Photo by Musa Ortaç on Unsplash
the last mangoes of the season
so, here we are again, and not for the first time, Jolly Detta,
another end of year and there is no curtain fall, no roll call,
the stage is empty, the choirmaster has cirrhosis,
the soloist has had a breakdown and mixed up her meds,
the auditorium is empty, only your voice feels it with reverie.
outside it pours, light, lazy, the last days of the short rains.
a sikh offers blankets and hot biryani to a homeless family,
crowds gather under umbrellas, a young girl sings an aria.
does all this mean i don’t need any more prayers?
a priest sits alone at the confession booth,
thinking of the son no one will ever know, the nubian woman
who he sees from time to time in woodley estate,
tattooing his body with the blue ink of indecipherable symbols,
lost tombs, half-finished pyramids, the face of his handsome boy.
soon the aria is complete, the rain has stopped, the streets are empty,
we are on our way home, Jolly Detta,
Evangeliste Myriam, my congolese charm
where we will eat the last mangoes of the season,
salt, paprika, indifference, black pepper.
eating charcoal
strange at first but we start touching each other again,
so much of what we’d forgotten comes back to us,
the aqueous of our eyes a sinless white,
the black so liquid you can see a reflection of god.
we smell like baby powder and shit and vomit again,
we sing and incantate, remember
the burning of our great grandmothers,
the whites in our sails sailboats to nowhere,
we go back to eating clay and charcoal,
pulling at each others plaits, pissing in pots, eating butterflies,
fearing cats, trusting strangers not to play with our parts.
everything is beautiful again, lucifer has been forgiven,
no more need for different tongues in babel,
meaning no alternatives words for incense, despair, recessive genes–
all has been forgiven and there is no need for the book of job,
in the mail the corinthians wait for letters that never arrive,
the apostles are busy playing scrabble and inventing backgammon.
the uses of diagnosis
my uncle sits at the corner, staring at the 9pm news,
a strange smile on his aging face, his hair and beard turning white,
i don’t know his age, or his real name, i don’t know anything about him
other than the biological truth of his being born after my mother.
for as long as we’ve lived him he always sits at a corner, that strange smile,
as if he were talking to a some lost god in a lost kingdom.
no one knows what’s wrong with him; he’s harmless,
and in the tradition of family, what ails the mind is immaterial.
i’ve met him a few times in the past,
much like myself he walks and walks, the poet and the madman,
doesn’t mwenda wazimu have something to do with going, distance, travel,
a sense of leaving, having left, where does he go?
once or twice he’s been spotted at Nyayo Stadium during Madaraka Day, Jamhuri Day,
having to work hours to and fro, without water or food,
in torn clothes, torn sleepers, the wisdom of his graying hair as guide.
once, looking for mahamris, i chance upon him in a hotel,
he’s giving an analysis of the 2007 Kenyan elections, what went wrong,
what could have been done right, what to do for the internally displaced.
this is the first time I’ve seen him string more than five words together,
too animated, he barely sees me, i leave without the mahamris,
let him have his life, let him be saved from family.
weeks later i’m curious about him, we are watching the news
when i ask him about the coalition government.
he just sits there, says nothing, that strange smile on his face, the white beard,
have we hurt him so much that he’d rather talk to strangers?
how is it that he can predict who will win in the blue and red states,
can tell you which rightwingers will win in eastern Europe,
can name all the capital cities in Africa, failed states or not, who likely to secede?
when did he learn the lyrics to Leonard Cohen’s who by fire,
this old man who won’t shower unless asked to,
wont talk unless spoken to, answering in monosyllables,
his forgiving smile a stay of execution, a quiet river, still waters.
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Clifton Gachagua is the author of Madman at Kilifi and Cartographer of Water.
