(Ngano ya matajiri Maskini — a spoken tale)
“Eh!”
Muuweni?
Listen, children of the ear.
Listen, elders of memory.
For the mouth that tells truth
Must be fed with rhythm.
Long ago, an elder from Mwanika ;the village in the city
Told a tale of six rich beggars
There are people…
“Eh!”
Who owns the river
But drink like strangers.
They have granaries swollen like calabashes,
Yet they chew slowly,
Counting morsels,
Counting moons,
Counting the shadow of hunger
They dress in poverty,
Wrap fear like a shuka,
Hide wealth under dust
So no hand may knock,
So no cousin may ask.
Beautiful plates and glasses locked in
For visitors they hardly have
They use the faded lot
Workers use broken plates repaired with glue
They lock flour in their rooms
Workers drink dry milkless tea
Buy smallest quantities, else
The house help may eat or steal
Relatives may visit steal and eat too
Proverb says:
“He who hides grain
Starves in a full season.”
Say it:
They have, but they fear having.
Who will tell them ,we live on borrowed time
There are people…
“Eh!”
They come from lineages
Where wealth is a wrestling match.
Brother watches brother.
Cousin counts cousin.
Who owns more land?
Who built higher walls?
Who buried envy deepest?
They look left,
Someone is ahead.
They look right,
Someone is richer.
They look inward,
They feel poor.
“Eh!”
A man standing in a full kraal
Crying,
“I have no cow.”
Say it again:
Comparison eats the owner.
Who will tell them ,we live on borrowed time
There are people,
“Eh!”
Age walks toward them
Like a drumbeat they cannot silence.
Wrinkles ask questions
Money cannot answer.
“Am I rich enough for my years?”
“Did I arrive on time?”
So they deny themselves.
Deny their wives.
Deny their children.
Deny laughter
As if joy leaks money.
They squeeze helpers dry,
Pay loyalty with injustice,
Run after time
Until their eyes forget
What their hands already hold.
Say it again
“The one chasing tomorrow
Trips over today.”
Who will tell them ,we live on borrowed time
There are people…
“Eh!”
Now listen ..
This one is heavy.
When they help…
“Eh!”
They carve it in stone.
They write it in smoke.
They record it in blood memory.
“I paid your school fees.”
“I helped you that year.”
“I carried you once.”
They sing it!
Again,
And again,
And again!
Like a broken record.
Like a drum with one sound.
There help never rests.
It follows you like a debt.
It walks before you in meetings.
It announces itself at funerals…
“Eh!”
A gift that shouts
Is not a gift.
Say it again
“The left hand should not wake the village
About what the right hand gave.”
Who will tell them ,we live on borrowed time
There are people…
“Eh!”
They say,
“I do this for my children.”
But whose children do they bury?
Whose children do they dim?
They use people
Like firewood
Burn,
Warm,
Discard.
After profit,
They change names,
Change clans,
Change stories.
Say it again
When money speaks,
Their memory develops a limp.
Who will tell them we live on borrowed time
There are people…
“Eh!”
When they travel home…
“Eh!”
To the village of dust and memory,
They hide the big cars behind town gates.
They park power far away,
Borrow old engines with coughing throats.
A car that rattles like poverty,
A car that lies for them.
“Tusiombwe pesa ,” they whisper
Let us not be asked for money
Let us not invite envy.
“Tusionekane matajiri” they pray
Let us not look rich
Let us not be borrowed from.
Let us pass as small…
“Eh!”
They arrive feigning struggle,
So hands will not stretch,
So mouths will not ask,
So truth will not recognize them.
Say it again
A rich man borrowing poverty
To protect his wealth.
Who will tell them ,we live on borrowed time
There are people
Eh !
They live borrowed lives.
Borrow cars.
Borrow accents.
Borrow laughter.
Fake body
Fake eyes
Fake behinds
Fake front
Fake smiles
They laugh with the rich,
Mock morals,
Lick boots polished with corruption.
Eh!
They kneel while standing.
Dignity?
Too heavy to carry.
Conscience?
Too costly to feed.
Say it loud:
They rent greatness.
Who will tell them ,we live on borrowed time
There are people
Eh!
They will do anything
Anything.
Sign here.
Bend there.
Lie well.
Smile wide.
They grab tenders
With hands still wet.
They drink from wells dug by widows.
They feast on the sweat of orphans.
They milk the poor
Until even tears are taxed.
Say it again
“Wealth cooked with blood
Never feeds the soul.”
Who will tell them ,we live on borrowed time
There are people
Eh !
Whose fathers, grandfather and great-grandfathers
Heaped enough
They store riches, dynasties ,vast lands ….
For children not yet named,
Yet hunger walks beside them.
They are never full.
Never done.
Never satisfied.
They die reaching.
They die counting.
They die stealing…
Fists clenched,
Souls naked.
Say it again !
A grave full of gold.
A spirit without shelter.
Who will tell them ,we live on borrowed time
So hear this,
Children of the drum:
Not all beggars lack money.
Some rich people are poor than the poor
Some beg because they lack peace.
Rich beggars.
Owners of everything.
Belonging to nothing.
Eh—
Ô tiyaa mantu ! Here are things!
The story is yours now.
By Jerusha Kananu Marete
02/08/2026
English 
Spanish
