Tag Archives: sliver of darkness

Hunger bites

Hunger bites
My empty-bellied wallet stares at me
My eyes hello back with deeper hollowness

Phones are dead
My uncle says,
Not today

I pick my journal
235 dollars in receivables
But no one has a dime

A friend says
You’ll get through it
Faith without action?

Find me in the morgue!

What’s in the kitchen cabinet?
Floor, sugar, ketchup, and salt
Can’t I make tea?
No, no tea leaves!

But hunger still bites
I call someone
She says I’m a spendthrift!

So I boil water
And take a warm bath
I’m clean in my hunger

Deprived

I’m not ready, she said
You have to be, he replied
And that was final
She, left neck- deep into the mess
Chained to the ways of the land
The daughter of the lake
A man she has to take
Father’s choice
20 yrs was the age difference
She complained she had another
But gods had decided
And their will she had to obey
She had been fed enough
It was time she got disposed
An item of trade she was
And a herd of cattle was the price
Who cares:
If he loves her or not?
If her heart melts for another?
If he’ll treat her well or not?
If he had a functional engine or not?
She had to be married
To the man who’d lost sight
But still had insatiable appetite for tender flesh
The three-legged man whose backbone needed straightening
He smiles, he whispers seduction but all she thinks;
“Old man you need a mouthwash”
Who cares?
She’ll get used
A herd of cattle wasn’t a small price to pay

Guilty Victims

Papa today I saw him
The man who snatched life me
He’s free papa
And his health is getting better
Papa, he fed on my blood
My virgin blood!
And drank my tears
He owns my flesh
Every inch my breasts grow
My fears swell
Will it arouse them?
Will it tell them I want it?
I saw him, and the memories surfaced
My mind popped open, and worms crawled out
There’s nothing left in this skull
But memories of torture and pain
All rotten
The smell won’t let me eat
The guilt won’t let me sleep
Don’t lie to me papa
I’m guilty
Wasn’t he right to pluck the flower of my childhood?
Wasn’t I meant to please the desire of men?
Papa, I’m guilty of fighting him
Guilty of reporting him
Guilty of damaging his reputation
I’m eating my flesh away
Or did I get sick?
Papa life has no meaning
Don’t you have death on speed dial?

A Toast To Anything

Clinking glasses of red wine in hands on rustic wooden planks ba

Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to the comfort of unemployment and humility of empty sugar dishes, to absinthe and innocence-eyed cougars, to landlord notices, to music, to cold nights and warm bodies, to contraceptives and missed periods… and to the good life, whatever it is and wherever finds you, to sighs of missed calls, to serenity of nature and positive vibrations it brings with it…

Let’s toast to pretty faces and big asses,to supple lips and seductive eyes, to smitten pastors and falling bibles…to rumbling stomachs and naked tissue rolls, to missing left socks and stripped bible pages, to blocked drainages and grey water, to missing family members, to absences found in presence of nagging wives, to weed and chimney noses, to thirst for righteousness and magnetism of pornography, to failed attempts and soiled hopes, to bodies torn after deities’ duel, to life in fullness; what you consider it to be!
Thank You, God for simplifying life
Thank you God for a chance to right my wrongs
Thank you God for Nesta or Isabella
Youtube, Thank you for another euphoric sound escape!

Bad Ones

There comes a times when all you do backfires on you
When she keeps mum and hurts
And still blames you for not knowing her problem
When your hi sounds bye
And your laughter mocks her
And your love just hangs there
Waiting for her to be the girl you knew
And she drops you an sms
” you can never make me happy”
And you feel your balls melting under the weight of self-loathe
Your heart doesn’t respond, it’s dried
The only proof that it lives on is the fact that you’re still alive
Your patience reserve isn’t rich
But you try to give her space
And pray, that you will change
For you’re always the bad one

pages in history

History is present
Troubling us with repeats of yesterday’s mayhem
Blood didn’t dry
And ground wasn’t barren
So seeds of hate sprouted
Watered by sycophancy and greed
What’s right isn’t profitable
What’s profitable isn’t right
Like freedom fighters who lost all while freeing the nation
We have been looted by those we paid to protect our wealth
And they’ve killed us for defending whats ours
Big cars they drive
Fuelled by our thin wallets
And soon they’ll back to shed more blood
For the gods they worship
The nation isn’t ours
We dont belong
We’re pawns on a chessboard
No life of our own
But just items of trade
And bargaining chip for political supremacy
So slavery isn’t dead
Just a page in history
Embeded on the present

😒😒A Letter to the Living Dead😒😒

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.

But wait?

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. 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂
black_woman_smiling_desk_phone-353x179

But….

but
WTF you BUTT!

One of the transitions that break hearts,
Kills dreams and belittles everything
But emboldens incompleteness…

It was a delicious meal, BUT too much fat
She’s beautiful, BUT she’s got a small ass
He is very bright, BUT so hostile
He’s very talented, BUT damn broke
He earns a lot, BUT he’s mean
He loves a lot, BUT he loves the wrong people
……….Et cetera, et cetera………..
The last time my complement transited with a BUT…
I felt its end sour in my mouth before it was spoken
It’s worse when it comes from someone more broken
More desolate,
More beaten
Until you ask yourself who really needs a complement
So I ask can’t a sentence ever be complete without BUT?
Can’t we appreciate the good things
And make them bold enough
For others to see?