Haya mashahiri manne yametafsiriwa kutoka kwenye lugha ya Kizungu hadi Kiswahili na Peter Ngila Njeri, na kutoka kwenye kwenye Kiaislandi hadi Kizungu na Hlín Leifsdóttir. (These four poems have been translated from English to Kiswahili by Peter Ngila Njeri and from the Icelandic to English by Hlín Leifsdóttir).
The poems are all on an album made by the author with Vasilis Chountas titled Andrými published by The Institute for Experimental Arts.
- Kinubi Cha Nyuzi Za Sauti
Na Hlín Leifsdóttir
Kiunganishe kinubi kutona na nyuzi za sauti zilizovunjwavunjwa
Kipige
Wacha ngoma itoe damu ikielekea upande wa mbele
Usiwache
Katikati ya maelezo kunacho kimya chenye misukosuko
Usiwache
hata kama ncha ya vidole vyako vinatoa damu
Si hadi damu lisilokaribishwa
lamwagika kutoka kutani
kwenye nafasi ya mwangwi
kutoka nyumba za maombi
kumbi
nyumba zote walizokomesha sauti yako
Yajaze masikio yao na damu
Mwanamke!
Kwa karne nyingi kimya chako kimezijaza nyumba zao
kama kidonge
Imba
kutoka safu hadi safu
Wacha itoe damu ikielekea upande wa mbele
sauti isilokaribishwa
yenye ilikuwa juu zaidi
yenye ushawishi mkubwa
sauti yenye uwezo wa kuvunja glasi
Kwa sasa inazilipua vinara vya taa
lakini hiyo ni sawa kabisa
kwa kuwa hewa yenyewe imegeuka kuwa kioo kinachovuma
Usiwache!
Imba juu kwa juu
hadi uilipue dari la glasi
linyeshe popote sakafuni
na unavyoviokota vipengele
unaona kwa kweli ni visehemu vya anga
Unatamani kwa kuwa nyota zatapakaa popote sakafuni
Kwa hivyo imba sasa
Imba
kinubi changu, kilichotengenezwa kutoka kwa nyuzi za sauti zilizovunjwavunjwa
wimbo mwekundu, wimbo mwekundu
The Harp of Vocal Cords
By Hlín Leifsdóttir
String a harp out of severed vocal cords
Hit it
Let the song bleed forward
Don’t stop
Between the notes lies a turbulent silence
Don’t stop
though your fingertips bleed
Not until the unwelcome blood
pours out of the walls
in the place of an echo
from the houses of prayer
the theatres
all the houses from which they banished your voice
Fill their ears with blood
Woman!
For centuries your silence has piled up inside the houses
like a lump
Sing it away
layer by layer
song by song
Let it bleed forward
the unwelcome voice
that was too high
too seductive
the voice that could break glass
Now it explodes the crystal chandeliers
but that’s alright
for the air itself has transformed into resounding crystal
Don’t stop
Sing higher and higher
until it makes the glass ceiling explode
It rains all over the floor
and when you pick up the shards
you see that they are really fragments of the sky
Wishing stars are strewn across the floor
So sing now
Sing
my harp, made from severed vocal cords
a red, red song
- Algorithimu
Na Hlín Leifsdóttir
Wakati mmoja nilikuwa na kijidirisha kwenye dunia ya nje
Halafu ukaja na kikabadilika kuwa kioo
Kabla, nilikuwa natazama nje kupitia dirishani kila wakati
nikitafuta mtu wa kunielewa
Sasa hivi
Sioni chochote
ila tu picha yangu kwenye glasi
Wakati mmoja walisema
ya kwamba Ulimwengu ungali bado wapanuka
Halafu wakaunda uzio uliyoizunguka dunia
uliyoundwa kutoka kwenye matangazo kuhusu madawa ya kutibu ugonjwa wa ngozi
na maagizo ya kupingana na kizuizi cha uandishi
Na sasa hivi najua ya kuwa kanisa
na Galileo wote wawili walikosea
Kwa sababu dunia haizunguki Ardhi
wala Jua
La, inaonekana yanizunguka mimi
Mimi peke yangu
Unainong’onea kwangu tena na tena
unaponizungusha kwenye viduara havina mwisho
kunizunguka mimi mwenyewe
Na naweza kuihisi polepole ikididimia,
dansi ya msowero, mpigo mara tatu,
wenye kwa wakati mmoja ulikuwa Dunia Yenyewe
Haijalishi vile nakuomba uwache
Haijalisha vile napingana
“Lakini sitaki ku…
Sitaki kucheza ngoma kwenye mpigo wa algorithimu.”
Algorithm
By Hlín Leifsdóttir
Once I had a tiny window into the world outside
Then you came along and it changed into a mirror
Before, I would look out the window all the time
searching for someone to understand me
Now I see nothing
except my own reflection in the glass
Once they said
that the Universe is still expanding
Then they built a fence around the world
made from commercials about drugs to treat rosacea
and tips to fight writer’s block
And now I know that the church
and Galileo were both wrong
For the world neither revolves around the Earth
nor the Sun
No, it turns out that it revolves around me
Only me
You whisper it to me again and again
as you spin me in endless circles
around myself
And I can feel it slowly vanishing
the waltz, the beat of three,
that once was the World Itself
No matter how much I ask you to stop
No matter how much I protest
“But I don’t want to…
I don’t want to dance to the beat of the algorithm.
- Lile Gari La Moshi
Na Hlín Leifsdóttir
Lile gari la moshi linakimbia na linakimbia
Linakimbia kando ya viwanja na misitu
Kando ya mito na maziwa
Kando ya mashamba na milima
Kijana mdogo ameketi karibu na dirisha
Huku akitazama mandhari mapya
Akijifikiria yeye mwenyewe
Sitawahi ona hii tena
Kamwe moja kati ya hii
Sitawahi uona huyu mti tena
Sitawahi uona huu mlima tena
Na huyu ndege wa angani
Na si pia haya maua
Na si haya majani
Na si hii
Na si hii pia
Anazidi kutazama
Huku ameshangazwa na udunduzi mpya wa maisha:
Saa ya kwaheri
Halafu anagundua ya kuwa alisahau kuaga kila mtu kwaheri
Anazidi kutazama
Kila kitu kinachopita
Huku akisema bila mwisho
Kwaheri mti
Kwaherini maua
Kwaherini majani
Kwaherini nyasi
Kwaheri kijito
Kwaheri mlima
Kwaheri
Kwaheri
Kwaheri
Anatazama uso wake ukionyesha juu ya kila kitu kipitacho
Na kumwacha
Anatazama kwa undani kwenye macho buluu kiooni cha dirisha
Na anamwaga kwaheri yule kijana mwenye hakujua wakati wa kusema kwaheri
Mbele na mbele miaka yapita
Na mbele na mbele gari la moshi yakimbia
Huku kila kitu kikipita bila mwisho dirishani
Kwenye kitini cha yule kijana mdogo
Mzee amekaa
Mwenye kamwe hatazami nje dirishani
Nje mandhari ya kigeni yapita
Lakini hayamgusi yule mzee
Anafungua ukurasa baada ya mwingine wa gazeti la kinyumbani
Huku akisoma kutoka tangazo la kifo hadi nyingine
Huku akitazama machoni kwa picha
Moja hadi nyingine
Akisema akilini mwake
Kwaheri mwokaji Jón
Kwaheri fundi wa viatu Guðmundur
Kwaheri mwalimu Sigga
Kwaheri rafiki yangu Óli
Kwaheri Gunna, shangazi wangu mpendwa
Kwa upole anayapapasa mashavu ya zile picha
Huku rangi za zile gazeti zikiwa nyeusi
Anayakausha machozi kutoka kwenye chini ya macho yake
Na wino kutoka gazetini anavipaka vidomo vyake rangi nyeusi
Kwa bahati anatazama nje ya dirisha
Na kwa muda mfupi ni kama wote wanasimama kando kando ya barani
Wakimwaga kwaheri
Mwokaji Jón
Fundi wa viatu Guðmundur
Mwalimu Sigga
Rafiki yake Óli
Gunna shangazi yake
Na wale wengine wote
Umati wa wafu
Umepiga laini kando ya reli za gari ya moshi
Ghafla anagundua ya kuwa hapo ndipo
Alipofikiria ya kuwa hatawahi paona tena
Alipokuwa kijana mdogo
Wale wafu kwenye kando kando ya reli za gari ya moshi wanapotea
Ni kama kutoka na furaha
Huku akitazama nje kupitia dirishani, akisema akilini mwake
Jambo mti
Jamboni majani
Jambo ua
Pengine si ua sawa
Lakini kwa uhakika mzaliwa wa lile ua
Nilipoona utotoni
Jambo kijito
Si kabisa kile nilichoona wakati huo
Kushinda kila mtu kwenye hii dunia
Maji mengine
Kahawia zaidi
Lakini bado yakitiririka kupitia kijia cha zamani
Jambo barabara ya kitambo ya changarawe
Jambo nyaya za simu
Jambo ndege wa angani
Unaelekea wapi?
Kwa mpigo anamwona yule mzee dirishani
Akiwa na wino wa gazeti usoni mwake
Ukifanana na rangi ya shujaa wa kabila
Uso wake uko juu kila kitu
Miti
Viwanja vya majani
Maziwa
Pia uko juu ya gazeti lilifunguliwa na kuakisa nuru kwenye glasi
Na picha za matangazo ya vifo
Juu ya nyaya za simu
Juu ya milima
Juu ya ndege wa angani
Juu ya mito
Juu ya kila kiachapo
Na kupotea
Yeye pekee huwa anapatikana hata kila kitu kikipita
Kwa mpigo ni kama hajawahi uona huu uso tena
Anatazama kwa kindani machoni mwa yule mgeni
Na anamuuliza:
Kwa hivyo wewe ni nani
Wewe unapokuwa hapa wakati wote
Wewe mwenye haniachi kamwe
Lakini anazama juu ya kila kitu
Ambacho kinayeyuka
Na kuacha
Wewe ni nani?
Anazidi kutazama kwa kina machoni mwa yule mzee
Huku yakiwa buluu kushinda anga, yakipita bila mwisho
Na yeye
Mwenye hajawahi kuamini
Mwishowe anauliza, kwa sauti ya chini
Pengine wewe ni Mungu?
Halafu jua linapasuka kutoka mawinguni
Huku ikigeuza nywele rangi ya kijivu tena
Na wakati weusi wa wino wa gazeti kutoka kwenye matangazo ya vifo
Unatiririka kwenye glasi kama matone ya mavua
Makunyanzi na miduara chini ya macho yake
Zinapotea pia
Na hapo ndipo alipo tena
Yule kijana aliyeiaga dunia yote kwaheri kitambo
Anatabasamu
Na kusema na furaha fiche
“Kwaheri, mzee.
Kuja nje ucheze”
The train
By Hlín Leifsdóttir
The train runs and runs and runs
Runs by fields and woods
By rivers and lakes
By farmland and mountains
A little boy sits by the window
Looking at the foreign landscape
Thinking to himself
I will never see this again
None of this
I will never see this tree again
I will never see this mountain again
And not this bird
And not these flowers
And not these straws
And not this
And not this either
He looks on, and on,
Stunned by life’s latest discovery:
The hour of good bye
He then realizes that he forgot to say goodbye to everyone
He looks on, and on,
On everything passing by
Incessantly saying
Goodbye tree
Goodbye flowers
Goodbye straws
Goodbye grass
Goodbye stream
Goodbye mountain
Goodbye
Goodbye
Goodbye
He looks at his face hover over everything that passes by
And abandons him
He looks deeply into the blue eyes in the windowpane
And says goodbye to the boy who didn’t know the hour of goodbye
On and on the years pass
And on and on the train runs
As everything passes endlessly by the window
In the little boy’s seat
An old man is sitting
Who never looks out the window
Outside a foreign landscape passes by
But it doesn’t concern the old man
He turns the pages of his local paper from back home
Reading obituary after obituary
Looking into the eyes of the photographs
One by one
Saying in his mind
Goodbye Jón the baker
Goodbye Guðmundur the shoemaker
Goodbye Sigga the teacher
Goodbye Óli my friend
Goodby Gunna, my dear aunt
He softly strokes the cheeks of the photographs
The newspaper colours his fingers black
He dries the tears from under his eyes
And the ink from the paper dyes black strokes across his cheeks
He happens to look out the window
And for a moment it is as though they are all standing along the road
Waving goodbye to him
Jón the baker
Guðmundur the shoemaker
Sigga the teacher
Óli his friend
Gunna his aunt
And all the others
A multitude of dead people
Is forming a line along the traintracks
Suddenly he realizes that this is exactly the same place
That he thought he would never see again
When he was a little boy
The dead people along the train tracks dissolve
As though from joy
While he looks out the window, saying in his mind
Hello tree
Hello straw
Hello flower
Perhaps not the same flower
But certainly a descendant of that flower
That I saw here as a child
Hello stream
Not quite the same as back then
No more than anyone else in this world
Another water
Browner
Yet running along the same path as before
Hello old gravel road
Hello phonelines
Hello bird
Where are you going?
Suddenly he notices the old man in the window
With streaks of newspaper ink on his face
Reminiscent of tribal warrior paint
His face hovers over everything
Trees
Fields of straw
Lakes
It also hovers above the open newspaper that is reflected in the glass
And the faces in the obituaries
Over phonelines
Over mountains
Over birds
Over rivers
Over everything that abandons
And disappears
He alone is always there even when everything else passes by
Suddenly it is as though he has never seen this face before
He looks deeply into the eyes of the stranger
And asks him:
Who are you then
You who is always here
You who never leaves me
But hovers over it all
All that fades away
All that abandons
Who are you?
He looks deeper and deeper into the eyes of the old man
Bluer than the heaven, endlessly passing by
And he
Who has never believed
Finally asks, hesitantly
Are you perhaps God?
Then the sun bursts out from the clouds
Turning the gray hair golden once more
And as the streaks of black newspaper ink from the obituaries
Roll down the glass like raindrops
The wrinkles and the circles under his eyes
Fade away with them
And there he is again
The boy who said goodbye to the whole world a long time ago
He smiles
And says with wondrous joy
“Good bye old man.
Come out to play.”
- Aliyepotea
Na Hlín Leifsdóttir
Kabla yule mwanamme atokapo kwenye mlango wa nje
anajiacha yeye mwenyewe nyumbani.
anajitokeza mkahawani bila yeye mwenyewe.
hapo anakaa na binti yake,
mwenye si binti yake tena.
“Unahitaji keki ya chokoleti ama kikombe cha kakao?” anauliza.
“Hapana, asante,” binti anasema.
“Hapana, umekuwa mkubwa mno. Unahitaji kahawa?”
“Huwa nakunywa chai ya kijani pekee,” binti anasema.
“Naelewa,” yule mwanamme anasema, na kuinamisha kichwa chake, akifikiri:
“Furaha iliyoje ya kuwa bado nipo nyumbani.”
Lakini anaporejea nyumbani
inakaa ni kama ameenda.
Anatembea kuelekea dirishani
anatazama kwenye bustani
na anajiona yeye mwenyewe huku amejilaza hapo
kwenye safu za giza:
Aliyepotea.
The Lost One
By Hlín Leifsdóttir
Before he steps outside the front door
he leaves himself behind at home.
He shows up without himself at the cafe.
There sits his daughter,
who is no longer his daughter.
“Would you like some chocolate cake and a cup of cocoa?“ he asks.
“No thanks,” she says.
“No, you’ve grown so big. Would you like some coffee?”
“I only drink green tea,” she says.
“I see,” he says, lowers his gaze, thinking:
“What a relief that I am still at home.”
But when he comes back home
it appears that he has gone.
He walks towards the window
looks into the garden
and sees himself lying out there
in the layers of darkness:
The Lost One.
Photograph by Nikos Pagonakis, Hlín Leifsdóttir is in costume as Oceanid from the opera Prometheus Bound by Karousos, in “Theater of the NO” in Athens.
Hlín Leifsdóttir is an international soprano and writer from Iceland. She has received several awards and recognitions for her poetry and short stories. Hlin is also a member of the spoken-poetry duet “Hlín Leifsdóttir & Morton”, together with award-winning Greek composer “Morton” (Vasilis Chountas, also known as Whodoes).
Peter Ngila Njeri’s Bio
Peter Ngila Njeri was born in Kabaa, Machakos County – Kenya. Peter’s novel manuscript, The Legend of Beach House, won the 2023 James Currey Prize for African Literature and is forthcoming from Abibiman Publishing in the UK on May 15, 2024. Peter is a 2017 recipient of the Iceland Writers Retreat Alumni Award, which financed him to attend the prestigious Iceland Writers Retreat in Reykjavík – Iceland. Peter is also a Fellow of the Nigerian-based Ebedi International Writers Residency. Peter’s short stories have been published in platforms like: The Dreaming Machine, Anthology Magazine, Jalada Africa, Brittle Paper, Olongo Africa, The Antonym, Barren Magazine among others. Peter is in the judging panel of the 2024 James Currey Prize for African Literature and the inaugural Afrocritik Prize for Criticism (2024). Peter drinks black coffee with his demons in a small sanctuary near Nairobi.
