Muyaka bin Haji al-Ghassaniy
A Pit of Darkness
Two poems translated from the Swahili by Richard Prins
Listen to Mombasa roar, its deepest waters luminous.
Never exposing its core, the island has shut its lips.
If you can’t hear the cries of war, footsteps of old strategists,
Here is a pit of darkness. If you know it, you know nothing.
Mombasa has vindictive soil. Don’t strut upon it like that.
The countless secrets it holds, sages will never quite grasp.
Look now as a wave unfolds—around the island, front to back.
Here is a cavernous crack. If you know it, you know nothing.
Whoever teases this city, festooning it with change,
Will have his legs smashed quickly, so he always walks with pain.
Then he’ll be a mewling kitty, scourged and blighted with mange.
Here is a fathomless bane. If you know it, you know nothing.
Queen Mkisi’s royal estate—island of war, city of old.
Don’t just vault into this place. If you tread here, not so bold.
Keep your neck bent at the nape, and see that your eyes stay closed.
Here is an abyss untold. If you know it, you know nothing.
Mombasa, city of hubris—which roars resoundingly loud.
All of its swords are brandished, the blades of lions so proud.
The bellowing is endless when battle drums start to pound.
Here is a chasm profound. If you know it, you know nothing.
Listen to Mombasa roar, its deepest waters luminous.
Never exposing its core, the island has shut its lips.
If you can’t hear the cries of war, footsteps of old strategists,
Here is a pit of darkness. If you know it, you know nothing.
Mombasa has vindictive soil. Don’t strut upon it like that.
The countless secrets it holds, sages will never quite grasp.
Look now as a wave unfolds—around the island, front to back.
Here is a cavernous crack. If you know it, you know nothing.
Whoever teases this city, festooning it with change,
Will have his legs smashed quickly, so he always walks with pain.
Then he’ll be a mewling kitty, scourged and blighted with mange.
Here is a fathomless bane. If you know it, you know nothing.
Queen Mkisi’s royal estate—island of war, city of old.
Don’t just vault into this place. If you tread here, not so bold.
Keep your neck bent at the nape, and see that your eyes stay closed.
Here is an abyss untold. If you know it, you know nothing.
Mombasa, city of hubris—which roars resoundingly loud.
All of its swords are brandished, the blades of lions so proud.
The bellowing is endless when battle drums start to pound.
Here is a chasm profound. If you know it, you know nothing.
They Walk Around with Axes
If you eat meat on wooden trays, that means your plates are busted.
There are no carpenters these days. The skillful workers left us.
It’s just Mwafaka and Nyenye, the only ones who lasted.
They walk around with axes, but they can’t unbend a tree.
They might have a bunch of saws. They’re up to their ears in levers.
But they must be a bit slow, since they haven’t discovered
That although they love to hew, it’s not what they’re cut out for.
They walk around with axes, sure, but can’t unbend a tree.
When they hack apart a tree and put the trunk in sectors,
Their planing leaves it knobby. They don’t sand down the splinters.
Don’t say they’re just ornery. It’s obvious they’re amateurs.
They walk around with cleavers, but they can’t unbend a tree.