I’d have told you of Grandpa
Of how he owned a big chunk of land
“He’s blessed,” the neighbors said,
Every kind of seed in nurseries he laid,
But of what benefit is it?
A hectare of arabica & robusta,
An orchard full of species
But rarely got to roll in artcafe
And never did we share a table at the juice parlor,
The sole of his foot knows the scorching sun and the coarse sand.
I would have told you of him,
Of how enormous his forelimb were,
Of his flaked nails, and array of scars,
A result of a hardwork so scarce,
But of what gain was it?
At eighty two I found him tilling,
And the story of MauMau he kept on telling,
Not his favorite story,
His freedom has been a lie,
His efforts in a grave will lie,
A forgotten hero he becomes.
Yes, I would have told of his story,
But it’s no nice piece of history,
Colonial bars were once his home
An empty stomach he has had to bear,
His kids he struggled to raise,
The kings regard him not,
If only he had a story.