This is my take on imprisonment. A Kenyan cell is not a place to be, even a holding cell. The moment you enter one, there is an obvious pecking order, which much later translates to where you are going to sleep. There is the newbie corner, pretty close to the waste basket, if you know what I mean. Then there is the first hall, a corridor really to two adjacent cells. There is the intermediate cell which houses the ones who have been there a week and finally the VIP cell, for those who have been there more than a month (This is a scenario of just one of the holding cells).
To be brief, one sleeps on the cold rough floor, packed side by side alternating on opposite ends. This is to ensure a 'best fit' scenario to accommodate a cell meant for ten but packed with a number north of 35. The VIP cell is the only one that has sufficient mattresses and blankets, albeit full of bedbugs.
Depending on what you are being held for, your wait can be indefinite, despite the rule that you cannot be held for more than 24 hours legally. The wait for the inevitable, which could be being charged in court or being let to go is hereby visualized.
A Yearning for Freedom
the air is slightly stale, and I am surprised I do not grimace to it. at least the floor is not very cold and I wonder at its rough comfort. the smell of leather will be my companion tonight for it is from the one solid thing I own here.
the yearning has not subsided, in fact, it is more intense now. I choke at the consequent emotion, and anger rises up my throat and I wonder if tears would help. I know they will not come to me, they have not for a long while. I blink at the darkness, willing my eyes to glue shut and for a second I muse at the curiosity of a certain mystery.... at which point my mind screams for light, but in a hushed voice, barely audible from even within me. the thirst for it is a contradictory need, as I yearn for this stifling darkness to swallow me.
the leg jerks at a touch, just as virtual grace steals me away into the summer heat, into square pavements bustling, breathing and alive... they will not come to me, and I shut my eyes so tight it hurts. a different breeze wafts in, carrying with it evidence of a basic human nature. I welcome its stinging distraction from my chainless shackles. my mind slowly lets go of its cyclic thoughts, a frustrating prison of tight unyielding polythene skin. I claw at it as it chokes me, tightens all around me, denying me air.
they will not come to me, I must be strong, the thread holding me is unraveling. is this the road to insanity? it cannot be...
they will not come to me. there is no shame to it. but still, they deny me momentary solace. should I turn to look? the glitter might be my window to mental freedom, it is light within darkness. but what is a drop of water upon perched lips, if the whole draught will not be mine.
they will not come to me, and another light steals me from within the darkness, though only for a short long while.
Originally posted on March 3rd, 2009
by Antony Kamau
This is quite possibly the very first poem posted on this blog, after having being invited to post my work. I wrote it impromptu, like they were words suppressed within crying out to be expressed. A floodgate was opened then and I hope the torrents never run dry.
they tumble down the hand
seeking freedom
seeking speech
seeking expression
I give them audience
to speak for me
and to me
the words much like poetry
To be brief, one sleeps on the cold rough floor, packed side by side alternating on opposite ends. This is to ensure a 'best fit' scenario to accommodate a cell meant for ten but packed with a number north of 35. The VIP cell is the only one that has sufficient mattresses and blankets, albeit full of bedbugs.
Depending on what you are being held for, your wait can be indefinite, despite the rule that you cannot be held for more than 24 hours legally. The wait for the inevitable, which could be being charged in court or being let to go is hereby visualized.
A Yearning for Freedom
the air is slightly stale, and I am surprised I do not grimace to it. at least the floor is not very cold and I wonder at its rough comfort. the smell of leather will be my companion tonight for it is from the one solid thing I own here.
the yearning has not subsided, in fact, it is more intense now. I choke at the consequent emotion, and anger rises up my throat and I wonder if tears would help. I know they will not come to me, they have not for a long while. I blink at the darkness, willing my eyes to glue shut and for a second I muse at the curiosity of a certain mystery.... at which point my mind screams for light, but in a hushed voice, barely audible from even within me. the thirst for it is a contradictory need, as I yearn for this stifling darkness to swallow me.
the leg jerks at a touch, just as virtual grace steals me away into the summer heat, into square pavements bustling, breathing and alive... they will not come to me, and I shut my eyes so tight it hurts. a different breeze wafts in, carrying with it evidence of a basic human nature. I welcome its stinging distraction from my chainless shackles. my mind slowly lets go of its cyclic thoughts, a frustrating prison of tight unyielding polythene skin. I claw at it as it chokes me, tightens all around me, denying me air.
they will not come to me, I must be strong, the thread holding me is unraveling. is this the road to insanity? it cannot be...
they will not come to me. there is no shame to it. but still, they deny me momentary solace. should I turn to look? the glitter might be my window to mental freedom, it is light within darkness. but what is a drop of water upon perched lips, if the whole draught will not be mine.
they will not come to me, and another light steals me from within the darkness, though only for a short long while.
Originally posted on March 3rd, 2009
by Antony Kamau
This is quite possibly the very first poem posted on this blog, after having being invited to post my work. I wrote it impromptu, like they were words suppressed within crying out to be expressed. A floodgate was opened then and I hope the torrents never run dry.
they tumble down the hand
seeking freedom
seeking speech
seeking expression
I give them audience
to speak for me
and to me
the words much like poetry
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