I saw through the paint.

“Mommy i want to go out and play.”The baby lion begged. One chance to play in the rain like his friends was all he wanted.Over and over he asked. If only he could be quiet. Mama lion had a bad day. The hunt was fruitless and the rains had shown no mercy. She couldn’t take the nagging anymore so out of anger she pushed baby lion only to shut him up but what she didn’t  know was the sharp edge of a rock waiting on him,It pierced through his heart soo hard that his breath escaped him. Poor mama simba she couldn’t  stand the pain of causing her son’s  death, so she danced over the cliff into the river at the rhythm of her sorrow to her death.

An artist’s  story. How it excites and fascinates you. Take painters for example, how they paint their moments be it joy,sorrow,pain, name them. How they bring out the beauty within and around. Moulding everything into a clear picture. They paint their dream, we see the stories, laugh, cry, sympathize and sometimes we forget to appreciate. we forget that sometimes its not about the painting but also the purpose and the painter.  They paint, write, sing,draw,and we listen read and dance to their art like we all understand the mystery of the artistic mind. so I’ll appreciate. kudos.






Thankyou Nairobi art buyers weekend for what you do. Your exhibitions are amazing.


In my young days I praised the master
whose pictures I liked, but as my judgment
matured I praised myself for liking what the
masters had chosen to have me like.
Okakura Kakuzō, The Book of Tea


The storytellers story.

In his dusty room,
As he calls it, “my little cocoon,
With a smile, he creates a paradise,
For a while,  his troubles evanesce,
The joy of creating a character,
The happily ever after,
He begins  with once upon a time,
We cry, we laugh as we move with the rhythm,
He gets carried away, he rises and falls with the flow,
In a way, the peak gives the end of a story,and a start of his own.

The noisy typewriter, tattered pieces of paper all over the floor,
The lonely writer, he knows not of the new technology,
Wishes to live like his characters, like his own creation,
Confined in his own thoughts, he wonders back in the days,
When he wrote for fame, never thought he’ll  do it for life,
His own is interesting, he knows not how to write it down,
He wishes to tell his own, but if wishes were horse,
Poor old storyteller, how will his story end.

Maybe someday, there will be, Adventures  of the storyteller.

Power of the drum

Soothe me,
Help me escape my reality,
In my fantasy world,help me dream on.
Be sweeter than honey,swipe me away to the dance floor.
Should i go up or down? or move like a tornado?
When i find me in the dance floor, make me not dance like av got two left legs.That will shame me.
I cant stand shame, for my tears are  close and my legs are weak to withstand it.

Scars of my heart

When stabbed, you feel that intense  pain. The pain that makes you wanna die. If you get stabbed again and again the pain becomes pleasure, you get used to it and refuse to let go and finally  it kills you.

My heart, create a barrier. Have your  wall thick.whenever you get stabbed by disappointments, let the pain hit on your thick wall for the pleasure  it brings will kill you. Turn your scars into flowers they may become too many to create a garden.

Scars of my heart please heal quick, forget what caused you, form a beautiful garden and beware of rodents. They are always too close.




I need not to say more. Those that came up with the saying that,those who laugh last laughs the best, mush have had quite an expirience.

Life is like a merry-go-round. Today it might be my turn to be hit by a bullet but who knows tomorrow, it might be you. Be careful what you do unto others, do unto them what you would like done to you. No one ever knows when a  bird will piss on their heads.should i rather say, the hen never knows the fate of its eggs,whether they will hatch into chicks or become a omelet.