Of Promises and Potholes

On Moi Avenue, where the dust drifts slow,

Mzee Kamau sits, with tales to show.

Promises swirl in the city’s breath,

A chorus of vows left for dead.

“Ah, promises,” Mzee starts to say,

“Like potholes—they shift, but never decay.”

Young Biko, bold, leans close to hear,

With fire in his eye and change so near.

“Our leaders,” says Kamau with a sigh,

“Are chameleons beneath this Nairobi sky.

They pledge us roads, and water, and light,

Yet all we see is the same old plight.”

Mama Wanjiru, with bananas in hand,

Mocks the dream of a wired land.

“Wi-Fi in villages, yet water runs dry,

Another illusion, another sly lie.”

And they laugh, they shout, each voice rings true,

The power in knowing what leaders won’t do.

From corners of Kibera to hills of Meru,

The people sing of promises untrue.

Yet hope, like potholes, never fully dies,

Though buried beneath government lies.

For each laugh that echoes, each story they share,

Is a spark of a dream, of leaders who care.

The streets are tired, the promises worn,

But under each mock, a vision is born—

Of a Kenya where trust isn’t cheap as dust,

And the road to change is paved, not just.