I Sing of the Pokots

I sing of the Pokots, my kinsmen,
of their beautiful shukas
of their colourful beads
of their lorwaas

I sing of the Pokots.

I sing of their warm hearts
and their ebony-black skins
which shine under the African sun

for when others sing of them otherwise
of raiding
of killing
of maiming
i know-much as they know-that
they are quilty of expanding truth
with untruths and half-lies

I sing of the Pokots.

i sing of their dome-shaped huts
mud-walled
grass-thatched
ringed to form a manyatta

and in the evening when the sunset retreats
behind the hills
i hear the cow-bells
and the bleat of goats
interspersed with the whistle of a herdsboy

I sing of the Pokots.

In the evening at the fireplace
I hear grandma Ko Chepkura saying
her witty Hare tales
exposing her toothless gums
laughter filling the smoke-filled hut

I sing of the Pokots.

When I hear my brothers say that
Pokots are blood-thirsty, I wonder
assuming they are, then are they
cannibals, my kinsmen?

when I hear my brothers say that
all Pokots love stealing cows, I wonder
could it be true that it is genetic, hereditary?
assuming, again, that they are
I wonder then what becomes of the good lot?

Brothers, why then are your tongues quick
to brand communities
and classify them as scientists do to animals?
brothers, why then are your pens quick
to write "bandit lot", "blood-thristy" or "eager-to-kill"?

Be that as it may, I sing of the Pokots.

In the morning, I wake with the sound of
women chattering at the cow-shed
their smiles bright as sun
their walks energetic

I sing of the Pokots.