When the Handshake Passes the Elbow

When the handshake passes the elbow, it becomes another thing. This is a considerably prevalent proverb in Chinua Achebe’s works. Now, it can be waxed into a matter of literary concern. This is in complete disagreement with Susan Wanjiru’s view on the section of readers corner on Saturday Nation of June 15^th. She voiced an argument that the youth should be allowed to read romantic novels; for that is usually probably a starting point for them. According to me, this is arguably false. I will not deny the positivity behind universal and partial reading of many books; romantic ones included. However, we youths mostly overdo it. Nora Roberts, Julie Garwood, Danielle Steele; that is what most youths read.

They simply cannot afford to stomach reading about literary work written by a black hand. If you ask them, they will not hesitate to dismiss such works as being uncivilized. Or rather to put it in friendly terms; being analog (not digital). Times have moved, and man has absorbed civilization; they will throw in some more spices into the already cooking pot.

Go to most libraries in town or street book vendors. And you will testify to what I am saying. Mentioning the word “library”, what I mostly witnesses with my colleague students comes to mind in relation to the matter at hand. When they go to the library, it is something not of this world for them to be interested in “civilized” books authored by “enlightened” writers. Additionally, it will be very normal to find only a few indicative borrowing stamps on any African-authored novel. Needless to say, you will not fail to recognize Western romantic titles being riddled with a promising number of stamps. Even the librarian will severally be forced to fix more pieces of paper on the book!      

Some weeks back, I gave out a copy of my short story to my fellow students. They were supposed to read and then give me back their recommendations. They really read through it. However, the truth about their recommendations was the opposite side of my expectations. Most of them dismissed it as “not containing the degree of civilization and expertise evident in Sheldom’s works.”

So now tell me; if reading of romantic works of literature among the youth has gone such far, will the products of the African pen be recognized? Will the African literary dignity pioneered by Achebe, Ngugi, Ogot stay in place? Or will it fall apart? For most youths, who to inherit the literary thrones of past literary kings is of no value to them. This further melts down to the painful fact that they even never dream of writing (save for “enlightened” literature). Down the ladder, it is possible that present (and future) writers will be subjected to literary wilderness, as Taban Lo Liyong would have described the situation. Who do you write for if the expected readers do not ‘like’ and value literature as an heirloom of African advancement, dignity and identity among the international community?  
This article appeared on the Saturday Nation of 14th September, 2013 - page 28 
14th September, 2013

©2013 Peter Ngila

Climbing the Mountain

Mount Kenya University; our school

Has really scaled the heights

Climbed the mountains of education

In and outside the country.

However, we as students have to sweat it out

To climb personal mountains of education.

That’s why am not happy

From Monday to Friday

My precious time and fare

Gets wasted

So that I can attend lectures. 

Here I am

A digitalized engineering student

Who has designed a robot

For taking me up  there above the clouds

To punish they who brought

All this book-struggling to us.

The robot is climbing up

The steep steps of the atmosphere.

In heaven I am now

Holding a cane.

I dispenses three hot strokes of the cane

On Eve’s buttocks

Then advances towards her husband.

But Michael the Arch-angel

Kicks me back to my seat

At Uniafric house

Where am listening to a lecturer

Who is possibly lecturing for eternity

He does not seem to understand

That my dry throat needs some unlocking

That my lover

Is waiting for me.

Have a look at Nairobi city!

Lit like a bush

Full of countless glow worms.

Look at the beautiful

Gleaming lights of Tribeka club!

At the cheap hotels

Located at Odeon Cinema

Am forced to take lunch

Of chips which cost thirty bob

They say it’s usually prepared

Using some poisonous electricity transformer oil.

My pockets are

really too small

for the likes of Java.

But my fellow mountain climbers

Let’s fold the sleeves of our shirts

To hold onto the mountain’s

tricky walls for guidance

To climb all the way to the top.

And of course

We will have plenty to enjoy

In the snow capped peak of the mountain

Armed with huge jackets

For preventing the destructive advances

Of the then present world.

 ©2013 Vetelo Ngila

Beloved Mwende

As beautiful as the sunrise Mwende was

With an enchanting figure which

Was wrapped with other features,

Miraculous features which performed miracles

Of sending masculine minds to another world.

Her rich-brown complexion was like highly scented roses

To men who would transform to bees on seeing her,

And began visualizing how to harvest her honey.

Most of them were influentially moneyed.

Her heart, however did not go for them,

Did not go for any other man even.

Her blood was, however, a sister to that of Eve.

Severally did she find herself having divorced from her Father’s command

Of not eating and sharing the forbidden fruit with Adam.

Now, she walks with her heavy stomach protruded

As though it has become the real body

Her once rich Mount Kenya compartments have shrank to the size of ugali

Capable of feeding only a family of two, if not one

Or even a half.

Her mother had great hopes for her only investment.

Any form of ‘dirt’ should not catch up with her.

So, the doctor executed his duty to the fullest

As Mwende lay uncomfortably on the bed.

The innocent mutilated creature emerged

Mwende saw it and nearly died.

A sight she would never forget its existence

Or rather a creature which would keep on haunting her dreams.

Her mother was jubilantly elated

When her daughter’s heart was bought with a lot of goats and money

By some financially worthy man

One, two, three, five, seven----------

Many years passed and Mwende was yet

To be called mama somebody.

Her man chased her away

After realizing her genuine productivity state

For her body baby sleeping mat was the problem.

It could not accommodate a breathing creature.