Tuesday, 1 October 2019

I have a pen that constantly vomits.
A magic pen that vomits a magic ink of life and death.

This pen of mine writes stories of joining and breaking.
The magic ink of love and hate in the same page and sometimes sentence.
The pen of greed and honesty, truth and lies.

My pen writes about clouds and numbers like 9 and 69.
This is the ink of the gods and demons that tells beautiful stories of animals like dogs with styles that humans ape and celebrate.
This pen is a masterpiece, a crazy mix of thirst and quenching of the same by the same source of ink.

My pen writes with eternal ink, stories of beautiful sounds and crazy ones, songs, and moans of life and death, joy and pain, weird sweetness, bitten lips and shut eyes, confusion and pandemonium,
tales of feelings and strong things words cannot express.
Oh, how I love what this pen is.

The ink from my pen tells tales of healing and heartaches, pain and heartbreaks victory and loses, defeats and conquests, laughter and tears.

I have a pen that writes beautiful stories of life at the beginning and sad ones of death in the process in the same breath.

My pen writes stories of successful farmers and planters and painful ones of failed farmers and barren gardens.

My pen is a masterpiece of sorts, a gift from the gods, a tool for praise and ridicule.

Oh, ye sages, philosophers and wise men of this age, can you tell me what my pen is?
Can you tell me why my ink should be as mixed as this?
Oh, ye men who live right where God is, can you intervene in the heavens and bless this pen and ink?
Can you prophesy what my pen is and drop a word of knowledge may be to save this mortal son of a man from pens, vomit, and ink?

The pen holder thanks all of you for the stories and written manuscripts.
The pen is appreciative of the readers of these pen-ish stories that grope in darkness attempting to find out what this pen is.




On a dark morning,
I found myself mourning,
As he forcefully stripped me of my glory,
And walked away with the trophy,
Painted in crimson red
Like the lips of a pride of lions
After a hearty meal of a helpless buffalo.
Years later I still mourn my robbed glory.

For a moment of heaven,
He gave me a million hells,
Painful hallelujahs and amens,
As he moaned in the glory that morning
While I mourned my glory.
Countless years later,
I still mourn in glory
Because moaning glory,
Has never left my memory.
I hate moaning glory
For it reminds me to mourn my
violently robbed glory.



Monday, 12 August 2019

Everyone Loves When Death Is A Keyboard And Screen Joke: The Suicide And Cyber-bullying Mystery

A man posted on his public Facebook status that he was going to kill himself. 90℅ of his friends liked the status, 5% reacted with laughs, and it was of course quite hilarious. A further 4% reacted with love and an odd 1% reacted with sad then the comments began pouring in torrents.

His 1000 plus friends trolled, cajoled and bullied him. The experts among them noted that those who actually kill themselves do not say it in public, a further group of experts told him off to his face on that social media wall of his that he is a chronic attention seeker merely looking for likes and sympathy, a manipulative cry baby who needed to grow up and stop walking in baby diapers.

The religious chaps in his circle told him that Jesus had paid it all, he only needed to trust in him, in fact they summarized it all in three words of encouragement to him, "it is well, " never mind that none of them even bothered to find out what was actually wrong with him or the thing that was eating him up. The motivational speakers among his mutual friends bombarded him with stale copied quotes from memes, books, and sermons they had read or heard. They told him, "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger."

Then the strangers and public opinion experts' knowledgeable in all things joined the thread. They laughed, booed, mocked and cheered him to go ahead and do it. Some offered him the best ropes and the strongest poison brands if he needed any, others, on the other hand, offered him YouTube videos and tutorials on 1000 ways to die, the avid readers shared with him expert books on how to kill yourself painlessly. It was a joke to them.

12 hours later they woke up to the news that he was no more. Condolences came from all quarters, his silent friends suddenly found their voices, the cyberbullies became the most concerned, and they were the most sympathetic in the comments section. An MPESA pay-bill account was formed to contribute money for a good send-off of a great friend and icon. Candlelit vigils were held, streets closed and matches in his honor held daily.

People poured moving tributes from all over the world, conversations about suicide with him as the case study went viral. I just woke up from that dream and realized friendship is overrated, sometimes all those you have called your bosom friends are Mike Sonkos` who will expose your nakedness for all and sundry to see when you are completely down and helpless therefore don't sweat the small stuff. Live your life, care for those who do and forget those who don't, take a walk through a dark tunnel, when you come out on the other side to see the light, you will be clear on who your friends were, don't be sorry if you found none, that is life. Funerals too are overrated so don't worry much about yours. The crowd will come through when you cross that line so why not just live and let live?

Mental health discussions need to be taken out of the closet and brought to the public table. It is a high time the society began talking about suicide openly and not as a taboo or a shameful topic that would rather be handled like a hot potato.



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-sacrificial 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 darkroom 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 asunder 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 it 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 were 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 man 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, ferocity, 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 spoiled 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 soundproofed 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