ‘our’ share.
Everyone is arguing
No one is guilty
No one is responsible.
The Act of God they call it;
In accordance to whose
The weaker ones die
The stronger ones splash
Into the deeper end of their riches.
So those who love peace preach it,
Those who talk argue
While those whose hands are tied
Are nursing heartaches.
That stench -
The stench of a rotten nation
Of someone arguing with a fool -
Of two fools arguing;
That stench -
It’s existence is waning!
I Am Sorry
I don’t deserve to be here.
I do not deserve to talk to you
Or look at you.
I have just come to shake your hand.
I have come to let you know
That all I am doing
Is to try and be happy.
I want you to be happy too.
Despite the sketches of the past
I want you to do me one last favour -
Please listen to me.
Today is a new day.
Tomorrow will be a reflection
Of the beauty of this day
I want you to stand in front of the mirror
And see a reflection of serenity.
A reflection of love and understanding.
A reflection of forgiveness.
I know I don’t deserve forgiveness,
But it is my duty to restore
Your beautiful smile.
A joyous and tender heart
That once was forever yours.
Honey,
I want you to know
That I am deeply sorry.
J.Kisiah
For You Mean A Lot
For You Mean A Lot
Take my hand in yours
I am yours.
You have been when all have not.
Your heart is all I have known,
Part of the world
That has made who I am.
Take my hand in yours
I am your son,
You have been the gist of my words,
Your presence is all I could ask for
The precious gift
That has blessed my life.
Take my hand in yours,
I am your friend,
You have been my punching bag
Your patience is all that stands the test,
The ups and downs
That have shaped us.
Take these few words,
They are just words albeit
You have been more than I can express,
Your thoughtfulness is a gift from above
The heavenly love,
That I wish you this Valentines.
J.Kisiah 14/02/10
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