THE AFRICAN SAGE

  I boarded the matatu with exact fare and a podcast in tow, Headphones on, the world tuned low , “Karibu, Mzae,” the conductor said. Who? Me? Mzae? As in, the old one ? A mirror wouldn’t lie , The retreating hairline, The silver squadron above my ears, the way I sigh when I bend to tie my shoes. But still , Mzae? I tiptoe through WhatsApp groups now, Where “big bro” lands like a velvet slap. “Daddy” at the kiosk, “Fathe” at the garage, “Mbuyu” from a youth selling airtime. Is there no refuge left from reverence? No corner where I’m just a man , Not an age bracket, not a lesson, not a past? I want to shout: “I’m a customer, not your patriarch!” “I’m a brother, not the council of elders!” Let me be anonymous in this line, a wallet, a joke, a quick goodbye. Did I do this too? Did I Mzee my way through others’ prime? Did I honour or harm with those sudden elevations? Now, I sit with my strong tea cup , watch steam rise like the thoughts from my scalp ,...

From the slopes of Elgon’s sacred rise, To where the rivers Sio, Khalaba, and Nzoia glide, We wake with joy, our hearts ablaze, And lift our voices in thankful praise. The winds from Wabukhe whisper grace, Through Malemo’s mud, You made a place. You bore our burdens, walked our road, A silent strength that shared our load. Wele oli Wele, Papa oli Papa , You hear our cry, both near and far. With litungu’s hum and drumbeat’s flight, Our spirits dance into the night. Though life has bruised, we still arise, We breathe, we eat, we touch the skies. Oh Wele Khakaba, ever the same, We lift our hearts in Your great name. We’ve stumbled, Papa, lost our way, Yet still we kneel, still we pray. The rains have come, the harvest near, Your hand has brushed away our fear. We hear the cows in Naburereya ’s fields, We see the joy that freedom yields. With every beat of heart and drum, We know how far we’ve truly come. Wele oli Wele, Papa oli Papa , You hear our cry, both n...