Psychotic

A moving ridge,
Rattling,
The quiet of the night
With sizzling winds,
Whispering hollos from an inferno

Flames,
Boiling skin,
Molten nails
Flaring silhouettes
Of skulls with red eyes

The friends in my head,
Crouching in a corner,
Giggling,
The blood on my hands
Another soul, to be saved

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A gunslinger

A darkness engulfs my heart
Devouring it’s fibers
One big chunk at time

Am lost of a soul,
But a wondering spirit,
With a decaying body

I hate to love,
Love to kill,
And kill for joy

I make bed in a den,
Where my head rests on skulls
Drowning in this pool of a nightmare

A young maiden,
Blooming,
With fair skin

Long dark hair
Swimming,
In a wooden bath

She smells of roses,
Standing within a flaring curtain
White, and lucid

She drips of innocence
Walking unto me
On the oak floor

She leaves tiny prints
Of her virgin feet,
Towards a canopy bed

Where white sheets fall
Like a stream onto the floor
With dotted petals of red

She climbs unruffled,
With a cordial smile
But salacious stare

Crawling slowly
To find my lips,
Kissing lightly

Feeling her cold,
Tingle my warm skin,
About the loins

Before laying gently
Her head on my chest
My hand about her shoulder

Humming to a heart’s beat
The hymn of the fallen ones
The tale of a blood brother

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For the love of it

It was just Ugshs 500 to support a local team on a friendly match. And I, didn’t pay. I didn’t know we had to pay. So I felt equally as guilty as one who had selfishly refused to pay.

It is about passion that keeps drawing me to watch them play, practice, looking good in their dark blue jerseys. Local youth who love the sport and choose to following their heart’s longing. So I promised to write about them as a way of showing them respect.

It is not like any football academy as we would know it to be. Good coach, balls, socks, medical, mental and other services. God knows I don’t understand football so well, but do realise the risk one to take to participate in such a sport.  More in a country like mine.

While attending school, I loved the game and looked towards the fourth minutes or less, we played, before attending evening prayers at the chapel. We run about chasing the ball  and should say that the thrill of it still bubbles inside me thinking I could return to the field someday. I do dream of it actually.

Anyway, not me, but them. The me was to point out that I understood the passion. No matter how many wounds and scars, sprains or broken bones. Yes! Broken bones! As long as it healed, one returned to the field.

You would say of course they would return. But not with the lack of medication they face. The fact that almost no one cares but yourself, to get healed, your financing, and return to play, is remarkable.

The fields are like you see, bare ground, with tiny rocks if not broken glass, to tear your skin, soak the earth with your blood.
I have watched countless times some play barefooted against an opponent with shoes on. With that sole, sharp, whatever they are called, striking hard in it, and watching him scream, leap, like he has lost a toe. At least that’s what it looks like and could be worse.  But still play. Again, and again. And that’s passion

At times, before they are levelled, new fields are shrubs that are slashed and obviously not suitable for play. But do they wait for the bulldozer? What if never comes? (Which sometimes happens to). So they in it. Think of running on thorns. Screaming and celebrating, crying and joyous.

One time, at school, this guy scores, but instead of running to the corner and celebrating as we know it, just sits right then and tries getting a thorn that had pierced deep into his foot. And when he was done, he played on. That is passion.

There is always more to tell. But this is how it is in most developing countries. Where many talented individuals fade in the shadows and never come to be their dreams. Running on an English field, in a shirt labelled with their names, but play, a shirtless team against one with uninformed shirts, (in their actual clothes, shirts, sweaters, vests, shorts or trousers) for the love of it.

This is not a sports problem alone, but in other fields as well, music, drawing, writing, poetry, coding, comics and others. But for the love of it, we do what we want. Not for money or fame, but  for passion.

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I write for the love of it. Like for the love of it
Asante!!

KISS ME

I want to taste your breath
Feel it warm between breaks
As we sigh from ecstasy

Gentle, tender
Caressing tongues
Biting your lips

In the dark,
With the mind’s eye
Searching your curves

Within whispers and hymns,
Echoes and silence,
Rolling with the beat,

Of a pounding heart,
Rushing blooding
And tingling skin

Where scents blend,
Of flesh and soul,
To become, but one

A brilliant star
In a milky way
The fairest of all

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I miss you

And the distance between,
Kept their bodies apart
But not their hearts
Wondering,
In dreams of a fantasy
That befell upon each,
Every night,
As they both stared,
Throughout the midnight hour

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Shame of the year

We all know shame and understand to avoid it when necessary. But sometimes, we just walk down her street and hope the world would forget.
Do they forget? Or do you forget? The unexplainable embarrassment of the year.

Yeah! My case was a shame of the year and this is how it happened.

My grandma, “a hajat” runs a retail shop along a highway in some small town. It faces a rising sun which I enjoy bathing on the cold days.
I greet her, grab a chair, place it onto the verandah as soon as she opens her doors to the shop.

She is a tough person to read really. Unlike most elderly ladies who give a cozy feeling while talking to them, she freaks me out. Like she doesn’t like me. Or for some reason, hates me and just blurs me in her mind’s eye. And I think I did give her a reason to.

About eight months ago, I came to live next to her, at my own place in my own first home. A single room, rented, along a muddy road (cause it’s raining now) off the highway. The building is one block away from where the shop is. So if the shop faces north, my room would face the east.

I should say I didn’t know her until that time. Like we had not seen each other until then, and until she sold me a three litre Jerry can for I think triple the price, Ugshs 3500. And then, she gave me a reason to go to other shops. It was expensive even in my own ignorance since I had never done shopping for household items before.
So I tried other shops and bought a five litre jerry can at Ugshs2500. I was happy. It felt like money well spent. That I was a genius finally in control of my first days in the real world, away from home and school.
But at the same time, a wrong or the best idea of never to buy from her again. I mean, if family is to be exploited by you, am sorry grandma, I ain’t going to be part of your legacy.

So the sneaky dealings started like I was buying drugs from another dealer and had to be sure she never comes to know. Not that she would do anything, but really it would look weird.

My new dealer would be a shop along the same highway, on the same side, just a one block away from the grandma’s left.  A she of course, who undeniably is beautiful. A gracious voice and radiant smile, offering to do way good stuff if I buy from her. Like she sorts my rice so I take ready to cook and eat. Which of course my grandma, wouldn’t do. And again, she is beautiful.

Anyway I usually peeked at the verandah to see if grandma wasn’t there, then walk like a boss to my dealer whom am so proud to buy from. And this was just smooth until, I can’t even say…

It was a normal black out, just a few candle lights from the still open shops, and flashing lights of passing vehicles. The sky was dark enough for the  many visible stars that dotted it’s canvas. And this guy, myself, chooses to take a walk, masking the night, thinking about my own duties till I come close to my dealer’s shop, “mama Mariam” that I remembered I had a pickup to do.

It was dark and if that wouldn’t have been the best time, then there wouldn’t have been any better. She was not on her verandah, but dumping rubbish into a “pit.” so I took hold of the moment and made the pickup. I didn’t ask for a wrapping for my 1kg of rice and turned to leave the shop.

And duh, lights everywhere. To be specific, light above my head. Electricity was back from its normal routines as it always is in developing countries. Very bright. Probably a new bulb. Looking across me, grandma standing on the verandah looking back at me. With my spoils in my hands, I swear I wished to be anywhere else but not there. I was drowning literally in my mind that I froze for sometime. May be a minute or two. Until I went back into the shop and asked for a wrapping before walking shamefully with my head low.

It was the worst I had ever felt in a long time. Wait, the worst that I still do feel. So guilty that I have been avoiding my morning sun bath.

And when I did see her, she replied to me like nothing had happened. Huh? Nothing?!
Just with her stale face like before which could mean she always knew I bought from that shop. Or worst, “I don’t care. You can go to hell grandson. You are a sellout.”

And to the moment I write this, I still feel her stale eyes, hear her raspy voice like echoes from a nightmare that am never to wake up from, taunting me like a ghost.

Grandma, am sorry. But she is a pretty  lady the stole me from you. Please just understand why I had to do this. It was a tough decision that took seconds to make and would probably do the same until you start selling a bit cheaply. Wait, even if you did, she is a pretty woman and that’s a good reason to keep buying from

And again, am sorry! Love you!

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Never changing

I feel the cold of the morning
And I know of your heart’s longing

You wanna roll with me?
For that’s fine by me

How about we do this all day
Forgetting woes of your yesterday

Drying wounds and tears
Far away from your fears

Making love under the rain,
To ease your soul’s pain

For sometimes life is happiness,
Even within one’s weakness

That in the arms of a darling
forever is never changing

Smile

Behind a smile is a tear
Heavy,
But not falling

Hating the ways of hope,
Always changing the finish line
In the game of time,

Stacks of grain stand,
A harvest,
so poor

Why do the skies not answer,
To the woes of an honest man,
Clenching his hand hoe

Wrinkled, and skinny,
Fears no shame,
Taking upon all tasks

In his rugged clothes,
A withering spirit,
And a decaying body

Chasing his fading dreams
In the dawn of a sunset
Before an imminent twilight

Oh yes!
Broken,
Unfair

This world,
Soulless,
Just pity

With the whispers from her lips
Another tale
Drowning in sadness

A broken soul,
Wounded heart,
Clenching her skirts,

At the bottom of the stairs
Laying in its blood,
Her own embryo

A mother’s cry,
Louder than thunder,
Echoing,

Within a hell’s den,
The open skies,
And the world’s end

As silence sweeps in,
The answer from the heavens
To inhale a grim present

And choose to live,
walk again, head high,
With a smile

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Get well, my darling

I know that death would call unto each one of us at sometime
But I want that time to not be this time

Seeing you lay on that bed,
I realise how much I wanted to do

To say, and not argue
Cuddle, and not push

Caress, and not fight
Though I enjoyed that kinda,

Because we cared so much to fight for each other
And last night I thought,

That we were done for sure,
But seeing you talk to me in your silence,

Bruised, body and soul,

Wounded, heart and spirit,

Tears my heart,
Listening to your whispers

Of how lone it is,
Out of this world

Beyond the sun and the moon,
In that fated eternal slumber

That the present treasures more,
And happiness too precious

That we, together,
Should enjoy more

So I sit in this chair,
By your bed,

Choosing to live an eternity,
Until you come back to me

Get well, my darling!

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