Morning, we slept well. The balls are playing hide and seek now. It’s a funny game in a limited field. Here’s how they do it. One ball moves up the mound of flesh up the pubis, and the other has to leave the sac to find it. 😂
You should hear the giggles they make when they collide with each other.
When Nelson Mandéla told me he was more scared of mosquito bites than Akoth’s parents, I knew I’d sweat that night. It was 9 in the night, and I thought it was too early to fish the girl out without being hit by a bible.
I was scared of that shit. It spelled death. Nobody we knew had endured the wrath of 66 books and lived. I was scared.
Rumors had it that the guy who had tried to fish Akoth’s elder sister had been struck by lightning just a few days after the Pastor hit him with the bible. It was a suicide attempt getting those girls.
I was scared but we had Mandela, the antidote to every huddle we had getting ’em girls. Mandela had curious genitals, so he began sexing ’em girls while still in lower primary. By class 7 he was sexing the teachers. A bad bad guy that one.
With Mandela on your side, you were sure to get laid. You had to be ready. If you could meet Mandela, then you’d know how sincere men are when they tell you they tripped and fell in a vagina. Mandela had the charm that swept girls off their feet, swirling them in the air and gently resting them on your genitals.
It was magic.
You never saw it coming. So we’re on our way to get this girl when out of nowhere somebody passing by on a motorbike calls him.
The guy is giving him details on how Belinda and her sister have come back the very evening. I didn’t even know Belinda, nor her sister, but I could hear the yearning in his voice when he interviewed the dude.
So when he said we head to Belinda’s place, I knew things were getting thicker. Maan, it’s only with Mandela’s connection that you can introduce yourself to a chic you’ve never known and 20 minutes later you’re banging pon the sofa. Nelson Mandéla, may God bless you.
And Yo, I’m the first person who evaded the bible and lived to tell the tale.
Whenever I read my posts I find out how fucked up my life is. That’s basic. Sometimes I get superb revelations. Today, I’ve realized that I write everything in Dholuo. It might dress and walk and talk like English, but it is Dholuo.
Somedays, you wake up with bile in your mouth. You feel your tongue doesn’t fit within the confines of your teeth. Or it’s rough. You smell your breath, and it’s nasty AF. Then you remember the old you, that little kid who believed in so much. Yeah, the boy is now a man.
As a poet, your work is to write about love–not to find it.
You are a girl who’ll be remembered for soft things;
And most importantly;
Loving the wrong man right
If they shun you for speaking the Truth, don’t fret; truth isn’t palatable, don’t expect them to stomach it.
Birds Will Chirp
Frogs Will Crock
But my heart will never digress from
The place we used to hide in is no longer a secret, they have discovered it and known the secrets it kept. Our beautiful moments flew when adulterous wives brought their men in; the charcoal notes stood the test of time—to tell tales of our childhood indulgence.