"Who is your mother?"

-The late Former First Lady Lucy Kibaki-

They said, “You’re never gonna find a lover

with your standards,

never gonna find someone who fits all those demands.

You’ll die alone, lonely,

simply because you refuse to lower yourself for love.”

But honey, let me tell you something real quick

if lowering myself means clapping for clowns,

count me out.

You wear wealth like a rented suit,

but your poverty screams louder than your perfume.

In five-star restaurants you sneer at waiters,

forgetting respect isn’t on the menu.

You drive Jeeps and TXs,

yet roll down your window to fling trash at the world

a king in leather seats,

but barefoot in character.

Splashing muddy water on strangers,

revving engines like applause,

as if the road itself should bow to your ego.

You get paid a hundred thousand,

only to blast cheap bass in a thin-walled apartment,

turning your neighbor’s sleep into your playlist.

Noise is not power, darling

it’s just noise.

And sure, you’re razzle-dazzled in designer fits,

but don’t you sneer and call people *kienyeji*

for living a phase you skipped?

Mocking innocence doesn’t make you seasoned,

it only exposes how bitter your tongue has become.

You flash receipts like scripture,

but heaven knows your debts read louder.

You strut into rooms demanding respect,

yet leave none behind.

Bottles don’t buy dignity,

labels don’t stitch character.

Your laugh is high,

your soul is hollow.

You call yourself rich,

but wealth has never met you

because true richness is quiet,

steady,

rooted.

And if that’s the “love” or “life” I should lower myself for?

Sweetheart, I’d rather stay alone

whole,

soft,

and truly rich.