Poetry
Traffic Nuts
A Piece By: Siona
It’s nuts, I know.
Well, the story I’m about to tell.
It’s closer, maybe, to nuts. Like the knucklehead kind.
Or closer still… peanuts.
Peanuts. Aaah!
It all started with peanuts.
A nothing-thing, dusty, salted, small.
But there, in the shimmering exhaust of evening traffic, He saw me.
Not the frame of the car, or the slump of my shoulders,
But the woman inside the cage, the car, I mean.
A hand reached out, an exchange of copper and heat.
The crinkle of the bag was a gunshot in the quiet,
Landing in my lap like a tossed anchor.
It was a gesture so plain it felt violent;
It cracked a rib,
Opening a door to a heart that had grown scales just to survive the silence.
Then came the deluge.
The grand gestures arrived like a rising tide,
Deliberate, rhythmic, relentless.
I watched the shoreline vanish beneath my feet
Until I wasn’t just standing in the surf;
I was submerged.
No air, no weight, no ground,
Just the salt, the pull,
And the terrifying grace of going under.
By: Simaloi
A poignant poem exploring the human cost of political scapegoating and state-sponsored xenophobia in Africa. Before every major election, political elites turn struggling citizens against informal foreign vendors to deflect from inflation, youth unemployment, and systemic state failures. This piece captures the quiet brotherhood of market traders broken apart by border politics and vote-seeking populism.
By: Simaloi
“In the quiet dark, hands reached out when no one was looking”. A spoken word piece on breaking decades of silence.
By: Simaloi
We grow up thinking our parents will always be strong, always be there. Then one day, we notice the grey in Mum’s hair, Dad moving a little slower, and realize that while we were growing up, they were growing old too.
By: Simaloi
Kenya has endured maandamano, abductions, killings and grief, yet somehow we keep waking up, going to work, celebrating and finding reasons to live. As another election approaches, this poem asks the question many of us are quietly carrying: will we have to survive another election, or will we finally get to experience one without fear?
By: Sim
“Ni uchungu,” she said. The room replied, “Itaisha tu, vumilia.” As if pain yields to a quiet command, as if the body unspools its tension simply because someone whispered, “Be calm.” A poetic reflection on women’s pain, clinical language, and the deep need for empathy in modern healthcare.
By: Sim
What happens when the chemicals wear thin,
And unnatural light leaves tender faces burned?
When we forget that beauty’s deep within…