Voice of

We as Kenyans,
all we want is to toil for bread.
So give us those goddamn opportunities or we fuckin’ riot!
We want to get that legal money.
We as good citizens/
city-zings/
city-things in suits & a dream and loans/
shit-zens/
shizniz,
we just wonna-be-happy.
Have a masters degree, help the community,
vote (SCRATCH that!),
sleep in a 7-star hotel somewhere in the emirates just for fuckssake,

snooze till 11 a.m.

order crabs and grapes, tell the waiter keep change;

but we fear getting caught up in the maze,
the haze of greed and pride.
The cut-throat competitiveness.
We fear sacrifice.
We fear you.

We fear.
The smell of blood money.

We’ve been destitute for too long, we fear
the smell of prosperity.
Big wands of cash patronize us.
So we philosophize,
‘suck-excess’ is a suicide note in a new dress and the devil wears Prada and all rich muthafuckaz are devil-worshippers camels choked by the needle’s eye. We conclude.
We discuss (in disgust) them in barbershops.
In pillow-talks.
In bars.
We envy.
Them.
We rob.
Them.

Dear commoner, avoid books that tell you
How.To.Be.Rich.
Rather, read secrets to poverty…

HOW TO DIE POOR 101:

Blame the govern-ment.
Blame Kikuyus.
Blame Wazungus.
Do nothing.
Blame your parent.
Blame your environment.
Blame God.
Pray God.
Do nothing.
Drop out of school.
Do nothing.
Go to school.
Do nothing.
Then,
become                a               poet,
an          activist            or
an      underground     emcee.

OR

Buy hope in church.
Buy a rope if church don’t work.
Why should hope prolong your misery
if fortune don’t twerk?
Why twerk if ye ain’t got no ass?
What’s an ass but a mound of fat?
Why spend cash on such?
What do feminists think of strip clubs?
Ever seen a 1000 bob bill between the labia of a shaved snatch?

P***y money.

Between Chimamanda and Binyavanga, who is a true writivist?
(Methinks what a woman can do a poem can do even better.)
BN has rejected my poems twice.
But they say I’m great.
Some’n like lo Liyong.
Wow!
So I’m under protest.
Protest poetry: potent bombs!

Like ISIS niggaz in niqaabz and smoking Uzis on they sholdiers ‘cauz thass where the world iz at.

We as people of Earth, all we want is to love and be loved back.
I say, why complicate this thing?
Attach price tags and shit?
Shit like abs, 6 figures, 8-figure, squirts?
We want to serve and protect.
We want to be faithful
to our spouses and bosses.
We want to pay rent on time.
We want to look forward to Monday morning without a hangover.
We want to invest.

BE MILLION-HEIRS

But the bar stands in the way.

We as people of Jesus, all we want is to be good Christians.We want to pay tithe, pray for world peace.
But the devil is mouth-frothing in the pulpit. He says we build a mansion for God, with a steel steeple on the roof, 3D LED TV54 – 62 inch screens on the church walls, but it’s okay for us to live in mud-walled shanties because one day the meek shall inherit the Earth when aliens have dilapidated all our minerals.
Amen, bitch.

We as the youth, all we want is to be good kids in college.
Get high on weekends. Only. Strictly.
Best believe, we want to change the world.
We want to love only one person till we die.
We want to pay back our student loans.
We want to be moms and dads when we are ready.
But pussy tastes so good on a Sunday afternoon.
The smell of sex in a hostel cubicle is the barbecue of life.
It is YOLO, baby!
Yew huurd?

We as leaders, all we want is to serve these poor assholes that elected us.
We want to carpet these roads, pipe clean water in the slums, better housing, better education.
We want to serve.
We want to be like Alfred Mutua.
But the loans IMF and China gave us came with diplomatic ties [lies] that bind.

We as Black people of Africa and diaspora,
all we want is love, dear White people.
We worship you.
You create college drop-outs and cocaine dealers
as our heroes.
Jay Z. Rick Ross.
And sell-outs.
Nelson Mandela.
White is the colour of smart people.
We are bleaching our skins and brains.
We rather profile-pic your selfies with us
but not our boyfriends’ who pay for our shopping and silk underwears.
We worship your movies, cars and the technology, your Jesus, your culture and language, accents.
Accent: it has made our rappers and news readers popular.
(...”the bbenchh is smwokeen”…)
The twang. Nahmeen?

Digg diss yo:

We was raised like that.
We assimilate (ass-imitate) that fast.
We wants ta gyet along.
if only ya’ll cracker coppers stop shooting and jailing our American brothers over a stub of weed
and shooting unarmed kids
if only you stop funding these terror cartels in Somali, North Africa and the Coast to further your agenda
America, can you stop lying to Africans?
So Ben Carson is also Kenyan now?
That’s right Scotty, George Bush used to bang my mom too.
Gerra arra here!
Gerra arra here!

We as married people, all we want is a good marriage.
Founded on trust, commitment and tolerance.
We want to bury each other as our grandkids marvel at our 50 years of love & laughter.
But spouses cheat.
Whine over nothing.
Sex gets boring.
Some leave for years to hunt for fortune.
And never call.
Neighbours flirt with us.
We thus,

fuck them. Hard. Quickies.
We get caught.
We stab each other.
We divorce.
Now look at these sad children of ours.
At 21, they can’t sustain a relationship.
They fear to trust.
They learnt these insecurities from us.
What the fuck is wrong with us, Mama Johnnie?
Wapi chakula?
Mbona hunitombi siku hizi?
Ulevi mingi ya nini mpaka anajikojolea mbele ya majirani?
Uuuuu!
Uuuuu!
Anataka kuniua!
Uuuuui!
Uuuuui!
UUUUUUU!
UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!

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About Wudz

A scribe. A psychonaut.
This entry was posted in Philsophical Poems, Poetry, Protest Poems and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Voice of

  1. Afrikan Kodo says:

    Oh lord! Wudz manze!
    I never tire of reading your posts. And this…

    Like

  2. Gracey Chowder says:

    At a loss for words here.

    Like

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