Shout no Voices

To a friend who is hurting,
A stranger who is stranded,
Adopted deported immigrant.
To a sister turned fore,
A child writhing in pain,
A jobless Youth,
And you Incarcerated conscious convict.
To a mourning husband,
with suicide note at shore
and a laughing, crying jilted lover.
Though the voices have stopped,
Yet in true sense they persists.

End.

02218-02:18
 

Growing up in 80s & 90s

Growing up in 80s & 90s

I grew up in the Eighties and early Nineties. The eighties and Nineties were certainly a goldmine for nostalgic blog material. I spent my teens in those decades playing in the dirt, going to school bare foot and dreaming big.   I can certainly tell you that the TV was way better with none of the “reality” show garbage that we see today.  The music was mature and sweetly sound!

I lived with 5 siblings cramped in corrugated iron semi-permanent rented 10 by 12 feet single room in Nairobi, Kangemi slum. That was what I called home for many years. I had come accustomed to the landlord knocking loudly on our door early in the morning asking for rent. For me it was a morning call time. Another day had broken. Bed time used to be quarrelsome with unfeigned  storged love. We shared one bed with my 5 siblings. The two blankets with my four sisters and my younger brother had punctuated North and South pole holes. For the whole night the blankets were stretched like a tennis court. I slept like a ninja under attack. For some strange reasons I never lacked sleep and I dreamed well in to the night. We had no Radio neither a Television set but love and prayers of our dad and mom kept us warm.  Some of our neighbors that had the two most coveted electronic invention of our times welcomed us to listen soccer & watch “Vitimbi” a popular Kenya local comedy. I loved to watch Kenya marathon runners and football what American greats call Soccer.

Televisions were few in the neighborhood, strictly under lock and key.  I had to contend with listening to Kenya’s Harambee stars play Malawi-Chipolopolo under a tree surrounded by curious overzealous neighbors. First it started with Kandenge na mpira…Kande…na mprira before you knew it …goa..goaaal, and the commentator continued Msikilizaji….The radio commentary and mental visualization was so real and clear than today’s colored flat screens.  That was the time I knew I will grow up to be a mystic radio journalist. No I was wrong.

The black and white television T.V set in our neighborhood was magical. I had sometimes to naturally time the TV wrestling show at 2030 hours at one of our distant relative’s home just in time for meals.  The eyes then will start roving and talk “see him again!”.  At times they delayed to serve dinner until I left. This night I slept hungry. .…..To be continued…..020118-08:22