Who eats what, and what eats whom

Eh, kijana, son of my favoured child, come and sit.
Sit close to the fire, Alas, not too near,
for even fire, which gives warmth,
can burn the fool who leans too far.
Let me tell you what my father told me,
under this same old Mukhonge tree.

This world, eh?
It’s not just hills and rivers and sun.
It is a food web, a round food chain, a great hunting ground.
From the foothills of Mt Masaba to the hallowed river Namasanda
from the silent farms to the ever-busy streets of Nairobi,
Everything and everyone is either eating or being eaten.

Even in the city, don’t be fooled by suits.
Even in the church, don’t be fooled by robes.
The same rule applies: Who eats what, and what eats whom?
And by the way, does the eater have table manners?

Most of us are hens, sons of my son.
Soft-footed, bright-eyed, busy with grain.
Clucking about love, school, business, and church
not knowing the hawk is circling above.

The political vultures?
They sit on signposts during campaigns,
smiling widely with empty promises,
then sweep down to pick at broken roads and stolen bursaries.

The spiritual vultures?
They sing louder than thunder on Sundays,
But behind the pulpit, greedy for Limotole,
they trap hearts like hyenas in sheep’s clothing.

The cultural vultures?
They come dressed as aunties and uncles.
They say: “A man does this.” “A woman cannot.”
They clip wings with tradition and weigh you down with black tax
Then blame you for not flying.

In schools, the academic vultures
hand out exams like poisoned maize.
They measure fish by how well they climb trees.
They bury dreams under red ink and chalk.

In all markets, the business vultures
sell you loans wrapped in sweet language.
“Buy now, pay later,” they say,
but when they come for you,
they come with chains, not change.

And, eh, let me not forget
the ones who hunt through the waist.
The senior sikhundis, also known as Sikhs
They sweet-talk with perfume and promise,
but leave behind broken nests and bitter songs
nor run like a gazelle.
But you can be clever like the weaverbird,
building high, hidden, out of reach.

So, daughter of my daughters, what is a hen to do?

You cannot grow tusks like a warthog,
You can find cover, yes,
in faith, true and not bought.
In political wisdom, not noise.
In an economic sense, like a squirrel saving for the dry season.
Or in solid kin, who don’t eat each other when the rains fail.

Stay out of the open field unless you must.
Move in silence, like the leopard.
And when the vultures circle,
Don’t just look up, look around.

So I ask you, child of my blood:
Before you speak, follow, or fall,
Ask this always, like a warrior with his spear:
Who eats whom here?
And does the eater use a knife and fork?
Or just teeth and greed?

If you must be a hen, be one that sees the sky.
Be one who sleeps under a thorn bush,
that knows when to run,
And when to fly
Be one who sleeps under a thorn bush,
that knows when to run,
and when to fly, even just a little.
Be the hen that lived,
and taught her chicks how not to die.