I sing not this infamous slum
That is constantly topical
For crime, poverty, calamities
That characterise daily routine.
In your mud-walled falling hut
When dogs bark out,
And you hide under the bed
For slightest knocks on door.
People are socialised
To live like social animals they are;
Yet, no one is safe,
Even with their selves.
They wake up for today only
Not knowing what may befall;
Whether floods or bullets or gangsters,
Life still clings on same unwavering fetters.
I sing not for the open sewerages
That adorns people’s compounds.
The flying toilets, and a little fuss
That peculiarises daily life
The government assures its people
Yet the people live a downcast life,
A life that they borrow
And lenders sit tightly on their necks
I sing not Kibera,
Because there is nothing to sing
There is poverty to mourn,
There is neglect to pity,
There is crime to fear,
Yet, where can one run to
When the pockets snugly restrain them?