It’s funny how…

We love gifts, love fights, love the nights, love being high like kites.
We cry for rights, we cry for knights, cry coz of heights,
Make cries when we switch off the lights.

We like coupons, like hook-ups, like weapons, like take-outs.
We choose tribes, choose bribes, choose crime, choose dimes.
Results are drought, killer floods, spilled blood, and us in cults.

We make choices, make children, make noises, make chicken.
We take chances, take cash, take dances, take class. But we never take time to think.
Yet again, there is never time to blink.

It’s not funny how…

We have nuns with guns. We see kids in need.
Become fans with cans. We hate stars with scars.

There is no good in hoods. No food in hoods.
Don’t forget, there are no fools in schools.

So get a useful tool not a weapon to rule.
Make a gun whose only sound when it springs makes us dance & sing instead of cry. A machete, whose only stains are inks from the palette, let the painting dry.

Let the bow be only for the wandindi or orutu. No spear, no arrow, no rungu. Use that stone to build a gabion, whether your boots be safari, timz or Gideon. Use the club to dance to hits but not a weapon ever once to hit.

Get a friend and not a snitch, a girl and not a bitch. Be a man and never an ass.
Always bless and never curse. Try and love, don’t hate. If you have, share a plate.

You refer to your community, I prefer one in unity. Stop the impunity; fight the demons in your sanity. Stop being condescending; I was there when to the top you were ascending. When u flop, u will need me to prop u or else u will drop to your corpse.

Teach me how to play an instrument, not how to shoot for your regiment. Teach me how to work equipment, not how to loot for your government. Bring back chivalry, compe iwe roho safi si rivalry. Think books, not looks. Knowledge will last with you, beauty they will lust for you… but not forever.

© george kinyua