BY A SMALL HILL

A young lady impedes me from my homeward way
Over a tiny junction, the night is descending swiftly.
A restless cricket chirp; in the long grass, a pair of mice play
My heart is still wrapped in misery!
She insists on supporting me in my drunken stupor
But I’m rather ashamed of my sorry state;
My pate is dizzy, and breath leaks with liquor
Tonight, what sort of hour is this that I find a suitable bed mate?

THAMBIA THAHU

Mwanake nĩ kĩenyũ kĩa Ngai
nanĩtwĩtĩkĩtie mwana wa kahĩĩ kuma igũrũ nĩ igai.
Kĩhoto kiunaga ũta mũgeete,
Nanĩtũĩ kũrũmĩrĩra kĩhoto ti ngero kũgera;
Nyita thenge mwanake thakame tĩrinĩ,mũgumoinĩ tũite,
Wĩhĩte mũgwanja maita , muma ǔugie mbere ya ita,aira.
Kuohũo,kũnyarirwo,na kuonjio nĩ ũndũ wa kũgĩa na mworoto rĩ ;
Mwanake maya magerio rũgendoinĩ nĩũgũtũngio nĩ thũ cia kĩama, rũrĩrĩ.
Wa-iregi,umĩrĩria thĩna na ironda, ĩtĩkĩra kinya gĩkuũ kĩa mwĩrĩ;
tungatĩra mũingĩ na kĩoo na makĩria ciana,ithaka na tĩri,
na makȋria tũmunye thata cia bũrũri.
mageria nomo mahota!
Nanĩtũĩ kwaria cararũkũ ti ngero kũgera,
Mũrũ wa iregi, ũkia mũkengeria ũtwe na ũmaa na kĩhoto cira!

SONG OF A FOREST FIGHTER

Sudden Mountain winds combs through spreading strands,
Over the shoulders, locks dash freely till hands.
A freedom fighter recruited for liberation war,
A forest solder oathed for stubborn war,
In Nyandarwa, I roar hard gun to the pole-star.
Braving two grave battles a week,
Till the invader’s spirit is split, the colonialist blood must ceaselessly leak.
Our Generals are both brave and fierce
Enduring bombs, jiggers, lice, cold, hunger, difficult terrain and severities,
For land and freedom, our gallant patriots delight the gunpowder to face.
The platoon oath we swore on prompts us to fulfill our national duties
Till the Union Jack fall in disgrace, our battalions are ready to pay the bitter price.

NĨNGŨRIRIKANA

Nĩngũririkana mwendwa iharũrũkainĩ cia cania,
Rũng’ĩka-inĩ rwa rũũĩ, hakuhĩ na ndia;
nĩwahahũrire na rũrĩrĩmbĩ rwa ciugo njororo ciaku.

warȋ mwambȋrȋrio wa kȋmera kȋa njahȋ,
Ta gȋkwa na mǔkǔngǔgǔ rȋrȋa twa hȋmbanȋirie na mǔhahȋ
ithanjĩ –ini tǔgȋthathaiyana kinya mũthenya ũgĩkwa ku!

No thȋna nȋ mǔru; ǔgitahwo ǔkȋndiga
Rȋu no kȋeha na maithori; ndǔire ngǔrȋragȋra
Wǔǔi! Wǔǔi! wanyenjeire iriku

ABOUT TO PART FOR YEARS

Tags

infinite sky, intimate friend, precipitation

In a dream, I return to the moorland.
The mountain air is chilled with ancient precipitation.
Where under this infinite sky is my intimate friend?
Where can she be found engrossed in similar contemplations.
A startled monkey chatters chaotically from a high bough
Dashing birds takes wing in rows
My heart is still nostalgic with memories of your brief stay.
Beautiful scenes and fair weather makes me for long delay;
Amidst dense bamboo, I find that the old paths are overgrown with creepers.
Usually women are my constant source of grief and misery
A thousand bottles cannot awash my deep, deep longing for her.

FACING THE HILLS

My old fancy is tens of miles away;
Gut-like- ridges have had us for years stayed.
In the full moon I see her face wax and wane
Facing the hills, my heart begins to pine.
Lingering Scents of her perfume still thrill me with tremendous intensity,
Clutching on her cold pillow; but whom can I blame?
I’d wish to meet her, but I’ve no means.
Nor writing nor meeting her in a dream abates my nostalgia.
In a dim mirror, I see my beard is neglected with care.
I have no desire to groom. Since we parted, I’ve grown thin for her.

NOW YOU ARE NO MORE

At this moment, where are my companions of old

I can but see cold dust rise where we once leisured.

Withered leaves pile on the lone grave stone, the dusk is sombre and mild.

I sigh again, but I’ve no supporter in my drunken stupor; where is my bed?

I pace about with violent contemplations; I am overcome with emotions.

Out last meeting was brief and riddled with altercations

The contradiction arose from misinformation.

Here you mocked with savagery, there, I retaliated with unequaled tenacity

Now you are no more, I regret the weeping streams spreading to infinity.

TOM MBOYA – 1969

Love of our country led to his early death;

A martyr, time itself cannot waste his heroic deeds.

His illustrious career would away take your breath;

To our regret, Tom Mboya’s ambitions were not fulfilled.

THE DUSK IS LATE

The brief duration is drawing to a close;

If reversible I’d have wasted time rewound.

The early December sun is on the rise

Events of recent months are still heavy on my mind.

Parting is always bitter and desperate

We stand mutely our faces washed with tears

The flowers bend their heads, the dusk is late

Our budding love will drown our hearts for years.

LEAP WITH DISMAY

Under an unkempt hedge I drink alone in a quiet noon

Dazed by brevity of life, I reflect on bygone years again with increasing concern.

The southern winds blow in dusk too soon;

At the edge of silver clouds, I see floating eagles weave lines in the parting sun.

Her wrists were white with crystallized tears when we last bid goodbye

Words would not part from mouth; only smothered sighs.

The ways of emotions were both irrational and rowdy

Hands waving, brows would not cease to leap with dismay.