that novel

i thought i would sit each day collecting clever phrases... to use in the brilliant novel that i would pour my whole being into. turns out being a real writer, isn't that romantic. it was going to be dramatic. the beautiful story of a daughter after her father's heart. the fact that he is sleeping right across the room from me, is hardly romantic either. i would write about his imagined history. my imagination, not his. now i wonder if my imagination can even stretch beyond my fingers. let alone create a whole novel with actual characters in actual settings, situations with meaningfully mundane conversations about a life that is not so romantic.

R0.99

who determines the price tag of these exchanges that happen in the middle of the night after the bill has been settled? who owes whom? whose morals/values sets the bar for such things i have been reading (and hearing) a lot about the curse of young women who are willing to 'give it up' to any guy who will buy them a KFC streetwise 2. this often intrigues me because some men don't realise that they can get 'it' for free anyway. found myself on the wrong side of such an exchange... when i was out with a young man (a story for another day).. i suddenly felt so self-conscious standing there with this undeniably younger, hotter man... i wondered what people were thinking... were they judging me? were they judging him? i imagined the looks of disgust

the walking dead...

living with the walking dead is not easy...
the anxiety and stress has a way of seeping through...
no matter how thick your caring skin may be..
when it reaches the bones... deep down..
you can't help but pray for divine intervention...
for a miracle...
a permanent solution...

Book o' love

Words cannot even begin to describe or do justice this beautiful thing we have.. Thank you for all the memories. Loving over a sandwich on a balmy spring afternoon..... We spoke for the first time... I'd been circling you... Didn't know if you'd noticed... Until that day... We stood in your kitchen... Oblivious to the voices, the bodies milling around us...

Eating dawn for breakfast

the sweet taste left in my mouth after, sipping, dipping, immersing, basking, in the gloriousness of rising suns.

Biscuits and Presidents

Once upon a time, in a valley far away called Mistletoe Ridge... There lived a young, eager lady named Biscuit. Biscuit had dedicated her life to searching for all things good in people to quench this perpetual thirst for pleasure that possessed. Always going out of her wet way to accommodate eligible suitors... Until she bumped into a delightful young president while trawling for bargains at the nearby market... His willingness struck her as rather sudden... She often dreamed of partnering with a suitable president. But she never deemed it possible, that a humble maiden such as herself would be afforded such privilege... Until the day she met and shook hands with the president...

meandering minds

been trying to calculate, work out exactly how it happened that i ended up standing here right now... could it be the result of a simple wrong turn taken before time or maybe did i wait too long... because right now i am meant to be in a space where i can see... but i seem to have created this smoky, impenetrable maze that i can't seem to break away from.... here i am... lost even to me... i somehow allowed my mind to wander too far from the source... so what do i do now?

if i should say no

well, don't think i hadn't considered saying no.. even though i have no idea what your reaction is likely to be... your reaction to me declining... so then i will take that risk and say no.

“We are black...”

We are black, it is true, but tell us, gentlemen, you who are so judicious, what is the law that says that the black man must belong to and be the property of the white man? ... Yes, gentleman, we are free like you, and it is only by your avarice and our ignorance that anyone is still held in slavery up to this day, and we can neither see nor find the right that you pretend to have over us ... We are your equals then, by natural right, and if nature pleases itself to diversify colours within the human race, it is not a crime to be born black nor an advantage to be white. This excerpt is from a letter written in July 1792 by the leaders of the revolution of Haitian slaves. The letter has been republished in the collection of writings of the black leader Toussaint L'Overture, The Haitian Revolution, which includes also the correspondence between him and Napoleon Bonaparte. In the late eighteenth century, Toussaint L'Overture and his supporters established the first black republic in the world.

altogether now

what would you say if i asked for.... cos i could really get into that.... but then again, would you be fine if i asked you to... cos i could really get into that... been wanting to try out all these new things cos i think i could really getting into them... so, ponder that a little bit and let me know....

while i was inside

felt like a caged bird...
i wanted some kind of release...
could you hear me banging?
smell the stench i was scared to get up from where i was sitting cos the dirt would have dripped down my legs you would then see my soiled clothes...

would it move you?

if you were to wake up with a box stuffed with half empty bottles would you empty them? would you fill them up? would you just kick them aside and carry on with your day? if during your not-so-good day, you meet a beggar at the corner asking you for a penny would you pretend like you didn't hear him? would you oblige? half looking? would you look him in the eye and actually care? i ask you this because i am wondering if you can spare a minute to care of things not made of you how is it possible that a thing made of you doesn't move you?

how could i
have known?
about the secret.
the truth bubbling underneath
the thin surface
of this illusion
we were trying to create.
we trudge along in the meantime.
this shows us
that it is impossible to forget;
to live like we don't know.
being oblivious to the obvious.

the dark ocean

only late at night does the ocean seem frightening while during the day, my feet were itching to touch and feel its coldness against my skin. now am reducing to watching through glass. oblivious to the cars parked around us doing dirty deeds under the guise of the night's shelter of darkness. still it beckons. my ears strain to hear the crash of the waves against the sand, the rock. even if my skin can't get near its touch.

peace

the bliss
of being able to read in peace
even the sound of a kiss
can be heard even without
our lips touching...
the mention
of the impending
the joy looming

something

something happened today... something that has me all aflutter... feeling misplaced... something must have happened today... to have me feeling scattered... all over the place... head still but spinning at the same time... i am almost certain that something did happen today
something must have happened today
... am waiting for that phone call.. or that text message... that will confirm this uneasy feeling...
i want to sit down.. rest these weary bones... but something is keeping me awake...

smattering

is a small amount of something...

when situations whip your ass... gets one wondering
how much you know?
stuff...
life stuff...
grown-up stuff...

for some reason,
i dared to imagine
that i was 'educated' about stuff
only because
i used to have an answer for everything

turns out smart responses
aren't really good indicators of how much
i know

so now when asked,

if i know

i gesture hesitantly
'a smattering'....

some poetry i wrote a while back

forgot all about these...

Our fathers our heroes

To you he's no more than a pair of hands getting the job done
He comes home to sit at the head of our table
Long live to the sons of soil who give meaning to fatherhood everyday.
The pittance you call a salary determines how many of my dreams will come true
To me he's a fountain of advice, the voice of wisdom in this wide sea of uncertainty.
He comforts with his soothing baritone
While to you the only thing he's good for is Yes Ma'am No Sir
If it hadn't been for him I wouldn't be a girl
He's manhood decided my sex
To you he's just a Black dot on your white canvas,
To me he is wisdom personified
Hear me speak of my father

Scratch my soul

 

Look for me in the sentences, between the words
Of every newspaper article or news clip
I felt my essence as they were mutilating my beautiful body,
Stretching my oven of hope
A passage only the one I love is supposed to possess
Why, my brother, so much anger against your own
Look me straight in the eye so you can see the damage your raging loins are making you do
My soul weeps for my robbed innocence, violence in pursuit of my soul
Antiretrovirals, emergency pills - precautions only after
My bones and skin still ache where they groped
Skirt soiled with your useless seed
What a shame.
Incestuous invasions by father on daughter
Mama where were you
Did I not cry loud enough?
Give me a drug of forgetfulness, of forgiveness
Oh, Jehovah help their empty souls
My heart safely tucked beneath my ribcage,
Far out of their violent reach
They can only scratch the surface of my soul
But they'll never own it

Love deal

Nothing beats the discovery of love in tree houses.
With birds chirping all around, loud enough to muffle the sounds
that we shouldn’t be making in the first place.
We imagine ourselves in that other city,
In another world another time where no one knows who we are and
where we’ve been
Avenues lined with palm trees,
We walk hand in hand
Far from a life punctuated with uncertainty.
Nothing beats the feeling of stolen moments
Whispers in the dark, secrets sworn

Happy in the knowledge that we’re each other’s One.
With the prospect of marriage looming happily in our horizons
Mirages of a life we’ve been dreaming of for so long.
Well, that’s how we hope it is going to be.
He never escapes my imagination and I his.
He is presence and I am reality.

Forgotten motherhood 

Weren’t you the one supposed to give birth to me

Didn’t God choose you as my passage into this world?

Then, why do I use bricks as pillows?

Why do I look for treasures in other people’s trash?

Weren’t you the one whose breasts were supposed to give me sustenance?

I woke up to discover there’s no such thing as mother

Do I hold you at ransom for your abandonment?

Do I curse the gods for choosing you for me?

No motherhood to provide livelihood

Grandchildren don’t even know you

Daughters can’t even acknowledge you

personal time

so there i was... venturing... hoping for some free, personal time...

where does that land me? besides, a newly-discovered propensity for things i have never bother to explore,  i end up having way more questions in my head than i was hoping for...

this phase shouldn't be so disorienting though or should it?

wondering the streets, looking for something i don't know... leaves me wanting to extend my allocated time..

i want to be comfortable with this space... i need to be alright with the state my head is in... be out of control... let the universe take me by the hand and lead me where my heart has never dared to be...

make every day a personal day...

randomness

so i set out to venture... no i didn't set out... rather i find myself in a rather interesting, how can i say, illusion...

often we don't understand what we need until we bump into it...