FIRST WORDS

A Collection of Poems

VINCENT DE PAUL

Copyright © 2012, Vincent de Paul All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is strictly forbidden without written permission from the publisher. Cover by Patrick Boro ©Mystery Books

ISBN-10: 1477575960 ISBN-13: 978-1477575963

Published by: Mystery Publishers (K) Ltd, P.O. BOX 18016—20100 Nakuru, Kenya. Email: mysterypublishers@gmail.com www.mysterypublisherslimited.com Available from Amazon.com, CreateSpace.com, and other online retail outlets, Kindle and other devices

For Mother

Bringing me to the world was The worst mistake you ever made!

Acknowledgement I wrote this book in a span of five years, from 2005 when the candle of poetry was lit in me by my high school English/literature teacher, Mr Paul Muthangya, to 2010. I wrote my first poem (Patience) and when he marked it, he liked it. I did not know then I would be a poet. Many thanks to Mr Paul Muthangya, life’s choicest be with you always. I would like to thank the organizers of the 2010 Nairobi International Book Fair (NIBF) and the National Book Development Council of Kenya (NBDCK) for their review, critique and judgment and finding this collection worth of the 2010 NIBF Literary Awards. I thank Sitawa Wafula, poet and mental health ambassador, and founder of My Mind My Funk, whose invitations to her Open Mic events built more confidence in me in poetry. Though I insist I am not a performer, your encouragement is beyond reckoning, Sitawa. I am grateful to Juliette Westbrook-Finch, Author of Poetry of Passion (for People with a Pulse) for showing me the way to the wonderful world of Indie publishing. Sincere thanks to all my fans and followers, especially a mysterious but romantic Krupali and Sheila Newton, who have always been a source of encouragement.

Vincent de Paul

Table of Contents Acknowledgement ..................................................... v

Table of Contents .................................................... vi

Patience ................................................................ 1

White Abomination .................................................... 2

Black Travesty ......................................................... 4

White Complex ......................................................... 5

Lunch Hour ............................................................. 6

Corruption of the Soul ................................................ 8

The Prostitute ........................................................ 11

The Voter ............................................................. 12

Second Chances ...................................................... 13

The Coffin ............................................................ 14

The Life ............................................................... 15

Rock Climbing ........................................................ 16

About the Author ...................................................... 1

~ 1 ~

Patience

They said, ‘patience pays’ He recalls, but time is elapsing. He makes several trips to the cloakrooms Tick-tock, tick-tock, Dusk is coming.

He wonders, when would I be summoned It is evening Nothing to calm my rumbling stomach The svelte secretary passes, ignoring him He coughs, but no response.

Sleepy he feels, and naps, then “John,” the feeble call comes from the goddamned office. It’s almost dusk, and he has to trek back home. The manager looks at him with kind eyes His documents are ready, and his money, and another token— A feeble handshake, then firm “John, welcome, you are hired...”

( 2005)

~ 2 ~

White Abomination

A big yellow of the sun had sunk Down the azure of the western horizon Pasting obscenely beautiful yellow Then the ominous darkness crept in. Grannies paraded the little ones for tales Fathers, sons and sons of their sons around a bonfire Mothers and daughters locked themselves in a cocoon to satiate their famished families and then the stranger came.

He was some god or spirit they had despised; He talked the language of gods the wise Mzee 1Ngumbau 2understood it all— the god wanted a place to lay his head for the night. Long after many days had passed As many as fingers of hands and feet Did they see the god with other gods The gods were living in their boma;3 Mzee Ngumbau was not surprised.

It was years since that day. The gods had taught them the language of gods Told them that they could fly the wise Ngumbau couldn’t doubt.

The realization was so paralyzing their scepticism had led to their home aliens who scrambled for their landed foods Slept with their wives and daughters as they hunted, Got to their kasungwas4 and prostitutes their solace in wife’s untouchable days

1 Mzee – Swahili for elder/old man 2 Ngumbau – Kamba name meaning brave 3 Boma – homestead 4 Kasungwas – Kamba word for mistresses/beautiful girls

~ 3 ~

and then their black eyes opened The gods were not really gods... The men and women with pale skins And language of gods and spirits Made them denounce their gods A man so far, far away wanted them to A promise of a white paradise Perfectly perched in black Africa.

The gods made them wear funny things over themselves even get in to small houses that could move actually, the strangers could fly and get a message to gods.

Mzee Ngumbau’s son was like him The next village elder of Kabaa Spoke the language of the white strangers Saw the future of the very tale; The strangers they had so warmly welcomed Drank them from the kikuu5 their sweet wine Fed them their delicious rice muthokoi6 And entertained them every night Dancing to the tune of kilumi7 Had not only urinated at their doorsteps Crept and shit under their beds But had also raped their mothers to their eyes: What an abomination?

5 Kikuu – Kamba word for gourd 6 Muthokoi – Kamba food prepared by cooking maize (with the seed

covering removed) and beans together 7 Kilumi – Kamba traditional dance

~ 4 ~

Black Travesty

When the white men invaded our land They promised a European heaven in Black Africa; They put on us the yokes they called white collars: The yoke was tagged discrimination The yoke was inscribed oppression The yoke was embedded despotism The yoke with it was white corruption The yoke we did resent with passion Yet did nothing... Instead we amputated our black limbs And got the foreign limbs of Europe Our travesty—black travesty!

~ 5 ~

White Complex

He was a man of incomprehensible intelligence A brilliant soldier in the making A commander and leader Cornerstone of the black army when general, but He was an Anglo-Saxon mulatto— He could not fit in the milieu His black whoring mother put him in. If only he could let go of his pride Let go of his white complex...

~ 6 ~

Lunch Hour

I just felt a need to do something, kill time Inconspicuous and drab— I ain’t the type to draw attention— I walked into this home for lunch.

Outside, the desolate home was haphazardly cordoned off, Families were kept watch of the chameleon passing of time. I entered the dimly lit hallways The deserted corridors of the Provincial General Hospital, The dismal white-walled Home of the sicklings A terminus for the dying: There was no one in sight.

A strange hollowness engulfed me. It came in tons, the need that is to hate something, somebody. Deeper and deeper I plunged I could see nobody but hear Low buzzing voices so far away, Maybe the home was haunted; Then I saw the buzzers.

There was a big snake of them, queuing I couldn’t see the head but the tail, Of the snake of the pathetically emaciated wraiths Bundles of malnourished, pot-bellied Railway-legged children And obscenely obese and scrawny masses of humanity Filled the claustrophobic hall With a cacophony of wails and screams Voices of pain, madness and death.

~ 7 ~

The still dead air was A commingle of putrefaction, Pungent of disinfectant and ammonia and the acrid aroma of the food for those born in this home. I felt such anger against God I felt such hatred for life Why much of such pain? A debilitating wave of realization swept over me there was no personnel in sight the major-domos of this home because... it was lunch hour!

~ 8 ~

Corruption of the Soul

They shed tears with the other mourners; But they were movie glycerine tears the glory of the body they had killed was gone Left was a casket glittering Full of bones and the putrefying mortality.

In their secret conspiracy circles they met and orchestrated diversions blamed the already corrupt bodies of all communal miseries; it was so true... They promised the masses Zero tolerance of all vice yet they tolerated not.

The politics of the body was, And is, always corrupt Yet the body isn’t at all corrupt: It’s the deep inner self The soul of the body that’s corrupt And nothing gonna be done.

~ 9 ~

23rd July

Many call it death I call it live extinction. The thought of it Its gruesome hideousness The stench from afar The acridity of putrefaction How it does feel To know that you’re dying To be told you are A dead man walking And nothing can be done With them in their medical minds Is the medical school jargon I knew nothing of what he had said.

Long after I was gone So far away from the sanatorium His voice ricocheted and reverberated inside I was ailing—cancerous, hyperwhatever; long-term Had few months to live And nothing could be done to salvage me I was daily dying, was a dead man walking Since 23rd July zero nine.

~ 10 ~

The August House

Packed to capacity with the representatives of the people the fork-tongued men and women who makes the laws of the land they do meet and discuss matters of the nation.

Eternity seems to them the agenda are so many The August house becomes a cacophony— Lo! Lo! Lo! The legislators are snoring Disgusting silvers slivering their mouths The man with the authority of the house It’s his duty to awaken them Time and again and again He gavels like a judge And they shoot up, awake To discuss the next matter of national importance— Their salaries.

~ 11 ~

The Prostitute

She’s neither beautiful nor ugly Neither aromatic nor stinky Neither a wife nor a lover Yet she lives.

Humanity is like a prostitute Can sleep with anybody Sleeps with everybody would sleep with everybody Despise not, both men and women.

~ 12 ~

The Voter

A promise of long a time ago Of a European heaven in Black Africa is still the word of the day.

We just put brother Leo in the senate The house of despotism But never see him in our midst I just wonder... When will he know That I do know? I am not all that cynical... And daft I’m just waiting for the time to come, my time I too know how to uproot the roots.

~ 13 ~

Second Chances

With all the care I did everything Making no mistake Only to realize I had dug my own grave And then... lucky me The soil was not yet Thrown over me I saw a sliver of the moon... And rose from the dead.

~ 14 ~

The Coffin

A vow I made Never ever be a sycophant Yet they made me lick their boots, Made a coffin for me And embalmed my live body But the coffin was so sub-standard I resuscitated and got out: It was at my obsequies.

I sent them running in all directions.

~ 15 ~

The Life

Day in day out we do live with fears, phobias All congenital our hopes and visions forerunners Capacities and qualifications lurking and we excel and celebrate... The life we do live.

~ 16 ~

Rock Climbing

“Climbing.”

“Up rope.”

“Slack.”

It was the mantra of the exercise.

It was possible, It was done. It was impossible, It could be done.

I took the lesser travelled road.

About the Author

Vincent de Paul won the 2010 Nairobi International Book Fair Literary Awards for this collection of poems, First Words. He also has written love poetry—Holy Emotions and Holy Crimes. Other works are Flights of Poetic Fancy, Flashes of Vice series which is a collection of flash fiction stories, and TWISTED TIMES: Son of Man, a novel. He has a Diploma in Comprehensive Creative Writing from the Writers Bureau, UK.

Vincent has been published online on different websites and dailies in Kenya. In 2013 he was long-listed for the Nigerian Belgian-based writer, Chika Unigwe Best Short Competition and published in an anthology of New Age African poets, Black Communion, in Nigeria.

Vincent de Paul is a member of the Bloggers Association of Kenya (BAKE), affiliate of Association of Independent Authors (AIA), and Naija Writers Community.

For more of his works go to:

www.poeticjustnes.com

www.flashesofvices.com

www.elovepoetry.wordpress.com

Other Books by the author on Mystery

Bookstore

Poetry

Holy Crimes (2014)

Flights of Poetic Fancy (2014)

Holy Emotions (2012)

Flash Fiction

Flashes of Vice: Vol II (2014)

Flashes of Vice: Vol I (2013)

Novel

TWISTED TIMES: Son of Man (2015)

First Words is a 2010 Nairobi International Book Fair (NIBF) Literary

Awards winning collection of poems that would ring, reverberate and

ricochet long after you have heard them—the inner self seeking your

attention and begging to be listened.

First Words addresses a wide range of issues from societal maladies and

politics to culture and interpersonal relationships.

These are Vincent de Paul’s first words to the world as he revokes vices,

condemns and rights a society he sees doomed to damnation.

Vincent de Paul is an award-winning author, freelance

writer, blogger, and poet.

He has a diploma in Comprehensive Creative Writing

from The Writers Bureau, UK; and is a Bloggers

Association of Kenya (BAKE) member.

Find out more and subscribe for Vincent’s flash

fiction stories at www.flashesofvices.com.For the best

of his poetry go to www.poeticjustnes.com

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Cover Design: Patrick Boro

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