Upya Fresh

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Age, Dreams, Love, Death

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETIbcEdyVfk The sweet child, golden her smile Death of innocence, led to her being Love was had, made and shaped – furiously Age was come, the world and the home – to enrich. The sweet child, golden her smile Cuddly and warm is she, ‘cept when called to dine She would rather play, not away her dolls – file Tantrums she is, tantrums she does, this sweet child of mine. Age is catching up Dreams are drying up Love withers away Death rides on the highway. Dreams, the essence of all that is A business to start, a sweet one to kiss If killed, sharp is the cobra’s hiss The daring shoot the star, can’t – the moon – miss. The infant wonders, clear eyes wanders Age trickles, drips and drops to the sea There is still no dreaming of what could be Love, Death – each Being flounders. Age is catching up Dreams are drying up Love withers away Death rides on the highway. Love, some claim He and She - The First Words, deeds, faith, trust

My Once-Molly (Political versus Business Ethics),

Dear Molly. How are you? As always, I hope you are well. You know, there is something about you, something that made me inspire for better. Was it that rich smokers’ laughter of yours? The daring twinkle that flashed in your eyes when you were angry? The tight curl in your lips when you were about to lash out? Anyway, Molly, I continue with my business training. I am now thinking of business as warfare – the honourable kind of warfare; chivalry, observing the rules… not the Machiavellian 48-Laws-of-Power warfare where there is no honour, but only winning. Politics of deceit, our president calls it. Well, these past couple of days have been chilly… a precursor to June’s biting cold? Anyway, I am more often sad than happy during the cold months of June and July. I totally blame this on Sam Kahiga’s short story, ‘The Last Breath’ – if my memory serves me right. Off the ‘Encounters from Africa’ anthology. There is a way he made June and July sad. Pretty much like you wouldn’t tail a

Remembrances

Soft faces in tender places, I remember Shy lips and high hips, cold, the embers Soft skin and what could have been Echoes of stillness, in my labour, I have seen. Dotted noses and eyes brows, I have kissed In the throes of passion, questions missed Loved etched, sketched and drenched Here now I stand, on the world’s edge. It is a warm, fuzzy August night, as some books say. Mice scurry about, fat cats on their tails’ ends. I guess this is still so in one of your many books. Anyway, them books have squeezed me out of your heart and mind. Surely strange, but to love you in one still world is impossible when you live in so many. I am sure, too, that there is a pretty poem that says what’s in my heart about our situation. Adios. Feverish nights, grey nights, my dreams are possessed Yet, come morning, the old hauntings are to be dispensed The day is come, revealing the world as it is – boring I long for dusk, then I can pirate to adventure – roaring. It is a holiday. I am in

My Once-Molly (The Job To Be Done),

My dear Molly, how are you? I hope you are good. I am well as well can be, with the flooding, the inflation, and all. Anyway, grapevine (or maybe, I am a stalker) has it that you are nowadays into the beauty business. Very soon, I too will be emulating you. We may be compatible at all, conquer the world together as business icons. My dear Molly, it may interest you to know that I am doing business training – my bank, UBA, and its founder, Tony Elumelu, is that special. Always seeking to empower African entrepreneurs. The excellent thing about the training is that it is very practical to today’s and the coming future business needs. As a matter of course, we also are directed to additional reading to widen our entrepreneurial minds. The Job To Be Done. Clayton M. Christensen. In the words of Johnny Nash, ‘I can see clearly now that the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles on my way…’ What a beauty this is! It is something you should look up, understand what is it you are selling to

My-Once Molly (Praying for a Rainbow),

Dear Molly, I hope you are ok and are keeping safe in these floods. As for me, I am heartbroken. I am in pain. My mind, my body, my spirit aches. I am numb with grief. As is the nation of Kenya. The picture just won’t get out of our minds – the father, trudging stoically, his dead, muddy son slung over his shoulder. It’s a devastating image… the screams, elsewhere, as a boat capsizes, the swollen river swallows a lorry… Izrael has visited the land. Dear Molly, a while back, the nation faced drought. Then, images of dead livestock, emaciated men, women and children, parched, cracked earth, haunted our screens. Elsewhere where there was a glut in food production, the farmers cried for their fellow starving countrymen. They demanded for lorries to traverse the rutted roads and take the produce to their brethren… collectively, we prayed for rain. Dear Molly... will we ever catch a break as Kenya? The Covid-19 pandemic that paralysed lives and livelihoods in 2020 as we recovered from th

My Once-Molly (A Theft),

Hi Molly. How are you? The floods are here and I almost drowned – should have gone for swimming lessons as you often times suggested. Anyways, I now walk with a motorcycle tire’s tube and pump in my backpack. DIY lifesaver gear as instructed by Grade 3 CBC cohort. Dear Molly, as I informed you last time, I shifted. Partly, the floods, partly, change, partly, finances. This Creative Writing journey is taking a bit of time to yield fruits, but I hang on, consoled by the words of one Ernest Hemingway, whose ending was horrible: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Where I shifted to, is a downgrade. ‘Mabati’ rooms – plenty of stories, though as living is communal and one’s business is everyone’s business. Such as the recent theft – a woofer, charger, ‘meko’ gas, a bar of soap, and a bucket of maize flower - that’s how ‘flour’ is pronounced, FIY. Must have been pretty hungry, them thieves. How it unfolded. A bit of commotion early morning

My-Once Molly (thinking of Valentine),

My-Once Molly… the girl who broke my heart, the one who got away, the one who promised me the world and left me to survive alone – typical of our Kenyan politicians… I hope you are good. Now, as February – the month of love – lurks about, I find myself thinking of you. Thing is, my dear Molly, I have new neighbours. A young couple, very much in love like we once were. The young lady, her name is Val… maybe Valentine… I don’t know. This Val, a spirited girl with rich, deep, heaving laughter - almost like yours. Her smile… ah! You should see it. The shine of the morning sun distilling the dew upon cool meadows… I am totally in love with her. Alarmingly, she teases me much and I am getting ideas… Molly, dear, wherever you are, please pray for me… the temptation is too much. If you don’t, the frail creature that I am may fall. This, despite having numerous songs in my playlist to warn me. Invariably, Majengo – that infamous locale – does a dishonourable appearance in most of them… ‘Maj