Poetry by Sally Kahiu
I am cautious of a religion that leaves me out of creation.
One that has me shuffling between colours
and ruffling beneath pants to find my connection
to all that is supposedly formed in calculation and precision.
Knowing that my questioning is not rooted in pure evil
But in the whispers of the 9 daughters of a sacred tree after which my dear sister is called.
Similar in their mimicry of the poetic sounds of Lorde’s preaching
nursed in Mwana Mimi’s dirge of lost regal and smouldering monarchs.
I am wary of a religion that perverts my existence by omission.
Has me looking for a connection between bloody rib cages
and Mumbi who just happened ‘to be there’ when Gikuyu was brought to his mandated land.
One that pervades my humanity in its history, philosophy, science and physicality.
My dance is gated in strange tongue and pedaled on my ass.
I am suspicious yes, all the damn time.
Side eyed glances inside the monstrosities of bedazzled stone buildings,
is what I am reduced to, as the person raises his hand to condemn
my laughter and the sweet scented sanctity between my legs.
I hear lores of a healer in the grasslands.
They call her a witch, which I am beginning to doubt.
Besides, between her and the one who stands before me
How much more madness can there be?
Yeah, I ought to check out the grasslands.
Sally Kahiu © 2013