When hormones win
Just flip the cover
And indulge

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Dear Mr. Oak

I will wait
I will till you’re done hibernating
Till the threat of snows shall have faded
Till the fear of pests shall have waned
But until then tell me please..
Mr. Oak where do I rest?
I’m done reminiscing the good family moments
spent here,
The meals we ate here served more than empty stomachs
but uplifted our spirits as a young family savored your warmth
Your belly was a spring of a rare cocktail that elicited tranquility
with every breath we fed our lungs
I need more than just a shade
I miss the gentle whisper of your leaves in the afternoon wind,
the serenity of your sight through my window and the gentle buzzing
of insects close to my ears whenever I sat here
Mr. Oak you’re a part of my family
I often think of you as an incarnation of my great grandfather; Hehir
My wife says she misses the fragrance of flowers of spring
she says she misses the moist scent of earth at your feet
But most importantly, please Mr. Oak Tree
Dress up again, in your green cardigan
because my first-born is on the way
he can’t find you naked.

I’M TALKING TO YOU.

Now this has summarized everything about men who are brought up believing that a woman is a tool to be used as proof that they have grown big enough balls

Voice of my Pen

I swore never to waste my precious ink
I swore not to waste my words on dead beat ears
I had decided never to write on useless topics and people again
But today, my heart is in pain.
And to heal it, I must talk to you, team mafisi.

So you take pride in the name fisi…
You think it is a term of endearment for you and your equally pathetic loser friends who have more debtors than the pair of trousers they own
You dare sit, recline and bask in the falsified glory and camouflage of a name that was originally meant for an animal of a mongrel’s descent
Today, its me and you
I am talking to you.

You are no legend
You are not even close to a hero so forget about being a target of envy and social media manslaughter
For the moment you take pride…

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What they say

They say we’re not fit to lead
They say we’re too young
They say we’re sons of nobody
They say royalty is not in our genes
They say 8-4-4 churned out literary dwarfs

They say we are lost
That we refused to see the trail they left us
Did we really see their path worth treading?
All I saw was a bone yard of justice
that corruption and greed got slain
long before my placenta tasted earth

They say our efforts yield nothing
Ours has been termed a lost generation
They say we’re a menace to society
They say our grey matter is dark with addictions

They say we’ll lead tomorrow
When our goals will be more defined
When they shall have paved our way
When our sisters shall have completed
The bedroom courses they sponsor

When our brothers shall have nursed
The gunshot wounds they shot
When our mothers shall have read the last eulogy of our siblings
When our fathers shall have returned to empty homes
with empty hands because they can feed us on empty promises
When the false incitement charges shall have eaten away our cattle shed
When the sheep shall have been driven out of church

But I ask you, what do we say?
What are we?

The last letter from a rape victim

If reincarnation is true, I would like you to be back as dog, not the type to be kept as a pet but more of a mongrel that corrodes street walls with urine. You lost the privilege of being human the day I realized that my toilet was blocked by a fetus you sired.
Dear Rapist,
If only God listened to my Prayers, I would whisper a prayer that with every passing second, the noose around your neck would tighten just enough to let gasp for breath your entire life. This will teach you that having the strength to breathe is one of the greatest miracles not yet put in books of records. But I guess God listens not to those in most need and that is why he permitted you to trade my breath for momentary pleasure.
When you tore my pants it’s not the only thing I owned that you brought to a premature end, that day I died and I have died a thousand deaths since then for what is the need of a breath if it can’t fuel the pursuit of your dreams? My dreams got slain the moment my dignity followed a trail of blood that my virginity left on my legs as it exited.
Dear Rapist, I’m done doing the last of my laundry but no amount of detergents has been able to remove the dark stains of blame bagging my conscience.
I have tried to convince myself that maybe you didn’t mean to do it; that you were also a victim of a system that taught our brothers that a woman is a shoe; one size that fits all. Shove in and be counted as a man, but how can’t I blame you when it is the same system that taught us to blame the bullets for killing people while protecting the hands that pulled the trigger?
Dear Rapist, I ‘m done asking endless questions that only serve to permeate my conscience with depression. We get raped for being at the right places at the wrong time, we get raped for dressing what fits as right, and we get raped for refusing to call back at your catcalls. Everyday women die at the hands of weak men who are slaves to their own erections.
When I fought you back you hit my head with a cold metal this I guess was to remind me of my place in this society that had made a woman a laboratory where you men run your fertility tests.
And, yes, your test turned positive. Three months later the evidence of your potency was a blocked toilet _and a lesson that all it takes to sire a child is an erection but fruits of mere erection grow up to face rejection from their own mothers and I couldn’t let my child face such hostility. It’s only fruits of love that can be brought up with love.
Dear rapist remind the male species that it takes more than just a trace on a mendelian chart to father a kid and sons with no father figure get devoured by identity crisis trying to prove their worth by outrageous figures like how many women they’ve slept with, how much money can their wallets hold, how many fights have they won so I’m afraid your son could have become a robber or a rapist like you. I couldn’t let my own blood spill another woman’s blood.
woe unto you rapists who reduce the lifespan of women to the length of your penis
woe unto you men who equate the worth of a woman to how tight you think her vagina is. Karma isn’t dead and soon enough you’ll know the pain I felt when it becomes your daughter’s.
Dear men, No is just a mono-syllable. How many times must I tell you No to know it has no hidden meaning like a parable?
Dear Rapist, I’m done doing the last of my laundry but no amount of detergents has been able to remove the dark stains of blame bagging my conscience.
Your potency was not the only test that turned positive. I now take medicine. I have tried to forgive myself for having killed an innocent child but what chances did he have? Do you know how painful it is to bring up a child knowing that you will die and leave him before he’s strong enough to stand on his own feet? Can you feel the pain of watching your own son die in your arms when deep down you know you infected him? I couldn’t take it.
Dear Rapist, I’m done doing the last of my laundry but no amount of detergents has been able to remove the dark stains of blame bagging my conscience.
I’m sick and tired of living a lie. My friends think I have become too good for them but If I told them of my sickness wouldn’t they flee from me? I’m tired of living in isolation just because you gave me a secret I’m no longer willing to keep. I’m tired of popping pills and hospital visits. I’m done trying to convince my conscience that it wasn’t my fault that I got raped. I’m done pretending to be free when you constantly peep into my thoughts to remind me of all the filth you’ve made me be. I’m done pretending to be brave when I can’t even trust myself with my safety.
Dear Rapist, I’m done doing the last of my laundry but no amount of detergents has been able to remove the dark stains of blame bagging my conscience.
Dear rapist, you’ve got my neck in a tight noose
Only a kiss of death can set me loose