Poetry: Whip of Rebellion

Cracking the whip. PHOTO/Courtesy.
Cracking the whip. PHOTO/Courtesy.

Oh! Great men of our land!
My motherland, your motherland,
This land that mothered you
Breastfed my in-laws
Bathed my leaders of law

Schooled our arrogant heads

Circumcised our hearts

To heed the teachings of our tongues;
This land mourns with me today
People of black blood,
Maybe red blood–sometimes;
That depends on the cut of the whip…

Our land has been bewitched
By wizards who are sons and daughters
Of our blood and flesh
Her drying bones rattle in shame
For her nakedness has been skinned
Not by alien chiefs but her own hustler thieves;
“Oh sorry, forgive my spelling,
It should be chiefs”
But then, our motherland is thirsty for justice
Justice to the peasant farmers
Another small one – tiny, to the innocent voters
Piny Owacho has said,
This motherland is a democratic demon
Of the rich
By the poor for political German dogs!

Am I complaining? No!
I’m mourning on behalf of fools
Whose political blood boils with hatred
Hatred against each other, on behalf
Of political shepherds whose interest is milk and beef.
Understand me …beef and milk or is it milk and beef?
And not the welfare of the animals…
Sick beasts in the head
Others in the heart
Hungry beasts
Useless pigs.

We have all faced the reality
We have seen that those who turn us into
Wild demons by the day
Are friends by the night or in distant lands.
The demigods, 

For the sky-rocketing standards of life
Go and ask Parliament dogs
How they bark at owners of axes
Who use taxes to axe down trees of growth
And leaves my motherland bare and barren
They bark gently not to offend the chief thief
Lest they face the whip, oh toothless dogs!

They can’t bite!
Toothless dogs only bark to bite soft beef in return
If you ask them why?
They point fingers if they can
Or just boldly turn a blind eye
But that is who they are, and you too
Like warthogs who soon forget
Your nakedness,
Inflicted iniquities,
Committed crimes against your god-given rights
And still vote for sake of chicken change
A bunch of lies filled in baskets
As faint hopes as government’s graveyards
Tainting a painter’s blueprint
For the future you seek!
It is not your fault
Not theirs either

Let me tell you about them…

As shy as the flock of sheep
Following their shepherd sheepishly
Is the crew that receives not the whip of rebellion
Your leaders in a dungeoned parliament of dogs…
Sycophant school of oppression they belong
And still to ideologies of men,
As opposed to liberation songs,
Simple chants and choruses
Void of senseless logic within,
That sits amidst their ears.

Fear of the whip of rebellion is their drive
To keep signing treaties of death against their kins
Kin and motherland,
To keep singing same songs as songs of Bulbul
Such that the sparrows and the parrots conclusively,
Are brave enough
To dance in the night of darkness like knights
In the dungeon pits of hell alongside king of atrocities.
For them the whip is the demon.
A hand that giveth, receiveth
Little laws of the clean book?
Shall we wait until death is our only priority?
When lovers of the nation sink into parlors of parliament ruins
As well-wishers wish they could for once lead from their head
Unlike from their hungry sagged bellies or
Drying cracks in their middle palms
Awaiting another pack of grease.

I blame them not, for those who coughed died
Mysteriously, those who yelled faced the whip

But those who smiled only
Only in the face of the lights
Artificial lights thundering sounds of praises—
Only those survived the clip of the whip

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Mr. Otieno is a Literature enthusiast, an English/Literature teacher, a writer, poet, playwright, and novelist. He is the President of the Bleeding Ink Global Writers Society, a detail-oriented columnist, and a literary critic. His contact: bonfacetieno551@gmail.com


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