#thosehouses

Those houses…

The ones located in places which
know no mud or slush when it rains.
Areas which do not see any dust or teargas.
Those ones which sit on a half acre of land
at the top of the hill
and at the end of a long, neat, paved walkway,
which you drive up to reach the parking area.
The residences with spacious garages that can
comfortably house three cars.
The ones which are hidden behind
high solid wrought iron gates
and chain link fences along which vines of ivy
and honeysuckle creep and climb
to hide them from the view of peering prying eyes.
Houses whose assurance of security comes from
askaris in uniform,
men armed with a gun and a baton,
surveillance cameras, and dogs
which feed on meat and milk.
The lodgings where
you have to ring a bell at the gate and
when you do, the dogs
start barking ferociously.
The plush homes with well-tended flower gardens,
mowed lawns, sprawling green grounds,
where the songs of the birds, the buzz of the bees
and the piercing quiet, are normal sounds.
The ones in the
so-called "leafy neighborhoods"
In winding roads that go round and round the hills
Roads that are labelled Lanes,
Boulevards, Groves, Drives and Streets.
Whose space on the sides is untouched
to allow for evening strolls,
for joggers, sprinters
and those looking to keep fit as they take brisk health walks
The ones which have signs at the door that shout
“ Welcome to our humble abode”
With wind chimes that tinkle in the wind.
Those bungalows with old red tiled roofs,
Which have been scrubbed clean of the moss
that threatened to grow over them,
The ones with huge bay windows,
flung open to let in the cool fresh breeze,
and the light.
And when the night comes, hundreds of bulbs
make the place look as light as day.
Servants’ quarters for the helps,
kennels for the dogs
Hutches for the pet rabbits,
a tree-house for the kids.

Those houses...
Do not know places
Like Korogocho, Katanga, Kisenyi,
where the residents literally
sleep in each other’s faces
in their cramped, wretched hovels
made of mud and wattle,
wood and plastic bags.
Shacks, holey tin roofs,
Sharing tight spaces with all manner of vermin
Rats, Cockroaches, Fleas, Bedbugs, Lice.
Here, when it rains it pours
Because the myalas, filled with discarded buveeras
and bottles, overflow and
vomit their yucky contents on the
always wet and mushy ground.
Where flying toilets are the order of the day.
and it is not uncommon to step into something
soft and smelly
The choking stench from the sewage,
heaps of rotting garbage.
Whiffs of marijuana smoke, cigarettes.
Gangs of youths, hair unkempt, eyes glassy,
smoking, snorting, injecting.
Children playing in the narrow alleyways.
A mama running a brothel,
She tells the kids, "Go and play,
Your Unco is here and we want to talk,
you will come back later."
The house where 11 people share space
with the jerricans, sigiri, saucepans.
Mangy dogs, stray cats
No chickens wandering aimlessly.

Those houses ... 


©LindaKibombo