Don’t say you didn’t see the tongue-thick roads melting in the January sun. Don’t say you didn’t see the cement aging from the falling-apart government buildings that have stalled like baobab trees of ukambani. Don’t say you didn’t see multimillion classrooms that couldn’t hold a handful of children. Don’t say you didn’t feel the ailing water system that drained the highlands of Poro, starving the sheep, goats and cows of Lokop of fresh water, as women develop skull valleys under the mighty weight of jerrycans in Maralal.
I peep from the rough tank in Ng’ari, overlooking the dust-choking town of Maralal, enjoying the aroma of lost coins… the aroma of laxating khat from the wet side of Lowua Keri. I widen my nostrils to clear my gut of another morsel of lies and feigned loyalty. I light my pipe and shove some ash… a piece to my ancestors… and make a dash to dodge the fiery rage from the men that ate.
I peep, up the hill, onto the sky-scrapping mansions that overlook Mtaro.
“Oh, foolish Galatians,” the scripture says. Who bewitched you!
Who bewitched you Maralalians. Who sold you?
From the caveman, the Feudal system and Slavery, the blood sucking capitalism and the now, almost surely far-fetched Marxist socialistic ideas, I crawl back into my small shell and wait for loans to take their toll, estates to run empty and streets to fill up with more homeless people than empty rental houses people took loans to build for.
I peep from my little shell to see offshore tax havens, with our governments smiling without much say, sucking blood off the manual workers, kept just comfortable enough, but not rich or powerful enough to turn the knob to dispose the mustache-ridden bourgeoisie that makes them work at a little wage and profit while doing completely nothing… for simply being an owner, even an inheritor of property they have barely sweated for.
Samburr lang’ Lolop Lang’
Don’t say you didn’t see.