This week I was not in the mood to write a post because, well, Chronicles Media is launching its debut print edition of Campus Chronicles (I am the Managing Editor- just saying) and work is crazy. But then I got a mention from some tweep with whom I share a passion for juggling words. Normally this bloke writes about how God is a nonexistent illusion that we have been misled to believe in, and he curses as much as he breathes. Meet him in person and you will be surprised. At first impression, he looks like this little polite kid who is trying so hard to make himself identifiable in the company of men. But then allow him to start talking and you will understand how big things always come in small packages.
He did something out of the ordinary. Something that I used to do back in the day when I began this blog. An art that I fell in love with back in high school, then crawled out from when I mastered the art of writing pros.
He wrote a poem.
And no, it is not a love poem. Neither is it one of those poems in which people lament on and on about Soul Power, affliction, strife or weight issues. And I thought it was awesome, considering that it came from someone who thinks that poetry and spoken word is a blatant waste of artistic prowess. I guess the magic of Def Poetry Jam worked a miracle on his attitude. How I wish it had changed his sense of spirituality as well.
Here goes nothing…
YOU ARE BETTER THAN ME by Martin Maitha
Ordinarily, I don’t do this,
I mean reinventing my rhymes to issue a diss,
But I gotta admit you’re better than me.
You drive an automatic SUV while I walk daily to the city,
You’ve got tonnes of friends and beauties on every arm,
You’re on first name basis with all the wheeler-dealers around,
You spend triple my yearly earnings in a night of hedonistic debauchery,
People hang on to your every word even if it’s high grade bullshit,
You’re better than me!
Why?
You got money,
Your parents can afford it,
You stole, embezzled and hid it,
In some Caribbean tax haven for the interest,
You hike your prices, exploit,
And sell us your goods when they’re just,
I get it,
I’m jealous, because it’s infinite,
That you’re better than me.
But let me ask, by whose standards are you better than me?
Because in my books, you ain’t worth shit,
Your hustle and your paper ain’t remotely legit,
If all you’re relying on is daddy’s pocket,
A big honcho in a government docket,
Every weekend is a massive Greek bailout,
Or opening your legs wide, for a guy,
Old enough to be your grand-daddy,
Screaming in the throes (of his own pleasure),
“Who’s your daddy?”
While you think how better you are than me.
Sure, I admit, “mimi ni sufferer”,
I’m way smarter than my Nokia 1110 mulika mwizi,
My staple food is githeri ya mbao,
But I know the value of hard work,
And staying true to you,
No matter what, when, how, why or who,
To my friends I’m still loyal,
I won’t ditch them even if I’m a prince of the blood royal,
I’m faithful to one girl,
Not chasing every skirt that’ll swirl and twirl,
And chase me for money ill-got by means foul.
Perhaps I’m hating too much on you,
You certainly didn’t steal it,
You aren’t daddy’s blue-eyed boy,
You got off you’re arse and hustled hard,
Good for you! I’m proud!
But why engage in the rat race,
Of copious consumption and crass capitalism?
There’s no point of heading six feet under,
To be the richest corpse in Lang’ata!
All I’m asking is for a little concern,
Don’t be patronizing,
Don’t feed the culture of a handout,
Be benevolent; donate to some worthwhile charity,
Stay humble, don’t flaunt it,
Make a goddamn difference,
Then finally I’ll shut my mouth and concede,
That indeed, in both word and deed,
You’re better than me!
