I learnt to fly with second hand wings.
Wings I borrowed from Maruge
A seeker of knowledge who already lived in his future,
But owned wings of a vulture,
wings capable of flying away from a prison type of culture
Wings determined to grab opportunities with price tags set on the sky and sealed with the clouds for only those who own binoculars.
The type of opportunities with qualifications designed for someone born on February 31st.
These wings I borrowed from a mysterious Kifudu dancer.
A dancer whose choreographic moves could not conform to the rhythm of an oppressor,
Her movement a social justice extravaganza,
Mekatilili Wa Menza.
Her wings strongly built to fight and unite,
To break into mouths and set free each word hushed under the tongue,
imprisoned and swallowed whole.
Wings so strong and bold they broke the prison doors,
For she knew that Freedom is not money to be earned.
These wings I borrowed from the woman of trees.
A revolutionary woman who wore a GREEN BELT with so much pride,
you could think her closet knew only one color,
a belt she tied tight around her waist with so much valor.
Wangari Maathai.
These wings you see,
I borrowed from a grandmother,
A grandmother who bore six children to secure a future,
But the future brought grandchildren left behind,
Hungry for a mother’s touch, they call her mum,
Hungry for education she can't afford
she single handedly tills the land from sunrise through sunset
For the farm produce is the only form of currency she knows to be school fees.
She ties them tight on her bent back as if nothing can separate them
Yet they're two generations apart.
Authentic independence and artificial intelligence
A baby boomer and a Gen-Z if that sounds familiar.
Her positivity the type that makes you wonder if God
adds cations to her oxygen every time she breaths.
See I owe very bad debts
The debts I'm expected to pay with interests
Even though the only interest I have,
I use to write poetry
The type of poetry that strangles me at a quarter past midnight
Nagging me to carry it to the stage.
So let me write with courage and rage.
Let my pen numb this pain.
If that’s the only way a poet can be sane.
Or the only currency I can use to settle these debts.
©Elizabeth Opiyo
