Category Archives: love

Of Lavish African loving.

“And remember, as it was written, to love another person is to see the face of God.” — Les Miserable

I’m fascinated by writers. African writers specifically, even those with the charm of a corpse always manage to stir deep feelings of passion within me, anger or even regret, depending on what time in history they wrote. Because the African writers’ calendar dates back to when the colonialists came to Africa, perhaps, when Africans began to write in languages that foreigners could read ad understand.

I’m constantly peeved by the books written about Africa on my humble bookshelf, but my anger, unless countered by a new book written by me or other Africans that scoff at Englishmen of old or backpacking American journalists turned African experts, then I could as well tell it to the birds. It really is our fault that we do not have many African writers who can pen our own stories and help bring to life that now famous line, ‘The African narrative’ which in all fairness has evolved and transformed over time, and Africa, in many ways is rising. Numbers don’t lie, the economists say.

So, I’ve recently stumbled upon one Dunduzu Chisiza, he is described as a Nationalist and early agitator for independence in Nyasaland, now Malawi. Reading about him introduces you to an African that would not be stopped by class, colour or creed. His publications and style of writing literally tug at my heart.

He writes:
” In Africa, we believe in strong family relations. We have been urged by well meaning foreigners to break these ties for one reason or another. No advice could be more dangerous to the fabric of the society. charity begins at home. So does the love of fellow human being. By loving our parents, our brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews and nieces, and by regarding them as members of our families, we cultivate the habit of loving lavishly, of exuding human warmth and compassion, and of giving and helping. But I believe that once so conditioned, one behaves in this way not only to ones family, but also to the clan, the tribe, the nation and to humanity as a whole.”

Dunduzu goes ahead and talks about insubordination of national loyalties to international loyalties, referring to foreigners as Individualists who cannot foster internationalism.’

For me, Kenya is at the point where cynicism is the the order of the day. The days of women laughing heartily and young men and women celebrating each other has tapered down to wanton criticism, gossip, negative ethnicity and a uniquely high breed of hatred. We hate everything and anyone that’s Kenyan. The National Football team, The Rugby players, Public personalities, Kenyan firms. Everthing and everyone that’s Kenyan is constantly on the chopping board, it is everything that constructive criticism is not about.

Does this, after reading Dunduzu say something about our social fabric? Is there any more lavish loving that seeps beyond our nuclear family units and into the family next door? Have we tightened the rope too tough to allow cultures that are individualistic in Nature to wear out the African fabric that’s laced with respect and universal love. Deep lavish love.

For many, this may appear simplistic, but I’m student of this assertion, that Maybe, it is all about love.

The voice of the wind

voice of the wind

It isn’t as if the wind cannot speak
Sometimes in a whisper
Barely grazing the bouganvelia purple on the porch
sometimes in a breeze
Still the creepers on the front door of our holiday cottage sway to its voice
Creepers still can speak, but only to the foliage underneath
And this evening, while I sit by the poolside
In this warm African sunset
The wind howls
As the sea comes back home
stories, trapped in the crushing waves
Swish, swash, on the wearing down corals beneath our love nest
white sand on this watamu shores
The soft leaves of the bottle brush graze the back of my neck
caressing my barely there tan
The birds, they chirp the evening away
they too,
have stories to tell
Memories, some sweet, some hot & raunchy, some…they will never tell
And most, I will never know….
my heart longs to hear the tales
of the wind
from far away lands
of the sea, swishing, swaying
going and coming back home
of the creepers on the front door
and the bouganvelia on the porch
of the artsy driftwood so delicately placed above the bed
of the sea shells hanging by the bathroom door
of the canvas painting on the of white Arabic walls
I long to hear the stories they can tell
But until then
I shall savour the beauty,
and this stirring within
That comes with the wind, the sea, the birds, the creepers, the bouganvelia
I shall hide under my thoughts


I am tired of having drinks,
or a great time with your boys at the pub
Laughing and poking at European football
Talking boy stuff…
On the high stools downing beers
In brown and green bottles
Looking at the display of legs and bossoms of girls in the bar
while making inroads into the take away girl for your boys

You see if you look at me very carefully
I have got curves curved out across my body

So, listen, I want you to court me;
In the old fashioned style I heard from Aunty Jane

I am tired of shots of tequila
Then revert to a raunchy night
In the blue moon on your balcony
That’s if we even make it to the balcony

I would like a good morning Kiss,
and to bring you breakfast in bed
Probably a little dessert that you get to choose
See, I have even been reading the karmasutra lately

See, I want to be the girl your mother wants you to have
To have to gorgeous babies with you
A little boy and a little girl
And go shopping for little pink and blue booties

I want to cook for you
Those exotic meals I read on True Love magazine
I want to be everything you want in a woman

See after those boyish nights, and being “one of the boys.”
I know what you are looking for

But first, I want you to court me

Big Man, Little girl

I watched the big man
raising his brow and smiling a’shy
I looked as played with his eyes
to entice the little girl
The girl who touched his heart with fire
I watched the big man
so excited, he could’nt hide
As he looked into her eyes
searching, hoping to find
what his eyes said so loud
The big man hides behind a smile
afraid, maybe the little one
hasnt found it within
So i watch the big man
his eyes begging, asking, calling
…and the little one hides
she knows, she feels; she likes the big man

Terryanne Chebet