It’s in the drop
Of water, rain water that turns into a pool
Breeding ground for jealous ambition
The domicile of lost and downtrodden faith

It’s in the drop
Of silence, pin-drop silence that becomes an echo
Laden with guilt from feigned friendships and half-truths
The emptiness out of years of self-patronisation

It’s in the drop
Of a beat, that swells gently into passionate frenzy
Exploring the vulnerability of my frustrations in living
The dance in honor of you and me, oh yes, we the living dead

It’s in the drop
Of one dollar that the world brands as my daily poverty
Yet in my world, my richness is like mood swings
Undulating between 60 and 80 shillings
60’s my mum’s generation; 80’s my generation

It’s in the drop
The beginning of the pool, the echo, the frenzy,
The unlimited potential to redefine universal perspective
Poverty is only the lack of ideas

I feel the intensity of the pressure crushing me
In this ocean of a world, I remain confused
Am I the gushing waves or the solid rocks?
However the perspective, I am crushed
Left wishing I were the sand, inconsequential
Indifferent observer in the war of futility

As the tide subsides
I wait impatiently for the wind of fortune
To carry the grains of my persona
With the unfulfilled aspirations of my father’s mother
I pray for the salty waters of perspiration
To soak in my negative-ism and negative-ity

I see a thousand different ways I could have chosen to go down
Ignorance, Poverty, Vainglory
I choose the bullet of idealism
That should the world not hear my scream, they’d feel the thud
Of aspirations ignored, of dreams deferred, of dead passion
Ideological death that will resurrect into curiosity for those to come

Let the scarlet pigmentation soak into the soils
Let it be impossible to wash it away in wishful thought
Let it seep into the essence that was humanity
Let it be the cause of delirium
Let it ring
Hollow

In the morning
Let them whisper in murmuring tremors
Of the lies written in historical epithets
Let them confess for deprivation of an identity
Of a rich heritage that would shame their lack of culture
Let them name me after my forefathers and not theirs

For I am of them that history corrupted their story

He picked up his tenor saxophone and played from memory Coltrane’s Naima. The style was not the usual hard bop. It had an overly intense feel, filled with staccato punches as if Blakey in his prime was teaching an Art class, pure drums and no cymbal. Most critics would have said he played like an amateur whilst the ones who consistently feign some form of enlightenment would have said he was borrowing heavily from bebop. It reminded him of his many struggles, most of them hidden under his ever so cool demeanor and the social expectations that arose with his manhood without even the pretense of his consultation or training. He could hardly remember when he became a man, not in that sense at the very least. He was no fool. However, he somehow seemed to have missed an important lesson over the years. The indications were there: deep husky voice that took him away from soloist roles, stubby chin with inconsistently sprouting hairs, broad shoulders that made his life a nightmare in an overcrowded city and that very tuft of not-so-public hair that he still didn’t understand the purpose it was meant to serve and whether or not his newly acquired manly status called on him to groom it or not.