Category Archives: poetry

The Barren Land


this land was fertile

this land was productive

this land was a plantation

yes, a banana plantation

yes, a coffee plantation

yes, a forest plantation

but weeds flooded in

weeds set it on fire

weeds choked trees

weeds cleared bananas

weeds burned the coffee

weeds assassinated the land

till trees held a meeting

and chose their delegates

to drive out the weeds

but the weeds fought back

weeds resisted the agrochems

and bombed the soil

distorting its fertility

and the land is still barren!

 

———Stephen M. Mutuku———

My Mami Wata Was Broke

I saw her off my room

escorted her to the crossroads

where she took the unbeaten path

not a foot had been set in it

it led to the unknown

and she trod on it

and with her went my heart

and my riches followed her too

leaving me in this barren land

hollow, lonely and broke

a stone in the depths of my chest

and I couldn’t fall in love

though I wanted to

madly

i returned to the crossroads

and took the unbeaten path

hoping to get back my heart

but the evil forest swallowed me

swiftly sending me to my grave

for spirits live with spirits

and spirits dine with spirits

and reunited with my mami wata

but she was a goddess of poverty

that is why i died poor

with no family to retain my name!

 

———Stephen M. Mutuku———

 

 

 

 

The African Drum

drum

he cuts a log out of the forest

and with chisels makes it hollow

then fixes awo oju ilu (dry goat skin making the head of an African drum)

tightening it with sisal strips

and with ocher draws its patterns

a complete African drum

 

 

 

someone plays a guitar

another plays a violin

and all are sweet for my ears

but mandinka tunes sabaro and kutiro

putting awo oju ilu

near the log fire

 

 

the guitar was sweet

the violin was sweeter

but sound sabaro kutiro

na me na go crazy

my waist breaks na dance

sabaro kutiro ejaculates sweetness

that supersedes guitar and violin

the sweetness of an African drum

 

——Stephen M. Mutuku ——

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Call Them African

Why call them African

and they know not our ways?

African children know our ways

African children know our languages

yours’ know not our language

for pidgin is their language

 

 

African children, African children

know not posh cars

know not posh schools

know not your posh curriculum

know not perimeter walls

 

 

African children, African children

know hunger as their portion

have jiggers on their feet

have shanties for their shelter

know the taste of violence

what about your children?

Know not a mud hut

know not a jigger

know not the scent of hunger

yes they have a black skin

but can’t suit our title

don’t call them African!

 

——Stephen M. Mutuku——

A Chain of Victimization

I once was a victim

in that sisal plantation

when the sun was high

the whip fell on my back

once

twice

thrice…

I can’t count the times

 

 

 

we revolted

the white masters left

we thought of redemption

but new colored masters

took reigns of the plantation

and made the whip vigorous

redemption was imaginary

 

 

 

yesterday

my son fell by a bullet

when he threw a stone

fighting for my land

victimization here

victimization there

why am I evicted?

 

 

 

today

I heard the news

pupils were tear-gassed

then trampled on with muddy boots

as they demonstrated

against the grabbing of their play ground

by a black civil servant

for construction of a business park

when will victimization end?

—————Stephen M. Mutuku—————

Mutant Butterflies

butterfly

in the orchard

you found me

masquerading

a mutant butterfly

perching

on every ripe grape

yearning for a companion

 

 

 

in a wild flash

you zoomed into view

a mutant butterfly with scarlet lips

warbling a lovely tune

that drew my attention

and blew away my oracy

butterfly1

 

I trembled

as if before the oracle

then you planted

your lips on mine

and made the rivulets

that flooded my heart

and made it an orchard

where our love grows

 

————Stephen M. Mutuku————

 

 

 

 

 

Servants of Knowledge

as servants of knowledge

we stream to the storehouse

sort books

cook books

eat books

all for their power

 

 

 

armed with their power

we rush to the podium

in front of those hundred eyes

fifty hungry heads

yearning for the power

and knowledge of books

we serve them

with chalk and board

 

 

 

 

diligently

we serve

without discrimination

we serve

the power of books

we serve

knowledge and skills

we serve

for servants we are

and servants we remain

—————Stephen M. Mutuku—————

A Crack in the Wall

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

I have lived my life

enclosed in a wild shell

cocooned in a world of thoughts

keeping and to myself

an introvert in the making

 

 

look at this door-less cell

where have lived my life

it’s full of refuse

whose stench is choking

hence the stink in my thoughts

 

 

I won’t die in this cell

with a crack in the wall

and a crowbar on the floor

I will tear the wall

and walk out of the cell

to take a fresh breath

and live a free life

 

————Stephen M. Mutuku————

 

 

The Song of a Teacher

teacher

I demanded your attention

when I gave you tuition

and passed the information

in a simple explanation

with care and precision

for your own retention

 

 

teacher-distributing-sheets-to-the-pupils-in-the-classroom-01-vwd_u3c

it’s time for production

in this test evaluation

and your good explication

will be a verification

that i had your attention

when i gave the explanation

 

 

 

your success is the explosion

that awards me recognition

when i go on vacation

to spend my little pension

fearing not inflation

my happiness in expression

 

————Stephen M. Mutuku————

 

image rights

first image belongs to clipart library

second image belongs to hellokids.com

 

Just Mumbling!

why do you tremble, when you hear trump

why cause trouble, for his unusual triumph

is he a stump,for you to stumble

why don’t you ramble, he isn’t a Rambo

so he can’t stab, he can only rumble

 

 

he is a special, and might be terrible

but there is a puzzle, that he won’t handle

to safe his pedal, before the council

so he will tumble, down like a turtle

and break the nozzle, of his noble muzzle

injuring a muscle, in the inevitable tussle

 

 

make yourself stable, and look for marble

to clear the tussle, on that oval table

where you do gamble, for the life of a poodle

and tell your people, to read that label

and set an example, when you do saddle

without a sandal, a life of the humble

 

———Stephen M. Mutuku———