Hellish Experience

It's a normal day, 

Sun rise signal anodyne chores, 

a punishment for daring to live, 

we toil in the sun drenched earth, 

only to prove why we deserve to live 

Except we are looking for things we 

know not, 

and that makes existence a hellish experience 

Life

 One morning you'll wake up 

as though you've discovered the 

secret of life,

What is it, you may ask 

Some say it's simple, 

But is it? 

Yes, it sure is.

As simple as breathing 

The Skeptic

 At first it felt 

as though you would make away 

with something a little precious, 

but then I did confuse it with material things, 

but overtime you stole much more 

much more precious, 

time, 

a dream, 

I felt bereft when you left 

I still think there was a better way 

to love 

Blocked

 She blocked you everywhere, 

Buy you were not aware, 

Until she told you 

How she wasted herself 

You were not thinking of her

Maybe you did, but it was not 

sufficient enough for you to worry 

and you didn't get in touch 

Calm

there's calmness, 

a lulling serenity,

in knowing yourself 

well enough to reckon 

that you're always on 

Your own 

when shit goes down 

A Woman With Balls

  We met a woman with balls. It is a privilege of sorts, because very few people ever do in their lifetime. How did we know, you may ask. We known- get ready for the answer - because she said it. "I have balls!" To quote her verbertim. And you must believe whatever a woman says, especially when she's drunk. And it's in the morning. And she has dreadlocks. 

It was a few months before the 2022 general elections. There was money to be burned. It was not surprising to find people drinking in the morning or in various stages of drunkenness. We were also in the process of catching up, although not on the benovelent pockets of a man or woman craving the debueached walls of Parliament. 

We were seated, silently ruminating about dreams we'd never attain. Unaware, we were on a brisk yet imperceptible march towards alcohol addiction or dependency, whichever you call it. We sipped our cheap beers, unbothered and not bothering anyone. 

It was in the morning, as indicated earlier. Nothing was badass. Nothing beats drinking in the morning, especially when serious tax payers are busy building the economy. We drunk during COVID-19, when all bars were closed. We were so serious no life-threatening disease would stop us. We were addicts then, but we never admitted to being addicts. Addiction happened to others, not us, we thought. 

You may think that all we did was drink. No, we dedicated some time to thinking about drinking. Sometimes we worked, a terribly inconvenient way to get money as opposed to being politicians' children. Besides, we were (still are) afraid of jail. 

It happened that the lady with balls was also an early drinker. She had an accomplice, a man. He talked recklessly about politics as if he was a man of great importance. We deduced later that he probably was a political operative sent to listen to the 'ground.' He pried. He prodded trying to elicit some political response from us. We kept quiet. Sometimes, when you are drinking in the morning, all you need is silence. 

He talked in English. He thought we were foreigners. Damn. We looked like foreigners. We kept quiet as if politics was something way beyond our grasp. As we ruminated, the lady with balls emerged from the bathroom. The smell of cigarette wafted through. We never cared too much although there was a distinct notice that forbade smoking inside the bar. The owner reprimanded her. 

It turned out that she hadn't been alone in the toilet, smoking. There was a man, a known local who fell on hard times due to addiction. He wasn't like us, we could never drink until we lose jobs. Such abominable things happen to others, not us. We sipped our beers to that.

When cornered, the lady pulled the woman card. She claimed that the owner of the bar was targeting her because she was a woman. As if the warning addressed women only, and not all women but her specifically. We watched quietly as she rumbled on and on about the unfairness of the notice against smoking. We'd never seen someone defend their right to smoke their way to lung cancer. We didn't intervene, nor interject at all. It was her against the sign. Which was pretty clear to us. 

She went further to claim that the bar wasn't even his, that he was riding on a woman's (a Woman like her who deserves to smoke where there's a sign prohibiting smoking) benovelence. That he was nothing without her. That without her he wouldn't be able to talk to her against ruining her lungs that belonged to a woman. And then she began attacking his manhood. At this point the man realized that she had stooped so low that his presence there was no longer required. How things can descend from smoking to manhood is a matter that baffled us. Secretly, we were glad our manhood wasn't under scrutiny although it should have. 

"I have more balls than you," she said laughing at her seemingly ingenious thought. "You only have two while I have thousands." She spoke with such conviction that you could have thought she was capable of impregnating a man.

She talked by herself sometimes supported by her colleague. She had so much to unpack, as though she was waiting for that precise moment. It's unfortunate that some drink while angling for a fight or confrontation. It's worse when it's a woman because, well, there's no reason to hit a Woman. 

Eventually she cooled down. The conversation tapered to some random irrelevant topics. However, there was only one question in our heads, which balls was she re

ferring to?

It Happens

 It happens, 

almost always, 

as though don't coax it, 

without silence

with lack of resolve, 

eventually we end up 

being the very people we loath 

we are okay doing nothing 

just dreaming those big dreams 

How Do I Miss You

I don't know how to miss you,

I have tried but I can't, 

I guess longing for you needs a manual, 

an how-to, 

it somehow feels as though it can't be 

a DIY project,

there's a science to missing you, 

and I am an ancient man, 

a man who tells time by the sun's position, 

and years by crop harvest, 

seasons by locust invasions, 

for that I am duly lost, disillusioned in my longing, 

probably undue, 

I don't know whether we'll ever meet again, 

I have reserved my missing you,

were it possible, 

I'd pack the precious little moments 

we shared, 

the brief love, 

the laughter, that often felt as though it was stolen, 

and store somewhere, 

somewhere I'd reach occasionally, 

to gaze and remember to miss you 

just for a second. 

for a brief vain moment. 

The Drunk

when you no longer exist, 

in anyone's plans, 

its you alone, in your decrepit hacienda, 

rolling tobacco on obituary section of old 

newspapers, 

you are like a shadow, present 

but never missed 

mulling, 

ruminating, 

meditating, 

you no longer dream

beyond your next tipple, 

it's over for you

it was over a long time ago 

The Silence

 The silence, 

the borrowed silence, 

as if we are tiptoeing 

around each other, 

one numb, 

the other uncaring, 

the haunting silence, 

the silence of a machete,

and a shovel 

The Interloper

I am alone, 

an interloper 

in a place I should call 

home, 

the stench that wafts 

after me is failure, 

I am an intruder, 

stalking,

walking around unseen, 

I am of little use, 

sitting by boulders

in unseen corners, 

trying to be invisible, 

I am not welcome in 

spaces where men have 

opinions, 

for I, an interloper, 

has not more sense 

than cow dung 

Too Tired Too Early

 an unreedeeming yawn, 

today's promising dawn,

filtered into a bucket of 

unfulfilling days 

unearned fatigue settles 

like dust

the head hauls unnecessarily heavy 

thoughts 

thoughts of yore,

dreams unlived 

girls unkissed 

abandoned stories 

again, unearned fatigue rattles, 

a warning, 

tomorrow might begin 

too early 

too early, 

always too tired too early 

I Have Loved You

 I have loved you in ways,

in ways devoid of common sense, 

I've loved in the quiet desperation of 

an addict, 

I have loved you 

in ways that asked nothing in return, 

but all I gotten in return 

is jeering silence, 

as if my heart has no discernible rhythm 

Distance

the vast chasm between our 

hearts, 

regrettable, though

I kinda hope you are okay, 

The Worst Recedes

 the ever overwhelmingly inviting 

pop sound,

of beer being beheaded, 

the taming sip, a slow 

slide towards uninhibited night 

unhibited pockets, 

daring damsels swing their posterior 

endowments

the deejay cranks up the volume, 

The Little Dog Is Dead

I whistled at the little dog,

It gave me a listlessly solemn gaze, 

as if I was disturbing a sacred exercise, 

as it tried to borrow a few sorrow-filled hours, 

by lapping water by the cowshed, 

the curved back, poking ribs betrayed 

 it's eloquent emaciation, 

It left it's pain for my speculation, 

bore it with a bravery only dogs know how 

I knew it wouldn't make it 

and I wouldn't interfere with it's fate, 

for the dog had yet to have a name, 

even if it had, I am not too sentimental about dying dogs 

I am not attached to them 

With time, someone will stumble upon its bones,

for a dog chooses solitude for a dignified death 

And tonight, it's loud absence will shroud the compound 

She Was So Happy

 

She was so happy, 

so happy in a bothersome way, 

because in her happiness, 

I saw a reflection of my own 

cruel unhappiness, 

a pathetic kind the repels other's 

joy,

and I, 

being no robber, 

and she, neither a lover of mine, 

I did not have any means, 

except to crawl back into my 

unhappy crib, 

to be alone,

by myself, 

unbothering, 

and not bothered

as if allergic to

happiness

The Little Champ

 I envy the way he falls asleep

A half a minute and he's gone 

As if sleep had waited too long 

To accompany him till dawn 

I envy that he sleeps at exact times

Perhaps a little early but never late 

And every day of the week, he does 

Sometimes supper can even wait 

I envy that he does not brood at all

About the day's trivialities at sunset 

All he cares about is his sweet slumber 

Unlike I, by midnight, rest isn't earned yet

I toss and turn for hours every night,

I pour libation, offer blood sacrifice 

To the unyielding sadistic sleep

Only glimpsed at a minute to sunrise

Dangerous Games

I didn't know much about Nimuno, except the fact that I hated him for no particular reason. You can hate someone for no reason, as if they are reincarnations of the most despicable vermin. Neither science nor religion can explain this.

But as I think of it now, I doubt whether it was actually hatred that fueled that short-lived relationship two decades ago. But then, somehow, as a kid, there are certain things you can passionately dislike without evidence as to why you should. Even remotely. And it's okay.

 This happened even though I hadn't as much as a glance at him. As such, I wouldn't pick him out in an identification parade, even if he was the only one. He didn't have any remarkable features as per my recollections. I didn't know his name. I nicknamed him Nimuno.

Nimuno found himself in the unfortunate annals of my hatred, albeit without reason or even ever knowing it. I knew very little about his background, other than the whispered rumour that his mother was involved in a polyandrous marriage. Although I was young, it was an unheard of novelty. It would have made no difference, then, if Nimuno's mother had been an axe murderer.

I became acquainted with Nimuno once when he had to visit a brick maker hired by our neighbor. The brick maker was one of the rumoured husbands. Nimuno had accompanied his mother together with a bunch of his siblings all of whom had similar heights, probably as a result of a biological impediment. It's hard to speculate. 

One fine day, with the sun shining beautifully, I saw Nimuno tracing his way towards the river. Instantly, like an animal which has spotted a prey, I swiftly swung into action by hurling precision guided projectiles in the form of insults. He responded in kind and the verbal fight quickly escalated into a rock throwing contest. Each of us was the target of the other.

I don't remember how it ended but we went at each other for a while before we gave up. However, I believe the dangerous game ended when of us got hit in the leg. Whatever the case, Nimuno and I didn't abandon that delightful game out of our own volition. 

Thinking of dangerous games, there were a few we played at Chebaon primary school. One involved small rocks. All one had to do was pick a reasonably sized rock and dare with the word 'Urwei.' Whoever fancied the dare would run a considerable distance and scream 'Area.' It was then up to the darer's accuracy. There were no fatal incidences but the game was banned when girls reported it at school. This wasn't a game you would try within the school's precincts.

There was another game which I remember vividly because I lost a shoe. At the time nothing was fun if it did not involve inflicting each other pain. The sadists among us invented a game or copied it from other sadists in other schools where we kicked each other for fun. We were right, because most games involve inflicting each other pain. Like all contact sports.The rules were simple, no shoes (most of us didn't have shoes) and standing up was a sign of invitation to get kicked. If one fancied a one on one combat, it was more than welcome. 

During one break time, I brought the game to a premature end. I had removed my shoes as per rules and sat down waiting for the right time to pounce on someone standing. It would take time for someone to switch off and forget that he was part of a game where standing made one a legitimate target. I lurked behind some boy who forgot who temporarily forgot. I pounced and gave a kick that sent him sprawling to the ground. He writhed on the ground, contorting himself and grimacing with extreme pain. We gathered around him thinking that he was dying. 

He didn't. 

The bell rung and we rushed to class. I could not find one of my shoes. There being no time, I went without one. 

We never played that game ever again. Nobody snitched. Even the boy who hid my shoe was well covered. I never knew him. I would find my shoe a few days later by a fluke. We got so engrossed in a game that we never heard the bell. 

We got to class and the teacher ordered each one of us to fetch their own canes. I fetched mine right where my shoe lay perfectly hidden from view. Whoever hid it made no special effort to ensure I never recovered that shoe. I was too excited that I forgot the punishment that awaited us. We received our strokes, each with his own came lest we spread whatever disease each cane carried.

Memory of Darkness

 I stood still on edge of the beloved abyss,

And watched in my custom listless gaze

As the memory of you staggered away,

as if willing me to rescue it,

but bit by bit, it got devoured 

Oh. The eternally ravenous darkness 

Everything merged with darkness 

I watch the birthed darkness, with futility 

Knowing I am watching your memory 

I carry with me that darkness 

With time, I too, will become that darkness