Essy The Poet

  Selective Amnesia This one happens to the best of us.   A painful kind of procrastination  The one that costs you your destination  I am headed right to get to the left  And somehow, I don't think it hefty  The whisking away of time in painful anticipation  The deceitful ken that tells you to await a celebration  Or some sort of special occasion,  Before let off, a deep seated confession.  That time, the perfect interlude to interject Never really comes; or maybe it Coles disguised So it's appearance is thwarted  With symptoms of better days, such a guise.  Then you end up dead and buried  Still wearied with a load you spite So, my fellow pilgrim, be not a wondering hermit  But an enthused pilgrim in a light habit  Barely laden Because you confess every so often.  Aware that no perfect interlude comes at all.  Unless you creat one  See you in paradise, fellow pilgrim.  Such a voice of h...

  I keep pondering the endless nightmare— The daily exhortation of patriotism and national values, The colorful flag we were taught to die defending. The books we read that shunned graft, That kept us awake through the cold night drafts. The echoes of liter-less cities, And the cries for huduma and heshima Above every other virtue. Was it a lie? Because I grew up one day, Feet eager to practice those solemn lessons on display. My peers and I— High in morals, Longing for truth over lies, Social justice over selfish caprice, Honest service over whimsical promises, Good governance over abuse of office, Equity over discrimination. Soon, I had to unlearn what I had learnt. This disquieting discovery sent my adrenaline restless— And I took to the streets, Seeking justice as a matter of duty. If my words on socials could not solve this, I’d upset the streets until they heard me. But deaf are they— With swollen bellies, full to the ears, And egos bloated to the brim—hubris at its best! The...

I married a gambler. It wasn’t easy— The gambler. Busied by tricks, Around the aviatrix.  He spent his nights at the casino, His days lost in loan apps. I barely caught a glimpse of him, But I paid the debt. Day in, day out— We sold and sold and sold, Chasing a dream buried in losses. Trying to catch up with the debt, Yet the gambler always found a way To spend what little we had left. You don’t want to meet the gambler, But let me tell you— The grumbler is the most charming prince around. The most convincing soul I’ve ever known, And yet, he came grumbled and gambled and unchilled— Leaving us humbled, with nothing. My dear Gambler husband, What’s left for you to gamble, But this house, Now just a hollow cave? Oh, my gambler husband— If only you’d stop the gambling, And come back. We could start over. Because I still love the light in your eyes. I never wanted this to end. I love you, My Gambler # Easy The Poet

I needed to heal a wound unnamed— too many in one way, or one way too many. It throbbed in silence, kept me restless, took my voice, yet begged to be heard. It curled beneath my skin, raw and red, a whisper pressed against my ribs, a bruise I could not place. Where are you, hidden ache, that deepens each time I try to soothe you? Are you in my mind, where old shadows speak? Are you in my heart, where love once cracked? Are you in the soft fold of memories I dare not unfold? Come forth, step into the light, bleed clearly, if you must— but let me see you. Let me name you. Only then can we begin to close. We are not enemies, you and I— you, wound, are a part of my becoming. So show yourself, not to haunt, but to heal. And when you're ready, we’ll breathe again as one.  By Essy The Poet Lets keep our mental health in check. 

(A Poem on FGM) I was just a girl... Kim on my back, Kicking and wailing like he knew what the day held. My dress — tugged up, My back — bare, My ears — full of his cries... But my soul? My soul was listening to something deeper. A sound... Not quite human. A wail, Ripping through the bush like a curse set free. Running feet — Not joy, Not play — But terror. I should've run. I should've screamed. But I froze... Like my grandma’s chicken sensing death in the wind. They took her. Aunt Cheru. The girl who topped the district. The one with Nairobi dreams and Jesus in her prayers. Three boys. Three shadows of men, Dragged her like a goat headed for slaughter. And she screamed — “I don’t want it!” “I hate it!” But they didn’t hear her humanity. They only heard tradition. Mum came home... Ate ugali and mursik like nothing happened. Napoleon of our village — Yet her silence was a sword that pierced deeper than any cut. I dreamed that night. Of boys chas...

We celebrate Easter in a world still wearing a crown of thorns, where Good Friday shadows stretch long across lands groaning with war's echo. Yet a chant of peace rises— fragile, fearless— like lilies pushing through stone. In Gethsemane’s hush, He stood beneath the olive trees, offering not resistance, but surrender: "This is your hour— the hour of shadows and swords, of betrayals cloaked in kisses." And evil, with hollow triumph, claimed its fleeting throne. But long before that hour, when whispers warned of Herod’s hand, He did not flee. “Go tell that fox,” He said, “Not yet. I have work— three days of it.” Days not counted in time, but in truth. Two days to unveil the face of the Father, to pierce the veils of unbelief. And the third— ah, the third— a mystery crowned in light. For evil may have its hour, but God— God has His day. And the two are never apart, for the seed must fall, must die in darkness, before it bursts into dawn. ...