Ifs, Buts, and Maybes

I wonder if what will kill me will be a fruit falling on my head,
a ripe mango crashing down, heavy as regret unsaid.
Or maybe a propaganda plague like Covid, a pandemic staged with lies,
where I become an innocent pawn in the state’s grand disguise.
Or perhaps both: fruit and fever, a comedy of demise.

I wonder if cats scheme against humans’ fragile reign,
Those subtle beasts of secrecy, aloof with sly disdain.
If not for the food we give them, would they sharpen their claws for war?
Would they rise as silent rebels, to settle an ancient score?
Sometimes I think they hate us more than we know for sure.

I wonder if I’d taken my high school days to heart,
If I hadn’t just counted rice days and longed for the holiday breaks to start.
I wonder if I’d been made captain,
Would my leadership have grown?
Would my strange philosophies of command have been known?
Or would my name be forgotten, like chalk on brittle stone?

I wonder about the love I left behind, if it had carried on,
Would I have found joy, or burned both of us numb till the feeling was gone.
Would we have known each other’s edges, that no threat could tear apart?
But who am I kidding,
I’m a restless playboy with a fickle, hungry heart,
With my weakness for simple beauty, and my hunger for knockers,
It could never have lasted—but still, I wonder what if it did.

I wonder day and night.
Lecturers are on strike—no system seems to work here anymore (surprise surprise).
So I sit and stare at the blank white wall in my room,
and let my thoughts wander through corridors of memory.
Some bring a lump to my throat,
Some a tear to my eye,
While others bring a smile, and nostalgia sends goosebumps down my arms.

I wonder of Musa, if he were still alive,
What would be of Limpopo Band, and of Johnny Junior?
What would be of Prince, the so-called Doyen?
I wonder if I’d grown up in Ethiopia, would I be a reggae boy,
with dreads swaying as I sing?
I wonder if my brother were still alive,
would his small radio still play Konshens and Michael Jackson, spinning night into day?
I wonder if he’d have mastered the moves by now.

I wonder if I had continued with scouting after primary,
Or gotten together with nyar okuyu right after those days.
If I’d spent my nine-month corona holiday in Karachuonyo, 
Would I be a chiseled, rugged ocha boy by now—
mixing concrete, and milking a moody cow with ease?

I wonder of debts, of cars and trips on loan,
Of living in fear that creditors will darken my home.
Am I losing touch with value, or just naive to the game,
Blind to the strange enchantment of debt cloaked as fame?
Perhaps there’s an adulthood lesson on debt that I missed.

I wonder if Kenya stood perfect, a true democracy,
Would blood still stain our streets in the name of liberty?
Would the West withdraw its aid, would tourists stay away,
Or would our nation flourish, proud beneath the sun’s array?
I wonder what Tom Mboya would say of us today.

I wonder what would have become of my family,
if my grandfather had stayed in France after fighting in WWII,
If France had become his land, my blood tied to its avenue.
Would I brush past Mbappé on Paris’ crowded, stinking streets?
If my father had not left Karachuonyo’s weary plains in search of my beautiful mother in Seme,
Would my childhood still have glowed as brightly, free of drought and chains?
Some choices echo loudly through the blood within our veins.

I wonder if the ‘enemies’ I made in primary still exist,
If they ever did something with their lives.
I hope not—for I’ve done nothing yet with mine.
It would sting if those ghosts of my head succeeded before me.
I wonder if I’ll be the first or last among my childhood friends to rise,
For I fear being in the middle, forgotten like a passing shadow.
I want to succeed either early, or late enough to be remembered.
I wonder if those I wronged still dwell on the scars I left behind,
Or if they’ve let bygones be bygones,
Or are plotting revenge like Lex Luthor, waiting for their time.

I wonder if the gods have grown weary of my two decades on earth,
And marked me for departure, to make room for worthier souls.
Would God extend my probation, like Hezekiah’s borrowed years,
If I knew the day of my death and fell to my knees, begging for mercy?
I wonder if His grace would pardon me, if my life flashed before my eyes.

I wonder if my girlfriend sometimes longs for a man more tall,
More athletic!
A pro footballer, rugby brute, or a tennis star with gall.
Does she wish for darker, handsomer flesh than mine,
Or is my clumsy sunshine the warmth she calls divine?
Her laughter makes me hopeful—but doubt still intertwines.

I wonder if I hadn’t started this humble newsletter,
Would I have known my words could mend my heart’s own tether?
Would she still find my flirting witty, charming, light?
Would she have her own blog, where we’d read each other at night?
I wonder if this craft will ever make money—someday, maybe never.

I wonder. . .

✍🏽Reagan.