By Kukogho Iruesiri Samson Multimedia Journalist, Author of 'What Can Words Do?' Founder/CEO Words Rhymes & Rhythm (Ltd) When I started writing poetry consciously in 2002, it was not unusual to see me reading a poem by the greats – like Shakespeare, Yeats, Frost, Clark, Leopold and their contemporaries – and then writing a mirror poem. Then, I could work on a poem for days trying to master the existing styles (mostly sonnets and other metered poems). As a result, my poems were mostly with rhyme, rhythm and regular meter for years, until around 2009.
The last time I saw Maimun words poured out of me like water squeezed from a sponge. She covered my mouth with hers as if to swallow a terrible curse that would come back to afflict us. “Forget us, forget me,” she said. Upon us was the moment of partying— my heart cracked. “I will come for you, my moon,” I said. “I will get you away from your Imam father Even Allah.” “Goodbye, my love I cannot help you with my love. Forget, my love I love you more than life itself.” She shimmered away— And I was alone.
In a world where patriarchate is heritage nothing has been left to chance about the male dominance – man is the head, and woman the neck. Nevertheless, the recent attacks on men from a particular place in Kenya (classified stuff) by their women have raised alarm on the God-given place of man. There seems to be a silent revolution that would end the age-old reign of man. Women are infiltrating, conquering and dominating where man has boasted the sole leadership and command since time immemorial, and are doing better. Why this sudden upheaval? The woman is empowered to the hilt, and the male species is losing it. Gone are the days when alcohol-acquired-machismo was revered by the ladies and thence the sisters (who’ve been in distress for eons) have taken the reins – from bedroom to work place. ...
Around the fire, she was a mural; looked down the flames: Girls, this is your bodies, consumes everything it touches— When she looked up, I wondered if gods would ever kill her—she was all seeing: Sit like a girl, and I scissored my legs closed. Yet, you are water; between your legs, a fountain life and death in bed, a river men swim upstream and drown downstream. Grandma! I’d scream. The glaucoma in her eyes didn’t hide her disappointment with me, She’d move her hands to her fac...
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