DEAR BESTIE# HE HIT THE CENTRE

I married him, a broke bloke.   

We worked so hard, it hurt, just to reach high.

Then the sweat trickled, solidifying into coins.

The wish list got ticked, inch by inch, meted.

The dared dreams, met by money, implemented.

There were new shoes, new clothes, new recipes.

Then the new mansions, new cars, new projects.

 

We crossed the bridge, quite unceremoniously.

The dinners, the politics, the vloggers came venomously.

The road trips graduated into flights, so vigorously.

We schooled the kids too, in places quite scholarly.

Then the guests flocked in, testing my hospitality.

The nephews, the aunties, the uncles, quite ridiculously,

Hailing and praising their rich uncle, loved suddenly.

 

Then the centre hit, he told me, so much courage.

He lost interest in all things marriage.

Vanishing for weeks while I chased his mirage.

He wanted time alone, to reclaim and disparage

I fought to accept and his ego massage.

Little did I know, ‘the me time’ as he nudged

Was a honeymoon of sorts, with a woman for demurrage.

 

The woman in question, the vloggers tell us,

Is now with child, an heir to his wealth thus.

Since the babies I begot him, are merely girls

Who promise him nothing, more than cows.

So ladies beware, when the centre, comes

And he convinces you for ‘me times.’

Widen your eye darling, he lies!

 

 Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF

 

THE VOYAGE

He told me once,

A man had a voyage that his life depended on,

He also had a wife, newly bought, cattle a tone.

Who she had to leave behind, for a duration he knew not.

A sad farce, leaving a maiden lonely, felt a tight knot.

Ragging his head, he thought up a solution…. bingo!

He swiftly purchased a chastity belt, to secure his winkies… lingo!

‘None must tamper with my wife’s ding-dong while I am away.’

Under lock and key, his goodies were secured, he felt gay.

‘But what if harm befalls me on my voyage, shall my wife die childless?’

Ragging his head once again, he thought up a solution… genius!

On the hill yonder is a man older, a chaste aced pastor, very ingenious!

‘I will leave him the key, in case I die, the man yonder can sire her an heir.’

Obstacles removed, free as a barnacle, he headed to the port, free of ire.

‘One more look at my home land,’ he thought, dreadful of the unknown

Then he heard a loud yell, ‘Kino!’ he looked back, Bowne.

The man yonder, holding the key agitated.

‘You left the wrong key!’ he yelled.

The man yonder, is not all chaste after all.

Whatever might have happened to the voyage,

On which his life depended on?

He told me not.

By Sr. Esther Koros OSF 

BESTIE LET ME TELL YOU # JAY IS GAY

Dear Bestie,

As I write this, my palms are moist with shock.

You remember the day when Jay was born?

How you held him gently, kissed him warmly, read his soul.

Calling him your little heartbreaker.

You remember?

 

Dear Bestie,

As I write, my heart throbs with thunderbolt.

You remember his first little steps, lovely and wobbly?

You remember us buying him blue outfits that flew?

Wanting him to be a pilot?

Remember?

 

Dear Bestie

As I write, there is a tempest within me.

You remember his first day in school, sharp as a tack.

You remember him asking about his Daddy?

Wanting to be like other kids?

Remember?

 

Dear Bestie,

As I write, there is a chill running down my spine.

You remember when we prayed and fasted to get him a visa?

You remember the good luck bouquet you gave him?

Wanting him to read law in Cambridge?

Remember?

 

Dear Bestie,

As I write, pangs of regret won’t give me a minute of peace.

He returned just yesternight, with his law degree and something more.

 A white male for a spouse, Jay is gay. 

I wanted to say, something has gone, wrong

Nay, everything has gone wrong.

Not straight, is the word.

 

Dear Bestie,

There is so much peace when you arrive at a decision.

Good or bad

And trust me, I am just about to.

Oh Bestie.

SR. ESTHER KOROS OSF 

Ogress Made Ogre

Dear Bestie,                                                                                                                        

I have come to realize,

A woman at fifty is a being, awful.

She looks like she is manning up for something dreadful.

Her voice solidifies into a thick hollow, ever mournful.

Her chin doubles up into a choking curve, mouthful.

Her nose flares in disgust over her past memories, regretful.

Her moustache gradually forms, beckoning a long daring beard resentful,  

Her eyes fall into a chasm so that they float feebly in disapproval, hurtful.

Her forehead dissects a line of worry, a grey shred of hair receding, frightful.

Her backside insists on a rebellious uneven overflowing contemptuous pile, tactful.

Her feet are sprout up roots, green and bulging, decrying tight shoes she’s fond of, painful.

 

Bestie,

This is the woman we don’t want to be.

This is the woman you don’t want to have for your boss.

And most especially, this is the woman, the ogress metamorphized ogre,

Whom misfortune sends our way when we are desperate.

This woman, is a creature, sad and lonely,

Manning up for her death, a slow painful death

Because this woman, hates herself.

The ogress devours others and finally, devours itself.

 

Bestie,

When you pray,

Pray for the ogress too, to find whatever makes her tick.

And when you pray,

Pray for the miracle of self-love.

Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF 

BESTIE, IF THERE WAS A FATHER

Dear bestie

Two decades are gone since we went into this teaching-ache.

I don’t know about you but, I have seen it all, my head aches.

I have watched them gain and lose, their height, weight, teeth.

I have seen them fall in and out of love, such doves getting hit.

I have amusedly watched the shock on their faces when hit by changes.

These changes are cruelly fast, some are painfully slow, tight hinges…

These I have witnessed, laughed and cried, worried and tired.

Not all wonderful though, the girls without Fathers….

They search for what they know not, all unfettered sisters,

They chase the sky, if just for a sigh, a man might be tender.

They read books and trust the scheme, the novelty to be slender.

They hope and dream and watch the movies, Hollywood trash!

They believe in magic, something mustn’t be so harsh, so hush!

The girls without Fathers, have denied and embraced ghosts.

They have made men out of women, and women out of men.

I can almost tell from the handwriting how broken they are.

Some at the summit of anorexia, anxiety complex, mental err.  

 Some have been abused by the only male they knew,

Some hate the world for not bringing something new,

But girls with Fathers, glow differently, understand differently. 

Girls with Fathers, feel safe flourishing confidently

 

Dear Bestie,

I am deeply convinced; the world would be different.

If there was a father, in every girl’s life.

If only just an old man, speaking wisdom to vide.

I am not sexist, I am not misogynistic, I am not chauvinistic.

Don’t come at me like that!

I just want the world healed, and it would. 

If only there was a father.

Bestie, aren’t we glad we have, or had Fathers?

Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros, OSF 

BESTIE LET ME TELL YOU!

Dear Bestie,

My memory belches unpleasant evocations strenuously entered into its reserves.

I recall for instance, the snake bite of my aunt, how frightful it must have been for her.

I recall my mother’s painful strokes, an astute testifier of using canes on kids, aha!

I recall my athletic cousin who duped us into emptying our pockets, only to vanish in the prodigal son’s manner.

I recall my step mother, locking up the corn stores so that we starved in my Dad’s absence.

I recall my aunt’s disappearance after facing the sharp knife that would end her education.

I recall the violence that erupted after one election period scattering us like frightened chicken.

I recall these things; 

I recall them with a remote lingering haziness that would rather be left alone.

I recall these and more, I recall the decisions that emanated from these moments.

These experiences were bearable, these memories, melancholic as they sound, are bearable. 

But Bestie, let me tell you:

This grotesque godly lady, for whom I work, detests my thinking, delineates my capacities, despises my glances, dehumanizes me.

I am the shoe rug at the entrance to her world.

I am the tree back on which she rubs her snort.

I am the bin into which she empties her aches. 

I am these and a lot more. 

For, what is a person without their intellect, without dignity, without honour?

It is:

As though I am a zombie intruding the human habitat.

 As though she might kill me with a stare.

 As though I came to eat her babies like a cannibal.

 As though I might slash off her enormous backside.

This, more than any other affliction, weighs down on me, it is terribly unbearable.

A million times, I have decided to respect myself and walk away.

But Bestie, how am I to feed my babies if I did?

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF 

Dedicated to everyone working in unbearable conditions. All will be well, some day, let me tell you!

I HATE SNAILS

 

I hate snails.

I hate their fearlessness, their daring attitude

I hate their creepy tactics, the appearing clammy act.

I hate their magical subtlety, showing up in the least likely of places

I hate their affinity for wetness and their ingenious ability to nauseate.

I hate their audacity, their daring to ask to be stepped on, as if they have nothing to lose

I hate their swift slowness, their curious horns, their melancholic fright, their desperate rush.

I hate their ability to disgust, their ability to invade, their ability to leave trails of mucus, days later.

I hate their incredible patience, their ability to wait for months for the rains, to survive on moistures.

Wait, what if there was a snail in each one of us? Snoozing off the alarms for a little more sleep.

What if there was a snail, in each one of us? Living poor only to drown in plenty?

What if there was a snail in each one of us? Daring the odds of the day?

What if there was a snail in each one of us? Hating the crawling snails.

What if snails really spoke, ‘they’d say, hey!  no rush!’

Still, I hate snails.

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF

STILL I CRY

Remember my birth, when your face fell

As you told them, it’s a girl, oh hell!

I heard you, you know, and I cried hard.

I wasn’t welcome after all, I knew and it hurt.

Still, I cry, they say, # fear women.

 

They call me Babygal, kamami, tortoise,

They call me names and games, so much noise.

Groomed into skin- deep admiration, all physical,

A colony of sorts, a girl, even her sexuality they must mutilate

Still, I cry, they say, # fear women.

 

 So I run helter skelter, to boost our buts, like robots.

I lighten the skin and enlarge my lips, or they will oppose

I maim my back, to stand tall with six inch heals

And fry up my hair to keep up with western ills

 Still I cry, they say # fear women.

 

Why would you fear a life giver, soft paws

A tidier person, an orderly being, a future queen, no flaws?

Stop the cowardice, that speaks inferiority

Where would you be, in a bearded city?

Still, I cry, they say, # fear women,

 

Devoid of models, we are lost like ants

With no one to hold our feeble hands.

No one to say, it will go well, despite the trepidation

They trample it all, so that we’re flat with humiliation.

Still, I cry, they say # fear women.

 

 

When Oprah shone as she did, the epitome of hard work,

There arose some pretenses, wrecking us havoc.

She is female no more, she is just Oprah,

Rich and famous with an integral aura

Still we cry, they say # fear women.

 

I want to be Oprah, just a person, not male or female.

I want to be Thatcher, just a leader, not male or female.

I want to be Alekwek, just star, not light or dark.

I want to be Chimamanda, just a writer, not black or white.

I want to be me, deep and sound, just human.

Please don’t say you dread my dreams!

Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF 

NEO- COLONIZATION

Photo taken from google

There is a new colonization, just wait let me tell you, enthusiasts.    

Chills and spasms and sometimes, open curious chasms

I fret at times at the looming impotence, Alas!

When the inventor is held ransom by the inventee, gasp!

I worry, shall the creature colonize the creator?

 

My lover- soldier, dreadful of the front at war,

Lost to the infallible robot, devoid of a heart.

In the guise of shame praised the bot, suppressing a curse.

And now with no wages, he engages in livid living.

I worry, shall the creature colonize the creator?

 

Did I tell you of my pal, Crazy Tracy? Let me tell you…

She walked in on his man, satisfying his carnal impulses,

With the apathetic ruse, Sophia; how the unruly muse broke her heart

She could just kill her yet; she was semi- dead, quasi- human.

I worry, shall the creature colonize the creator?

A clerical duty, been holding couple of years,

Came to a halt recently, when the ogress of a boss, citing my imperfections

Found a finer replacement, superior in every way but emotions

The robot went to work, a model of perfection, flattering the inventor

I worry, shall the creature colonize the creator?

 

Make no mistake, no prejudice, this is my take.

Inventions wrought civilizations; from the Galileo to Boromeo

It lit the world, adorned homes, villagized the globe.

But beware! It wrought the Titanic too, and all there was to die for.

So, I worry, shall the creature colonize the creator?

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF

essyjeru@yahoo.com

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