Tuesday, 2 July 2019


How I want it when I die
One day when I finally die, I want to be buried within twenty four hours, with a simple casket, did I say buried? No! I don't want to be buried, I want to be cremated, and my ashes can be put in an urn only if my surviving family wishes so as a souvenir to them but if not, not even those ashes should be taken away. They should be left for the wind to blow away to paradise.

I don't want every Tom, Dick and Harry at my funeral, it should be exclusively for my immediate family, nuclear family, extended few who are actually family and not some crazy relations tied to me with nothing more than a name or a bloodline. At the crematorium, I want only my true few friends there, not people who claim to be my friends, that list should or may turn out to be as few as ten but I only want friends who have been friends to give me my last farewell, not people I have worked for or with, not people I go to church or fellowship with and nothing more, not people I went to school or sat in the same class with and shared nothing more. I want my true friends and actual family at my final farewell.

I want a simple funeral, nothing expensive, nothing flashy and nothing to write home about. My funeral should not be more important than the life I currently live. I will deeply appreciate and literally rest in peace if at that funeral people don't out do each other in sending public relations condolences, if "sad" friends suddenly pop out of everywhere when I actually never had any while alive. I will deeply appreciate if at that funeral people don't say things about me that they have never told me now, in fact, if it was up to me, the funeral would be a quiet one with no words spoken.

I know many will disagree with my desire to be cremated, they will talk about things like my culture and religion and what it allows and or disallows but my wish still stands. I dare state that there is always a first time for everything and I don't mind being the first in line. On the day I die, don't burry me, cremate my useless remains. I want simplicity, I want peace, and I want truth when I finally cross over. If at worse you cannot cremate me within twenty four hours or at most seventy two, throw my body for the hyenas at Masaai Mara or the crocodiles of River Nzoia or let it feed the hungry shacks of the ocean for that would make me more useful.

Bottom line is, my dead body is of no use and should not be treated better than the man I am now when I still have breath in my nostrils. On the day I go over to the other world, just burn me to ashes. My heart, soul and spirit will thank you greatly from the other side. I don't want to be buried when I die, I want to be cremated.
And this is my final will.



She loved me enough to walk away, loved me so deeply to let go for that is how she put it. I always thought if she ever left I would die and I was right because when she left I died to all that I ever lived for. It all sounded like a joke or maybe to her it was, it must have been just  another text, "Hi! I think we should take a break" That's where we began. I didn't know it then but was to soon find out first hand that the girl of my dreams actually loved me enough to know that we had no future together. She could not see it, we could not be and she was right. It was her last self sacrificing act of unrequited love.
How could I be right when she knew what was best for both of us? The worst part of it was that she kept telling me it had nothing to do with me, it was all about her.

Soon I found myself hanging in the balance, dangerously swerving at the edges of the stiff cliffs, tittering on the brinks of total destruction, failing at all attempts to hold it together. I was officially caught between a rock and a hard place. I was doomed if I communicated, doomed if I didn't, doomed if I reached out and doomed if I didn't and then before I knew it, everything went South and my whole life went with it. I remember the countless nights I would sit in my dark room with lights out and stare at my phone, endless days I locked myself indoors, beneath the blankets for even daylight depressed me, constantly hoping, praying, craving, longing for just a text from her, battling within myself whether to send her one and offend her or hold it still and die a little more inside for that love.
I remember those days when a "please call me" text would have meant more than a million pages of love poems or a million shillings MPESA message yet they never came, all I had were blank screens and painful aches that no medicine known to man can treat. For days I lived, ate and slept, walked absent mindedly in the streets hoping for that vibration from my phone, checking it every time if maybe she had called and I didn't hear but she never called and I was damned if I called her. The further we grew apart the deeper my heart craved for her arms or even just her voice. Even harsh abusive words from her over the phone would have healed my rotting wounds. I waited and waited for my dreams to come true but as the clock ticked only my  nightmares became more profound. Reality finally dawned on me that she had actually left me, maybe for the love of a better man that is if men really love.

People tell me about  hell but I have been somewhere worse, I don't think hell scares me. Desperation became my most reliable friend, company and ever present companion. Loneliness was more faithful to me than our undying love. All because I loved her and she was right when I was wrong.

The light within my soul went out, I ran in shame from the light, retreated to a dark corner where my dead spirit could rest in peace away from the prying eyes but those eyes, damn the eyes, they always found their way to me. As I lost myself, everything else went with the me that I was yet I was stuck. I was in a dilemma because even had I found the words, how do the dead speak to the living? Can the living really understand what death feels like even if the dead man found words to accurately relate his dead state? How do you explain losing your mind to people who have theirs intact?

How does a dead man survive in the world of the living? Yet there I was every rising sun trying to act warm and okay, swift and agile with my dead cold corpse and stiff remains. Man must live, I kept telling myself every single day.
One day I will talk about this pain but not even words can express it's depth, ferrocity and magnitude, those words are yet to be found.
I am however wrong, I am still a child and a stupid one at that, a spoilt little kid without control of his own emotions that's why my broken pieces would still plead within, "Oh God but I love her" Kneel my broken being and scattered pieces and pray fervently to a God who had either gone on a honeymoon and switched off all his communication lines or plugged his ears with sound proofed headphones blaring loud music yet I never stopped. My broken pieces kept pleading my cause even in their state of nothingness, the bleeding mess and scattered pieces kept asking God, "But God I love her, please bring her back," and he never answered me. Oh poor silly me, how was I supposed to know that men never love? How was the naive me supposed to understand the gravity of the statements; "all men are........." "you men are.....?" 

I guess only the love experts know it too well so I keep right-wrong with me to save you the agony of feeling a man's internal turmoil that should not even exist in the first place.

I am still yet to find closure. It has been tricky because I still don't know exactly why she ever left, maybe I will never know but I will right my misled outlook and thank the heart that bled and healed, gift the soul that rose from the ashes, grease the bones that rose from the grave and salute the heart that recollected her broken pieces and thank her for being whole again. I owe my heart this story so I will let her tell it when she - my heart- finally gathers the guts to speak about what she went through. One day I will talk about the love I lost.


Thursday, 30 May 2019


I want to be a thief,
No! Not a thief, I want to be a big thief.
I want to be a big thief because
big thieves get a round of applause
while small thieves are hanged and roasted.
I want to be a big thief so that I can buy
justice when am caught.
I want to be a big thief so that the big laws
are against them when am above them.
I want to be a big thief so that I can control
the system, run the show, call the shots.
I want to be a big thief because I want
idiots to line the streets praising me
for stealing from them, I want pastors
to preach long sermons about God's
blessing with me as an example.
I want the TV stations, radio, newspapers,
blogs and social media to be a wash
with my story of rags to riches.
I want to give motivational talks on
hard work, smart work and god first crap.
I want to steal so much that I can't keep
count of it and be beyond the reach of
their touch.
I want to be a big thief who can pay
the hangman to hang himself when
he knocks at my door for a date with
the gallows.
I want to be a big thief because I need
to sit on the front seats in church,
I want to sit on the bishop's seat if I can
or at worse next to him in the throne
of glory.
I want the top layer, I want the thick soup
that only the most anointed partake.
I want to be the poster boy of success,
the reference point of success stories,
the epitome of miraculous hard work,
I want to get there and see you clap for
me because I made it.
I want you to clap for me for turning
charcoal into gold, eggs and chicks into
billions, water into wine and whatever.
I want to be such a big thief that when I
get arrested, I get VIP presidential escort
to the station in full glare of media cameras,
I want idiots I steal from to rush to my
defense and shout the famous "mtu wetu."
I want to be so rich that all systems get
chills when they even think of asking me
about the source of my wealth or nature
of my business.
I want to be so reach that the taxman pees
in his pants when my name is just mentioned.
I want to be a big thief because the
end justifies the means.
Hard work is overrated, intergrity is a
selective fallacy and honesty is a bag
of bullshit.
If you doubt me, go to the prison and
ask that poor honest convict serving
a lifetime in jail for a crime he was framed.
I want to steal from you until you
celebrate me and if you agree or object,
still shout your loudest amen.
Have faith with me and the Lord shall
bless you with handouts when I get
I want to be a big thief so that when I
finally kick the overflowing bucket
I couldn't even finish eating from you
write in bold on my epitaph,
Here lies a great man, a hero, a legend,
He came, he saw and he conquered,
May he rest with the angels, here lies
a big thief who dared to dream and become.
I want children from all tribes and nations,
streets in my village and the cities to be
named after me,
I want my name on dillapidated public
schools and pathetic public hospitals
and I health centers.
I want a statue erected in my memory in
the heroes corner for future generations
after I am dead and gone.
I want the genius of my thievery to be
immortalized in song and dance,
books and scriptures.
I hope you understand why I want
to be a big thief.
I want to be a big thief.
May the day break.

© Camistare 2019

Sunday, 26 May 2019


Open my heart, undress my mind,
lay bare my soul, unclothe my spirit,
make naked my body,
then lay me nude and unashamed
on your warm bed of love,
intoxicated by the sweet smell of roses
that comes from your breath.
I don't want to feel the physical things,
I want to feel things beyond my reach,
the intricate things the words of a poet's
pen cannot express or write about.
I want to lose myself and become another
Unleash the animal within and make him
bark, pant and grown, make him scratch,
bite and choke if he can.

Touch me and take me to another world
with the magic of your finger tips,
Hold me in your arms and make the world
stop in the tightness of your embrace,
Look into my eyes and steal my soul with
the intensity of your love stare,
graze my skin and let it burn with the
sweetness of your magic lips,
unleash me and annihilate the shyness
within with the softeness of your sweet
I am far too gone to contemplate a return,
so I will continue.

Standing at this point of no return,
I am staring at a moment that's divine.
A moment of magic, a moment of eternity
and only you can take me there.
I am right at the gates of heaven though
hell is not giving up without a fight.
I can see the throne of glory this morning
but the flames of hade are also fast approaching.
You are my only saviour.
Make Love to me and let me cross over to
Take me to that please where time stops,
where nothing else exists but the magic
of your love and nothing else.
Make love to me.

There is an angel imprisoned within,
make him sing the heavenly tunes
that break free the chains and opens
the doors of this prison that he is in
to see him free.
There is a demon within,
make him scream and come out,
rush into the swine and drown
in eternal oblivion.
Make love to me and exorcise this legion.
There is a little child inside,
make him cry, laugh, play and feel.
Make him react, make him respond,
uncoil him.

Make love to me, make love to me
and free my soul.
Make love to me and bring back the
life I lost, the glory that went away,
the joy that left, the tears that ran dry,
the child that died and the angel that
was captured and barnished.
Make love to me until I forget myself,
until I feel nothing else but the magic
of the moment and the after taste of
the everlasting.
Make love to me and my soul shall be
at rest.
Make love to me and I shall rest in peace.
Make love to me.

© Camistare 2019

Wednesday, 22 May 2019


Music is disturbing my head.
I am restless.
My soul is in deep turmoil.
I feel a pain I cannot find words to tell.
Yes I am in the middle of a fierce battle.
A part of me is bleeding,
a part of me is pleading,
pleading for justice or at least just one chance.
I am locked up.
I will explode if these chains don't let go.

The music inside me is screaming to burst open.
I need a release.
It's the only way I will survive.
The chains are killing me.
The voices are dimming my soul,
sapping the life of me,
This is killing me softly,
as the music remains unquenched
 like deep love unrequited.
I am like a thirsty lover,
forced to live with the pain of eternal dryspell,
Torn apart from the very affection of my soul.
Damn! I need an outlet.

Art is suffocating me, chocking me,
killing me softly, giving me nightmares,
scary dreams of the after life.
Only she can save me, this sweet girl (music)
that I deeply love yet can't have.
Music will take me to my grave.
No! Not doing music will take me to my grave.
That is for certain,
because music is all I live for,
She is at the very soul of the life I live,
She is the heartbeat that keeps this system running.
In her company, I come to life,
I am me, I don't need to be someone else,
I don't need to pretend, I don't need to hide,
I don't need to be perfect before her,
I don't need to be strong when I should be weak,
I don't need a stone face when my tear glands
threaten to burst the at the seams
and release the floodgates within
that wash my soul clean of pain,
My cold insides spark to life and glow warm,
The wounds within get a healing balm.
She makes me kick to life,
Awakens the beast within,
And allows the baby inside to smile, cry and play.

I am insane, I know, but then again
I have never been normal and the harder I try to be,
the harder I keep failing.
How on earth can I be normal,
when normal is dead and gone?
I am an empty shell of the man I am,
lost in this maze tryingt to trace my way home.
I have a lot to say yet words cannot even form,
my lips vibrate but produce no single sound.
I have a billion feelings to express,
Yet they refuse to come out,
when I desperately want them to.
The strength within fails me,
when I desperately summon it.

Am I normal?
I don't know, I may never know,
maybe I will never know.
Is something wrong with me?
I honestly dont know this too.
Maybe if the music within came out,
I would get a glimpse of the answers,
I may somehow unravel the puzzle,
of this complex maze I have been lost inside for eons.
I need an outlet,
before the little life that remains inside
my sorry being fizzles out too,
before the feeble, little shinning light that is increasingly
but still fighting hard to shine against all odds,
 dies out too.
And, in it's place total darkness envelopes
the man I never got the chance to see and know.

The same blessing I was given is also my greatest curse,
my sweetest taboo I swear.
The creativity I never asked for, the unforgiving talent,
the spontaneous tunes, melodies, sounds and,
countless voices in my headhthat bother me endlessly,
yet not coming out are killing me softly,
like seeping blood taking away life from bleeding slit wrists.
or traditional incurable poison with no antidote,
or carbon monoxide from a jiko on a cold night,
as I like in my bed sleeping,
with my doors and windows closed,
Even my door and window curtains drawn to shut
out the world.
My soul is bleeding to death and I can't help it,
I feel helpless, I am drowning,
and I can't even cry for help as the current sweeps
me away.

The wounds caused by this music
that has been forced to die but refuses and fights back,
fights back harder than the slave masters chaining her.
If only I could just give her all up and be free,
of her intoxicating madness and grasp over me.
If only I could walk away from her painful sweetness,
If only I could put a stop to our liason and an end to this torture,
If only I could free my chained mind,
heart, body spirit and soul.
I would give up everything I have for that.

But how can I?
How can I when she is me and I am her?
How can I when giving her up would mean giving up me?
How can I when she is all I need?
How can I when live with the curse,
or is it the blessing of insanity of a creative mortal?
I walk with the curse of an abnormal being,
in a perfect society with perfect beings,
who are normal and ideal.
My only mistake, being abnormal and real,
in a world where real is twisted,
and the difference between real and unreal,
real and ideal as grey and unclear,
as the conflicts within my tortured soul.

Music will kill me if she doesn't get out.
I know how jealous she is, how strong,
how dangerous, how crazy she gets,
how mean and loving she is to me at the same time.
I may be overreacting but no!
I know it, I have seen it, I have tasted it, I know it.

I am silly, please forgive me, forgive my stupidity,
my futile attempts at being intelligent,
yet only managing to embarrass myself in public,
showing off my chronic ignorance and appalling stupidity.
Please forgive me, forgive me for her if not for me.
Forgive my unforgivable stupidity of dreaming and
creating nonsense in the real world.
But let me do just one thing, just one thing,
I know you will not understand but please I beg of you,
Let me make love to music just one more time.
This is the last time and I will bother you no more.
I will die silently with my dry spell and accept my fate.
Allow me to love her just one last time.

I find nothing left to live for with her gone.
And if I follow her without ever doing it,
please write this in my epitaph,
"here lies a man who failed,
a man who loved music and did nothing about it,
a man who fought her and lost.
Here lies a coward with a million songs he refused
to give to the music of his soul,
here lies a failure who refused to release
an infinite number of beautiful tunes that music gave him
as a memento of their undying love,
here lies a man who killed that love and killed himself too."
Write my epitaph in bold, make it golden,
make it large, ugly and conspicuous,
but make sure the writings in honor of music are beautiful,
that would be my last gift for her,
my silent eternal apology for failing her,
for betraying our complicated love affair.
Please write sweetly and beautifully in bold,
Then my tortured soul shall rest in peace.

©Camistare 2019

Friday, 17 May 2019


Someone must lose for another to win,
Someone must fall for another to rise,
Someone must stop for another to start,
Someone must die for another to thrive,

I talked to a hearse operator,
He lamented to me,
"My friends, times are hard,
people are not dying,
If it continues like this,
We will be out of business,
People need to die my friend.

Then I met the morgue attendant,
He was with the chief pathologist,
Both basking in the dull sun on the morgue lawns.
He was gloomy and dull,
Then he began ranting,
"Business is low,
body counts have fallen,
If this trend continues,
I will have to pack up my gloves,
The post mortems are few,
My kids will go hungry,
My wife may leave me soon,
If people refuse to die.

Then I met the doctor,
He had on his face this plastic smile,
He shook my hand with a wicked glint
in his eye,
When I told him I am not seeking
medical attention,
He hit the roof for losing his precious
consultation fee.
I kept my smile,
He opened up,
"My friend, the times are hard," he confessed.
"The hospital beds are empty,
The queues are short,
The number of sick people be has drastically dropped.
I am afraid my dear friend that at this rate,
I may have to wind up practice."
My good doctor said.

I left the hearse operator praying,
May the Lord bless the work of his hand.
I left the morgue operator thinking,
Death is such a good thing,
Someone needs to die for the pathologist
to earn his daily bread.
I left the doctor thinking,
Someone needs to fall sick,
The medic must not wind up practice.
His lovely kids must not lack school fees,
Oh God, may you bless the work of his hands.

As my prayer ended,
I found me standing at the foot of my epitaph,
The creator of the masterpiece smiled,
I could see him singing as he made it,
The casket designer I never met was dancing too
as he made me a masterpiece,
The chorus and dance was marvellous,
The best part was the closing line of these
forgotten service providers,
"A hot meal at last, thank heavens."
The punchline ended the song,
I woke up dancing too,
dancing and meditatively thinking,
thinking about the awesome balance
that life is,
Dying to live in the process.
So I am stick in this paradox,
Taking a nap with my one eye open,
Lest I slip into the unfathomable depths
of the cousin of death, laymen call her sleep.
No deaths and no sickness
translate to no business and no profits,
No matter the case,
Man must live.



I have been told for so long to be a man, a real man and I am in a crisis, I battle demons, I fight darkness, I beat myself, I search within for that real man and I still haven't figured out how to be one.

I have no spine, I lack the back bone, or may be I have them but know nothing about being a real man, the one they always tell me to be.
I am weak, I am soft, I dream, I let emotions run their course, I feel when as a man I should be cold, hard as stone.

I am still hanging in here walking blindly in the hope that I will find the man they want me to be that I know nothing of. I feel helpless but then again, how does a real man ask for help? How does he say the right thing he needs to say? What guarantee does he have that the very words he may say in that one moment of self abandon to his weakness will not be used to witness against his manliness when the hands of the clock turn? The more I think about it, the deeper I sink into this dark abyss, lost yet I can't ask for directions lest I get lost further than I am now in the process of being directed.

I know I have tried and keep trying but what is trying when you have nothing to show for it? What proves you have done something when there are little or no positive results to show for it? How do you explain when things beyond your control cannot allow you to be where you ought to be? How do you even explain how long it is taking or has taken when the judge, jury and executioner already know the outcome, when your sentence is already passed no matter your defense, proof and evidence to the contrary?

I wake up in the morning, look at myself in the mirror and see a pathetic failure, a veritable coward, a man without balls and to make it worse, they never miss the chance to remind me of that. Their voices replay in my head like a stuck grammaphone reminding me that I am nothing but empty trousers, beards, bass and different genitals.

Sometimes I wake up because I must. I think of life, of where I am and where I know I should be and I hate the morning sun, it announces proudly to me, the beginning of a new day, a chapter in the Chronicles of a chronic failure, it reminds me of another trial that flops, it reminds me of the how hard I have tried in the silent moments that I keep under wraps, the things I do without announcing, the plans, the dreams and visions I have since learnt to be aftaid to speak about loudly because they make no sense when there is no evidence of progress.

I swear I hang on because of the smile of a little girl who awakens the child in me. Sometimes I fight because of her, I keep fighting because of her and sometimes I wake up and face these dark days because when I think about her I tell myself, I can do this one more day.

I am waiting to be a man, a real man like the men out there, a true definition of a man that I have never been and may become or never become in future. The future that has always promised me heaven and delivered hell. Maybe one day I will find him, we will unite and become one and I will begin talking where all real men talk. I will find him one day or find a gun, put it in the head of this other weak man and send him to the other world so that the real man may finally reveal himself. I hate this man, I loathe him, I can't stand him but I keep hanging in there even though he disappoints me. I am at crossroads, the only thing that keeps me here from turning back is the hope that I might just accidentally stumble upon the right path in this darkness and find a miracle.

The story of my life depresses me. The pressure to become, the pressure to prove is overwhelming, what can a mortal man do? May the day break before the darkness takes me to where I can never return, the point of no return keeps calling me, every morning I wake up it entices me seductively, she asks me, what else is there to hold on to? What is there to live for? What is there to fight for? May the day break, for the night has been too long and I am afraid I can't take it anymore because each passing day  my strength is falling me, I am a weak man I agree, but how strong can I be when being strong over the years has left me with nothing, not even a morsel of self dignity. May the day break.