Saturday, December 31, 2016

10 seconds to midnight

There is that emptiness,
that comes with the eve of a new year,
This emptiness lasts a lifetime,
Ten seconds,
This emptiness is full,
Floods the stomach, still as a pool,
This emptiness is blunt,
Pierces the heart like a sharp sword,
Sways like a weak plant,
Playing on your mind like insanity.
This emptiness is generous,
Its harsh and mean like business,
This is that emptiness,
That lasts only ten seconds,
It wonders if in the year you have treated your parents right,
And your heart sinks,
It reminds you of your unforgivable mess,
And your heart pounds,
It remembers your forgotten siblings and friends,
And your head feels dizzy,
It regrets unrequited love,
Makes you feel unworthy,
Repents a lost mistreated love,
Reminds you what comes around goes around,
You wonder if your job is right,
You think about your worlds fight,
You wonder if the goddess of love walks on earth,
And when she will light your path,
Its an emptiness that rejoices in your fears,
Laughs at your pain,
Mocks your thoughtful mind,
crashes your day dreams,
Bruises your ego,
And brings you to your knees!
Then just about when you're about to give raise a white flag,
To concede to your enemy,
you hear yourself scream,
It's exactly midnight!
It's over!
The old is gone and the new has come!
You pray, you dance and you give thanks,
Like Cinderella you run,
Away in thoughts,
but not back in actions,
Your past still hovers around you like an unwavering 3 headed shadow,
You curse the night sun,
It's a new year,
Happy happy new year.

Warning; Do not drink and drive in 2017, what did you think I was going to warn you about?!!? 

Sunday, December 25, 2016

This is not my story

This is not my story,
But your story in my story,
It's that time of the year; the holidays,
That time when family comes first,
Yet noone wants to arrive home as the very first,
So you call your siblings so that you can have a roadtrip upcountry,
Huge shopping in the car boots are the only sign of unity,
And facebook updates hashtag family times, all vanity,
Such a pity,
But we; we the spectators are convinced,
That you are actually happy,
Again, this is not my story,
But your story in my story.
Your mother is emotional as always that her sons and daughters are home,
You can tell by her morning hymns of hope,
But your father is unmoved,
He can read through the pretense,
A penny for his thoughts?
He would rather play the silent witness,
Than bring your mother's walls down.
Again, this is not my story,
But your story in my story.
Every family has one; that successful one,
The one who takes all your mother's love,
And every family has one; that not so successful one,
The one who takes after your father,
According to your mother,
Then there are the other siblings,
Noone knows what into the family they bring,
They sit in the corners,
Silent as ghosts; they're loners,
They laugh at the old jokes,
But they never remember any old yokes,
They say they work as accountants in the city,
But you could bet they are too witty,
Though unmarried, they are the most loved by the kids,
They answer questions with a yes or no, yet they will never ask questions that answers yes or no,
They like not to tell stories but to listen,
Nonetheless they never hearken,
Their spirit roams far away from their bodies,
Your mother says they take after a dead uncle 3 generation ago,
Somehow you believe that,
Again, this is not my story,
But your story in my story
It's an amazing time of the year,
Everyone smiles ear to ear,
Old classmates praise your success in the city,
Right after you part with Kes 100 for "Christmas"
You shamelessly slay your grandmother's goat worth Kes 4,750 in the spirit of celebration,
And she happily receives your worthless Kes 2000 and spits blessings on your shameful hands,
It's no wonder the following year your grandma will give up the ghost,
And then you will selflessly give Kes 10k for her decent send off,
Again, this is not my story,
But your story in my story.
On the 27th I prepare my 2 beautiful children,
You will be coming to pick us and drop us at my parents,
Leaving your parents behind, i wonder what's more sadly painful,
That a 3 day re-union can resurrect a 362 days death,
Or the fact that we believe it actually can.
Again, this is not my story,
But your story in my story.

Warning: This piece is not written to mock any family set up; on the contrary it projects the similarities in our ways of life

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Of Dreams or the wild

This is not your bed, how did you get here?
So you turn and try to fall asleep again,
But your heart won't let you,
The pounding is fast and hard,
You turn to look at her,
and she lay there; silently
Your heart skips a beat,
For she looks so beautiful in her sleep,
Your mind hates your heart,
Your heart hates your mind,
You curse deep inside,
You move your hand to touch her soft face,
She sighs in a distant, but she keeps her eyes closed.
You could eat her alive;
But there is that turning feeling in your stomach,
Water floods in and drown the butterflies,
You feel them scream for their last breath in your throat,
You can't let them out, in hope you swallow them back,
And in shame you turn and face the other side,
Afraid, but not of her, afraid of yourself.
This is a just any other woman,
This is a woman,
She is not afraid of you, and she scares you,
She doesn't know you, yet she understand you,
You have it all, and yet you only want her,
Yet you can't have her, it's not right,
So you just lay beside her in the moment,
And when she turns to hold you, you lean behind to feel her
When she touches you, you turn to kiss her, And when she wants you, you have her in your mouth,
This is your first,
So you want to take your time, but she rushes on,
Moaning your name,
Pushing you to want her more, to need her more,
when she is ready, you let her all in,
Slow, fast, and it's over.
You wake up,
"Mama, Mama, it's Christmas, and Santa is at the door"
You can hear your kids play downstairs,
Your husband lay on the other side of the bed,
But today you don't smile at his tattoos,
You think about the dream,
And remember her,
Of a dream or the wild

The end

Note; this piece is free from any prejudice of sexual orientation

Friday, July 8, 2016

Don't scatter Roses

As a child I sang along the tune "don't scatter roses after I am gone" sorrowfully, slowly and as sadly as I could be,
trying to match the perfect alto voice since soprano don't work well in such deep tunes.
That was when I discovered that music doesn't always need to have instruments, that accapella were best done by a group of men, sexist? maybe,
that death wasn't as scary, horror movies were.
I was 17 years old then.

Twelve years later, I hear equal stories of deaths to the baby showers I attend.
Last month, my friend's friend passed on,
Every Facebook page I opened that day had his happy photos, re-shared photos from friends who had no time to like his original share.
One rose scattered

Another friend had changed his profile picture to the late's profile picture
Another rose scattered

In disbelief of the level of hypocrisy in men, I closed down my page,
In deep thoughts I felt his pain; the deep pain of the bloody knife drilling through his ribs. It was horrifying.

I get interrupted, it's a whatsapp message. I have just been added in a group " friends of Lee"
I can't believe this! Another freaking rose.

By now I am sure Lee's spirit isn't feeling honored at all,
It's feeling sick,
Sick to death.

What is death?
Scientists say death is to cease to exist
Reincarnation fans say it's a passage to a new birth,
Optimists say it's an awakening, while
Christians say its an never ending sleep.
Confused? Me too,

Death is pain.
Brutal, unexpected hard pain
Especially for the dead.
The dead in spirit like the immediate family of the deceased,
The dead in mind like the real friends of the deceased,
The dead in heart like the love of his life,
The dead in soul, the dead himself
So, spare them the scattered roses,
They can't hold them,
They can't lift them towards their noses to feel their scent,
The can't miss that thorn that always pricks the little finger,

Gone are the days one died at 101,
Gone are the days one died in their sleep,
Gone are the days children buried their parents at old age,
Gone are the days fires, floods took away lives and we held national prayers.

Now, death is brutal, disfigured and prejudice

Road accidents are our daily news,
Parents are molesting their children to their death beds,
Children are killing their parents in maternity wards,
Gun related crimes have evolved to sexual orientation crimes,
Bombs are now in countries with no gold and with freedom of worship.
And we have programs on TV about 1000 ways to die

So, a paragraph narrative on how I died is a rose,
Don't pluck it!
your miserable RIP statement is a rose,
Don't start the scatter!
Your like of that old of me now while am gone is a rose
The whatsapp group is a thorny rose,
And your black dress on my important day is a ugly rose
Your fund raising committee is the bunch of roses.

Don't scatter them!

I beg of you to restrain yourself
Just don't
Give them to me when I carry on....