Prisonner

The sun outside must be scorching hot

See it through my tiny window

In here am cold, freezing cold

Should get up, go out in the sun

Still sit here and wait

Waiting for the sun to come to me

Or for my muscles to grow stronger

Too starved to move

Eye the cold porridge by my door

Dismiss it for another hour

Shut my eyes and listen

‘thud, thud’ heart still pounding

Faintly but steadily

Pull in a bountiful of air

A familiar stench stings the nose

The lungs are grateful

Eyes open slightly

Stare at the dirty wall

Wonder how much longer,

This nightmare must go on...

21

 It’s my birthday, not your birthday. It’s ma birthday, not ya birthday.

   So am now at that age where ladies supposedly  stop counting. That age where you start keeping your age a secret and a decade later you are still twenty one. Thing is, I ain’t afraid of aging, just not yet. I want to get to the other side of my shadow. To that time when I will see while seated, what young people can’t see standing. I am eager to see how I will age. Will I have achieved all my dreams in half a century. Or maybe I still got a century to live! Oh my,  will my mirror still reflect unfaltering beauty even when my face is wrinkled and my stance not as erect?

I’ll try my best to live up to Proverbs 31:30

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;

but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.

 I happen to be one of those ladies who string along a big chunk of their childhood into their adulthood. There are childhood fantasies I still dearly believe in. Some memorabilia I cherish. Memories I hold close to my heart. Moments I not only reminisce about but try to relieve as well. But this is about being twenty one. That magic age that qualified one to vie for a parliamentary seat. The 2010 Constitution scrapped that bit. A piece of the magic in turning twenty one was scraped out. No, I’m not complaining. 

I know this post sounds a tad bit confused, I hope 21 won’t be an age of confusion. No, please. I have enjoyed the past twenty years. As I reminisce, I will describe my life by quoting and paraphrasing Charles Dickens in ‘A tale of two cities’ albeit in an entirely unrelated way:

         It was the best of times, it was the worst of times;

         It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness;

         It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity;

         It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness;

         It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair;

         I had everything before me, I had nothing before me;

         I was going directly to Heaven, I was going the other way.

Key to my soul

I love to play silly application games on the web. These kinds where they ask stupid questions then at the end tell you something about yourself. And yes, I quite believe the things they say about me. It’s like I'm discovering new stuff about myself and learning more about my favorite person in the world (that’s me of course). So recently I did this ‘What’s The Key To Your Soul’ game on Facebook and the answer pretty much delighted me.

It read something like:
“You are a worker. Your hands tell people your "status"… You are an outstanding artist, which always shows your strength and emotions … With your hands you can change anything and … blah blah blah”

Us women have parts of our bodies that we feel are our best or strongest points. Each woman has parts she’d like to flaunt or show off because she feels it’s the most adorable part of her wholly adorable body. Like eyes, boobs, hips, legs, sometimes even toenails. I’m an attractive woman, with lots of gorgeous features, but after taking this quiz, I discovered that my hands are the key to my soul!
Awesome!

Except… recently, I don’t like to let anyone see my hands. My hands used to be very pretty. But of late, they have become quite fragile and every time I wash my clothes, utensils or do anything that involves using soap, they develop an infection or whatever this is.

Tiny itchy pimples appear and then shortly after they begin to burst and give off some clear liquid. Then they dry up and as they heal, some of the hard skin peels off. At first I thought I had leprosy, but then my fingers didn’t fall off and it didn’t spread to the rest of my body.

They are an ugly site so I don’t want anyone seeing my hands.

I’ve seen a medical practitioner and the cream they gave does work. So it gets better. But considering I still have to use soap while taking a bath every day and doing house chores, the cream is like a hankie in a hot field. It won’t shield you from the sun but it will come in handy for wiping the sweat. Now this is not a cry for help, far from it.

I’m excited about my hands being the key to my soul. So from now on, I’ll take proper care of my key. As soon as I can, I will see a dermatologist. I hope to get a permanent cure or at least a diagnosis of what ingredient in soap I should shun. But for now, I’ll not give up on this cream, it’s my straw in this drowning river, so I’ll clutch tight.

I’ll clean my hands and groom them. I’ll take this manicure thing more seriously. My hands will be well oiled at all times, nails well-trimmed and skillfully manicured.
Yeah, I resolve to make my hands a beautiful sight worth showing of and I’ll slyly caress them every now and then. Because my hands are the key to my soul!