Essy The Poet

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros OSF   I can swear I always thought my nape resembled my sister’s. It was the way the teacher rubbed grime off her dark neck. To prove a point. Her nape was so dark, darker than shiny tar. The darkness too was proof of dirt. Rubbed until it bled. If she showered enough, her nape would be fairer, said he. My sister showered and scrapped and soaked her nape, until it seemed scarped.   Until it got calloused and pimpled and jaggy. I started to hide my neck deep inside the collars folds. Until it was thought a disability. The tortoise, I was named. A new symptom too emerged with the withdrawal, nuchal rigidity. My sister now has children, brilliant, beaming and golden dark. Their napes pure and uncropped, I itch to touch. Now grown, I realize how black and dark are no measure of dirt. But I am so sad, the teacher died in ignorance, may be heaven will teach him. © December 2020  

  By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros  OSF She got into a wedlock, blissful and peaceful, or so it seemed. But, don’t count on it, it didn’t last long, got doomed. It is not what you can guess, that broke in between. Not a being, a woman who snuck and stole his heart. Not a being, a man who stole a carnal glance at her.                                                                                      Not a foolish habit, a drinking spree for instance.     A few months elapsed, and nobody gasped, It is always the older women who start stuttering ‘isn’t there a deposition already? Why the flat tummy?’ May be Shoot is not actually a good shooter, missing targets. They lamented feebly, voices subdued,...

Wisdom was so lazy coming to me. Like the midday shade of dwarfed stones, so reluctant. It finally did,      Brought with it a mirror. ‘What took you so long?’ I asked. ‘I was waiting for you to do as much look my direction, You hardly ever glanced. I was on the way all this while awaiting as much as a glance.’ It didn’t matter anymore. Wisdom got here; slowed me down too. Just as well, I keep wondering; What was the rush? I haven’t grasped half the answers but I am sure of one thing: This embrace is forever. © December 2020 0726179789  essyjeru@gmail.com 

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. ...

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...

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 ...

By Sr. Esther Jeruto Koros (OSF) I was only four when my little brother was born Frail and soft like wool, I wanted to hold him, Corn With feet straightened out, seated perpendicular For the first time, I realized people just appear I asked where they got it from and when it would return A smile of amusement, my mama said, babies don’t return   That was my first lesson on life.   I was only five, when I saw the raindrops fall in solid mass I kept some in my secret bag to show mum after mass And for the first time, I realized things just vanish I tried explaining my discovery, in disappointment and anguish But she didn’t need the explaining at all A smile of understanding, my mama said they’re called hail That was my first lesson on magic.   I was only eight when I got ready for baptism Come in white dresses holding candles, said him And for the first time, I realized I might miss the rite Because candles and dresses had to be timed ...