Essy The Poet

By. Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros (OSF) Remember when you came here raging mad about my mother? How she had too many children, her bank accounts clean like a whistle? How the children’s feet were cracked white from dirt. And I was silent, Yes, I had answers in my head, ones I didn’t want to say. For aren’t I one of those many children?   I remember too, the priest in church, How he spoke until snort and saliva poured out the edges of his lips. Asking us to give and give and give….. And I was silent, Yes, I had answers in my head, ones I didn’t want to say. For I recalled how he rushed my aunt’s funeral coz she died poor, giving.   I remember too, growing up, shy and timid and feeling stupid,   How you looked at me and wondered how I survived my infancy. Since I was too tiny and frail. And I was silent, Yes, I had answers in my head, ones I didn’t want to say. For I am still here strong and intelligent and way better than you thought.   I remember too

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros (OSF) If you grew up as a child, in a family like the Wayans, Nobody heard you, unless you were sick. With a father talking at you before slamming the door, Not caring for feedback. I bet you don’t know how to pray… Because you don’t know how it’s like to be listened to. But I was told He hears without words….. Now I pray.   If you grew up as a child, in a family wallowing in lack, Where left overs was a myth, unless there was a funeral. With a father known just for carnal glances, Never providing a dime   I bet you don’t know how to pray…. Because you don’t know what it’s like to be provided for. But I was shown another kind of providence, the rain, the sun, my hands and feet. Now I pray.   If you grew up as a child, in a family like the Wayans, Where mirrors were too honest, unless you chose to ignore. A father finding faults all the time, Never noticing your efforts. I bet you don’t know how to pray… Because lo

By. Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros (OSF)  When your friend, an old acquaintance from childhood, Pays you a rare visit. My friend, don’t be excited. This is not a gift from God It’s a letter from hell.   The conversation will commence thus; Old fellow, my bosom friend, you look good. Refuse to be flattered, This is not a gift from God, It’s a letter from hell.   The talk will flow around your children; How they are all grown, taking after your good looks. My friend, be skeptical, This is not a gift from God, It’s a letter from hell.   The talk will finally get real after tea; Old fellow, I need to buy your piece of land, the old valley. My friend, refuse the offer, This is not a gift from God, It’s a letter from hell.   Since you feel small, living low; Your heart won’t know how to say no. My friend, refuse the offer, This is not a gift from God, It’s a letter from hell.   Ask him, why now? You should know the answer already, Th