rhythmic rinsing roofs,
rolling rivers, rumbling roads
and somewhere inside that storm,
my story starts.
They call me Karanja —
clerk of clouds, keeper of cards,
registrar of rain-washed dreams.
I sit beneath a tent torn by thunder,
paper pages puddled, pen poised,
ink itching for identity.
Then came
Mama Atieno in her floral leso,
face folded with faith.
She says, “Jowadwa…if I die today, let me die counted.”
Behind her,
a boda brother booms,
“Boss, this rain can’t stop destiny!
If the machine can read my thumb,
maybe it can read my hustle!”
We laugh —
but our laughter leaks,
like old umbrellas in April.
—
Then — blackout.
Machine freezes.
Crowd fizzes.
Someone screams,
“This is Kenya — even change buffers!”
******
That night I walked home,
mud kissing my shoes,
mind whispering my muse.
I asked the puddles,
“Puddles, what’s the point?”
They replied,
“Every drop counts — even the dirty ones.”
And I realized —
I don’t record names.
I resurrect nations.
I don’t stamp papers.
I spark purpose.
We are the thunder that votes.
We are the lightning that learns.
We are the puddles that reflect progress.
So don’t ask me if I registered them all —
ask if I still believe.
Because I do.
I believe in Kenya, kazi, courage, consistency.
I believe in ballots, not bullets;
in fingerprints, not fistfights;
in rain that rinses, not ruins.
Let it rain, rain, rain —
real rain that reforms and reminds!
For even in floods, faith floats.
Even in chaos, change chants.
Even in mud, miracles bud.
I am Karanja —
keeper of keys,
clerk of courage,
custodian of country.
The man who turns names into nations,
drops into reason,
and ink into independence.
Karanja: Register hope.
Record humanity.
Repeat.
