The Lost Story

The only way to trigger your imagination, and actually write, you figured, is writing your pieces as though they were a rough copy. And so you’ve created a word document titled ‘morgue’ where you type down random thoughts that trickle down your mind from time to time, although at not so laudable intervals.

The good thing about the articles written in ‘morgue’ is that you often manage to string enough words to make a complete article – where complete is anything more than 800 words. Looking at the word count, you are close to eight thousand words – a feat you wouldn’t manage if you wrote the stories in individual word documents.

But then the trick comes with a disadvantage. Sometimes as you scroll down, one story arrests your attention, even when you insist to it that you are rushing down the hospital to deliver another story. It demands a bribe – but then how do you bribe a story you wrote yourself. It’s like reading the chats of your girlfriend who is soon bound to be your ex. It is simply irresistible.

Even though you should have rushed to the end and began typing the little story that bobbed up and down your stormy mind, you read it all through. You add and remove words that you think were not well thought and then nod at your creative genius, because, you face it squarely, no one has ever found it fit to tell you how impressed they were by your imaginations. When you are done patting your own back, the story you wanted to deliver to the morgue has limped off into the bush. Knowing how dangerous he was, you decide to let him roam for a while, may be the threat of his own powerless against powerful adversaries in the jungle will bring him back to his senses and come back to you.

‘He was a good story damn it.’ the silent scream in your mind goes off. ‘You better find him. Now.’ It yells even further, sounding like your neighbour’s alarm which he either ignores or he is too asleep to hear it. If the night is still, it feels as though bombs are being detonated right inside your eardrum. And that’s how your mind screams, telling you to find the story.

The story developed self-healing properties, and disappeared in the jungle of the stories that shall never see the darkness and the coldness of the morgue. It is out there, living its life. Perhaps partying, and probably will wake up with a stranger beside him tomorrow morning. Or with a legendary hangover the following day.

Then You Came To An End

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The scene is still vivid in your mind, like a giant screen covering the entire sky. There are only two of you in the world, and every single feature blooms as you eyes fall on them. You are talking and you are concentrating on the words rolling out of her mouth as though it is a mill of sweetness. Her voice cancels out every other noise within a radius of a kilometer.

There you are, the two of you, crossing the railway to you spot under the eucalyptus tree. It is the place where time moves so fast, even though you desire it frozen. Her breathe beside you seem to beckon a thousand forevers, and you think, ‘some people search the world for moments like this…’

She buys roasted maize by the roadside and brings it wrapped in green. It is peppered. You’d never tasted peppered roasted maize before but you do not acknowledge lest she laughs at you…not that you don’t like her laughing…you are already trying to figure out how to wrap her laughter, like the roasted maize, and put it in your pocket so that you can secretly fondle in matatus that callously take you away from her.

Memories piled. Songs you loved to listen to piled up. Every single thought of her love, her touch, her kiss filled up your world. Did you ever think of endings. No. you were already wrapped up in warm blanket called ‘happy ending.’ And even if we break up, your mind bragged, it will mean little to me. Life will go on.

Then you came to an end. One fine morning she texts. She texts that unwanted message akin to a doctor announcing the number of days you have to live. ‘You will be lucky to live beyond six months.’

She says she was leaving. No. she says she’s getting married. The world crumbles underneath your feet. The air you breathe becomes polluted, and it feels like its choking you rather than nourishing you. You are hurt by the words. You are hurt by your utter powerlessness to stop her.

The dreaded moment was finally there, staring at you in the face like a bully. She’s gone, it said. Gone to light another world the way she did to yours. She’s leaving yours as dark as a cave. And desolate, waiting for God's voice to speak features into it. For God to speak that let her be there, even if it would take a deep sleep. 

And then you came to an end, you wondering what you did wrong. You never cheated, you were there when it was convenient for both of you, you gave her everything you had, and a little more… then you got stuck in your own darkness, for there was no better of way of loving except that which she chose to walk away from. 

Sorrows

At noon, one day,

He rose and went away,

With a handful shovel

To bury sorrows in a well

Days flew past, quick,

Like death on a body, weak,

From the ravages of disease

But sorrows don’t die with ease

He swung his sharpened sword,

Slashed sorrow in the head, yet a wad,

A wad of cash gushed blood

From the severe wounds

Day after day, head paining

From the numerous battles

Some when it was raining

Celebrating nothing, he lifted bottles

Fire and Brimstone

Think of fire and brimstone,

Smoldering with vengeance,

Consuming sinners, eternally

You, a sinner, gnashing teeth,

Regretting your earthy choices

But then look at life here,

The most pleasurable things are sin,

If not covered in the bible, it is illegal

What life did God intend us to lead surely.

But then look at people entrusted leadership

They’ve taken fronts in the theatre of sindom

As if they stumbled upon a secret

An age old secret that tells them religion is scum

To a prostitute, weighing options

What’s the greatest sin

Hawking flesh or let the kids starve

She is blameless in the eyes of the well-fed children

It

She was there, standing,
an impressive apparition, crying
no, her shadow was crying
beckoning my dark dreams
darker than tar, or night
a starless night

Just Questions

Who am I?
What is I composed of?
Breath?
A beating heart?
Who am I exactly?
Like if I ceased to exist today,
Would you say you knew I?
What wouldn't you say say
That I was lazy, sometimes or all of the time
That I loved shallowly, like he was just the
shallowest lover I ever met
That I believed in the living God,
or didn't believe in his messengers

Who am I in relation to you?
Your breath
Your loving
Your sentimentalities

Who am I?

The Non-mood

A juncture,
A place or whatever,
Just a time, a blot of time
A dot of a thought
Weaving through the mind
Of nothingness
A struggle to assign a mood
Is it
boredom?
Anger?
Hunger?
Brokeness?
Or the feeling of being a complete idiot
Oh! It is the blocked toilet

Boredom

Don't you wish boredom was a person,
A person you would have the pleasure of
not liking them
And telling them so, perhaps pinching their nose
Once in a while while in your sick perverted experiments
It would be fun, wouldn't it?
Because of that you'd stop being bored
And boredom would never want to be in your presence
Not until it goes to medical school
Becomes a surgeon
Then you'd gladly be in it's presence
Begging without saying a word
To save you
But if it's vengeful, it will remember the day you bullied it
And may derive pleasure in surgically cutting you to death
And you will have died of boredom
That's what your lifeless body will tell the pathologist