Forgiveness

Forgiving is pretty easy.

To easily let go of pain and hurt,

Because you see the human behind the offence, and

Want them to have the dignity that comes with being pardoned.

However... being betrayed reveals that forgiveness isn't the end.

That there is a hell lying in wait, ready to consume this innocent soul,

To tear apart at the pieces you strain to hold together,

And the sweet embrace of nightmares consoles like fantasies. 

Every broken piece of your heart becomes like a broken mirror.

Now you see too many unclear images, a jumbled up reflection.

Trusting seems like the foreplay to more pain.

Interacting with love has shown you that:

    This your heart cannot bear every weight it claims,

    Your nine hearts would shatter into million fissures,

    A chaotic canvas of storms weathered.

This Nairobi love has shown you that:

    Forgiveness is not a magic spell that mends all wounds,

    It neither erases the scars nor rewinds the clock,

    It's a fragile bridge dangling over currents of doubt.

This is how it ends

This is how it ends
With me acting like I don't care that you are leaving
Saying that you are not worth fighting for
Reminding myself that this didn't mean much

We were never really a couple anyway, were we?

This is how it ends

With me laughing at the intensity of the flame we shared

At the promises of eternal love you swore while in the throes of passion

At the futile efforts I made to rekindle our dying flame

We were not really committed anyway, were we?

This is how it ends

With me forgetting the taste of your flavoured kisses 

feigning amnesia on the dates you routinely cancelled

And the texts you routinely forgot to answer

We were never more than 'jus talking', were we?

This is how it ends

With me refusing to cry over the promises left unfulfilled

And the climaxes yet unreached

You didn't just rip my heart apart anyway, did you?
Because we were never really a 'we', were we?

BACK TO THE PEN

I have not written in over a year. Well, I have. But text messages and emails and work reports or letters do not really count. I have not written a blog post in over a year.

Weirdly, I am content in spite of this. Because I have found other ways to explore and express myself. I've found other ways to interact with the many thoughts, emotions, and situations I experience. I've matured. I enjoy short walks in the evening. I've decided what genre of music soothes or energizes me depending on what I need. I've found diverse ways to connect with people and share my thoughts. I've explored some habits I'd like to keep and some I need to boot.

At first, I stopped writing because I got busy at my job and couldn't make the time. Then I had the time but my heart wasn't at peace. And I couldn't bear to write because every time I was alone with my thoughts, they went to a place I didn't want to dwell. Then I found ways to deal with my insecurities and control my fantasies. But, I'd already become lazy. I was already reading less and less. I had pulled away from the things and the habits that nurture my inspiration. So even when I did sit to write, my thoughts would not pull together into words I could shape

In 2018, I want to get back to writing. Because I am lonely without my scribbles. Because I love the person writing makes me. Because I like how literature and poetry influence my relationships and my ability to intimately connect with the people I love. When I'm writing, I feel in sync with my purpose and I'm better placed to pursue my many dreams. When I'm writing, I don't struggle to express what I'm feeling. It is easier to ponder on the diverse experiences I encounter.

I want to once again write about my experiences. I want to write about the world as I am in it. I want to pen poetry again. I want to explore new subjects.
I want to write my heart out.

So I shall write!

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.

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.

When Love bites

You meet him and instantly fall in love. Well, to be accurate, that fuzzy feeling has being brewing in you even before you first saw him. But now that you've met him, the fuzziness is the antidote to all the queerness you do not want to feel again.

So...

You meet him and instantly fall in love. Your feelings have nothing to do with the flashy car he drives or the classy suit he dons. Neither are you enticed by his expensive watch and his educated flair.

Because he has none of that.

His simple clothes and worn shoe soles tell of his mastery of the Gikomba market. On his wrist is a plastic band, bravely indicating that he knows his status. His HIV-Aids status of course. You are already so taken in by him that social status does not register at the moment. He tells time from the Nokia flap strategically seated on his left lap. His English though fluent and polished with the tell-tales of a grammar Nazi, is heavily laden with an accent reminiscent of lower Eastern Kenya.

You are so drawn to him that you feel that you must love me. You know there's no more fooling your heart. You already want to belong with him.

But what is his charm? It could be his witty sense of humour; or his factual arguments; or perhaps his point blank articulation of the political landscape. You already know you'll copy his points elsewhere during arguments to appear more intelligent.

Or could it be his manly grin? That grin brings to life the butterflies in your spine and sends blood to your lips.
Or perhaps it is the attentive way he listens to you. As though when your lips part the earth is nourished.

It could be all of him. You love how he wears his manhood better than you do your sassy. You decide that he simply must be the one from whose rib you were chiselled.

…

That was the first date. And you already agreed to belong with him.

Life begins to colour a new. Your lips are always flirting with laughter and your ribs are easily tickled. So many things now make you laugh. This love ignites a spark so bright it lightens up your once grouchy being.

Shyly, he invites you to his single room. He is excessively nervous and apprehensive that you will be so underwhelmed that you will call it quits. He has a bed, a stove and a few utensils. And books on the bed; books in the carton beside his bed; books under his bed; and books and newspapers on the floor. And books acting as a laptop holder.

Perhaps it is your mutual love for literature. And his mastery of the seductive art of putting pen to paper.
Yes, you were an avid reader of his blog long before you knew his real name.