My son, in this life compete with fellow men, don’t ever try to compete with a woman with a pretty face and a big ass, for in the labyrinth of her mons are shortcuts to the finish line
I have written before
But, I will write some more
My letters do reach you and I hope you’ll answer
My dearest husband, this isn’t the life we dreamt of, and that doesn’t cause me pain. What hurts me is that you created us and broke us when you sighted a virtual petite half your age.
I now live in permanent fear because I dread the question, what will I tell them when they begin asking about you?
Should I lie?
Or do I just make it clear that my thighs weren’t warm enough to bring you home? Will these children understand? Because I have seen the question in their eyes, it just remains unspoken.
Forgive me for not beginning with a greeting of any kind, for 9 years are too long and a lot have changed in this life and so are my priorities. This is a microwave age, you hit the spot, no dilly-dallying. Plus, wouldn’t greeting you unearth the beautiful memories I’ve buried in our backyard?
I don’t want to remember you, at least as the man I married. These memories are razors too sharp to cut, so they burn: all the dreams of our children, all the promises we made to them in the hospital, and all the longings of my heart for the man you were before short skirts short wired your brain.
I had seen it coming, the siren was loud enough to awaken the dead but it wasn’t loud enough to enlighten a fool in love. The nights were lonely and sleep was elusive, the nights you locked yourself in your study and wore your thick glasses and began your lessons, only for sexual noises to flood my room hours later.
And I would hear you unlocking the bedroom door and slink into my sheets, you’d spend the night moaning strange names and shit talking. It might have taken long but I knew the internet woman had taken my place in your loins.
And I hoped, prayed, and wrote letters to heaven to give me my husband back, but all the while you had gotten used to flawless thighs the world had to offer, albeit virtually.
I wasn’t a woman enough to satisfy your sexual needs, but d’you mean to say a motion picture is warmer than me? It would be different if you cheated with a living female, but I swallowed my pride and prayed some more for things to change.
Every night as I tucked my children, I hugged them tighter, and in every hug was a whispered prayer that they might have a taste of the man I married. The loving husband, the caring father and the foundation of our home but you were too busy making love to your virtual women to chorus the Hail Mary refrain.
The morning you left, I cried. It seemed like any other day but my intuition told me otherwise, deep down I knew there was no conference, but I still waited for the two weeks to elapse in the belief that you couldn’t desert your children. It’s now 9 years and the conference isn’t over yet.
I have heard rumours, of sworn affidavits and changed names. I have also heard rumours of short skirts and young women and late night diners, I was happy when I heard the latter for I knew you were learning to be a man again.
Just so you know, I haven’t been idle, shoot, I’ve got children to feed and school and though we were thrown into the streets like wild dogs, heavens opened its gates and ushered us in. I now have a job, my children are learning with white kids, perhaps they’re taught how to be men.
Isn’t that ironical? That the same whites who taught my husband how not to be a man can teach my kids how to be men? I think I need a new school.
Certainly, I didn’t write this letter to tell you all this, what I want is simple. Meet your kids. Give them a chance of knowing how not to be a father.
Don’t ask how I got your address, I changed my name too. And it’s a small world. I’m so sorry I couldn’t approve your tender, my corporation only works with real humans. 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂
Hello, how are you? I’m curious. It’s not that I’m not concerned, but you see if you brought a sexually starved bachelor into a room full of naked women and dared to gauge the rise in testosterone and gastrin hormones, wouldn’t the highest be obvious? So is my curiosity. As you know, none of the people I hold dear that had departed ever came back to tell me how the land yonder is. These are miracles reserved for people of Lazarus’s privileges, you failed to qualify too but I would have loved to get a two way communication between us , brother what channel do we use, Prayer? No. If I prayed in conversation with a dead brother I might be termed a devil worshiper; there’s a notion that people who die turn to ghost and devils, the latter is more common. The penalty for conversing with a devil, my pastor says, is eternal fires of hell.
Irrespective, I’ll tell you a few things about this world you left unduly. Here nothing is easy, there are metrics that we found already set, not that the bars they set for us were too high that we couldn’t meet but it just makes no sense to force Lionel Messi to hit the bull’s eye when the game of darts doesn’t involve the use of feet. Particularly, it hasn’t been cool with me, I have been branded names. Brother, we would have shared these names if you were here, believe me there’s nothing as weighty as a demeaning brand. It blankets your self-esteem and floors your confidence and before you know it you’ll remain an indoor mouse that complains of all he lacks but is too ashamed to step out of the door and look for all he needs. Brother, I’m ashamed to say that I have been this mouse, everything about my existence has a dark side. I knew this because everything good I did always had a diversion.
When every conversation about you has a ‘but’ as a conjunction you’ll know that your present has joined forces with your dark history to rub your trace from the map of human existence. After all, I believe it was omission of ‘t’ in butt that formed ‘but’, nothing good comes from ‘butts’. Sometimes I wish that you were here, other times I’m glad that you left before they branded you a misfit. I have all names that I wear daily, profanities held on placards and iniquities flawlessly inscribed on my forehead. Even as I write, I have to beg my hands to continue typing, I no longer want to please them. But brother who doesn’t need approval? Especially after being spat out like spoilt milk? I have lived in denial, I have lied to myself that I don’t need anyone’s approval but the truth is there are days when I just need someone to tell me that I’m on the right track. When no one does, I fail to know my destination.
Brother, I would like to tell you so much, about technology, there’s whatsup, facebook, twitter, IG among others but this short letter isn’t really about me and my space; it’s about you! Why did you leave so quickly?
Do you know how painful it is to live as two different beings in one lifetime?
I’d love to say I hate you, but hate arrived late when the apartments of my heart were already in rubbles, all that’s left is tiny cage holding my love for you hostage. This love has been held here for so long I need to check its expiry date. How irrational of you to depart and leave a part of you? Do you know we shared same breasts? Or did I suckle too much that you died of starvation? Tell me twin bro, I can’t find the right answer, my conscience is bugging me. Did I take all the love our mother had to offer, so much that you saw no point in living in a world devoid of love? For your consolation, mom died few years after you left, she didn’t even raise me. Does that make us even?
Brother, I need you. I have stood before the mirror so many times just tracing a hint of your face but nothing forms that could depict the beautiful image my heart holds of you. Besides I see you in abstracts, nothing physical, whenever I think of you I see love, kindness, creativity and tenacity. The latter is more boldly engraved than the rest, I guess this is why I believe that you were the executor because you can hold on to the wheels even when your hands they grind. I can never do that. You see, I can only form mental pictures but you were gifted to bring them to reality. You’ve rendered me useless brother, for what is the need of a dreamer without the executor?
There’s a ship in friendship that ferries friends to their destiny, but ours left me stranded at the cove as you chose a shortcut to end all this. You’re a coward, you should have looked death in the eye and told him ‘not yet, you aren’t taking me alone I am not leaving without my twin brother’
The same way there’s a hood in brotherhood, a feeling of belonging, and being appreciated, my hood scoured all the worthy memories of us, now emptiness hovers around my heart like a dark soot in a clear sky. But I still hope that one day, you’ll be here to answer my questions. I’m not done but I’ve got to go to work. I didn’t tell you, I work for seven days a week for a little pay just to keep my son alive!
Humility isn’t weakness, Courage isn’t isn’t defiance. Just blend humility with courage and watch yourself rise to realms unfathomed by common men~George Agak
Now that 2015 has come to end, its only logical to sit down and analyze what went wrong to be ditched and what went right to be extrapolated in 2016. As I checked my blog I realized that I have had periods of dryness; periods when nothing came forth to my loyal readers, those who have been reading all of my posts, rating, liking and commenting on my writes. most of the time this can be attributed to the fact that my hustles have been taking me off the couch into places far away from my keyboard. Another reason is that I am still looking for a reliable yet affordable internet connection to be able to post these writes daily. I hope 2016 will present more quality problems like ” Oh my God How do I begin to respond to 200 comments?” and ” Ohh my goodness how could I post 10 writes in a day? this is killing my readers! Lol.
As I am waiting for 2016 to unfold, I want to thank all those who visited my blog and helped make it what it was! Honestly 2015 has been the year in which I accomplished a lot, I even submitted my nature poems to Avocet- An American Nature Journal and two of them got published! there are some bloggers that are worth the mention, they have been visiting this blog now and then making it even busier. they include:
Paul F Lenzi
Shadow of Iris
Very many other writers with strange pen names that I cant remember without exiting this draft and going deeper into the blog stats. I say Thank You for the far we’ve come. Actually if your name appears on ‘The Most Valued Friends” section of my blog, just know you’re highly valued. stick by me as we get ready to unravel the mysteries of 2016. Happy Blogging in 2016.
Yesterday was one of the worst days, i’ve ever had….I woke up at 5 am and left for Kahawa for shoot. Even as I left my house and whispered my prayers with padlock in my palms I felt something sinister was impending. When I reached Rounda, I decided to get in a café and break the fast, half-way through the session the producer calls and insists that I have to wait for some two beautiful virgins as they do not know where the shooting will be done…I sat for close to two hours. watching touts fight, assuming beggars do not see me ,scratching my head, licking my lips and blowing my nose. Finally the ladies showed up looking like Mps’ Clandes and the way they initiate their conversations like they arrived 30 mins before you did, do you even get a room to complain? They are the first to spot a mathree plying the route and head for it, I stay behind insisting that we take another vehicle, something in me was against boarding the van but two against one; they win. Little did they know that just few seconds in the van one was to miss her phone. I just heard “ my phone woiyee! please give me back my phone…..its everything I need”…and the son of a bitch just jogged as the touts watched and I could do nothing as well. she cursed, she cried, she felt sore and bitter at everything…….After waiting for hrs for my scene to be shot, shooting ended at about 8:30 pm, my scene not shot still and I come home and this juicy neighbor’s daughter meets at the staircase and smiles and asks me where I had been. She says, “aki tuligonga mlango yako mara mob, tunaona slippers kwa mlango but hatujakuskia ukipiga kelele (we knocked your door sverally, we saw your slippers at the verandar but we havent heard you shout)for the past three days, we thought you were DEAD!” I have been thought of as insane so many times but this was the first time I have been assumed DEAD… Woiyeee is death looming…let it wait a bit, I need to father a dozen kids .
I have been sitting here listening to everything in general but nothing in particular; cypher of morning birds, chit-chatter of women downstairs and innocent giggles of babies but none of these has helped me in quelling the inferno inside of me. There’s something missing that I really need to complete this equation, something surreal, something gentle, I can feel the need erupting like a volcano inside the deepest part of me, the feeling of coldness, and the gentle touch of fragile fingers and soft prickles of nails on my back. Restrained appetites to indulge, to swim freely into the seas of mutual satisfaction, I relive every moment we spent with gist of longing. That night wasn’t to be in the first place but it’s the most memorable night I have had in the past two years, the floor was cold, the night was icy, we wrapped ourselves in a duvet but still my teeth rattled. The thought of what would unfold or not unfold got my skin fold in goose bumps.
You held me, I squeezed you. I teased you and you cried. You told me you don’t have good memories of such intimate gestures. I wiped your tears with the back of my hands, vexed that I was cleaning a mess some fucker created but melancholy knows no man, I felt the sexual rush being replaced by a sense of gentleness and vulnerability that I have never felt before any woman, my tears dropped on the tip of your nose and that did nothing to stop yours. You held me closer, tightened the hold and then kissed me deeply like my lips would erase all the misdeeds of the fucker you mistakenly took for a lover. I watched as a night of romance was turning into a bereavement therapy. Even as your eyes flooded with tears and crow’s feet formed beneath them, your beauty was unperturbed; you still shone.
I carried you to your bed and laid you to rest as I questioned the degree of immorality it would be to sleep with an emotionally burdened. Would that be taking advantage of the situation? Yes, we slept but we never sampled fruits of nature until the magic phrase ‘I need you in but am afraid’ surfaced at about 5:30 am. I peeled your clothes, you peeled mine. We were naked and it felt like paradise, naked seemed everything unlike what Adam could want to hide from. We crossed the border. My thoughts are still anchored to the events of that night and for the first time in four good years I feel like I’m missing someone; someone who reminded me what it felt like to be in love again after years of picking pieces of broken heart.
Everything slips through her fingers
Her hands a mesh work
She can’t hold onto a thing
Behind her trudges a dark cloud
Of failures magnified
And hate is eminently inscribed
Deep in her eyes
The orchestra of her heavy breathing
Is in complete harmony
With the crunchy sound
Of the fallen dried paint
That once laced her lungs
Stepped on by irate kin.
With her wagging tongue
She curved her path
Cleared every obstacle
To her destitution
Out of her volition
She got into this mission
To prove she could drive
Her own being to completion
She deserved better
No one needs her close
The ungrateful monster
Bitter lesson learnt
Bridges to the past burnt
UNGRATEFULNESS is LEPROSY
*** Sometimes I just write things that I cant even classify. Most of the times I see pictures in my mind that I just put down as raw as I see them. Can this be a poem? I don’t know but it is the closest embodiment of what I saw when I closed my ears and listened to voices unheard, humming of strange sort . But still I feel I haven’t put I down in its entirety. Read it and tell me what you think it is. ***** LOve ya’ll
Dreams Mock Me
As a child I had dreams bigger than my sleep. My abilities had no stains of doubt and my hopes breathed from lungs of possibilities. Today my nightmares are bigger than my house and procrastination evicted my best friend ‘NOW” and my walls are painted with the blood of my slain dreams.