She comes late at night,
Careful to evade the daylight.
Perhaps it’s a sleepover,
Perhaps she was called over,
Perhaps, son of a woman, perhaps.

The invited guest,
Maybe a future life test.
Maybe she just came to rest,
Or maybe she came to taste
Taste life at its best.
Perhaps, son of a woman, perhaps.

Steady she cooks, washes and cleans,
Buys plates and replaces feeding tins.
Either his roommate sleeps on the floor,
Or he himself is shown the door.

Days turn slowly into weeks,
Silence now comfortably speaks.
Her slippers rest beside the bed,
Her laughter lives inside his head.
Neighbors whisper through the gate,
Wondering if it’s love or fate.
But the son of a woman only shrugs
Life rearranged by gentle hugs.

And one quiet morning in the sun,
He wakes to find the two are one.
No guest, no test, no passing phase
Just two lives joined in ordinary days.

Perhaps, son of a woman…
Perhaps….

You left home because you thought mum was wrong,
You believed yourself strong,
Off to the city you wanted to write your own song,
Dad was quiet—he knew you wouldn’t be long,
But I hope you are happy now.
I hope you found love,

I hope they are not making you starve,
I hope they’ve got more than we ever had,
I hope your life isn’t less hard,
I hope, son of a woman, you found love,
I hope you are happy now.

You wanted freedom,
You complained of boredom,
We bored you with house chores,
Washing dishes and mopping floors,
I hope you found the much-desired rest,
I wish you the very best,
I hope you are happy now.

Home seemed like prison,
Food tasted like poison,
Until you dared to commit treason,
Hurting your mother without reason,

I hear you went to the city,
No savings in your kitty,
Living a life of party after party,
But when the music fades and the lights grow dim,
When laughter dies and nights grow grim,
Remember there’s still a place for you here,
A table set, a light burning clear.
Son of a woman,
I hope you are truly happy now.

When the music fades and friends are gone,
When the night feels cold and long,
Remember there’s a place you belong,
A table still set, a light still on.
We never locked the door somehow
Son of a woman,
I still hope you are happy now.

Even with a road mapped out,
He had his way cut out,
Like a rebel with his fist out,
And just like that he knocked us out,
What woke us up was his first shout.

His shout was our command,
Attending to his every demand,
Demanding money, food and attention,
He demanded love not to mention.
Yet he was our salvation.

He arrived with nothing in his hands,
Yet took possession of our plans,
Bent our nights, unmade our days,
Rewrote our prayers in quieter ways.

Sleep became a borrowed thing,
Peace a song we learned to sing
In broken hums at half-past dawn,
While hope was wrapped in flesh and born.

He ruled with tears, not sword nor crown,
Brought giants up and pulled them down,
A tiny tyrant, soft yet loud,
Teaching hearts to kneel, not proud.

Through him we learned what love demands:
To bleed in ways no wound commands,
To give without a signed consent,
To pour out all and call it lent.

He came to take, or so we thought,
But gave us more than we had sought.
In that first cry, so fierce, so true,
He didn’t wake us he made us new.

Son of a Woman 👠

They run around in tattered shorts,
They seem like people who have run short,
This is survival, not a sport
Their hearts live in a darkened fort.

They run this part of the town,
To them, a new day is a new go-down,
Yes  something always has to go down.

They run, hard-pressed with sacks,
Time is money, pile it in stacks,
You Galatians  who bewitched you?
You do it for the stomach, anything to chew.

They don’t spend money on rent,
On the cold pavement, they pitch their tent,
Ooh Galatians…

What’s your fate, Galatians?
Is it tied somehow to this state?
We’re balancing economies of scale,
Do you understand, or are you under a spell?
You can’t feed till your belly swells
Poor Galatian.

I’m writing to Galatians lost in despair,
Drifting through life like they don’t care,
Dreams postponed, hope stripped bare,
Silent cries swallowed in the air.

I’m writing to Galatians, the weary and worn,
Bruised by the battles of nights and dawn,
Resting on benches where dreams are torn,
Waiting for light in a world long gone.

I’m writing to you Galatians, beasts of burden,
You who set out yourselves to harden,
You who sleep on benches of Uhuru Garden,
Lulled by illusions of Eden,
Loud snores, how will you make it to Sweden?

Poor Galatians, your snores wake the bats,
Even crows are shocked by your farts,
You chew leaves like competing goats,
Intoxicated, your moves  sudden boats,
Who bewitched you, Galatians?

A hundred kilometres from home,
A hundred kilometres from the norm,
A game of survival  victims of con,
Conned of lives, conned of souls,
Conned of freedom to cry foul.

Cursed to stroll, condemned to holes,
Suffering servants with no shoes to their soles
Condemned elements with pitch-black souls…
Ooh Galatians  Lord, have mercy on you.
Son of a woman.

Son of a woman

We were sons of the soil, we were,
We woke before dawn to till and earn,
Our hands cracked but our pride was full,
We built homes, not hashtags,
We were the old adults.

We are sons of a woman, we are,
We wake to alarms, not roosters,
Our hands are soft, our hearts are tired,
We build captions, not compounds,
We are the new adults.

We were the faithful, firm, and few,
We feared vows like thunder’s hue,
We courted through letters, patience, truth
Our love aged like clay pots do,
We were the old adults.

We are the quick, the swiped, the seen,
We love in DMs and end in “seen ”
We cheat emotions, hide in memes,
Our vows vanish with low battery screens,
We are the new adults.

We brewed wisdom in silence,
Shared bread when hunger bit,
We fought wars, not boredom,
We dreamed small, but we dreamed real,
We were the old adults.

We sip our alcohol to forget,
We dance in chaos, debt, and regret,
We run from rugs, towards drugs,
With no one left to give us hugs,
We are the new adults.

We were, we are the circle turns,
Ashes to Wi-Fi, both still burn,
Different tongues, same thirst to learn,
Old scars, new dreams both earn their turn,
Time raised us all we are adults.

Son of a woman

Long ago, before kings wore crowns,
Before towns had ups and downs,
Man answered nature’s call with ease,
He simply walked into the trees.

The bush was free, no rent, no fee,
Your throne? A stump, your guard? A bee,
But woe to you if snakes were near,
Or thorns decided to pinch your rear,

Then came the pit, a hole so proud,
The village gathered, the flies a crowd,
Privacy improved, though smell was bold,
And stories were told as you squatted cold.

Civilization marched, as it always does,
Bricks and wood replaced the grass,
Doors that creaked, roofs of tin,
A revolution for where we’ve been.

At last the flush! a royal sound,
Water whisking waste underground,
Into what they now call a septic,
Life became less hectic,
Porcelain thrones with tissue rolls,
Bathrooms scented like perfume bowls.

Some say progress is roads and cars,
Or reaching planets, chasing stars,
But tell me, friend, what’s sweeter still,
Than flushing waste with just a skill?

For heroes sat with swords and crowns,
Yet all still squatted, trousers down,
Civilization’s truest test,
Is where a man can sit and rest.

So laugh you must, yet truth is clear,
The toilet marks our journey here,
From bush to pit, to flashing pride,
History flows where we reside.

Son of a woman

I hear a labour scream,
Am awake with my eyes still on the screen,
Perhaps a bundle of joy,
It cries, ooh it’s not a boy,
Take it or pass?
Is it a blessing or a curse?

Am told it’s a challenge to give affection,
Raising the girl needs attention,
She’s delicate, susceptible to infection,
Needing more than God’s protection,
Still wondering is she a blessing or a curse?

Teach them hygiene,
Yes teach them how to behave around Eugene,
Why, they’ve become teenage,
Not really of age,
Perhaps its tough being a parent,
But there’s a tougher current.

A tougher current?
Yes, at this age they want to experiment,
Tough economies, will you keep an eye or look for rent?
Look for food or be moved by their mood?
Am a parent I also have to be understood,
Oooh girl child, a blessing or a curse.

They want to look smart,
They want their dress cut,
Their faces painted,
Our images tainted,
They’re are of course short of sight,
Dancing in clubs at night,
It’s a tough job to bring them to light,
Son of a woman do I ask the question?

How do we raise them to be smart?
That everyone wants what’s under their skirt,
That the world sees them as pleasure objects,
Which are later trashed as rejects,
Who will help teach them to be virtuous?
When we parents are not even remotely righteous,
What judgment will God pass?
Is this a blessing or a curse?

So I wipe her tears and hold her tight,
Pray she walks with truth, not just light,
I battle fears I dare not rehearse,
Still I whisper through pain and verse,
She is mine, and though the world is perverse…
I’ll raise her strong, a blessing, not a curse.

Son of a woman

Love is blind, so they say,
That love can bind, one in one place to stay,
That love is a game let’s play!
Is it so, or is it hearsay?
I don’t know, but they say love is blind.

Love is blind, today it bled,
The night was filled with tears and dread,
Accused of filth, and dirt under the bed,
Of sleep, of things she never said,
Still, she went back to her lover,
Seeking warmth… or just more cover,
Or maybe… maybe just another beating.

She says,
He shouts because he cares too much,
His fists? Just firm with love and such,
The black eye? Oh, she hit the door,
While running to love him some more.

He cheats, but that’s just how men cope,
She stays, armed only with blind hope,
She calls it passion, not neglect,
“It’s thug love,” she says, “what did you expect?”

He forgot her birthday, a minor slip!
But bought her fries after the next trip,
He drained her M-PESA, blamed the app,
Yet she defends him , “He’s just trapped!”

He says she’s ugly when he’s mad,
But “he loves me still,” she tells her dad,
Even when he flirted with her friend,
She swears he’s loyal, in the end.

Love is blind, deaf, and losing weight,
It cooks, it cleans, it stays out late,
And when he marries Wife Number Two,
She’ll just say, “He’s confused love needs glue.”

He says,
She blocks his calls, then cries he’s cold,
Says he’s “not deep” when he won’t fold,
She flirts in church, but he must pray,
And be her “man” whatever that means today.

They post cute pics to prove it’s real,
Behind the scenes? A rotten deal
She cries, he cheats, they still link,
True love, they say,
but have you tried losing your brain first?
Son of a woman.

I hear screams in the night,
What’s it? A spirited fight?
I hear legs shuffle in a fearful flight,
Son of a woman I hug my pillow tight.

They shout let’s see if you’ll catch me,
A game? No, they plead don’t hurt me,
Yes, someone will be begging the doc please patch me,
They beg, please dispatch me,
Son of a woman these things disgust me.

Patience seems to have run it’s course,
And words have turned to lethal force,
Perhaps a better preference,
But by morning we’d be talking gender based violence,
Or perhaps a love language in pretence,
Son of a woman.

Like Moses she asks Pharaoh to let her go,
Maybe she should have gone long ago,
Did she miss the signs or did she forego,
So they hustle and tussle as I sleep on the fence,
Not wanting to run to anyone’s defence,
Because I might easily be blamed for offence.

They move with aggressive speed,
They shout they scream, they bleed,
Young couples, with no wedding vows,
Young couples, fighting over what? God knows,
The subject sleeps soundly next door,
The complainant’s blood lies cold on the floor,
It scares me from where am sitting,
The adverse effects of cheating.

However I take offence,
That two love bird live in pretence,
That they decide to fight not in the day,
That their drama takes my sleep away,
That the peace of the night has been corrupted,
And my dreams violently disrupted,
Son of a woman I feel offended.

Son of a woman