So this is my house still standing where others have fallen:
There is still the light of love inside the room,
Peering through pinholes, our professor, for twenty- four
Years called it peace,love and unity, a philosophy of virtues,
While savouring his moments of speech on madaraka day.
He had a sense of humour, our man. He could make people laugh
Even when they had tears in their eyes and grief in their guts.
His words opiate the mind like religion. You could earn some
Perks too if you could knock doors of the godfathers
Who lived in the greater shadows of the house on the hill.
I had sheltered under this illusion for years, if only to
Sooth my soul in the glaring savannah of my arid life, reading
The landscapes of calloused hands and pallid faces.
When elnino came i could scurry to my home, standing on
Tin sheets and rafters, ants on the floor, the doors
Keep no snails away; my abode binds me like a bad debt.
My other brother is a sonko; his house, stone and slate, the strengths
Of my hands. Walls and floors that slide snails. Lacquered landscapes
And green gardens so wide that his children play tennis on the lawns.
Egrets have company, he has got a cow in the compoud. I gather he
Could wrap stolen fat in the canopy of trimmed grass too. My house holds history, but Hope still latched on its door frame. Tomorrow I too, will rise in the rain, my shovel
Speaks for me. I earn my pride and measure my prize in one brimful palm.