‘It’s raining, it’s pouring The old man is snoring He went to bed but he bumped his head and couldn’t get up till morning.’ that’s how they sing nowadays. Those days we sang, ‘mbura ura ngūthīnjīre, gategwa karī iguku, na kangī karī iguku kaugaga atīa mooo.’ which translates, ‘rain rain, I slaughter for you, a humpy bull and another humpy bull which mows..’
They say when it rains it pours, I guess it’s not true anymore. It’s drizzling and roaring, I’m scared, then I remember I’m not the tallest creature around here. As a matter of fact I’m very short, my only consolation is my grandma’s words, ‘gūkuhīha ti gūtinio.’ shortness is not being cut.’
I continue to walk in the drizzle as the thunder continues to roar at a distance. Over the horizon, the mountain stands astute, glowing in it’s splendor. A bitch and a stud square each other. They are trying to gauge each other wondering if it’s time to make babies again. I think the cold wins, I walk past them and don’t look back. Life still goes on, the world is still spinning on its axis, oblivious of the fuel crisis, of the numerous traffic jams caused by the acute shortage, of a thousand boda boda operators queuing for the precious commodity. Oblivious of Wanjikū paying for this tug of war between the government and the fuel lords. After all they say, ‘ fahari wawili wapiganapo, ziumiazo nyasi.’ When two bulls fight, the grass feels the pain.
I’m feeling bullied, meanwhile I keep walking. I guess Johnnie Walker was right.
April is poem month, I guess I tried. Give me marks out of ten.


Published by Nyar Kaheti

Born and raised on the picturesque slopes of Mt Kenya, Nyar Kaheti is your girl next door vibe kind of girl. She enjoys reading, writing, hiking, and listening to country music among other things.

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