Poetry & Works by Kaffi & Kaffy

Book reviews : momo the monkey arrives & momo makes a mess

2013-07-03T16:49:00.002+03:00

Suddenly, something did move. Peeking out from under the monkey’s tummy, a small pair of sad eyes looked up at the children.

“Oh, look!” said Geno. “It’s a baby monkey!” she whispered to Alid. She eased the tiny creature from under the tummy. All the children gasped.

The author Shariffa Keshavjee has two new books out, “Momo the monkey arrives : Momo the monkey Adventure series,” and “Momo makes a mess,” a picture book that’s great for reading to children or having them read when alone or aloud in groups. Here, Shariffa leads readers through the children’s imagination and feelings towards their new found friend and pet, The author blends the ideas of children basic instincts ,innocence and a mixture of mischievous traits on how to get Momo into their home, how to care for Momo and the fun and chaos that comes with having a monkey in the house.
Drawn with a sketchy but confident pencil line, and painted in the clear, saturated colors and pictures, the illustrations bring the children, and all their familiar exuberance, to the page. Every scene written in the book is followed with a great pictorial that explains and build the story for young and young at heart minds , the animation shows in the shorthand expressions of movement that are everywhere in the book.

In the house the children and Momo have fun during feeding time; the children mash a banana and scoop some of it with their fingers for Momo to lick. They laughed as Momo’s tongue

tickled their fingers. Geno gave Alid a small bowl to put milk in. Then they put a drop in his mouth. Momo swallowed and opened his mouth again, looking up for more.

Amid this happy chaos, Mum comes back and check if their homework is done, she hands them a bottle feeder for Momo then tells them that Momo has to leave the next day, however this does not happen, why you ask…?

The next series of the book starts off from this note, Geno and Aldi prepare a bath for Momo that doesn’t turn out to be as planned and an angry mom asks them to clean the mess and take Momo outside where things get even messier.
At the end of each book, the author gives a useful structure to link into different areas of knowledge related with the adventures of the Momo series. The book mixes cultures and backgrounds of Nairobi, Kenya by using names of places, names for clothing’s as used by certain ethnic communities and also the variety of monkeys found within the country. This allows children to practice reading unexpected words. But worthy though these achievements are, “Momo the monkey Adventure series” is, above all, a pleasure to read and look at. Like the cheeky rascal who made a mess everywhere yet bringing smiles to Geno and Aldi, readers will be hungry for more especially now that Momo has a month to stay.

Plate V: The Last of the Four Stars

2013-06-26T13:42:00.003+03:00

A cleansing sword, a dove of the Black Continent!
An enduring rose, deserving of unceasing compliments!
Unlike his covetous contemporaries clinging onto the mace,
He rides the vast African prairies, his spirit moves apace,
Engulfing the African soul with long lost love,
With a good natured smile, he stirs the intellects grove,
Canonized in the eyes of men and held a sacrificial rood,
Breathing peace, he is the tower of good;
Where morals are taught, vengeance vanquished,
Virtue rewarded, and violence admonished.

Like an emblematic sparrow, in words and deeds,
His wings scatter prosperous seeds,
To save tomorrow from the mindlessness of yesterday,
In retrospect humility, he leads the way,
Holding the lantern in ripened wisdom,
His white garb illumines, the paths painted in crimson,
Denuding the barren land of barrenness,
And concealing buttocks from ridiculous bareness,
Wealthy with virtues, we are forfeit to extol:
For his life is a path we adore and stroll.

To his name, the South was favored from discordance,
Sown by guile across the continent, or the derisive lance,
Tearing nations apart, exposing incompatible enjoins,
Long covered like the embarrassment of scaling loins.
But it was not always so, for the South did bathe in disfavor:
Apartheid, evil as it may seem, was yesterday’s savor
To a bitter toast of oppression, where brothers walked in chains,
And their land dotted with tiddlers’ blood stains,
Neither has the past blessed the present immune,
But like the desert, the landscape remains a slave to dunes.

In Transkei a son was born, and groomed in the ways of a king,
In the footsteps of Digane and Bambanta, he cling’,
To the histories of his fatherland, Dalasile and Squnthi,
Hintsa and Makana, Moshoeshoe and Sekhukhuni,
These were the warriors gone before him,
Their victory songs, even though a ream,
Was for him a sign of the strength of his roots,
Though young and under counsel, the routes
Had been cleared by his forefathers. The pull of blood
Could never be disregarded; their word was his word.

Years before Jawaharlal Nehru saw it fit to praise,
Weslayan and Fort Hare, tutored the star in the ways of the wise,
Ere being judged unfit to toe the line of blind obedience,
To iniquity, or sagged under the weight of massive sentences,
He was but a black child: princely but black.
But the face of white supremacy: an ugly mark
On the streets, turned peace into a thorny bleed,
Denied all the rights of man, enveloped by steeds,
The black man seethed, and moved aside to draw
From the pot of violence and not to tyranny forever bow.

To shatter the witch of whiteness, on which evil
Was painted, and hate for the black man deemed civil;
He hid under the shadow of Umkhonto we Sizwe,
Detested, hunted, and booked for the autocrat’s sizzle,
Damned should he turn his back to the state’s muzzle.
‘An African Patriot’, sacrificed himself to the struggle,
Determined to drive the white man into the sea,
And earn the prize for fulfilling his kindred’s plea,
Of equality, freedom, and liberty for all,
Or desist from violence and for his brethren make palls.

Even though the gory of Robben Island’s stature,
Ceased not to conjure up thoughts of torture,
The freedom of mankind proved too much a treasure,
To lose just for one man’s selfish pleasure,
‘I am prepared to die’ were his words to vile accusers,
Uttered with conviction to mock damned oppressors,
But with his sentence, the bottle of liberty was to be prise’,
To purge greed and hate from power, and chastise
The wicked for denial of the rights of man,
And give to the moral, the boat’s rudders to man.

The cries of the land, forced those wielding swords,
To open eyes and see the boils, hear muted words,
To clean their laurels from the stains of dark deeds,
And open vaults to provide for everybody’s needs.
Thus, for decades locked in the dark and grimy world,
Abandoned to grow old, weak, and bald,
His words fermented strife and agitation,
His deeds ignited fervent calls for salvation,
Till, freedom at last roared past the prison chains,
And the South broke loose from the slaver’s reins.

But for those who see the future unfazed by the past,
They have the power to save it from vengeance’s lust,
To rise in nobility among men and enjoy the fete,
Hosted for forgiveness and purity of their feats,
To stand tall among men and loudly proclaim,
Not in measured tones, but highly acclaim,
To hold equality, liberty and freedom esteemed and in poise,
Not jousted in favor, nor for jest’s sake pose,
That all men are equal before God,
And that none is shield from the punisher’s rod.

Plate VI: Exit

And so exit the four stars, the heroes of the land,
That had with duty marked the edges of the black land,
Do we read their writings?
Do we correct their wrongs?
Or in foreign lands dwell in peace and despise our seers?
But who are they to whom these lamentations I steer?
Take the mirror test brother and sister, do you see the mark?
The black skin for which you were enslaved is the mark,
But avenge not, let love be your peppered malice,
And not to brother pay dues for suppressed ire.

And to the four stars; whose histories we attune,
Truth be told, they were but slaves of nature’s tune,
Forfeit to sow fruits, juicy and gall,
Their rights and wrongs are written in this scroll,
And their judgment blares from the rooftop.
We; who now hold the mantle, must never stop,
Must not mourn the past forever, nor rejoice in it,
For the future is a dark demon, buried in the gravel pit,
Its skin is as precious as gold but its footsteps mire,
Let us uncover with care, or forever fast in fires.

***

Richard Oduor (c) 2010/2011

Father listen.

2013-06-19T13:34:00.000+03:00

"Of course i can hurt you, simply with my point of view - Guru of Gangstarr"

Joe Mwenda

where
i shall breath in peace love and respect
and out breath the same
where
i shall drink from a cup thats free
eat from a plate thats just
where
i shall live from my means
and not on promises
the broken and yet to be broken ones
where
i shant suppress pain with pills
postpone pressure with puffs and pints
where
virtue is embraced and vice is not known
there
father let me and mine exist.

Namatsi

2013-06-18T18:18:00.001+03:00

I am the moving wind!

Every aspect of my life is artistic, photographic, a fashion statement, poetic and rhythmic . Every aspect of my life is cherished, shared and sacred!

Dear Pen, dear paper
Take me to this lands planted in my brain by the images I see on TV and in pages of my magazines
Elevate me and let me feel the breeze that a prisoner feels when he walks out the walls of prison as a freeman
Bring me that joy, strong enough to seduce the pain of labour by giving the beautiful cry of a new born baby
Make me a creator of words pen, a craftsperson of verses
A pro of metrical compositions strong enough to carry feelings and illusions

Make me a king, a god of words
Make me rule in this world, I think
A sailor in this ocean of ink,
A prodigy because it was only you from the start who really acknowledged me
A warrior I hold you my dear pen as my spear, loving paper as a shield come along
Take me here to this place I have never been
Come along take me near to the greatness in the scene to be seen by all
My dear pen, dear paper
Make me and take me above them all

Dear Pen, dear paper
Shield me from this cruel world by being the sparkling light in my sky
And if better it is to light a candle than curse the darkness;
then be my light at the end of this tunnel
Wait for me there pen
As my insides meditate on the power of words
Wait for me paper
As I prepare for my step
A mark in history to be remembered
A sign of victory that cries; baby freedom
A place I can run away, by myself to find me
A blank page I can draw my dreams and plant myself in places I may never be
For there I can totally be me

So pen and paper
Take me into a trance take me to places further than America, England and France
Take me to the edge of the planet
Lets plan it me and you, how I’ll leave a mark on the universe with every verse I leave
Let me shake the earth’s foundations with every letter I use
Let me reach the limitations that I never knew, and bring something new and something true
And bring something that has never been heard or seen before
Just before the world ends let me blend with the wonders of the cosmos
Lets fetch the applause from the population
Rise against every nation, revelation I am speaking now?
Your attention picking me! Wow!
My dear pen dear paper lets leave them asking how?

Dear pen, dear paper
Be the home of these weapons: WORDS
Receive them like a soldier coming back home with pride
Hug them like God would hug a repenting murder
Receive them like the sky does the sun by day and the moon by night
They say sticks and stones break bones
But you know that these words you bleed, scar my dear paper
Can break any spirit and terrify any soul
These words can break and make a man
They heal and can kill
They destroy and can create
These words can burn the soul and drive it to hell
These words can bring the Glory of God down
Dear pen, dear paper paint them this picture
Clearer than the tears of the crying stone
More beautiful than the shy mountain

Dear pen, dear paper
Come and speak to me gladly
I want to hear the voices in my head like randy
Take me to the boxing ring go twelve rounds
Take me to the sky because am tired of the ground
Take me to the place where no one else can reach
Like an itch you scratch, come attach me to that that we don’t understand
Dear pen, dear paper make me the man

roto (espania)

2013-06-07T18:37:00.003+03:00

©Kaffy Mwangi

I take a bow
to this world,
a bow
to wolves
in sheep's clothing.

tonight I rest my soles
burn my heels
and let my soul
nurse the wounds
of friendship.

Confessions of my Fears .::A short story extract by Kaffy Mwangi from the Story Confessions of my Nyctophobia::.

2013-05-25T13:15:00.001+03:00

Kaffy Mwangi

I would wake up in the middle of the night
and I would gasp for air,
My hands would shake
my whole body was in a fit.
You would hear my heart beat so loud,
loud like a train grinding on its rails.

My shrink said it’s just paranoia,
Just trauma wound itself in the figment of my subconscious.
It would get so bad my parents got me an inhaler,
thought I was asthmatic.
They covered me up in more blankets
said the bad dreams will go away.

I couldn’t breathe at night,
my pupils would dilate,
I was in a fever, hot and sweaty
you could trace my veins to the heart
Yet goose bumps cropped from every follicle.

‘’you know when you are drowning; you actually don’t inhale until you black out.
It’s like no matter how much you are freaking out the instinct not to let any water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel your head exploding, and when you do finally let it in, that’s when it stops hurting; it’s not scary anymore ,it is actually peaceful.’’

But not this.
Every night I close my eyes
and the fear….

The fear is worse than drowning,
I don’t hear them break into my house,
I don’t hear them get in

Then blips of light grow,
In the dark they glow,
brighter than dawn.
I can’t move ,I can’t see.
My eyes interrupted from sleep
can’t stand the bright light.

My heart beat is too loud
It gets lost in its own echo,
Everything is a dull sound
I can’t hear a thing
I cant see anything
Just blurred shapes and figures
voices that are not clear
everything had either dimmed or slowed down.

Well,
I’m fine now.
Aside from the not sleeping
the jumpiness,
the constant overwhelming crushing fear
that something terrible is about to happen.

They actually have a term for it.
It’s called hyper vigilance,
It is the persistent feeling
of been under threat.

But every dusk, it’s not just a feeling,
It’s like a panic attack,
like I can’t breathe
like I won’t breathe
like I’m drowning.

My friends say I move in with a friend.
Its not like I will always live with them,
nor like I do not try to have people here for sleep over’s,

Still!

It doesn’t take this fear away,
till I can sleep with the lights switched off
till I can sleep till dawn without waking up
to every squeak and raffle
I will never be better.

I close this doors every night
and it’s like I am locked up in some asylum
with green lights.

always scared,
afraid of the unknown,
always under that persistent threat.

Written Notice

2013-04-15T15:20:00.002+03:00

On more than an instance,

When I’ve been idler than a broken lamp-post -

Time weighing heavily on my hand,

As pen and paper prove closer than a brother:

I have taken written notice of slit eyelids upon a chocolate face,

Accurately chronicled after carefully observing -

Playful fingers twitchily twist a neck pendant,

And spin a plastic band on a wrist’s axis

Hands press down a dress’ length for modesty’s sake

by Kevin Orato (Notes)

The slow-motion, almost rehearsed brush of the brow,

Unsaid appreciation for the Viewer’s attention

How seamlessly well she blends with the surrounding;

Not merely part of the furniture but its mantelpiece

Manipulating without earnest effort, events around her;

Keeping in check any intrusion and mischief.

As if by magic wand, conjuring up occurrences

But like a skilled orchestra conductor, directing tune.

Never really losing her ladylike comportment -

Apart, of course, when acknowledging the Observer.

I draw stealthily behind her while she’s otherwise occupied,

Helplessly tranced here by a distinctive impression upon me.

Trusting, perhaps, that by hovering around unnoticed long enough -

I just may catch whiff or fully understand this aspect;

A special quality causing such mystic absorption -

It results in frenetic reflection of the literary kind;

And the bizarre desire for more than just the written word.

Oh, what a worthwhile passage of idle time.

THE OTHER ONE

2013-04-15T14:51:00.001+03:00

In another time, another life;

All factors constant and considered,

Both parties on the same wavelength,

Scruples dangling uselessly on the window-sill -

And the Other One conveniently inexistent:

I’ll eat from your hand – a tamed beast,

Toe the party line from sheer bliss

Brought about by my prying for misadventure,

Utterly mindless of a dark surprise hanging unseen -

As I hug tightly, the mirage of a storybook finale!

ALAS! It is now!

Everything is as is and appears thought through:-

And the Other One inconveniently exists.

HISIA ZANGU POETRY WORKSHOP

2013-04-14T10:42:00.003+03:00

- Sunday, April 21, 2013
- 2:00pm until 5:30pm
20TH FLOOR TELEPOSTA TOWERS (Koinange street entrance - EASMS)

Hisia Zangu is an association of poets and writers who meet with the main objective of analyzing poetry and writing and offering a detailed critique to improve its quality. We also offer a discussion platform for anyone who wants how to revise existing poems.

The family has reinvented itself for the betterment of art. From this month onwards, we'll only share and discuss poems, short stories, and novella/novel excerpts revolving around one central theme.

This month our theme is LOVE.

LOVE is an aged topic. The age of LOVE is the age of GOD. Yet in our attempt to engender some kind of freshness, we'll be looking for something new, a new twist to the eons-old tale of hearts.

"To love is to live. To fall is to be in pain. To be alone is to be hurt. To be in darkness is to be in light first."

Let's bind our words to emotions. Let's fall in love with ourselves, with others, with the world.

Submit your best and unique love writ, experience, fantasies ... hisiazangupoetry@gmail.com

Only 1 submission.

Entrance - Kshs 100
Pen, Notebook, ....

http://www.facebook.com/events/577206795631177/

'FORGOTTEN' REGRETS

2013-04-14T10:02:00.001+03:00

by Poetria Viona Wamuyu

'Forgotten' regrets,
Request denied.
I can't escape these cold facts
That I too share this act.
Reflecting back in time
To that one specific moment or the other,
That I wish didn't happen as it did.

Regret that plagues my mind
Every now and then
Making my me reel with what if.
As if such torture can change
Even a little of the past.
Staring longingly at yester days,
Willing a magic eraser be at hand
So I can rub that specific point clean
And paint a new picture
Hence forever changing the present.

Just a simple wish
From a heart that does get weak
As thoughts of the past
Hold my mind hostage from time to time.
Playing the many different scenarios
Of how things could have happened differently
Then maybe today
I would be reflecting on a satisfied life.

Fact is,
What's past is past.
A chapter in life lived, written and sealed
In days gone by
Only to be recalled in memory,
Not altered in any form.
What else to do other that reconcile with me
That the past is the past.
Today is what matters most.
And so I learn from past mistakes and regrets,
To make today my better,
Tomorrow my best!

No point always looking back
For I plan not to go that way.

Writers Block.

2013-04-12T07:11:00.004+03:00

©Mwangi Njoroge

I have a lot to write,
stories to tell
white lies to sell.
my heart has the
words,
my mind, runs ablaze with images.
Images that can't wait to occupy my notebook

but it’s a conspiracy!
my fingers refuse to write ,

they refuse to relay the message,
I feel them go numb,
feel them go frost bite cold,

they have put down the pen,
misplaced the writing pad.
Its disorganized labor in my house,
I need to write!

To just write, on sidewalks and estate gates.
I want the last graphite to tell my story,
to hold the secrets behind my eyes,
to let free the stream of thoughts,
to let free of the saint and imp making love in my soul.

I need to write!
about classical literature and galaxies,

human folly and fallacies
Unrequited love and secret gardens
writing is my burden

My good friend.

Let’s have a cup of tea,

and welter in these verses,

fall into a trans of words

and keep at bay

our friend procrastination;

before he binds forever our imagination.

Mortal God.

2013-04-06T17:14:00.000+03:00

the stars won’t come out tonight,
God has abandoned his throne,
termites have made bed with his gold,
crows taken Jesus crown.
the reeds now choke the angels;
their bloodshot eyes tell it all,
how the enemy within was but a fruit,
none so different from Leviathans songs.
Sirens now guard the gates to heaven,
gargoyles rove his kennels and granaries,
the holy ones staked on the golden gates;
tonight the trumpets wont blow
tonight the son of man wont return.

Mind Adrift

2013-04-04T12:12:00.000+03:00

Patricia Phoenix Miller
©2011

Heart pounding, breath Quickining
To the memory of your sweet touch
Finding that place of total peace that I have found in you
My sweet ambrosia, how I long to be capsized by you again
How I long to embrace the volcanic eruptions' of your passion again
You have given me such savory delight, that anything else is fruitless
Who or what can compare to the paramount of our love
As I lay here mind adrift to that secret place that we shared
That place where my hidden treasures became a palatable delight to you
That you ate and ate until you we're in a cosmic cream shock
My body paralyze as you searched out my ancient ruins
My senses caught up in a whirlwind of Hypnotic passion

I've lost all grip on my own reality
You have turned my world upside down
Nothing was hidden from you anymore
You conquered and devoured every edifice of my body
There was not an inch of me that you didn't discover and rediscovered

As
I looked at the sweat dripping down your back and saw your muscles
Contouring I struggled to keep my composure
Then...
You came up for air
And said
"Why are you running?"
There is no place to go
You are mine and I am yours...

Proficiently your hand pressed my apple mounds into attention
Your stalwart body washed against my chocolate haven over and over again
As
Moans of moa-nation echoed out of m trembling lips
I saw a twinkle in your eyes
That spoke volumes
You were satisfied with the strategic momentum of your power over me
As not to speak with words
Your touch and vigorous flow of peeks said it all

Your mission tonight was for me to remember
The sublime-ness of this moment
That there is only ONE You!
As I wrapped my mind around what you said

Succulent waves of climatic peeks went through me
Around me as I grabbed a'whole of the silk
Clenching my hand over my mouth

Feeling as if I was going to pass out
Because of the total vibration from your stealth
You gently held my hands and tantalize my senses
With words of
"Always and Forever"
And
"You are the sweetest plum I have ever tasted."
I couldn't help it or maintain any longer,
As my body shudder at the words you spoke
I exploded in a seven-fold way
Cream sage,
Cream chocolate,
Cream tart,
Cream pie,
Cream wine,
Cream de la creme,
Cream chocolate chocolate eclair

As you breathed into me and said those last words
Whenever you feel alone and I am not there
Just let your mind drift back to what we've shared

The love and desire is beyond what we can describe
And
Because of this there is no need to fear
The only thing that separates us sometimes is Space..
But
I am right there in that sweet corner of your mind
Always waiting to take you on a marvelous buddy ride,
Not just today but always n forever
You are mine, and I am yours...

Inked In Flowers

2013-03-28T10:27:00.002+03:00

Intoxicating ink burns my skin
Naked flesh stained artistically
Kissed with tendrils of vines and flowers
Earning there way down my smooth thigh
Delicate and daring now part of me

Inflamed sensuality saunters through my mind
Nestling within visions of your finger tips

Following the lines of the flowers edges
Licking purposefully every inch of my live art
Opening up the petals that enchant you
Willing you in to explore the deep beauty
Evocative nectar tantalizes you further
Raising your expectations into my parted lips
Spilling your storm that swells inside my soul

Share, Learn and Get Inspired by THE KENYAN MOM

2013-03-28T09:46:00.000+03:00

the-diary by kenyanmom.com

''Over the years, I have spoken to moms who had the most wonderful stories and also the most heart-breaking stories. One thing in these scenarios was common. We all needed to find a way to share these stories. The trials and the triumphs. Having previously used my blog as a Diary and knowing how great it felt to receive a comment from a mom saying that they have experienced exactly what I have, I decided to open up Kenyan Mom for all moms to share, learn and be heard by the people who would understand what they were going through. Thus, The Kenyan Mom platform came to be on 20th August 2012.

Feel free to drop me an e-mail (info@kenyakona.com)and enjoy what other moms are saying and learn from it. Because, as one mom said to me:

We Hold The Future Generation In Our Hands. It Is Our Responsibility To Do Whatever It Takes To Make Sure It Is An Able Generation.

FEMENINO - MJ CENTRE

2013-03-25T15:28:00.000+03:00

THE SHAKERS AND MAKERS OF ART LIFE +254

2013-03-25T14:05:00.004+03:00

http://www.koamedia.com/
KoaMedia

Director · Nairobi, Kenya · Jan 2010 to present

director is responsible for overall operations, asset protection and marketing/public relations for KoaMedia

I also handle all aspects of human resource management for up to KoaMedia employees including but not limited to hiring and termination, developing position descriptions, setting compensation, working with employees and contractors.

CASE STUDY DEVELOPEMENT AND PHOTOGRAPHY

Jun 2011 to present

Primary Education Enhancemnet Project. (PEEP)

Since 2003, Concern working in collaboration with Ministry of Education and local communities has identified and supported various primary schools in 5 districts in Nyanza province to improve school infrastructure to enhance access, retention and completion of good quality primary education by the most vulnerable children.

In 2010 and 2011 Concern, together with communities, implemented 16 of these projects in Migori County, specifically Suba West Division. The said projects have been completed and a report is due at the end of July this year.

KoaMedia is developing case studies and photographs that demonstrate change.

COLOR OF GOD - THE MUSICAL

Dec 2010 to present

RESPONSIBLE FOR WRITING THE SCRIPT, WRITING MUSIC, AND OVERSEEING SHOOTING OF STILL AND VIDEO COVERAGE

CAFODwith Koa Medias

CAFOD (Catholic Agency for Overseas Development) is the official aid agency of the Catholic Church in Britain. We give funds to local partner organisations in forty countries around the world, in order to end poverty and bring peace. We work regardless of faith, race or nationality. We are inspired by Christian faith.

KoaMedia is taking still photos and video on there projects in Korogocho slums, Kibera Slums, and Thika rurals.

OXFAM NOVIB DOCUMENTARY

Oct 2010 to Apr 2011

Saving our Own – a documentary on wet feeding and nuitrition in Somaliland. KoaMedia was responsible for: Populating the documentary Scrip Populating interview questions. In charge of all Interviews Consulting in Graphics design and end product.

KENNAM - DOCUMENTARY ON MALARIA

Dec 2010 to Mar 2011

KENAAM Populating the documentary Script Consulting in Graphics design

SHABAA KENYA

Nov 2009 to Mar 2010

KCDF is a national NGO and trust which gives funds to different youth groups around Kenya. They wanted to profile 20 youths around the country and the contract was given to KoaMedia. It was successfully done.

YOUTH AGENDA MOVIE/DOCUMENTARY

Film-Documentary on Tolerance, cohesion and acceptance. Populating the documentary Scrip Populating interview questions. In charge of all Interviews Consulting in Graphics design and end product.

The Princess & The Doctor.

2013-03-22T10:14:00.001+03:00

©Mwangi Njoroge

…We had been in the bath tub for almost an
hour,
not talking much, just getting lost in our company,
my hands were gripped to her back,
wondering down her curves,

seated between my legs it felt like de ja vu,

like the first time we sneaked out of verbal poetry

into the restroom.

the way she was sat
her head resting on my
chest,
left me in full control
of her bodies geography.
playing with her hair and squeezing softly on her twins

made her body have small tremors,

I run my fingers on her back,

down to her assets and deep

within that divide of her Kamba heritage,
occasionally rubbing inner thighs to her ass.

It was an adventure,
the now innocent
quests of desire had led me to her forbidden city.
bitting her skin,
she loved the pain,
moaned to every bite and lick on her

neck down to her breasts.

my friend, the doctor was getting hard,
I could feel the veins stretch out,

fill up with blood.

He wanted in, but I wouldn’t make it that easy for her,
I felt him press
her back with agility and rudeness of a rodeo bull.
She started rocking slowly,

stroking the doctor with her ass.

I felt her reach for the doctor with her left hand,

She felt on him, squeezed him,

Our eyes met for the first time

as she sat softly on my diamond member.

she had that devilish smile,

biting her lower lip,

as she pushed him in an inch deeper,
you could see her gasp for air,

her bust was pushed out,

smothering my face with her lovely twins.

Her back was arched smoothly,

almost perfect,

down to a haul where her booty rises from her torso.

I clumped on her thick, soapy booty

and helped her sit on him all.

her honey pot welcomed my guy with grips and vices,

the inside heat and muscle spasms made me a little faint,

I held her close to my chest,

my left hand gripping her back,

my fingers reaching for her neck and locks,

my right hand held on her belly

and occasionally moving it to her left thigh

as I helped her bounce off the doctor.

the water foamed and spill over

with every thrust,

she was possessed,

her inner demon was scratching its way out,
she grabbed on to the bath tub and pushed harder,

with every thrust I felt like my being was been sucked away,
she arched her back forward,

threw her head back and forth,

humming ,whining, gasping

and calling out to a God she doesn’t believe in.

I had to stop her a few times

to spare my thighs and back from the ceramic bath tub.

I had lost sense of the water,

I could feel her spasm and cumm.
the doctor was getting to his climax,

I could feel the picana rise like magma,

I was ready to mark the unmaking of me.

She called her honey pot the Princess
and she deserved nothing short of royalty.

Her breathing had muted,
She now held on to me,

She looked like she was receiving Devine intervention.

I felt her nails dig into me ,

deep under my skin,

I felt her tone down to a rhythmical hop and push,
I couldn’t hold it any longer.

She started spasms harder,

it felt like she was going into a seizure.

she was cumming
I was cumming

we were cumming.

its a feeling alien to words

a strange unknown emotion.
She had hit her orgasm
and several mini orgasms followed after.

it was like the smell of earth after a light shower,
I looked into her eyes,
beautiful as the day I first met her

put my fingers on her lips and whispered
‘‘I love you‘‘

SUICIDE IS AN ART.

2013-03-22T10:12:00.000+03:00

©Mwangi Njoroge.

I never believed in life after death,
nor that son of man who rose from the dead,
... I‘ve been a creature of habit,
one dazzled by black and white,never hues of grey,

I‘ve grown fond of this pain,
found beauty in this dark solace,
time can never be perfect for a perfect crime.

so I choose my path off this shallow life,
oceans can‘t roll deeper than my pain,
nor can the sun burn brighter than the darkness within .

this view has been my constant friend
trusted with the secrets I shared in the breeze
as I let go off this rails ;

life wll never be as beautiful as I see it now
in the fear, tears and hope of no more life,
just one more step and I shall fall free off this ledge.

the Infamous origins of COME BABY COME.

2012-08-07T12:29:00.000+03:00

by Mwangi Kaffy on Tuesday, August 7, 2012 at 11:54am ·

Standing by the edges of a popular cliff,
enjoying the scenery,
busking in the warm beams of the sun,
he thought of his book,
his scribble of reality,
his attempt to remove scales from his countrymen eyes.

Yes,you guessed it right,
that lust men have adorned in their pants,
that fetish women have secretly longed for,
that new toy kids wont just let go off,
that snake that has long preyed on our country,
C.O.R.R.U.P.T.I.O.N

the dust was yet to settle,
and this simpletons hadn't read the prologue of his book,
yet every Odhiambo,Njuguna and Wambui
chipped in their un-patronizing opinions,
Siguna Wa Siguna was now a traitor,a liar,a loose mouth.

empty pot bellied crowds made to the streets,
left their mjengos and vibaruas
to demonstrate...not for the Unga or Sugar
but against a learned,articulate scholar,
poor Siguna Wa Siguna.

Not one had read the book,not a page whatsoever,
the 8$ survival minority in stinky rugs
those of 'tunaomba serikali iingilie'
had made their way to the streets,
ravenous mobs burning his effigy,
burying coffins to symbolize his death.

In another world and time
Siguna Wa Siguna would be a Hero
operas would be performed of him,
state choirs sing of his vehement patriotism,
but noooo - not in this defecating republic of 'wenye-inchi'
where public money is swept away under carpets of computer errors,

Siguna Wa Siguna wrote his political memoir,
Narrated his life in an attempt to record history,
tried to unmask the culture of impunity -
that has bedevilled our country for more than fifty years,

he told his story,
walked his talk,
and that ugly snake of tribalism reared its head
once again.
Siguna Wa Siguna like you and me,
had no enemies, but we are all intensely disliked by our friends.

_______________Kenya my dying Love.

© Mwangi Njoroge.

Human

2012-05-17T15:34:00.002+03:00

I did my best to notice
When the call came down the line
Up to the platform of surrender
I was brought but I was kind

And sometimes I get nervous
When I see an open door
Close your eyes, clear your heart
Cut the cord

Are we human or are we dancers?
My sign is vital, my hands are cold
And I'm on my knees looking for the answer
Are we human or are we dancers?

Pay my respects to grace and virtue
Send my condolences to good
Give my regards to soul and romance
They always did the best they could

And so long to devotion
You taught me everything I know
Wave goodbye, wish me well
You've gotta let me go

Are we human or are we dancers?
My sign is vital, my hands are cold
And I'm on my knees looking for the answer
Are we human or are we dancers?

Will your system be alright
When you dream of home tonight?
There is no message we're receiving
Let me know, is your heart still beating?

Are we human or are we dancers?
My sign is vital, my hands are cold
And I'm on my knees looking for the answer

You've gotta let me know
Are we human or are we dancers?
My sign is vital, my hands are cold
And I'm on my knees looking for the answer
Are we human or are we dancers?

Are we human or are we dancers?
Are we human or are we dancers?

"Between Us Now"

2012-05-17T12:39:00.002+03:00

Between us now and here -
   Two thrown together
Who are not wont to wear
   Life's flushest feather -
Who see the scenes slide past,
The daytimes dimming fast,
Let there be truth at last,
   Even if despair.

So thoroughly and long
   Have you now known me,
So real in faith and strong
   Have I now shown me,
That nothing needs disguise
Further in any wise,
Or asks or justifies
   A guarded tongue.

Face unto face, then, say,
   Eyes mine own meeting,
Is your heart far away,
   Or with mine beating?
When false things are brought low,
And swift things have grown slow,
Feigning like froth shall go,
   Faith be for aye.

Thomas Hardy

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

2012-05-17T12:23:00.001+03:00

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

Emily Dickinson

"How Great My Grief" (Triolet)

2012-05-17T12:13:00.000+03:00

How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee!
- Have the slow years not brought to view
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Nor memory shaped old times anew,
Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee?