Nappy Head

Your hair is dirty, good sir -
Said an innocent child to me one day.
I have what they call African hair,
A natural nappy head.
Its brownish colour they call mousy
What I really would like called auburn.
And so the kid had observed,
She was innocent though
And I had to explain to her
That the same creator who endowed her
With her long beautiful black curly hair
Had also done the same with my kinky mousy one!

poem by Kimani wa Mumbi
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Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
No. Summers in Africa are hot as hell:
Rough dusty winds our thatched huts shake
While heaven's bloodshot eye on boiling our brains concentrates;
That's the reason we are technologically Third rate.
Shall I then compare thee to a winter's day?
What is winter? Not in Africa have I heard of that;
Two ironic seasons do we have:
One hot as hell, the other
Wet as hell (like Noah's day) .
I shall thence leave the weather to the gods,
I shan't deal with the African weather, my love.
Thou art to me most precious
Than the rarest of precious metals.

poem by Kimani wa Mumbi
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The Ngong Hills

A group of seven,
Magnificently stand at seven,
These inspired Karen Blixen.
With their face towards the city,
They smile and give a backdropp to the city.

Legend goes that back back in the days of yore,
A giant set foot at the plains and tripped,
And when he fell his fists left the prints in their shape.
And the locals named the hills Enkong'u
Which literally means knuckles in Maa.

Now, the white folks found that hard to say
Like they did with all the Kenyan names
And instead of Enkong'u they said
That, Ngong is what we call it, I say.
Didn't deviate much, now, did they?

Today these hills they still stand,
And beautiful Maasai cows, goats, and sheep

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poem by Kimani wa Mumbi
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Cry of the fatherless son

I will not mourn my father's death
I won't even be struck by his death.
I will not contribute a coin to buy his coffin,
Or for the funeral which I won't even attend.
As is the custom,
I won't name my first son after him.
My children won't ever see photos of him.
I will not tell them tales
that my father supposedly told me.
His name in my house will never ring a bell,
Neither will he ring my doorbell -
For if he does I will let my dogs loose on him,
no matter how old and frail he'll be.
His name in my house shall be forbidden.

But how could I mourn your death?
How would your death strike me?
How could I contribute to your funeral?
Or attend your funeral?
As is custom,

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poem by Kimani wa Mumbi
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