Saturday, 28 September 2013

How to Euthanise a Cactus: Book Review



                                    (In memory of Kofi Awoonor. A poet has fallen)
                                       
           Poetry as a genre of literature attains among other functions raising socio-political awareness. How to Euthanise a Cactus by Stephen Derwent Partington (SDP) actually does that without wasting time. The anthology plunges the reader into ‘Nightmares’ as the first poem. And the whole experience is bleak and nightmarish.  

            He begins: “There are truths we cannot write/for fear of jinx” and continues; with absolute melancholy: “There is an old, unspoken contract/that obliges us to leave such dreams/unspoken./We compact them like a grave.” The poet sets the stage for horrible things happening to fellow humanity of which we have little intervention hence he quips: “the death we couldn’t act to alter.” 

            Later, the book veers off into the heartlessness and deceit that characterized the Post Election Violence (PEV) after ‘stolen’ presidential elections in 2007. Recounting the incidents of January and February 2008; the poet employs irony to mock at peace. He says in ‘Lethe’: “When peace erupted, none of us was ready.” However, the next poem praises those who refused to participate in the orgy of violence that claimed about 1,333 Kenyans with several displaced. SDP lauds those who changed their minds at the last minute out of empathy and human sensibility; something that separates us from beasts.
             In ‘Wonder of the World: A Study of Exodus’ the poet scorns at the obsession with the wildebeest migration that was declared the seventh wonder of world when evicted children wandered helplessly without a place to go.

            Other poems tackle various themes ranging from geopolitical issues such as the ‘The Arab-Israeli Question’ to political hypocrisy in ‘Politicised Funerals.’ Notably, ‘Shopping in Zimbabwe’ grabs the limelight with its satirical shots aimed at a country presently accustomed to sanctions. SDP observes: “In a lush land, nothing grows/along the furrows of the shelves.” But things are depressing if the citizens lack means of survival. “Behind, the mortuary supermarket, /cool and white, is offering its shelves.” 

            Empty promises aimed at the youth are covered in ‘Dream Deferred’ while the consequences of graft explored in ‘Soda.’ In ‘Social Physics of Mikokoteni’ the poet offers the daily struggles of the common man and the simplicity of life in pushing the handcart when he notes: “Mikokoteni know the love of equilibrium/and simply get along.” 

            There are also poems of nostalgia such as the remembrance of a student who committed suicide and cases of love lost found in ‘Etchings.’ Parenthood is found in ‘Present at Keelhauling’ and ‘Parenting Baby and Beyond’ where the persona demonstrates gladness at having a baby. Discontent with the weather is depicted in ‘Kenyan Morning, After A Single Downpour During Drought’ where the persona uses personification to express the feelings of inanimate things such as the soil and the morning. The poet also pokes fun at religion toward the end of the collection in ‘Fun Forgivingness: an Addendum.’ He remarks: ‘And in this version, which all school kids/through the centuries have mimicked…”

            Stephen Derwent Partington’s poetry stings the conscience; rattles conventions but most important; it makes the reader uneasy yet maintains its aesthetic value of raising the bar of poetry to higher levels. The anthology is a must read for all who want to enjoy poetry.

Monday, 23 September 2013

AWOONOR’S COFFEE – A TRIBUTE by OLUOCH-MADIANG’

You sleep on your hand Kofi, laid
Silent in a coffee splash on Nairobi’s floor
By mumbling devils.
How rudely has your dance of cocoa and coffee tastes
Been interrupted, at this moment turned into a
Morning of your blood!

We cannot bear our leadened hearts, shame
Weighing us down that your god finger has been folded
By sissies here under our greening sun.
Would you Kofi understand
Any fingers that splattered men’s blood & coffee
Like does a hen scratching asunder bush faeces?
Neither would we.
Your finger must be unfolded somehow, and a life
Communed in this coffee and cocoa tango.

A scorching Tero Buru shall therefore thunder I foresee,
And our choice bulls will stampede from here to Accra:
Awoonor take this to the Ewe bank,
Not a single Mogadisho bush will withstand the trampling hooves,
Or grow hardy enough to hide the fingers of scarecrows.
No, this will be no revenge, not a coward’s bile:
A Passover.

Your spilled blood smeared on our foreheads,
And your poems tattooed on our tongues
Will deliver us to life atriumphed, and we shall ride
Your monument home atop our bulls’ longest horns!

Then we will sip silently,
And nod in cocoa and coffee bliss
Erohamano, Migosi Kofi Awoonor.

20130923-090443.jpg
 Kofi Awoonor

Monday, 16 September 2013

On Leaving Ex-Girlfriends: A Letter to a Pal



Dear Pal,

            Hello. I know you are well because the last we saw each other you were vivacious except for the occasional gloom that showed on your face whenever the topic of this letter popped up. I will not waste time with pleasantries concerning school besides, we chat almost daily on Facebook until late into the night.

            I must acknowledge I received your letter today in the morning in my email inbox with a tinge of consternation. The subject of your letter, or let me call it mail: Love In the New Age. Whatever you meant with that title I don’t know but I will swiftly delve into the content and offer you a few suggestions as a friend concerning your predicament. Here, I am writing as a friend, nothing more than that like I take a unit in Psychology, therefore, I am best suited to assist you. My friend, I am in the same shit only that I keep it in wraps. 

            You wrote in your letter that the past has refused to let you go. It has imprisoned you. ‘It is dogging you like a master to a slave.’ Those were your exact words. You narrated at length how fixated you have been with your first love even though she long ‘accepted and moved on’ more than a half a decade ago to another man’s arms. 

            In the same paragraph, you lamented at how a girl you broke her heart has been tormenting you because she recently texted you that she ‘…was taken long ago and don’t waste your time.’ And your college ex-friend is uncomfortable to even meet you after you ‘tossed her like bucketful of excreta’ just a few months before you heroically quit college to pursue your dreams. Now, in your mid twenties, you feel you have ‘stagnated seriously…in love’ and some dark shadows are holding you back from bursting into the future and reveling in its uncertainties and surprises. 

            A persistent ghost keeps dragging you back enticing you with how glorious and gorgeous your past love life was and if possible; you should try and salvage it before it’s too late. Others tell you to concentrate on the present. Leave the future to its own devices. It will unfold itself. However, these are my suggestions. 

            You can try all or just pick a few. And if you feel they are total baloney all the same; ignore and find solution elsewhere. Like I said earlier, I am also groping in the dark trying to find my way in this dark tunnel of love. A colleague once joked that even the usual light at the end no longer glows so you have to wade through doubtful of how things will turn out. Don’t laugh. Okay, here we go.

            First, ‘unfriend’ all your former girlfriends from your Facebook account. Don’t warn them. Simply, go to their timeline; right click on ‘Friends’ where you will find among other options ‘Report/Block’ and the last on the list ‘Unfriend.’ Click that one. Refresh and marvel at the magic of your hands. It will give you the stale and pale option of ‘Add Friend.’ Please, don’t add her.

            Second, delete her number from your phone book. Then go to the messages. Select the option ‘Delete All’ just to be sure. And please don’t forget the ‘Recent Contacts.’ Anything incriminating, tempting, alluring that may draw you back to a ‘past you would sacrifice everything to expunge from your memory for now.’

            Third, engage yourself in other things. From early childhood, you loved books. Reading and writing and boozing and all those imprudent shitload deranged poets do . Get your life back, pal. It’s not too late. You reaffirmed that ‘you want to start again.’ Start now. Tomorrow has no time for procrastinators, assholes and delusional bigots. 

            Fourth, forget those damn women forever. I mean forever. Find other girls. New ones. Why are you apprehensive to try out new things these days, huh? In a movie I recently watched, and, I believe, you have watched it, too: ‘The Great Gatsby’, a character remarks: ‘You cannot repeat the past.’ Period. Get over it now boy. The past is gone and buried. 

            Lastly, and I learnt this the hard way, too. Here I quote Michael Jackson in his song Billie Jean: ‘And don't go around breaking young girls' hearts.’ The gut-wrenching memories that you caused a poor lass to flop in her national examinations and develop near depression because of your irresponsible and apathetic habits does not impress at all.

             Every dog has its day. You have had yours. Adjust accordingly.

            Bye and hope to see you soon.

            Yours’ faithfully,
            A.A.

Friday, 6 September 2013

On Reaching 24: Sentimental Notes



         On 29th August, 2013 (a Thursday) I turned 24 years; a remarkable milestone. It was low profile; spent in the village with all family members except my younger brother in high school preparing for his final exams. I attempted to reflect during that special day to fruitless avail. Again, I wanted to relook at my academic life, love life (notably contentious of late), social life, writing prospects – it disturbs me every waking day. Will I succeed in fiction? Which newspaper will I write for? Still, will I flourish as a man of letters? These questions among others constantly flicker in my brain. 

            At 24, I have realized restlessness persists and it’s even worse if you are a black sheep. I defied conventions when I dropped out of college to pursue my dream. I follow what I love. I follow my heart. You may laugh at it, finding it rather juvenile, but I am resilient like that. Richard Branson of Virgin Atlantic is still my hero. If odds favor me, I take it. I take the ‘road not a taken’ even if ramifications are grave. That’s how I try to define and lead my life these days. I don’t want to flow with the current. I don’t feel being just part of crowd for the sake to please others.
                       
            Lately, too, I have experienced extreme nostalgia. A yearning for the past that cannot come back anymore. Change is inevitable. Stubborn. It doesn’t care if you cherished some moments. I am still coming to terms with the heartbreaking news that my first love got married. Recently, I have noted something unsettling; disturbing and plain depressing to accept. I cannot freeze life. I cannot stop things and let them remain the way they are. It’s just stupid to even think of it, but things are changing fast. I get more afraid these days than, say, when I was in my early 20s. Why? I even don’t know. 

            Something ungraspable is passing across my life yet I am powerless. It’s fleeting with friends I used to know; girls I schooled with getting married and not further education or career progress. In the village; I don’t know whether I belong anymore. In the city it’s impossible to fit in comfortably. Building strong friendships take time. Even in my estate; a rather semi-affluent neighborhood, young people are distressed with the surrounding vanity and emptiness of chasing after girls while seeking ways of navigating the gritty city life. 
            Death is even worse. It lingers in my memory for a long time these days. The passing of aunty Risper on 15th June left me with a severe emotional scar. I constantly think of her because I will never find another such as her. All our cousins miss her.  I rebuff the saying that ‘Death is Sacred’ hence we cannot do anything. And it’s the truth anyway, unfortunately. I still remember the beaming life that characterized grandfather’s homestead and I ask self: Where did all the good people go? Death is reaping bountiful harvest and one can tell from the pale faces of jodongo (elders); the aloofness and dejectedness in grandmothers’ lives. Young people are losing best friends to HIV/AIDS pandemic, road accidents, diseases and grisly murders that constantly flabbergast the village. God, what did your people do, I ask myself? I am unable to capture the grief, but of late, in my new 24, I get easily paranoid. It keeps me anxious the whole day the possibility of dying in a road accident and how my mother or father would feel. What of my brothers and only sister? Maybe I am sentimental. I romanticize events. But that’s how I feel lately. It maybe my nadir. 

            I am still searching for contentment. That’s what I go for these days. Happiness. Living today. And a fine woman. Fine in the sense that we share something deep beyond lust, pretensions of youth culture, partying (I am reducing it. It doesn’t spark me anymore) and just any other thing hypocritical. No, I am not saying I am for perfection. Not all. But something closer to the prize.