It has been a long time, a minute.

Sitting here smoking beside this freshly dead Koech and regarding
His bloated torso nicely drowned
In the Administration’s milk, I
Can’t help wondering why
We are lately coming across many half-finished lives
Bearing fingers clenched into useless fists.

Were Koech me, I would be ashamed of this belligerence in death,
Unclench my fist for a farewell puff.
But why bother?
He dipped his ballot willfully and uppercut the air in triumph
Knocking himself out.
For the choice to be bonded.

Sitting here puffing by this freshly dead Koech, I wonder.
Does the death of a jingo call for a long gulping of beer taken
Without the need to choke a scenting cigarette?
Does the death of a jingo call for a solemn sadness-offsetting harambee?
Does the death of a jingo call for rearing bees in ballot boxes,
Stuff black election boxes with African killer bees to sting
Every “X” marked for a nitwit?

It’s been a short time, two terms of democracy.

Sitting here sharing incense with Koech’s dead nostrils
I can’t help regret where his chest-thumping has taken him.
Vanity of raised hollow fists, a dead gorilla posing for the next election’s poster.
We could be sharing a smoke with this obstinate one now.
Or belching a full lunch. Or?

How do I then burn a smoke on this roulette: the bottle, the wallet or the ballot?
a lager served from a bottle rounded in the like of Koech’s obese death
a conscience pricked into generosity for Koech’s matanga
a finger stung back to reason in choice?

Maybe let’s rear bees in ballot boxes, after all
Or pack tobacco to mask the stench of enslaving selves:
Stem the tide of half lives punching empty fists.



One response to this post.

  1. Quite cryptic! The depth of this poem illuminates the sacred yearnings and sagacity of a mind so thirsty, altogether wrapped in mortal concern.


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