Faya ya 4 3 rd tribe

 

20. The Corporate Shaman (English)

I walk into boardrooms with street in my lungs,
An entrepreneur speaking multi-tiered tongues.
We manage the catalogs, structure the trust,
Turning the old literary ashes to dust.
A publisher, poet, and business design,
Holding the pen while protecting the line.

21. Uhuru wa Msanii (Swahili)

Uhuru wa kweli sio tu kuwa huru,
Ni kumiliki haki, kulipwa ushuru.
Mdundo na Boomplay, tunajaza hesabu,
Sanaa yetu sasa haitishwi na taabu.
Muziki ni biashara, lazima isonge,
Wacha wenye maneno madogo waongee.

22. Street Architecture (English)

We drew the blueprints on asphalt and stone,
Built a media house that the youth could call home.
Every track on the playlist, a brick in the wall,
To ensure that the culture would never fall.
Twenty-plus years of structural grace,
A pioneer staying ahead in the race.

23. Sheng Chronicles (Sheng)

Tuna-capture ma-experience ya mtaa live,
Hivyo ndio siri tunazidi ku-survive.
Kutoka dunda hadi kwa shida za jioni,
Mistari inaongea, macho iko mbeleni.
Mwas Mahugu ni jina, lakini form ni ya wengi,
Hatusimamishwi na ma-buda wala upengi.

24. Kizazi Kipya (Swahili)

Tunarithisha kizazi misingi thabiti,
Wasiandike kwa uoga, waandike kwa dhati.
Lugha isiwafunge, iwe ndio njia,
Ya kufungua milango na kujenga nia.
Mwangi Mahugu ameweka alama,
Itakayobaki hata jua likizama.

25. The Cooperative Ledger (English)

Art without structure is destined to fade,
So we balanced the books for the music we made.
Cooperative models for artists to thrive,
Keeping the independent spirit alive.
The entrepreneur safeguards the poet's display,
Ensuring the assets are structured to pay.

26. Mwisho wa Mwanzo (Sheng & English)

Twenty-plus years na bado tuko rada,
From the old school pages to the new world order.
Mwangi Mahugu, Mwas, Don Gas Fyatu,
Mistari ni yetu, na sifa ni za watu.
The ink remains wet, the fire still glows,
And that is exactly how the legacy goes.

1. T ()From Kwani? print to digital streams,We didn't just write, we engineered dreams.An Afro-Hip Hop blueprint etched in the page,A street-born rhythm taking over the stage.We built the collective, we laid down the code,Twenty-plus years on this long, heavy road.

2. Kupenya kwa Mistari (Swahili)Kalamu ilichat kabla simu zishike,Tukawa na nia, mtaa uamke.Kutoka kwa karatasi hadi kwa mtandao,Sauti ya wengi ikawa ni yao.Jalada ikasonga, misingi ikajengwa,Maneno ya kweli hayajawahi pingwa

.3. No Edges (English)No borders can hold the tales that we spun,A diaspora of rhythm under one sun.From translation tracks to the fiction we bound,We gave the unspoken a permanent sound.The edges are blurred between corporate and street,Where the art and the assets seamlessly meet.

4. Kila Kona (Swahili)Muziki na herufi, pete na kidole,Wanaodunisha mtaa, wanyamaze mpole.Sanaa sio kelele, ni nguvu ya umma,Katika mawimbi, fikra zinasukumwa.Kutoka kwa jarida hadi kwa mitandao,Tunalinda heshima na haki yao

.5. The Beat of Kwani? (English)In 2005, the ink first hit the press,A literary revolution, nothing less.They questioned the dialect, questioned the style,But we knew the street would endure for a mile.Now twenty years later, the archives are gold,The greatest urban stories that ever were told.

6. The Pan-African Pen (English)Jalada arose from a workshop of fire,To elevate voices and lift them up higher.Across borders and rivers, from Lagos to June,We aligned all our rhythms under one tune.Pan-African brotherhood built on the page,A modern collective coming of age

.7. Unbound Tales (English)No Edges declared that our stories are vast,Unshackled from structures imposed by the past.Swahili fiction in global domains,Breaking the invisible cultural chains.From local expression to international print,The gold in our language gives out a bright glint

.8. Sauti ya Pamoja (Swahili)Jalada Africa ni sauti ya wengi,Sio ya mtu mmoja anayetaka ushenzi.Umoja wa bara, nguvu ya kalamu,Kupitia kurasa, tunaeneza fahamu.Mwas Mahugu amesimama kama mweka hazina,Kulinda misingi na kukuza majina

.9. The Pioneer's Paradox (English)To be a pioneer means walking alone,Turning a language of dirt into stone.They called it slang, but we called it pride,Now look at the wave that they're trying to ride.From Kwani? issue one to the digital era,The vision gets sharper, the picture gets clearer

Tukatafsiri magwiji, tukafuta upofu.Kutoka gizani hadi mwanga wa sasa,Kazi za mikono zimejaza kurasa.Sio kwa bahati, ni miaka ya jasho,Kuhakikisha kizazi kimepata mwangaza. wake.

10. Mdundo Pulse (Sheng)Mdundo imeshika, download ni mob,Hii si tu fiti, hii ndio job.Tangu o-five mistari inadunda,Sheng ya mtaa, matunda tunachuma.Cheki catalog inajaza hizi space,Don Gas Fyatu anaseta hii pace

.11. SoundCloud Alchemy (Sheng)SoundCloud mawave inatupa kwa net,Ma-independent wasee, hatuna regret.Tunaunda cooperative, tunamanage ma-art,Hii movement ni kubwa, ilianzia kwa heart.Kutoka cyber hadi kwa simu mkononi,Sauti ya Mwangi iko kwa hewani

.12. Tribe 43 Anthem (Sheng)Sisi ni ile tribe haitambui ukabila,Lugha ni moja, hakuna kashfa wala hila.People Daily ilitujua kwa page moja fiti,Sheng yetu sasa iko mpaka kwa tweet.Tunatengeneza future bila uoga wa jana,Wazito wa mtaa wote wanasikizana

.13. Hustle Bila Break (Sheng)Don Gas Fyatu, gas imeshika mtaa,Hakuna kulala, msee lazima kung'aa.Kazi ni mob, kuanzia studio hadi legal,Macho iko juu, tunaangalia kama eagle.Muziki kwa streaming, vitabu kwa shelfu,Hustle ya Mwangi imevuka ma-elfu.

14. Echoes in the Cloud (English)SoundCloud echoes the raw and uncut,No labels to block us, no doors to be shut.We uploaded the passion, the demos, the breaks,Learning the balance of creative stakes.An archive of power, accessible free,The sonic footprint of who we chose to be.

15. Vibe ya Nairobi (Sheng)Nairobi ina joto, Nairobi ina siri,Mistari yangu inaleta picha dhahiri.Mdundo inaplay, ronga inashika,Kila msee kwa matatu anatingika.Hii sio story ya kubahatisha msee,Ni miaka ishirini ya kuwasha moto kizee.

16. Gas Fyatu (Sheng)Don Gas Fyatu anagonga tena,Kile nimesema, hicho nimesema.Hadi kwa Boomplay mawave inarun,Hustle mchana, dunda mwezi mchuni.Twenty-plus years mguu iko kwa mafuta,Njia zikifungwa, ukuta tunavuta.

17. Boomplay Blast (Sheng)Boomplay inavuma, analytics inashika,Muziki wa Don kila corner imefika.Hatuombi nafasi, tulishajenga stage,Kutoka mtaani hadi global frontpage.Weka volume mpaka ceiling ipasuke,Hii ni sauti yenye haitaki ishuke.

18. Digital Frequency (English)On Mdundo, on SoundCloud, the catalog grows,A river of urban expression that flows.Our presence is digital, our roots are deeply real,A timeless perspective no algorithm can steal.Two decades of building, adapting the tool,Proving the street is a legitimate school.

19. Mwangaza wa Lugha (Swahili)Kiswahili kimesimama kama mnara mrefu,Tukatafsiri magwiji, tukafuta upofu.Kutoka gizani hadi mwanga wa sasa,Kazi za mikono zimejaza kurasa.Sio kwa bahati, ni miaka ya jasho,Kuhakikisha kizazi kimepata mwangaza wake

20. The Corporate Shaman (English)I walk into boardrooms with street in my lungs,An entrepreneur speaking multi-tiered tongues.We manage the catalogs, structure the trust,Turning the old literary ashes to dust.A publisher, poet, and business design,Holding the pen while protecting the line

.21. Uhuru wa Msanii (Swahili)Uhuru wa kweli sio tu kuwa huru,Ni kumiliki haki, kulipwa ushuru.Mdundo na Boomplay, tunajaza hesabu,Sanaa yetu sasa haitishwi na taabu.Muziki ni biashara, lazima isonge,Wacha wenye maneno madogo waongee.

22. Street Architecture (English)We drew the blueprints on asphalt and stone,Built a media house that the youth could call home.Every track on the playlist, a brick in the wall,To ensure that the culture would never fall.Twenty-plus years of structural grace,A pioneer staying ahead in the race.

Front Cover · Spine · Back Cover

Poetry Kenya

THE FIRE OF THE 23RD TRIBE

Mwangi 'Mwas' Mahugu

From the alleyways of Nairobi to the pan-African stage, Mwas Mahugu has spent over two decades building more than poetry — he built a movement. The Fire of the 23rd Tribe collects the verses, the battles, and the blueprints of a writer who refused to let the street be silenced.

Alongside the celebrated collection Twenty New Poems comes "Wacha Story" — raw, unfiltered spoken word that strips pretense to the bone. No performance. No polishing. Just truth.

"She is the fire I keep running to — Already burnt, still I return. Fool or faithful, who can tell?"

— from Twenty New Poems

Love & Hate Conformity & Rebellion Innocence & Experience Sheng East Africa Identity

KENYA

East Africa's Voice · 2025

Poetry that speaks. Truth that stays.

978-9966-XXX-XX-X

THE FIRE OF THE 23RD TRIBE

✦

MWANGI 'MWAS' MAHUGU

◆

Chronicles of Don Gas Fyatu

THE DON Chronicles of Gas Fyatu 20+ Years Deep · Pan-Africa VERSE I — THE NAMES They call me Mwangi Mahugu — architect of the narrative, builder of the block, every syllable a blueprint, every breath a ticking clock. Mwas — the pioneer, who handed the street its own reflection, gave the gutter a grammar, gave the corner a direction. And Don Gas Fyatu — struck the match that woke the culture from its sleep, set the whole savanna blazing, waters running deep. HOOK Twenty-plus years of ink on the real, when Kwani? cracked the gate — we broke the seal. Born a collective, a pan-African pen, Tribe 43 — they can never silence us again. VERSE II — THE ROOTS We took the rhythms of alleyways, the pulse of open drains, built a sanctuary from Sheng — raw, uncut, no chains. The vernacular was voltage, every line a live wire, we didn't beg for stages — we just lit our own fire. The youth had no temple — so we raised one with our hands, wrote the walls with native tongue across forbidden lands. They said Sheng was just noise, just slang, just street — we said: no, that's literature, that's life, that's heartbeat. VERSE III — THE HUSTLE But the poet didn't stop where the stanzas end, nah — the writer stepped into the market, entrepreneur of the soul. Managing beats, directing shades, structuring cooperative dreams, from the catalog's pulse to the boardroom — nothing's what it seems. The hustle and the art became one beautifully complex design, a business built on cadence, every contract built on rhyme. We showed them: the street is currency. The street is literature. The street is life. Every line we ever wrote was cut from the same knife. HOOK — REPRISE Twenty-plus years of ink on the real, when Kwani? cracked the gate — we broke the seal. Born a collective, a pan-African pen, Tribe 43 — they can never silence us again. OUTRO — THE LEGACY Twenty years down — the ink remains wet. The fire still spits, the pen hasn't rested yet. No algorithm buries what the blood has written, no silence rewrites the city we have risen. They thought the street was just noise — we proved it was the archive of a people's voice. So let the record spin, let the legacy rise, Don Gas Fyatu — eternal — immortalized. DON GAS FYATU EST. 2000+ · NAIROBI · PAN-AFRICA · FOREVER

Mat ride past majengo

Day and Night

By Mwangi Mahugu

There are places in this city that time refuses to leave. Majengo is one of them.

It was around ten in the morning. Our matatu — a forward-traveller FH lorry converted into a bus — was grinding through traffic that moved in fits and starts, advancing a few metres and then freezing, as if the road itself kept changing its mind. On both sides of the street, black soot clung to the walls of kiosks like old bruises. Young men crouched beside small patches of smoke, machetes in their hands, preparing goats' heads balanced on top of jikos. The smell of charred bone and morning and diesel mixed in the air. Nairobi, in other words. Nairobi as it has always been.

The driver was watching all of it through the windscreen with the soft eyes of a man revisiting something he once knew well.

“This place is part of my youth,” he said. “We used to come here in the early eighties with only five shillings. Five shillings! Nowadays I don’t even know how much it costs.”

I looked out at the narrow alleys, at the rusted iron sheets and the washing lines and the unchanged geometry of the place, and I said what I was thinking.

“You want to tell me not a single person here has saved enough to build a storey mansion? Since I was young the buildings have looked exactly the same.”

The driver nodded slowly, the way men nod when they are about to tell you something they have been carrying for a long time.

“These women have been in these alleys for so many years,” he said. “You used to enter here and find them outside their small rooms, all in a straight line, like a military parade. A man would walk past and feel the pull — the passion, as we used to call it — and he’d pick his ripe passion fruit. In a few minutes he’d find himself inside a dim room and the world outside would cease to exist.”

The van bounced hard over a pothole. From the body of the bus behind us came a sound like a basketball dropped on a hard floor — the passengers absorbing the road.

* * *

The driver cleared his throat.

“I was told about a young man called Kariuki,” he began, and I knew from his tone that this was the real story, the one he had been warming up to. “This was in the early eighties. Kariuki had just received his first salary from his first job in Industrial Area. First pay. A young man with money in his pocket for the first time in his life. You know how that feels. He came to Majengo.”

I knew how that felt. I said nothing.

“He passed the usual parade, made his choice, and the woman took him into a dimly lit room. ‘Money first,’ she said. He paid. She blew out the candle — it was sitting on top of a metal clothes box — and the room went dark. Kariuki was sure he heard the door open and close somewhere in the darkness, but the adrenaline had him, the lust had him, and he jumped to the bed. After the quick session, he was feeling very good about himself, straightening up, ready to dress, when someone knocked at the door.”

The van went quiet. Even the engine seemed to lower its voice.

“He froze. A flashlight cut through the holes in the rusty corrugated iron sheets — those thin blades of light you get in a shanty room, like sunrays during the day — and it illuminated the face of the woman lying on the bed. Kariuki’s heart stopped. He was lying next to a grandmother. Not the young woman he had chosen ten minutes ago.”

I glanced at the girl sitting next to me. She was staring straight ahead, her face completely still.

“In a whisper Kariuki asked, ‘Who is knocking?’

“The old woman whispered back, ‘It is the owner of the house, young man.’

“Kariuki nearly dissolved. ‘My God. Now what is this?’

“The old woman hissed, ‘Better call your devil. You have brought me bad luck. That man pays my rent.’”

From outside the door came three heavy blows.

“Bang. Bang. Bang. ‘Fatuma! Fungua mlango!’”

The driver laughed quietly to himself at the memory of the telling.

“Kariuki dressed in the dark with both legs going into one side of the trousers. He could barely stand. A thin sweat covered his body. He was still fixing himself when the door flew open — kicked in by the man outside — and the door hit Kariuki directly in the groin. He screamed. Then came the rain: kicks, fists, the full menu.”

“‘Young man! What the hell are you doing with my wife?’

“Fatuma lit the candle. And Kariuki saw the man’s face — knife cuts all over it, a face that had survived things Kariuki had no experience of whatsoever. To make the story short: Kariuki lost his entire first salary as compensation for adultery. Every shilling of it. Gone.”

The driver paused.

“After that story, my friend, I have never entered Majengo. It is now twenty-seven years. And I can tell you — this place has not changed one bit.”

He finished. The van hit another pothole. I looked at the girl beside me and we both laughed — properly, from the stomach. Then I asked the driver, very carefully, whether his name happened to be Kariuki.

He laughed louder than both of us and said a very firm no.

* * *

That’s what we call night.

It was broad daylight outside — a full, generous Nairobi sun, the kind that gave this city its name, the City in the Sun. The sky was that particular blue, clear and deep, the blue you get when the air is clean and the altitude is high and the morning has not yet been spent. Around eleven o’clock. But inside the van, the driver’s story had brought its own weather — shades of darkness, the temperature of a different kind of experience. Hell, I believe, is not a place. It is a situation. There are staircases that lead you down, and once you are down there, your game is down. I am not a preacher. I am a storyteller. But I know the difference between day and night, even when the sun is fully out.

I am not a preacher. I am a storyteller. But I know the difference between day and night even when the sun is fully out.

* * *

We were passing near Machakos Bus Station.

My people used to call it Marshako. Old Nairobi, the Nairobi of childhood, the Nairobi that exists now only in the body’s memory. This part of the city was overrun with revellers rushing to board buses heading upcountry — the great Friday migration, the weekly return to somewhere that still felt like home. The pavements were thick with bodies and cartons and noise.

Suddenly the lorry-bus pulled aside and stopped. I looked through the side mirror. Passengers were already jumping down.

The driver explained without being asked.

“This is our last stop. We are not entering town. The city council inspectors are waiting for us in there. Last trip they made us drop everyone at the Salvation Army Church zebra crossing. I am not walking into that trap again. Alight here and move quickly — traffic police will be here soon.”

The girl next to me opened the door and stepped down. I followed.

And then Marshako took me.

Not the present version of it — the man I am now, walking through with my bag and my years. The other version. The one I had not visited in a long time.

* * *

I was ten years old.

Our grandmother had given us a chicken to take to our father in the city. It was a live chicken, and it was my responsibility. We were at Machakos Bus Station — Marshako — that enormous, roaring, impossible place, where cartons towered over small boys and buses had names like the names of old friends. I knew all of them. Jungle. Guthera Coach. Magutu Success. Sunbird. Me and my brothers used to spend whole days at ‘Kwa Meja’ just to watch them pass. I could identify each bus by the sound of its engine before it came into view.

I knew that the first thing my father would ask when we arrived was: ‘Which bus did you take?’ It was a ritual. It was how he knew we had been paying attention.

But the chicken slipped.

I don’t know exactly how. One moment it was in my hands; the next it was gone, running into the chaos of the bus station, and I ran after it without thinking, without telling my brother, without telling anyone. I just ran. Into the tall men carrying cartons. Into the noise. Into the size of the place that suddenly felt enormous and hostile now that I was alone inside it.

A bus went past — one of the big ones, wide as a loaf of bread, loud as a verdict. It caught the chicken. The chicken stopped running.

Someone grabbed my shoulder.

“Where is your mother? Who are you with?”

I pointed in all directions. I did not know which direction was correct.

“Do you know that bus nearly hit you?”

I was pulled aside. Someone who resembled our mother appeared from the crowd — not our mother, just the shape of her, the general outline of safety. And then someone threw the dead chicken at my feet.

“Take it. That’s what you were chasing.”

And then the real daylight came back — because my actual mother was there, stepping through the crowd, taking my hand, looking at me with the face that mothers make when they have been frightened and are now relieved and are trying not to show either.

She picked up the dead chicken. We found my brother where he had stayed with the bags, bewildered and waiting. We did not speak much about what had happened.

That was night — a ten-year-old boy swallowed by Marshako, certain for a few terrible minutes that the city had taken him.

That was day — a mother who found him in a short time, in that vast and roaring place, the way mothers always find their children, by some navigation that has nothing to do with maps.

* * *

Year , 2013. I walk past the mali mali vendors outside Machakos Bus Station, their merchandise spread on the pavement: belts, phone cases, batteries, small plastic things the city needs every day. The buses are still there. Some of the names have changed. Most of the faces have changed.

But Marshako is still Marshako. The noise is the same. The size of it, to a child, would still be the same.

I know, because I feel it every time I come here — that brief flicker, that ghost of ten years old, looking for a chicken in a city that was too large for him. It comes back. It always comes back.

Day and night. Day and night. Sometimes in the same moment, in the same street, under the same generous Nairobi sun.

I am not a preacher. But I know that the distance between the two is not time.

It is a mother’s hand.

Poems by Mwas Mahugu

Poems

Love & Hate — Conformity & Rebellion — Innocence & Experience

By Mwangi Mahugu

I. LOVE & HATE

1. SHE IS THE FIRE

She is the fire

I keep running to

Already burnt, still I return

Fool or faithful, who can tell

Love is a well

You drink, you drown

You swear you’ll leave this town

But the well is home

The burning is home

Even the scar is home

I hate what she does

I love who she is

Between those two truths

I live

2. BEAUTIFUL ENEMY

You wore your smile like a weapon

Shot me at close range

No bullet, no blood

Just this wound that won’t arrange

Its edges properly

Doctor says heal

Heart says feel

I say both of you are liars

Hate is love that’s been betrayed

Love is hate that hasn’t been paid

The debt between us

Compound interest

Neither of us settled it

3. SAME RIVER

I loved you like a river loves the sea

Rushing, no asking, just to be

Together in the blue immensity

Then the sea swallowed me whole

And the river ceased to be a river

Just salt

Just depth

Just silence where the current was

Now I hate with the same force

Same current, different course

Same river, wrong shore

4. SWEET POISON

Tasted fruit is sweet, not eaten sweeter

That was your gospel

You served it on a golden plate

I ate, and ate, and ate

Until I was full of you

Until you were inside every cell

They say poison and medicine

Come in the same bottle

Only the dose decides

You were the dose

I miscounted

5. MIDNIGHT ARITHMETIC

At 3 a.m. I count the reasons

Love: seven

Hate: seven

The mathematics of us

Balanced and brutal

Add your laugh: plus one

Add your silence: minus two

Subtract the night you chose him

The sum keeps changing

The answer stays the same

Equal

Equally loved

Equally ruined

6. MARKET PRICE

They say love is free

Tell that to the man

Who paid with his sleep

His pride, his peace

His calendar of hope

Tell that to the woman

Who gave her years like coins

Into a machine that gave nothing back

Hate is the receipt

Love never gave us

Proof we paid

7. CITY LOVE

This city taught me to love fast

And forget faster

Monday: her name in my mouth like music

Friday: her name in my mouth like ash

We love between traffic jams and power cuts

Between M-Pesa alerts and rent day

Between WhatsApp ticks and silence

This city has no time for soft love

Only the burning kind

Only the kind that leaves a scar

And a story

— • —

II. CONFORMITY & REBELLION

8. MASK

They gave me a uniform at birth

Name, tribe, religion, address

Said: this is who you are

Wear it well

I wore it

Wore it until the seams cut

Until my breathing changed

Until I could not remember

The face beneath the face

Now they call me rebel

For taking off what they put on

For asking: who dressed me?

And why?

9. THE QUEUE

Stand in line

They said

Your turn will come

I stood

Twenty years of standing

The line moved nowhere

Only those who stepped out

Got anywhere

They call it jumping the queue

I call it finding the door

The queue was never for us

It was to keep us occupied

While they used the back entrance

10. DIGITAL MASK

Wear the mask they said

Eight hours

Plug yourself in

See the world through our lens

But whose world?

Whose lens?

Whose frequency

Is filling my skull?

I unplugged

They called it darkness

I called it mine

The silence was the loudest thing

I’d heard in years

11. SON OF THE SOIL

My grandfather cleared the forest

Axe and fire, foot by foot

Built something from nothing

They called it progress

My father built the corporation

Glass and code, deal by deal

Built something from everything

They called it progress

I am standing here

At the edge of what they built

Asking what was here before

They call it rebellion

I call it remembering

12. GOAT PATH

They built the highway

Wide and smooth and fast

Told us: this is the only road

But the old goat path still runs

Underneath the tarmac

Underneath the city

The goats remember

Even if we forgot

Rebellion is not burning the highway

It is remembering the path

It is walking it in the dark

Until the feet remember

13. PRODIGAL SON SPEAKS

Father you sent me to the best school

I came back asking the wrong questions

This is what education does

When it works

You wanted a son who would carry the empire

I carry the doubt that built it

You wanted hands to sign papers

Mine keep opening to give away

The prodigal returned

But not to inherit

To ask: what did we lose

To gain all this?

— • —

III. INNOCENCE & EXPERIENCE

14. FOURTEEN

At fourteen I saw the warriors

Glossy and swift at the forest’s edge

My spirit ran before my feet

My father pulled me back

At fourteen I thought glory

Was a thing you could chase

A column of spears in the morning light

A direction you could run toward

Now I know

Glory is what finds you

When you stop running

When you stand still long enough

To see what is already yours

15. THE FIRST LIE

They told me the world was fair

I believed them

That was the first wound

They told me work hard, succeed

I worked

That was the second wound

Now I tell my children nothing

That I cannot prove

And they call me a pessimist

I call it experience

The tax innocence pays

At the border of the real world

16. BABU’S PIGEONS

When you are old enough

You feed the pigeons

Not because they need you

But because you need them

The young man needs the war

The board meeting, the battle, the win

The old man needs the birds

The tortoise, the pool, the reed

Innocence believes it needs the world

Experience knows

The world needs about ten minutes a day

And the rest is yours

17. SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKs

Nobody graduates from this school

You only accumulate the marks

Invisible on the body

Visible in the eyes

The child does not know it exists

The young man thinks he can pass

The old man knows

The curriculum never ends

But the lessons get cleaner

The older you are

Pain teaches faster than joy

But joy teaches deeper

18. FIRST RAINS

First rain falls on everyone equally

The child runs out to catch it

The adult runs in to avoid it

Somewhere between those two

We lost something

The exact morning we stopped

Running into the rain

Innocence is not ignorance

It is courage

The courage to get wet

On purpose

19. WHAT THE MOUNTAIN KNOWS

Kirinyaga watched the warriors

Watched the strangers

Watched the corporations rise

Watched the satellites orbit

The mountain said nothing

The mountain is neither innocent nor experienced

It is simply old

Old enough to know

That every storm passes

Every empire fades

Every generation believes

It is the first to discover fire

It is never the first

20. JOIN THEM OR RUN

Babu said: join them or run

I am fifty and I still don’t know

Which one he meant

Join them: carry what they built

Walk inside the walls they raised

Speak the language of the new world

Paddle hard beneath the surface

Appear calm on top

Run: find the old goat path

Under the tarmac, under the city

Where the feet remember

Before the schools forgot

Or—

Stand still at the window

Watch the old man feed the birds

And understand at last

That ‘join them or run’

Was never a command

It was a question

Only you could answer

And only time would grade

It is lonely at the top

Brains smoke like formula one car exhaust

Hitting the roof top

Sitting with proof cop

Stop to reminisce

The journey, the chili pepper tingles.

21.Rumors

Rain is coming

Wind is moaning

Fire is burning

A life is humming

Soldiers are fighting

Cultures uniting

The enemies are arming

Moon, soon, monsoon winds

Sun run, Stars shine

War. Peace. Stability. Life force.

a vessel. in the sea.

Only rumors. man is.

22.My love(2011 march 13)

It is 2 A.m

Nothing looks the same

All I can do is just whisper her name

Can’t shout my voice is lame

Nothing but darkness, stuck ness in her web

Though the stars try to shine from far

And moon lends a hand

An attempt to light up my soul

Still I have to wait till dawn, on the lawn, alone

For the Sun coz she is my sunshine

I stepped on a landmine

I can’t move my foot, lest it blows

The damage all mine

Like a greedy businessman

I dug the mine

Found the Diamonds,

Like a poor man I beg

Who will tell her she is the almond

I need to break,

For miles

My heart has trekked

With my lips

Many i have pecked

But nothing can compare

To my alter ego

She is an eagle, when she flies

Can someone tell her she is guilty?

But am ready to grant her amnesty

23.Love is sweet(2011 march 15)

Love is sweet /love is a pit if you fall/

But don’t worry the ground is mattress not a quarry

Let caress you hurry hurry bury

Me in your embrace/I might marry you

Be my empress/I wish I could tenderly press

Your nipple and watch that ripples/the flush

As I explore your rose’s garden/well this coffees dates I wish they were

Followed by thunder and storm, ooh that gooey feeling

How it taketh me the vibration each way free

.

24

Roof top

It is lonely at the top

Brains smoke like formula one car exhaust

Hitting the roof top

Sitting with proof cop

Stop to reminisce

The journey, the chili pepper tingles

25

THE RIVER

Has anyone swam in the river

Shivers, beer to liver

Cold as ice

Yet a furnace, sewer, rats, dark, roaches

Pet-a surface, alleys, cats, death poaches

Daily strife. Dusk to dawn

You sink, it stinks, you drown, and it’s a Town

A Nation, an Ocean of people,

A Continent of the simple-crippled by the strong waves

In abundance of food, famine rule

Despair, Diseases, forgotten

(Music)Abba dance of paradise

Like a drum, police pronounced kicks

Slums announce sick…..

People. Struggle a breast, poverty a nipple

Poor man a tick, rich man a hippo

Am Hip Hop, Rasta, Pastor, a prophet, a soldier, a voice?

A swimmer in this dusty river

They are crowning the King, am drowning

When I resurface a bee sting

On my forehead. My age mates are dead,

AIDS, Hunger, Crime, stray bullets

Single Mothers, stray shots

Running water, pot leaking

River concrete jungle, ghetto, a lion jungle

To be free, climb on treetop

It takes two to tangle.

Written on 24th-12-2005

MAN

Can a Man live like this?

Everyday of his life and strife

Breathe a -dew, which dries with sunrise

A death which resurrect on a new day

A leaf that shine, its youth pale

They say it is a Sea. Now I see

We sail with hope

When the sea is calm or rough

Yes we Love, moan, groan, we laugh

Yes we cry, we try, and last we die

Trod on Earth protected by heaven

Don’t worry my Cinderella

As they talk to god Bacchus

Tasted fruit is sweet, not eaten sweeter

Later she will create a crater of betrayal

But are he is loyal, she is royal.

Happiness (april 2006)

Happiness is not a land far away

It is like a hand you see everyday

Paradise of eternity

A price per dice to enter the city

Kings and slave strive, why? Ask the almighty

Eyes dusty to see the soul

That’s why we receive, bowls of ignorance

Wars

It is a thin hem on a garment

Yet strong.

Like a vein transporting blood

But never wrong

Amidst of flood, the life jacket

Amidst of death, the life jacket

To protect, we just need to project,

Our inner eyes, away from illusion, yes passion

Happy land is perfect nation

Life (august 2007)

This life is boring

This life is bowling

The balls without scoring

It is growing

Drawing one destiny

Dawning of reality

Cloning with fantasy

But destiny you yawn

Reality you own

ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK

If you decide to love me

know what you are choosing —

not a garden, not a shore,

but uncharted, trembling terrain

where the ground shifts

beneath the weight of becoming.

To love me is to wake up

fully —

not the soft morning kind,

not coffee and calm,

but the earthquake kind,

the kind that cracks you open

and lets the light pour in

whether you are ready

or not.

This is karma country.

Every step has a consequence.

Step into my presence

and you step into the flame —

I will not apologise for the heat.

The heat is the whole point.

My fire does not ask permission.

It will find every wall inside you,

every locked room,

every stagnant corner

where old patterns sleep

like dust —

and it will burn them clean.

Your existence will change fragrance.

You will not smell like yesterday.

You will carry the scent

of someone who dared.

To love me in the skin,

to love me in the soul,

requires a particular courage —

the kind that walks into the dark forest

not because it is safe

but because something sacred

breathes in there,

waiting.

I will lead you

through wild forests of ecstasy,

through awe so thick

you will have to push through it

with your bare hands.

I will show you skies

you did not know existed —

sacred, ablaze,

so crowded with stars

you will question

which planet you are standing on,

why you spent so long

looking at the ground.

My heart will rupture your defences

not in war

but in love —

which is sometimes

the same thing.

You will yearn to merge,

soul into soul,

light into light,

until the universe itself

feels the electricity

of what we made

in the dark.

But here is the choice,

plain as dawn:

take the risk on yourself

or retreat.

Both are yours to make.

I will not beg.

I will not diminish

to make the decision easier.

Only know this —

if you walk away,

if you choose the quiet road,

the life that does not demand

you become

who you were born to be —

do not spend your remaining days

looking over your shoulder,

reaching for the haze

where my mystery once stood.

By then I will be gone.

Returned to the stars,

the distant galaxies,

the heavens I descended from —

my celestial origins,

calling me home.

THE COSMIC PRAYER

O cosmic birther,

source of all radiance,

all vibration, all hum —

soften the ground of our being,

carve a space within us

deep enough

to hold your presence.

Not a shrine.

Not a temple with locked doors.

A space that breathes,

that shifts with the season,

that welcomes you

the way soil welcomes rain —

without question,

without condition.

Fill us with your creativity

the way a river fills a valley —

completely,

without asking the valley's permission.

Let it overflow.

Let it spill past our edges.

Let it empower us

to bear the fruit

of your mission —

not our small ambitions,

not our careful plans,

but the wild, abundant,

unstoppable fruit

of something larger

moving through us.

Let every action we take

land like a seed —

intentional,

purposeful,

rooted in desire

that is clean and true.

Endow us with wisdom —

not the wisdom of books alone,

not the wisdom of the clever,

but the deep knowing

of what each being needs

to grow,

to flourish,

to reach toward light

without apology.

Let us produce.

Let us share.

Let the table be long enough

for everyone we have ever

been afraid to feed.

Untie the tangled threads

of destiny that bind us —

the old knots,

the inherited wounds,

the debts we did not choose

but carried anyway

like stones in both pockets.

Loosen them.

As we release others

from the entanglement

of their past mistakes —

as we open our hands

and let the grudge

fall to the ground

like something

that was never ours to hold.

Do not let us be seduced

by the glittering distraction,

the noise that sounds like purpose,

the comfort that looks like calling —

all the beautiful diversions

that would lead us

one step, then another,

away from who we came here to be.

Instead —

illuminate the present moment.

Make it blaze.

Show us what is available

right now,

right here,

in this breath,

in this choice,

in this ordinary

extraordinary

day.

For you are the ground

beneath our feet

and the vision

burning in our chest.

You are the birth

and the power

and the fulfillment —

the gathering in,

the making whole,

the return of everything scattered

back to its source.

THE PHOTON BELT

A Cosmic Poem

Our Sun is the eighth star,

orbiting Alcyone

in a great slow circle —

twenty-six thousand years

to complete one breath,

one revolution,

one heartbeat

of the Pleiades.

Divide that orbit by twelve

and you hold in your hand

two thousand years —

the lifespan of an age,

Pisces fading,

Aquarius rising,

the wheel turning

as it has always turned,

as it will always turn.

There is a belt of light

around Alcyone —

a photon ring,

a radiation disc

transverse to the plane of worlds,

first glimpsed in 1961

through the cold eye of satellites,

a discovery that cracked

the third dimension open

like an egg.

A photon is the smallest thing —

the decomposition of an electron,

light broken down to its essence,

still unknown on Earth

in its fullness,

still arriving.

Every ten thousand years

we enter the ring

for two thousand years of immersion.

The last time was the Age of Leo,

twelve thousand years ago,

when lions ruled the savanna

and men built monuments

to point at the stars

they somehow already knew.

Now it is the Age of Aquarius.

We are inside the belt again.

The molecules are waking.

The atoms are remembering

a frequency

they were born knowing.

Since 1972 the Solar System

has been crossing the threshold.

Since 1987 the Earth

began her slow immersion —

molecule by molecule,

cell by cell,

dream by dream —

until December 21, 2012,

when the Mayan calendar

closed its long eye

after 26,000 years of watching

and said:

it is done.

It is beginning.

This light that comes

is not like fire.

It is not hot.

It casts no shadow.

It produces no darkness.

A permanent, constant luminescence —

perhaps this is why the Hindus

call what is coming

the Age of Light,

the long dawn

after the Kali Yuga,

the galactic night

finally,

finally

lifting.

Alcyone is a fifth-dimensional star —

an archetypal zone

of feelings and dreams,

where the higher planes

lean down close enough

to touch.

We are tuning in.

Since the eighties

the fourth dimension

has been installing itself

around us, within us —

emotional, not physical,

the realm where ideas are born

before they explode

into matter,

the invisible architecture

of everything

we call real.

To cross this threshold

we must clean the house.

Physical body.

Emotional body.

The miasms —

those etheric masses

of old genetic memory,

past life residue,

grief embedded in the marrow,

rage calcified in the joints —

activated now,

rising to the surface

like buried things

after heavy rain,

asking to be seen,

asking to be released.

Negative thought generates miasm.

Anger builds a wall.

Revenge closes a channel.

Turbulence dims the signal.

So eat clean.

Live close to the earth.

Let the hands of massage

move what has been still too long.

Let acupuncture open the locks.

Let meditation quiet the noise

until you can hear

the frequency beneath the frequency,

the signal beneath the static,

the song Alcyone

has been singing toward you

for ten thousand years.

Have good intentions.

This is not small advice.

This is the whole instruction.

Stay alert to synchronicity.

The universe speaks

in patterns,

in coincidences too precise

to be accidental,

in the book that falls open

to the right page,

in the stranger

who says exactly what you needed

to hear.

These are signals.

These are transmissions

from other spheres.

Receive them.

Soon —

immersed in the Age of Light

after the long darkness,

we will rediscover

our multidimensionality,

activate the dormant gifts

that slept through

the galactic night,

wake to find ourselves

larger than we remembered,

older than we knew.

The Earth's intelligence

will be catalyzed

for the entire Milky Way.

Each one must do

their individual work

allied to the collective.

Bodies that do not transform

will not hold the new frequency —

not as punishment,

but as physics.

The fourth dimension

does not negotiate

with what refuses to vibrate.

This is not the end of the world.

It never was.

It is the end of one world

and the birth cry

of another —

the axis shifting,

the pole remembering

a different alignment,

the Earth taking her place

in the cosmic order

she was always meant to occupy.

A New Civilisation.

The chosen not chosen by God's favouritism

but by their own readiness —

those who did the work,

cleaned the vessel,

tuned the instrument,

showed up

awake.

The Photon Belt is not coming.

It is here.

We are inside the light.

The only question now

is whether we are willing

to become

what the light

requires

The Blueprint (English)From Kwani? print to digital streams,We didn't just write, we engineered dreams.An Afro-Hip Hop blueprint etched in the page,A street-born rhythm taking over the stage.We built the collective, we laid down the code,Twenty-plus years on this long, heavy road.

2. Kupenya kwa Mistari (Swahili)Kalamu ilichat kabla simu zishike,Tukawa na nia, mtaa uamke.Kutoka kwa karatasi hadi kwa mtandao,Sauti ya wengi ikawa ni yao.Jalada ikasonga, misingi ikajengwa,Maneno ya kweli hayajawahi pingwa.

3. No Edges (English)No borders can hold the tales that we spun,A diaspora of rhythm under one sun.From translation tracks to the fiction we bound,We gave the unspoken a permanent sound.The edges are blurred between corporate and street,Where the art and the assets seamlessly meet.

4. Kila Kona (Swahili)Muziki na herufi, pete na kidole,Wanaodunisha mtaa, wanyamaze mpole.Sanaa sio kelele, ni nguvu ya umma,Katika mawimbi, fikra zinasukumwa.Kutoka kwa jarida hadi kwa mitandao,Tunalinda heshima na haki ya yao.

5. The Beat of Kwani? (English)In 2005, the ink first hit the press,A literary revolution, nothing less.They questioned the dialect, questioned the style,But we knew the street would endure for a mile.Now twenty years later, the archives are gold,The greatest urban stories that ever were told.

6. The Pan-African Pen (English)Jalada arose from a workshop of fire,To elevate voices and lift them up higher.Across borders and rivers, from Lagos to June,We aligned all our rhythms under one tune.Pan-African brotherhood built on the page,A modern collective coming of age.

7. Unbound Tales (English)No Edges declared that our stories are vast,Unshackled from structures imposed by the past.Swahili fiction in global domains,Breaking the invisible cultural chains.From local expression to international print,The gold in our language gives out a bright glint

.8. Sauti ya Pamoja (Swahili)Jalada Africa ni sauti ya wengi,Sio ya mtu mmoja anayetaka ushenzi.Umoja wa bara, nguvu ya kalamu,Kupitia kurasa, tunaeneza fahamu.Mwas Mahugu amesimama kama mweka hazina,Kulinda misingi na kukuza majina.

9. The Pioneer's Paradox (English)To be a pioneer means walking alone,Turning a language of dirt into stone.They called it slang, but we called it pride,Now look at the wave that they're trying to ride.From Kwani? issue one to the digital era,The vision gets sharper, the picture gets clearer.

10. Mdundo Pulse (Sheng)Mdundo imeshika, download ni mob,Hii si tu fiti, hii ndio job.Tangu o-five mistari inadunda,Sheng ya mtaa, matunda tunachuma.Cheki catalog inajaza hizi space,Don Gas Fyatu anaseta hii pace.

11. SoundCloud Alchemy (Sheng)SoundCloud mawave inatupa kwa net,Ma-independent wasee, hatuna regret.Tunaunda cooperative, tunamanage ma-art,Hii movement ni kubwa, ilianzia kwa heart.Kutoka cyber hadi kwa simu mkononi,Sauti ya Mwangi iko kwa hewani

.12. Tribe 43 Anthem (Sheng)Sisi ni ile tribe haitambui ukabila,Lugha ni moja, hakuna kashfa wala hila.People Daily ilitujua kwa page moja fiti,Sheng yetu sasa iko mpaka kwa tweet.Tunatengeneza future bila uoga wa jana,Wazito wa mtaa wote wanasikizana

.13. Hustle Bila Break (Sheng)Don Gas Fyatu, gas imeshika mtaa,Hakuna kulala, msee lazima kung'aa.Kazi ni mob, kuanzia studio hadi legal,Macho iko juu, tunaangalia kama eagle.Muziki kwa streaming, vitabu kwa shelfu,Hustle ya Mwangi imevuka ma-elfu.

14. Echoes in the Cloud (English)SoundCloud echoes the raw and uncut,No labels to block us, no doors to be shut.We uploaded the passion, the demos, the breaks,Learning the balance of creative stakes.An archive of power, accessible free,The sonic footprint of who we chose to be.

15. Vibe ya Nairobi (Sheng)Nairobi ina joto, Nairobi ina siri,Mistari yangu inaleta picha dhahiri.Mdundo inaplay, ronga inashika,Kila msee kwa matatu anatingika.Hii sio story ya kubahatisha msee,Ni miaka ishirini ya kuwasha moto kizee.

16. Gas Fyatu (Sheng)Don Gas Fyatu anagonga tena,Kile nimesema, hicho nimesema.Hadi kwa Boomplay mawave inarun,Hustle mchana, dunda mwezi mchuni.Twenty-plus years mguu iko kwa mafuta,Njia zikifungwa, ukuta tunavuta.

17. Boomplay Blast (Sheng)Boomplay inavuma, analytics inashika,Muziki wa Don kila corner imefika.Hatuombi nafasi, tulishajenga stage,Kutoka mtaani hadi global frontpage.Weka volume mpaka ceiling ipasuke,Hii ni sauti yenye haitaki ishuke

.18. Digital Frequency (English)On Mdundo, on SoundCloud, the catalog grows,A river of urban expression that flows.Our presence is digital, our roots are deeply real,A timeless perspective no algorithm can steal.Two decades of building, adapting the tool,Proving the street is a legitimate school.Chapter 

3: The Boardroom & Creative Cooperatives (Entrepreneurship & Assets)

19. Mwangaza wa Lugha (Swahili)Kiswahili kimesimama kama mnara mrefu,Tukatafsiri magwiji, tukafuta upofu.Kutoka gizani hadi mwanga wa sasa,Kazi za mikono zimejaza kurasa.Sio kwa bahati, ni miaka ya jasho,Kuhakikisha kizazi kimepata mwangaza wake

.20. The Corporate Shaman (English)I walk into boardrooms with street in my lungs,An entrepreneur speaking multi-tiered tongues.We manage the catalogs, structure the trust,Turning the old literary ashes to dust.A publisher, poet, and business design,Holding the pen while protecting the line

.21. Uhuru wa Msanii (Swahili)Uhuru wa kweli sio tu kuwa huru,Ni kumiliki haki, kulipwa ushuru.Mdundo na Boomplay, tunajaza hesabu,Sanaa yetu sasa haitishwi na taabu.Muziki ni biashara, lazima isonge,Wacha wenye maneno madogo waongee.

Kiswahili kimesimama kama mnara mrefu,Tukatafsiri magwiji, tukafuta upofu.Kutoka gizani hadi mwanga wa sasa,Kazi za mikono zimejaza kurasa.Sio kwa bahati, ni miaka ya jasho,Kuhakikisha kizazi kimepata mwangaza wake.

20

The Corporate Shaman (English)I walk into boardrooms with street in my lungs,An entrepreneur speaking multi-tiered tongues.We manage the catalogs, structure the trust,Turning the old literary ashes to dust.A publisher, poet, and business design,Holding the pen while protecting the line

.21. Uhuru wa Msanii (Swahili)Uhuru wa kweli sio tu kuwa huru,Ni kumiliki haki, kulipwa ushuru.Mdundo na Boomplay, tunajaza hesabu,Sanaa yetu sasa haitishwi na taabu.Muziki ni biashara, lazima isonge,Wacha wenye maneno madogo waongee

.22. Street Architecture (English)We drew the blueprints on asphalt and stone,Built a media house that the youth could call home.Every track on the playlist, a brick in the wall,To ensure that the culture would never fall.Twenty-plus years of structural grace,A pioneer staying ahead in the race.

23. Sheng Chronicles (Sheng)Tuna-capture ma-experience ya mtaa live,Hivyo ndio siri tunazidi ku-survive.Kutoka dunda hadi kwa shida za jioni,Mistari inaongea, macho iko mbeleni.Mwas Mahugu ni jina, l

23. Gas Fyatu (Sheng)

Don Gas Fyatu anagonga tena,
Kile nimesema, hicho nimesema.
Hadi kwa Boomplay mawave inarun,
Hustle mchana, dunda mwezi mchuni.
Twenty-plus years mguu iko kwa mafuta,
Njia zikifungwa, ukuta tunavuta.

24. Sauti ya Pamoja (Swahili)

Jalada Africa ni sauti ya wengi,
Sio ya mtu mmoja anayetaka ushenzi.
Umoja wa bara, nguvu ya kalamu,
Kupitia kurasa, tunaeneza fahamu.
Mwas Mahugu amesimama kama mweka hazina,
Kulinda misingi na kukuza majina.

25. The Digital Archive (English)

Our presence is digital, our roots are deeply real,
A timeless perspective no algorithm can steal.
On Mdundo, on SoundCloud, the catalog grows,
A river of urban expression that flows.
Two decades of building, adapting the tool,
Proving the street is a legitimate school.

The Fire of the 23rd Tribe

Wasee walithink ni kelele, tukawashow ni art,Form ilianza kitambo, driven straight from the heart.Twenty-plus years kwa hii game, we don't plan to retire,Strike the match, unajua—Don Gas Fyatu ni fire!From the days of Kwani? setting the foundational pace,Tukaleta lugha ya mtaa, occupying the space.No longer invisible, the raw vernacular of the street,We built Tribe 43 to make the movement complete.Uniting every corner, breaking the tribal divide,With the rhythm of Nairobi and a fierce pan-African pride.Then came Mwas Mahugu on the Jalada track,Translating giant words, never looking back.Bouncing from stanzas to the boardroom, expanding the map,An entrepreneur weaving the hustle right into the rap.Managing the catalog, pushing cooperative dreams,Nothing is small, nothing is quite what it seems.They see the suits and the strategy, the legal design,But msanii still keeps the rhythm in line.Two decades of setting the culture completely ablaze,The ink remains wet, navigating the corporate maze.From the page to the market, the fire is spitting direct,The legacy is solid. Full power. Pure respect.

Two Decades of the Flame: The Journey of Mwas Mahugu From the heartbeat of the streets to the architecture of the boardroom,Two decades carved in ink, rhythm, and grit.They call me msaniii , the architect of the narrative,Mwas, the pioneer who gave the street its native voice,And Don Gas Fyatu, striking the match that set the culture ablaze.Twenty-plus years of weaving the vernacular of the real,When Kwani? first opened the gates to a raw, unyielding Sheng,We birthed a collective, a pan-African brotherhood of the pen,And laid down Tribe 43 to prove our language could never be silenced.We took the rhythms of the alleyways and built a sanctuary for the youth.But the poet did not stop where the stanzas ended.The writer stepped into the market, an entrepreneur of the soul,Managing beats, directing shades, and structuring cooperative dreams.From the catalog's pulse to the boardroom table,The hustle and the art became one beautifully complex design.They thought the street was just noise,But we showed them it was literature, currency, and life.Twenty years down, the ink remains wet, the fire still spits,And the legacy of the Don continues to rise.