Herispeak

Shigologolo The Wretched Shigologolo! Shigologolo! You hurt me so. Who gave you permission? Who allowed you to come this far? Who opened the doors to you? Who gave you aboard? Aren’t you filled with shame? Aren’t you mortified by your own decay? Aren’t you discomfited? Shigologolo! You hurt me so. You caused me to bleed. You sent me away from my place of comfort and peace. You turned me inside out and threw me out like a tattered piece of cloth that nobody wanted or could us e. You caused me to scream in fright and dread. You tore my insides ever so wretchedly. Shigologolo! When the sun rises over the horizon, ever so glorious, I will rise with it Shigologolo. I will rise and rise until the entire village sees me. I will soar over the thatched roofs and green fields of Siwano. I will mock you in my flight for I will have gained victory. Shigologolo! You will remain your sordid ugly self, wallowing on the ground whilst I shine up in the sky. Shigologolo! - Herispeak

I covet your presence but not your time I covet your empathy but not your pity I covet your heart but not your emotions I covet your listening but not your ear I covet your words but not your speech I covet your touch but not your hands I covet your warmth but not your body I covet your love but not your feelings - Herispeak

Knock, Knock Wake up to reality To the pain, the madness The crazy That is your life Knock, Knock Can’t hide any longer Can’t crouch and cover No more Wake up to this life Knock, Knock The pain is killing Day by day, killing. You Wake up before Before it kills. You Knock, Knock It is dawn A new morning Perhaps today The sun will smile Wake up and see See if the dawn is sweet Knock, Knock It will not end Unless you end it It will not stop Unless you halt it It will not cease Until you wake Wake up Dear lovely  - Herispeak

I sit here everyday, unnoticed by some. I suppose after 15 years, one becomes like some sort of permanent fixture. Part of the canvas, like the mukuyu tree that provids shade for vehicles or like mucunu’s dog that always follows him to work. Mucunu is the local butcher. There is the stain outside Kinyua’s shop too. Near the door where the omo poster is or rather, used to be. One can hardly read it any more. The brown stain had marred most of it. I think a child had simply rubbed some red mud over the wall and the poster during one of those rainy days.  I look across at the little kibanda on the other side. It is owned by Micere. She sells all sorts of vegetables and fruits as well. The sad thing though, her business never seemed to grow. Year after year, it remains the same. Same size, same type of vegetables, same everything. Only she seems to grow older. I sense a level of comfort and satisfaction about her. Perhaps she is content with the way things were. Perhaps, growth is n