By Shem Onderi
You clink in my pocket,in the tin,
in the mall’s change bin.
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The shopkeeper holds you,
the pump attendant owns you,
the hawker has you,
you roam through people’s hands.
Each trader invests in you for profit;
you transform hearts,
warm pockets,
make every spender happy.
Whenever you’re part of the transaction,
you soften the hardest stances among traders.
You’ve built homes,
through you, deals have been struck.
And yet,
you lie idle,
perhaps in a bank safe,
waiting to circulatethe next morning.
You buy the quick things,
so swift in movement.
The young love you,
for you buy their edibles.
Some have gone to meet,
their maker because of you,
while others have cheated death.
We cut deals with your value,
and you even make a final send-off a success.
What a legal tender you are!
But coin,
lately,
you’re losing value.
Your worth in my pocket,
is becoming questionable.
I find myself carryingmore
of your kin to make transactions
I fear carrying you around—you’re indisciplined
in my pocket,
swerving unevenly,
a constant reminder that you’re there.
People have tempted to snatch you from me,
thinking I carry valuables.
If only they knew your true worth,
in my pocket.
Perhaps I’ll keep you
in my mattress account,
safe and sound,
where I can say I have money,
kept for the future.
I see you in my payslip.
The taxman loves to take you
before I get a hold of you.
The nearby grocer awaits you
from my pay.
The doctor insists on you
before a single examination.
The pension fund wants to keep you for me.
And they want me to save
for a housing scheme,
even when I’ve labored
to build one for myself.
But coin,
I would like to keep you.
Accept that I own you,
and save you,
so I can spend you
in my sunset years.
So, learn to be silent.
