Poem: The Gospel according to Mama by Clifton Gachagua

The Poet: Clifton Gachagua

Son, the world is a cold case,
A box of unsolved crime,
Of which your father is guilty,
God the Father forgive me!
(Way of the cross!)
Switch of that music,
And record the sermon
On 93.9 F.M,
Heed the Nine Fruits of the Spirit
And a Tenth; a Job.
Trust no one,
Family comes first,
All women are serpents.
I can forgive some lust,
But your first salary is mine.
Man must Live, Yes;
But mine is a small acre,
Somewhere in Murang’a.
So don’t get caught;
Joseph of Arimathea
Will not Deliver you there.
I sang no Magnificat,
Heaven knows it was difficult.
I knew no Aunt.
And no one leapt for you,
No myrrh. I did burn some incense.
As I looked up towards Aries.
These old crusts of Earth,
Are all I ever had.
No proverbs. Maybe a few verbs;
Eat, Sleep. Go, Come.
The sum of the Psalms
Was the food on my palms.
Don’t worry about paying me back,
I know the world is an Old place,
All I can wish you for,
Is God’s Grace.

All rights reserved and courtesy of Clifton Gachagua

(The Poet has been published with Storymoja through the site: http://storymojaafrica.wordpress.com/archives-20112012/cabaret/ and in the last Kwani? series)