Strong towers aren’t built
With dreams and sunbeams
Or Marshmallow clouds
that are tossed by winds or whims
absorbing the changing mood
of the sun by day.

The strong brick, rough and worn
scratching post for sheep shorn
stretching tall shading
harsh rays from strays resting
in it’s shadow.

The rough surface tickles my hand as I walk around it
Finding deep notches where moss
has found a home
making it smooth.

I’m safe in this fortress
I dont’ even notice the storm
that rages outside
covering the parts of me that must grow to show
how you fathered me.

See it was never about
the clothes on my back
or labels that come with it
jor the fact that we walked home
from a full day of slavin’ it

It was the
Keep your back straight
and your chin held high
let the world see your pride
there ain’t nothin’ to hide.

You said
C’mon child don’t slack
They’ll shoot you in the back
and attack your ineptitude.

When you
Held me close as my heart broke
as the screen of smoke
covered the bloke who left me.

Saying
Kinyagiro come here
don’t let this breed fear
you will find love again.

It was the
tears in your eyes as sweet
sorrowful goodbyes
soaked through the glass
that separated us.

Still hear you say
It pays to remember
what you learned at home
all of your days sweet one

It’s in the smile I hear
on the other end of the phone
when I call and know
you take pleasure in the sound of my voice
it’s your choice
to let me know

Thank you for being
the only father I’ve ever wanted
for sheltering me, I’m content
For a lifetime of memories completed
supporting m dreams even when I’m defeated
depleted and done.

I love you Daddy!

There are some things I don’t understand about the whole abortion issue. No matter what your moral stance is, logic demands that some questions be answered.

1. If our belief systems are not identical, how can I tell someone what to do according to what I believe?
2. Are all women good mothers? Or are they assumed to be good mothers just because they are women? What about all the cases of child abuse perpetrated and/or supported by women?
3. If the basic concern here is the life of the child, not the quality of life after the child is born, your moral stance again is what?
4. If I have not contributed in ANY WAY to the life of a human being, how can I tell them what to do with anything?

I want to rule the World, I really do. However, I’m not sure how to impose my beliefs on others and make them bow to my will.

Help me!

You broke my heart last night
When you insinuated that my dreams
Will never come to pass.
When you insisted I give up
And let them fade away
Like the morning mist.

I spent the whole night patching up the pieces
Wondering where I went wrong in explaining myself
Wondering if you mistake my character
Wondering if you ever knew me at all…

Maybe you do and you just don’t care
Which is okay
Coz I’ll be okay
And keep chasing my lofty dreams
Till I catch them.

2009.ndungi

If God paints wonderful sunsets three evenings in a row for you to enjoy while you’re sitting doing something you love to do, is he

a) Sending you a secret message telling you to keep doing that thing you love to do?
b) Asking you to take a break and enjoy the painting?
c) Busy doing something else and isn’t doing anything to do with painting?
d) Firing up the heavenly grill making burgers for dinner?

August 11th Sunset

August 12th Sunset

August 13th Sunset

I posted Chapter Three onto my fiction blog! Check it out!!!

http://imnotwhispering.wordpress.com!

Alrighty aighty mateys! (I regressed with two episodes of Spongebob. Please forgive me.)

My current desk

In the past I have attempted to record my voice in the hope that someone will hear it and sign me up for a Walt Disney cartoon series so I can make millions and RULE THE WORLD!!!

I have some recordings of my poetry and one of me reading an old blog entry. Do you think you might like to hear my voice?

Back to finishing Chapter Three!!!

Thinking about the next chapter

Rocky grey hills stretching up towards the sky with a singular thought – touch the sky. Grassy knolls surviving on ledges where top soil had previously settled, having been brought here by heavy torrential rainfall that is common to this place. Trees growing from the cracks in rocks, their roots delving ever deeper drinking cool drops of water that are still hiding from the world. The trees cling to the side of the rocky mountains growing straight towards the sky, long branches stretched in eternal worship to the sun. The steep green valley plunges down several hundred feet from the top to a rushing river that bounces off big boulders that plummeted down the valley in years gone by, making laughing jovial sounds as it races to its destination. It ends in a shimmering lake whose edge is just visible around one great hill in the distance.

The morning air is cool and heavy with the wetness of the mist that rests on the hills till the sun rises and chases it all away. In the afternoon the sun is so high in the sky, all that is left of your shadow is a small oblong shape under your feet that occasionally sticks out it’s arms and legs in mock imitation of your own movements. The heat of the day ebbs as the day wanes. People and other creatures alike venture out, usually ending up in the market square squabbling over the prices of fresh colourful food. At night each star a glittering gem on a dark velvet canvas etches its nightly path over the sky, sending messages of peace, love and impending doom to searching sages hidden in their towers.

Here life grows full and lush, as though the land is infused with powerful growth hormones. Birds chirp and build their nests with vigour, stopping only to take a quick splash in the river or some other little pool where they can cool off. Children race up and down the valleys calling to each other in playful voices and competing with each other to defeat the old Ngungu tree that is older than the oldest person’s memory in the valley.

This is the land where my great-grandfather’s great-grandfather, Chumbusho, was born.

West beyond the last mountainous hills of the valley, a great forest that stretched as far as the eye could see, covered the sibling hills. Tales of shapless terrors that ripped flesh off bone were told to children, a warning that anyone who entered the woods would not leave alive. Not since Fruha’s rebellion had anyone ventured further than a couple of feet inside the forest. Reckless teenagers testing their bravery would dare each other to enter the forest. Diiru’s middle son, Ewuno and a number of his friends had raced home last harvest season with the fire of fear in their eyes. Apparently Ewuno had been challenged to relieve himself on one of the trees that stood just beyond the edge of the forest. While he did, his friends cheered him on and when he was done – according to them – the tree had lifted a large root and tripped him. Ewuno added various details depending on his audience, a dark shadowy spook for little children, a beast that watched him from the branches that stared him down was saved for the ladies.

Chumbusho was Ewuno’s younger brother, and his most faithful servant. Even though he was not allowed to play with the big boys and strictly forbidden from listening to their conversation, Chumbusho could always be found lurking somewhere near his brother. At night he would bring Ewuno’s blanket to him and he would be rewarded with a warm snuggle till he fell asleep. His dreams would be filled with the incredible stories Ewuno whispered to him as bedtime stories. Chumbusho would have happily served Ewuno for the rest of his life.

The harvest after the Great Chief died, Ewuno and his friends ventured towards the forest once again, the memory of their previous scare entirely forgotten. Ewuno’s account of their previous adventure had been stretched to a ridiculous epic that had morphed into a tale that made him a warrior with experience beyond his years and his friends had been written out. Feeling chaffed that his story was being challenged, Ewuno had challenged his friends to do what he had done, asking them to each pick a tree on which to ease themselves.

As usual, Chumbusho was following them, ducking from tree to tree so Ewuno would not see him. The older boys jostled one another as they walked along, teasing Juum who would be married in three months to a girl he had been sweet on for seventeen months. Eventually they arrived at a grassy clearing where some large mango trees grew that were heavy laden with ripe juicy fruit. They flopped beneath the trees in the cool shade and one lanky limbed friend climbed up one of the trees to cut down some mangoes for them to eat. Chumbusho chose a large tree along the footpath, careful to avoid the large red biting ants that raced between the grass blades. He watched their journey away from the base of the tree, carrying larvae on their backs and butting against one another. The soldier ants raced along with the worker ants that carried the larvae, occasionally stopping to check for holes in the protective wall that ran along each side of the path they had chosen.

A large green eye above him slowly opened and watched.

The sudden quiet startled him and he looked around the tree to see if Enuwo and his friends were still in the clearing. The large eye closed quickly. The older boys sat scattered about the clearing, long limbs bathing in the sun, thirstily absorbing each ray into their dark mahogany skin.

Saftisfied for the moment Chumbusho turned back to the red ants.

Slowly the large eye seemed to open in another part of the tree, carefully watching. Hardly a leaf rustled as it watched Chumbusho. Other eyes opened above following his movements as he followed the path of the ants.

The feeling of being watched came slowly over Chumbusho who turned around quickly and asked, “Who is there?”

No reply came. The eyes were all shut.

Slowly Chumbusho turned towards the tree and slowly looked up, afraid of what might be there that had raised his hackles so frightfully. One eye glinted from between the leaves, catching a ray of light. Suddenly a thousand eyes opened in the tree, each one green and curious centered in the middle of the large leaves of the dunfin tree.

Before he could let out a yelp, a long vine fell from the tree and wrapped itself tightly around his ankles, suddenly toppling him over, making his back hit a raised root and knocking the wind out of him. Another vine wrapped itself around his mouth muffling out his terrified screams. Chumbusho’s hands desperately pulled at the vine searching for a weak point to break it, but could find none. Many vines followed, tying him up and making him helpless. They lifted him up into the tree and the thousands of eyes watched as frantic tears streamed down his cheeks.

Soon he heard Ewuno and his friends getting up from the clearing contining on their journey. The sound of their footsteps rustling the grass and their cheerful conversation eventually faded.

(Where is Chapter Two?)

Ever looked at the stats on your page and wondered where people came from and what they were looking for?

Apparently when people come to mine, they’ve typed in WTF and Piercing. Huh!

And because I’m trying to promote something I’ll put a picture of my favorite piercing right here…

Love this band!!!

I think I’ve said piercing enough to get some more hits. I’ll just end with one last comment!!!

WTF?

Nothing in life quite compares to the feeling one experiences when purpose and dreams collide. (Naya)

I love to write. Nothing new about that. I love emptying my head of the thoughts that lie in it and put it on some pretty paper to visit at a later time and examine for evidence of spiritual or emotional growth. So imagine what happened when a story I wrote in college fascinated a friend so much, she encouraged me to expand the story and turn it into a book.

I had the priviledge of being educated at Gayaza High School where I had the opportunity to study African literature (Chinua Achebe and Wole Soyinka) and never really learned the history of the west since I was trying to understand the reason why the Mali empire fell and economy in Timbuktu (pronounced: Teem-book-two, or if you’re my history teacher teem-book-ooo-too). My sense of African-ness fits squarely around my middle and makes me passionate about stories from Africa with Africans.

The structure of the communities and the laws that governed people for thousands of years, the complex cultures that shaped societies, fashioned garments and raised families all move me. I want to write stories about them without criticism or analysis or comparison to any other. The dark skin and tightly curled hair, the smell of beans cooking with ghee and the bitter taste of nakati, dark and green on your plate. The vast Savannah with baboons playing under the shade of a big tree. The strong lean men and their equally strong shapely women, in whose bosoms numerous children and grandchildren lay for comfort and education. The deep mysteries surrounding beliefs that still echo through various morphisms of religion guiding us along a path to the place where our ancestors lay.

So take a walk with me as I write some of these stories. It’s pure fiction and full of magical creatures and fantastic imagery (if I do say so myself and can toot my horn a little bit), and I hope you will keep reading and stay a while.

Nature’s Way

I want it told