THREE MINUTES OF YOU

Minute 1:

She likes you.

The you that tickles her desires
Like a sorcerer summons reluctant ghosts to awaken for Halloween.

So smoothly that she laughs her jaws and ribs into an ache,
Her eyes sparkling like darts of bonfire flames.

She's star-struck every time your attention is hers.

Perhaps this is how she trips.

She wants you.

The you that's quick to deeply and devilishly etch into the soul of her nerves.

So deeply and wittingly weaving in,
That she cannot laugh at a joke without wondering whether you would find it funny.

So devilishly embedding into her heart of hearts
That your name is the only song.

Perhaps this is how she falls for you.

She deifies you.

The you whose demons scrub up and dress up for dates with her.

So charmingly that fantasy replaces reality,

Perhaps, you should have dug a shallower pit.

Perhaps this is how deeply you wanted her to fall for you.

Minute 2:

She has fallen.

Not for you.
Of course not.
She's wiser than that.
But, is she?

She's probably only fallen for the idea of you.

Her desires have been playing in her dreams,
Casting you as the handsome knight.

Your elegant fabrication of gentlemaness
So finely cast, she willingly loses her feet.

She has fallen.

For you that she sees in her fantasies.

She wants to capture the mundane moments with you,
To freeze them in little pockets of time.

She's no fool.
She knows she might soon need the comfort of memory.

Fuck boys don't last.

She has fallen.
For you.

And you last long enough to count.

So she begins to build ice castles in the desert.

And you bring the paint for your castle walls.

Surely you're not one to disappoint.

Minute 3: 

She is alone.

You left.
And with her sanity too.

The fantasies she found comfort in now mock her.

Your fingers no longer trace maps
To uncharted paradise on her flesh.

And she knows you shouldn't come back.

She is bitter.

Memories of you are but torture.

Where you drew laughter on her ribs
That tattoo now spells torment.

When she recalls your caresses,
Emptiness confronts her.

Promises once spoken are now drawings on sand,
Erased and drowned in tears.

She is awake.

The pieces of her broken heart pound as a whole.

She knows she'll fall again,
Perhaps for herself next time.

Holding on to her fairytales,
She must keep going.

But what's this space in her heart for,
If not toads and beasts?

MORE ME THAN ME

I am in love with her.
This pretty girl who jumps out of me every time I sip this wine.

She is free, uninhibited, pure.
She is proud, content, alive.
She is smart, confident, sufficient.
She is more me than I am.

Last night she came out again. She had been naughty and flaring up all week. She had screamed and kicked like a bad child. So last night I let her out of her cage.

She came out smiling and grinning  with mischief. And she came out swaying her soft hips to some music I could not hear. She danced gayly like her feet had been bewitched. She came out, and she came with all my sass.

This girl I'm in love with, She went into a fit. She yelled at me and she broke some of me. She said she's tired of wafting in and out of my lucidity like a caged vixen. "No more prison," she ordered.

Now she is free, uninhibited, pure.
Now she is proud, content, alive.
Now she is smart, confident, sufficient.
She is more me than I am. And she wants me to be her.

No Promises

Do not promise me a fairy tale. No! Please don't make promises. Because my heart is silly, she'll believe you.

There was I time I dreamed of the luscious kisses of knights. And princes whose kingdom was trapped beneath my bosom. Who'd guard my smile with truth and soul.

I wanted you to swear by the stars in the night sky and the moonlight trapped in the salty lake. That my name is the only melody. And the rhythm of your heart beats in acknowledgement.

That time is not yet passed. Fantasies still plague my sanity.

Dancing in the rain and kissing you while the great ocean jealously rages by. There can be no antidote for such portions.

So please don't mention such foolishness to me. Because every word you say is like a sorcerers' curse. It'll bind my naive heart like a poet's muse.

ANGRY DUST

I'm seething with anger. 

I am so angry that I am sweating in this cold and lonely room. The stuffiness clogging up my mind is making it difficult for me to hear my own thoughts.

I'm annoyed. With both of us. You and me. Of course it's mostly with you. The only reason I am pissed with myself is that I have reached the maximum level of annoyance with you, and there is still some unappropriated anger in reserve.

Why am I angry with you? Aaaarh. What kind of question is that? Please. The only sensible thing to ask me now is whether there is even a single reason for which I am not angry with you.

You have really pushed my buttons. See, you have reached here.. the brim! It is only because it's you that I'm bothering to even bring up this issue. If it was anybody else, they would only be seeing dust. You know, the dust I would raise behind me as I leave tuuuuf!

Why are you still just there like that? Do I sound as if I am singing? Please, I am not. So you should just begin apologizing now now. Before you blink and then all you see will just be angry dust.

Philosophers are but fancy insomniacs.

I have been sitting behind a blank screen for hours now. At a few minutes past one in the morning I quit pretending that I was asleep, or that I was loving the warmth in my bed. And I got up to power on my laptop. It’s 4:36 AM now, and the blank word document I opened before the witching hour is still blank.

I should turn off the TV so that I can hear myself think. Instead, I am debating whether or not to switch channels. Should I let CNN play on in the background or move on to Aljazera? BBC has better African coverage, but they are not showing clips of Jon Stewart on the Daily Show. See, I’m so smart I can relate with western media without losing my African-ness.
What does that even mean?

Well, I’ll drink to whatever helps keep the horror of my sincerest thoughts hidden in my subconscious. I am afraid to look within, because the things I have done and the dreams I abandoned are lurking there, waiting to torment me.

I begin to tap on the keys. Telling myself that I am in control. That my writing doesn’t have to be as sincere as the voices screaming in my head. That it can be as beautiful as the plastic smile I have perfected in the mirror.

I miss the innocence my soul had. When I knew myself. When I knew to define myself. Whom have I become? It’s time I switched off every other sound and began discovering myself.
Maybe I should watch the drama on Afro-Cinema. I might enjoy frowning at the misfortune of the main character, laughing with the drama queens and wondering at the thin line between virtue and vice.

I am young. They say youth is innocence.
I am older. They say age is experience.
They can't be right. Perhaps they do not know what they say. They might be as clueless of fact as the lazy analysts whom local media houses have taken to parading on our screens every evening.

Comedy keeps reflection at arms length and the conscience at bay. And there are things demanding my attention far more adeptly. Like my faulty economic stability. And global warming. And political ignorance. Do I have a false sense of security? Maybe I should be editing my resume or picking a self help book.

Would they look at me the same if they knew how confused I am? Or if they could tap into the real cause of my insomnia? Would I be sleepless if I had more money? Or if I had more fake friends to show me how to concentrate on appearances and goals rather than the things that really matter?
What are those things that really matter?

Does anyone else think that philosophers are merely fancy insomniacs?

I originally published this post on the Storymoja Festival blog.