In my poetry, I am not a protest artist, but rather I am an unwilling, untrained artist disillusioned with the world, Africa and Kenya; I am imperfect yet I find myself calling AU, Africa, Kenya to reform their ways. I have done this at a disadvantage because I have no training to “poetize,” if there is such a word. But I am not alone; my inspiration are our village poets–the soloists who sing their hearts out like birds of the field; they were born with the same voice as any of us; the difference is that they answered the call to mourn or praise in song. The widows in my village sang their hearts out for their departed; we called the timid who never opened their mouths to their departed husbands “mon ma numu” (half-baked or raw wives), and doubted their love for their departed. Then we considered the man who never sang a war song a boy. What I have said is that poetry like singing is as natural as sneezing. Write.