Don't be afraid to dream

You can come as you are with all your broken pieces and shameful scars, all the pain in your heart you can bring it to Jesus, you can come as you are. Those are the lyrics to the song come as you are by the band Pocket Full Of Rocks. Sitting here and listening to that song paints a clear picture of where both my head and heart are but unlike the band, it's my soul that feels full of rocks.

I am quite the dreamer and shamelessly so. I love waking to see the sun rise, to listen to soulful music, to write music and poetry. I love to speak and to encourage and to facilitate conversation. Many conversations go on in my heart that my ears would banish if they managed to escape. On days like these, some things make painful sense. I have never battled thoughts of failure like i have in the last month.

This makes sense. I have a passion for people, those who see themselves as failures, worth less or even worth nothing. My heart bleeds for them. Who knew that i would battle the very things that i encourage others to attain to? I know God did. I am a firm believer in following not just your dreams but waking up and living them out. I do not believe that a human being should be defined by the money they make, where they live, the cars they drive: i believe these are simply add ons that come when dreams are not only dreamed but lived out with the right partners beside the dreamer. I believe in this life being a journey to a beautiful end but what happens when we begin to lose sight of the 'beautiful end' and even worse, fail to see any end?

'All i want is for you to be a successful man,' said my father this morning as i told him about the wedding date between my fiance and i. The context is, he knows i am a dreamer and he knows this world has a tendency to kill dreams and desire especially when they are bigger than the dreamer. How many people followed a deeply ingrained dream regardless of the voices that said they could never do it, most times their voice being in the mix? I know many, we have case studies of them, we praise them in articles and in lectures but are so fearful to be them. When did we stop dreaming and being a people who hope and envision and love the future as a blank canvas instead of a cluttered one full of rules, regulations with neither mystery nor color? Since when did i have to fight everyday to not dream?

It seems a time has come and is now here where dreams are caged and the worst enemies to our dreams are ourselves. Battling to shelve dreams does not kill the dream, it just gets passed on to a dreamer that will fight for their dream. Ever noticed that every job is one man's dream? What about yours, mine? Not that we should not have a job, but what happens to following a dream that has not necessarily been applied yet? Do we let it doe or follow it, nurture it, fight for it, pray for it, cry for it, work for it and then impart it? I guess i know how so many dreamers feel when they bury their dreams and the only people at the funeral are their mind and heart.

I am a dreamer. I am a writer, a poet, a speaker, a lover, an orator, an encourager, and most importantly a son of God and my God never lets his desires die. He says that His word will never go back to Him without accomplishing what He sent it to do. What if He sent a dream to you that you are so afraid to see rise up? Do you think it will go back to Him? No. He believes in what He has deposited in us to do. David, won't you believe it too? Dear [insert your name] won't you believe that He who started a good work in you will be faithful to complete it? He will. It is His pattern, His nature and His desire, that His word will find fertile ground ground and He will water it to completion. Till your dream, through pain, tears, joy, rain and discouragement. If your dream does not scare you to grow due to its greatness, it will limit and stagnate you due to its mediocrity.

Don't be afraid to dream.

Naked and ashamed

     When did we become such a sexualized generation? In 1974 there was a sexual revolution that basically set the tone for all that we are seeing. This was a subtle move to 'unchain' from the limitations of traditional sexual perceptions that included poems, movies and music that begun to be used on the forefront for Agenda Setting.

     In the guise of being liberated, humanity has never been as internally enslaved since the days of lynching where after being declared free, oppression not only follows you but is made to look normal. What started as a way that the west between 1960-1980's thought was a sexual revolution is what has manifested today to utter sexual degradation. A woman's body is one of the most amazing creations of God. She was in man when God looked at all creation and called it very good. Now, God's own affirmation is deemed nonsense. How can we accept affirmation from someone we vehemently believe does not exist?

     As men, we do not believe we are good and so limit our value to the strength and size of our erections. A man is more than a penis and if we as men can never understand this, then we can never see our women as more than a vagina. The day we begun to esteem a woman's body over her mind and who she is in her most intricate form is the day we lost the power to passionately and positively influence her mind. When all we feed our women is that they have a sexy body and they can gerrit, what looks to be food turns into poison that they take in instead.

     I remember a time we referred to our women as Soul Sistas, Queens and Common even did songs with lyrics like 'i want to build a tribe with you.....the pimp in me will have to die with you.(Come Close) I remember when Talib Kweli and Mos Def did songs like 'Beautiful' featuring Mary J Blige. 

Mos Def Lyrics: 

"God protect my beloved
and keep her covered
from the valley to the summit
like the land undiscovered
like the stars outnumbered, you are so beautiful."

Talib Kweli's Lyrics:

"You're like my reflection
the better half to my whole
like lyrics to the beat
you're the mate for my soul
the breath for my life, my sister and my lover
used to have cold feet, now you're the warmth under my covers
I cant ignore your aura because it grab me by the hand
like the moon pull the tide and the tide pull the sand."

Everything we do now is so degrading to the woman and we have done it so long that many are degrading themselves even without knowing it. My jaw dropped when i saw a picture of a mother taking a picture of her daughters behind as the daughter took a selfie. I thought to myself, if her mother would gladly do that, how can such a beautiful lady be respected by men who not only wants to do the same but go the extra mile? How will she ever value herself beyond her body? Since when did being the most sexy and bedding the most men matter the most and imprint value and identity?

     There was a video by some women who were angry with this but their response was highly myopic. They decided to boycott HBO until men's penises be shown in all HBO productions and in the end of their video against sexualization of media, sexualized men by having naked men stand with them. Men, is this what we call support to our women? Sexualizing ourselves? Absolutely not! We cannot empower the mind of a woman who we have limited to only esteem their body. Even if all the women in the world covered up all the way to their hair, there would be no solution until they see their most intricate form as needs to be seen. You do not need my affirmation as much as you need to stand on eternal affirmation. Before clothes were ever invented God called you good. What changed? Sin not only eroded our position in the garden of Eden but our condition as well. We, while in sin will never be good because our hearts have been made degraded so covering up will never be a solution.

     My heart genuinely pains when i see immature broken men use women as their crutches to spark what looks like a life. I know because severally a darkened mind goes there. I wonder if as men we were restored to God and eventually en mass rejected to watch any video sexualizing women, any song, any poem would there be a slight change? Would sober minded, mature, loving, restorative women join us? I pray so. It is about time we restored factory settings on our sexuality. Adam told Eve 'this IS NOW bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of a man. We need to go back to telling the beautiful amazing women of this world that they are valued, loved and beautiful. That their minds are powerful and their hearts precious. Let us not go back and tell these precious gifts of God that they ARE NOW video vixens, sex objects, money makers. Let us begin to speak back to women their value and their beauty en mass because we can run from that as much as we want but It starts with us.

3 THINGS I AM THANKFUL FOR

     So i have been nominated by my fiance to write 3 things daily that i am thankful for. It is such a great initiative that may just be the thing that gets me back to writing consistently so before i post my three, here's an unofficial thank you to the noble heart that started this initiative and for my beautiful fiance for picking it up :-)

THE THREE THINGS THAT I AM THANKFUL FOR TODAY

1.      1.  My mother’s laugh.

I treasure this mostly because for many years I have been a source of pain and consistent prayer to the queen that pushed me out of her womb and was the first person to call me hers. I fought with her, told her what my bruises from life’s battlefield had made me believe and never once asked how she felt. When God healed me emotionally and spiritually, He not only healed me but used my restoration to heal her. When she laughs with me now, it is more than a laugh, it is a signature of healing; the surgical scar that reminds me that we made it. I beatbox and she sings beautifully on some days and to see her happy and say she loves me then to laugh, that I am thankful for.

2.       2. My father’s strength and trust

Biblically I am to be his Father. Yes my father’s name is Solomon and the wisdom that gushes out of him makes him deserved to bear the name of such a man. Just like my mother, I was a source of pain and prayer for the man who carried me in his heart before I was his seed. We physically fought and of course he would go easy on me yet I would think I won the fights (thank you Dad) I didn't believe in myself and so I didn't believe anyone else did. The funny thing is that when you don’t love yourself, that becomes your lens and every act of love is unseen through that lens. My father once told me he doesn't trust me. I was mad, I was angry, I was betrayed. Not for a second did I ask how it got to that. My reward, standing on the roof of the house as an ‘unloved’ child about to jump and there I saw what I never thought I would. Tears in the eyes of the man I never knew had any. That changed me. I knew I was loved. He has borne so much: from resigning from jobs that paid him millions because he could not stand corruption to selling everything under his name to take care of his amazing wife and 7 children. I understood and once I did, I saw him different. We grew, we merged and today he trusts me: Not only monetarily but with his pain, his joys, his dreams and his hopes.

3.       3. Being believed in

As you have probably noticed, at some point of growing up I stopped believing in myself. I would probably have been the person Lupita spoke of about valid dreams but valid dreams mean nothing if I keep suffocating them myself and blame the fact that all I have is a corpse on everyone else other than me. On this continent, we rarely believe in each other. We seem to all be in a rat race not realizing that the biggest problem of being in a rat race is that we stopped being human eons ago. So when I have an idea and hear an encouragement, or hear a story of a child who had nothing but his bleeding dreams in his hand in a scorching continent and how they met the midwife that saved his dreams life, I stand and salute because there is something powerful that we all need and that is to be believed in. So to those who rise up with their dreams and hopes worn closer to the heart than expensive pendants, those who walk to the rhythm of purpose, feel no pain when the cold wind of rejection blows your way because a warmer breeze is coming. You may find it in the scent of simplicity and a kind gaze all saying one thing. I believe in you. So here’s to those of us who have felt the warmer breeze and are thankful for it

What are your three? Those are mine for today. See you tomorrow :-)

It Starts With Us: The Water

It Starts With Us: The Water:       I always used to wonder when watching these movies that show when one is drowning. Slow, intense, final. How can that which man uses ...

The Water

      I always used to wonder when watching these movies that show when one is drowning. Slow, intense, final. How can that which man uses for leisure be the same that man finds death in? I often wondered, until i was the one left facing the floor of the waters surface. I was drowning. I have been drowning. I think i still am. Being a writer was one of the best things in my life. There were days when i would literally have butterflies when i would hold a pen. Writing always felt like a first date. My mind would play dress up, smell fresh, stand straight and eagerly wait to ring the doorbell of the page i was on just to meet your mind. I used to love to take a walk in the rain while still living in Fedha Estate more than 8 years ago. That, i did not to protect myself from the rain but to enjoy it. I would sit on the slabs in Maua Close with a large umbrella in my right hand as it poured; watching others run almost in slow motion to escape the very drops of water they would on the weekend crave to jump in in the name of swimming. I loved life and you could smell life on me. 

     When i started out in university i remember telling my friend and roommate Kombo that nobody would know i was a poet- false humility at work. He ensured i was proven wrong at his hand. Fast forward a week or so after that statement i was on a stage humbled by yet another standing ovation- false humility not at work here. I had around this very time been the featured poet at Kwani? at just the age of 16/17. I was working with the best artistes in the country as well as the best producers. Later on i met the amazing Imani Woomera who managed to convince me that i could make a difference with my poetry. She carried me as we; together with other brilliant poets begun Slam Africa under who i term one of the best poets i have ever listened to. I believed in myself, my music and my poetry. Things were looking good. I was now recording together with extremely talented friends and the beautiful thing was that these weren't just songs we were doing. We weren't just musicians, we breathed it, bled it and loved it. We were on the rise. I was on the rise. Was. Something happened to me. Something broke. 

    2009 was the last time i loved poetry, music and writing. I can't remember exactly where this passion i once walked hand in hand with slipped away to. Maybe i was careless. How does one walk hand in hand with another and not feel the other hand slipping away? I had gone too far into obscurity to look for passions hand and i was naive enough to believe it would find me. I could write in my sleep but that was never why i loved poetry and eventually i found myself writing in my sleep and never when awake to the fact that i was broken. I saw the art prostituted. I roamed streets seeing poetry and music under street lights skimpily dressed, showing thighs and cleavage and the same voice that once proclaimed in sober breath power to the people was staggering and screaming YOLO. 'Sista' was a term last used by the likes of Angie Stone and Jill Scott before time changed lingoes just as fast as it changed hearts. I now craved for something that nobody recognized any longer. I begun to feel old and irrelevant reading obituaries of hopes and passion. I lost faith in my own words. The very same words that i was told could change the world were dying inside struggling to change me.

      I stopped writing and my reflection begun to grow grey hair and wrinkles so i avoided looking into the mirror. Because i no longer believed in my own words i fueled myself on the words of others to the point only dust from my heart could be seen hanging off the cliff of my lips; even the dust seemed to have no place in me. Hollow filled i did the only thing i thought i could. I gave it all up. I told God take it all. My hands had become too feeble to hold onto dreams any longer and so i put them in stronger hands. What better than to look for passion- old and grey in the one that made her? 

     5 years i felt like i still had nothing to offer. Here i was, restored in my faith in God, yet i still despised myself for not running through those alleyways all those years ago to find passion and here i was still grieving. Still grappling with the question many like me fight with: am I really good enough? Do my words matter anymore? Will i ever feel alive again and will passion ever resurrect because i am tired of graveyard visits staring at unmarked tombstones with all i have being my fear of the rain. So here i am, no umbrella, looking for the living among the dead and knowing that it has to change, and then you pushed me. Pushed me into water that found me in the middle of nowhere and here i am drowning: believing you pushed me for a purpose only you know but that i have come to love; the only thing i love these days. The sky never looked more beautiful like it does from within the water. Suffocating, looking to my left i see you passion: un-aged, smiling and with your hand stretched out. I was pushed to find you and your hand in mine has never felt more purposeful. I remember looking at you as my eyes closed slowly and the illusion of feet wade in the water. 

     Today you're here. Still un-aged, still smiling saying i waited for you and you came for me. You were still beautiful because you were in the water and the very same water is where our love was re-birthed. I now know how it feels to be drowning but now i know the beauty of how it feels to be alive.

Travelling signature

I believe in time travel....
I hope after this, you will believe together with me.

There are days i stare, my eyes, these brown searching eyes knock on unopened doors,
peep through the empty key holes of existence just to see beyond what lies in front of me.
I've been to places my physical self either only dreams of or anticipates to be.
I've stared into my daughters eyes numerous times: yet she is still awaiting to be ushered into life by two spirit beings wrapped in flesh to celebrate God and welcome her home. Yes, spirit beings because we really are so much spirit, flesh is just an add on.
I've held her soft unscathed hands in my experienced palm, watched her tiny fingers and palm move on mine as i think,
your skin is part of mine.
I've walked on sandy shores alone: praying, speaking, laughing, crying, all without leaving the focus of my blank stare.
I've gone to the past,
remembering failed friendships and relationships, fights with my family as the present me just stands there and watches me, not angrily, but with a sombre gaze and a warm whisper 'it will all make sense.' to crack the icy world the past me had crafted.
I remember growing up with naivety and genius both intertwined in the crevices of my mind.
Memories of my first drinking spree with my friends rush in this one stare,
dark hallway, drink in hand, lady in sight but how i forfeited the lady i had eyes on for the one i could place my hand on.
I remember the fights, the blood flying slowly as if to the sound of slow opera, almost like art, and how my almost numbed heart had loved it.
I remember the friends lost from the snare of cold words,
words that i had allowed to shape me, to craft me,
words that sub-consciously were taking the place of my breath,
my lungs were filled with poisoned words received and just like air, they too found their way out.
I remember slipping out of class when young, sitting in the gents with a knife caressing my wrist as class went on,
and going back to class with a smile like nothing had happened.
See in a quick but short stare i remember the journey, i remember the past and hide in the future knitting together these two threads of reality with the thread of my present.
I remember repentance, unmerited forgiveness for me and in the depth of the mist that i had lived in
I could finally see light and how it all fits in:
seeing my daughter struggle to feel physically loved to quench emotional and spiritual thirst and i know right then why i craved the same.
I see my son come home angry with blood on his shirt and i know why i was the same.
On some days It hurt to be me yet in the prism of life Gods light sheds abroad and i see the bigger, beautiful picture.
I hear 'daddy why do i have to go through this?' and in joy i see that i can finally have an answer, not to all their questions but to those God allowed me to live in.

I learn to love my purpose-full tears as we are called to be the salt of the earth and no wonder, my tears have the largest components of salt. Who would have known they carried healing!

I see my wife, her in her splendor and glow, radiant and the envy of all precious jewels, i see her beyond the smile and beyond the frown, i see her, beyond, yet here.
I revel in our journey, separate and together even before we say i do,
similar yet different; birthed together in the womb of purpose and Agape.

I see the future, it is close, as close as two strangers smiling not knowing they will journey together,
close though it may feel never reaching.
I know why my scars exist but i know why my smile does as well.

God made it for you. We were made for testimony, bearing witness to intricately woven strands of grace piecing together our past, present and future.
With every prick of life's needle, i shall bear the pain, the hurt, the laughs so well hidden in the mines of life that i was so afraid to enter not knowing all that would encompass me were explosions of joy.

See, I believe in time travel.  As i sat here, staring at the thickets outside my window get battered by the rain, i couldn't help but notice something beautiful. Something that felt like poetry when i saw leaves cradle droplets of rain, gently; mother-like, releasing drop by drop to the earth in a slow but incandescent manner. Indeed, time stood still. I couldn't help but feel like the drop of rain commissioned to strike at the heart of the soil, leaving the signature of the cloud that sent me, one day to return to the very clouds having fulfilled all i was meant to, not just for me, but for where i was gently dropped.

I remember when it hit me like a gush of cold wind that for you, i shall bear the soil, the winds and the boots, if just to water you and i remember when i loved to know that.

As i sit here, I believe in time travel, the purpose of all things merging

merging together that i may be a signature of my Cloud.

SLOW FADES

A dark cloud has been brooding over us for ages. The thing about dark clouds that everybody knows: they are pregnant with rain. I hear the question when did the rain start to beat us and i ask, when did we begin to think we didn't need an umbrella? We were probably in a hurry and never really thought it would rain even though that dark menacing cloud was speaking to us. When our hearts were ok without umbrellas, is really when the rain begun to beat us. Let me explain.

The first time i came across porn was in primary school, can't quite remember what class though. We were huddled up in the house of a younger kid than me, one who was quite rich i should add and the excitement in the air was almost tangible. As i saw these naked people, in the midst of my carnal pleasures, there was a spark lingering in my dark heart that was asking, how did they get there? At the time my main concern was not that it was sex but that it was public and that was my problem number 1.

Every human being has an internal desire to feel loved. The form of love though can be varied and at most times, skewed. Our hearts for ages have embraced a desire to be gratified by any means necessary. Sexual perversion has been placed in the core of our minds and hearts and to see the recent happenings at the coast come to light is just an example of the slow fade that this has brought.

Let's not be fooled, bestiality has been going on for long before the Mombasa story ever hit the eye. Men have been known to satisfy sexual urges by preying on varying animals that i need not mention for the sake of mental sobriety. The things we watch, listen to have sold self gratification to unprecedented levels. We no longer have value for ourselves. Things such as masturbation have now become a norm as much as many would not like to admit. When a lady in porn was using a carrot or cucumber, people had no problem. When a man would use a fruit or a similar object, nobody objected. The undertones here are quite severe. If we treat our sexual organs as though all they are worth is to be gratified, made to feel good, then of course over time we'll want more and more, better and better and eventually move from inanimate tools to animate ones such as animals.

This heart of man is deceitful. When talking with some friends, i tried to pick their mind on what was so wrong with the incidence concerning the ladies at the coast and many just said it being a dog was the problem. As much as i understand the magnitude of that, it did not just start there. The deceit of the heart had been at work over years, killing value for the individual, reducing them from being a full human being to just respecting their vagina not for the sacredness of it but as a means to an end.. By the time you begin to envision penetrating an animal or an animal penetrating you, even before the act itself, you really have killed your self worth. 

How then can we redeem this because as i said, it starts as a slow fade. From 'innocent porn' to masturbation  to full out sex with anything as by that point all you want is that orgasm so as to feel fulfilled. I think we should come to terms with the fact that we have been selling ourselves short, that we have been equating our manhood to the have and use of a penis and diminishing womanhood to the have and use of a vagina. It takes honesty to rid ourselves of this and also a determination to set an example for our children. Some will dismiss these necessities until their daughter turns into a teenager and starts to do worse than what their mother or father used to do and by then you will not be able to do a thing as how can you show her otherwise when you have never interacted with something different.

Something needs to change and something needs to change fast. We need to rethink who we are beyond wanting to be made to feel good, to be gratified because one day when your gratification does not come and the world of depression has set in and you are desperate for that sexual high knowing very well that you have tried 'everything' there is and are not getting satisfied, you may just be the person spoken about next. The change begins with us as we invest for our children, our nieces, nephews, brothers, sisters or friends. If not, we'll keep being in a hurry, leaving the umbrella in its usual corner as we run out laughing at the dark cloud above us and cursing when the rain beats us again, and again and again. Kill the slow fade. 

It starts with us.