By Shem Onderi
Imagine me flying—
Light as a whisper, gliding through the open spaces,
High above the noise of humanity,
Alone, yet free in my own world.
Up there, I’d look down on the houses,
Tiny boxes of dreams and secrets.
I’d land softly on their rooftops,
While their gates stood firmly shut—
Barriers meant to keep strangers out.
I’d slip into their kitchens,
Taste the day’s delicacies—
Not out of greed,
But out of the pure joy of freedom.
Then, before suspicion rose,
I’d be gone—
Back into the wide, forgiving air.
I’d drift toward offices,
Tiny enough to squeeze through open windows,
Perch on desks,
And peek at files marked Confidential.
Better yet, I’d visit my own office—
My boss’s desk, my file, my fate.
I’d read his comments,
Find the words that wound,
Erase them quietly,
Write a better version of me,
Sign it,
Save it,
And fly out—redeemed and smiling.
Higher I’d soar,
From cloud to cloud,
Dodging turbulence,
Sampling the clean air that angels breathe.
With my wings, I’d beat all traffic—
Never late for work,
Never needing a matatu or locomotive,
No fuel, no garage,
Just a full stomach and the open sky.
But alas—
I cannot fly.
The best I can do
Is sit in a plane,
Trapped in a metal box
Pretending to be a bird.
So this remains—
Just a wish,
A sweet, unfortunate dream:
I can’t fly.