Tuesday, 10 September 2019

Maverick Chang'aa Makers

Photo/Aljazeera


It is a place where men and women rise every morning to solely devote their god-given talents at – take note of this – being unproductive. On the bright side, these are extreme hobbies of ICU patients, lunatics, and certain animal species, whom, for lack of a better word, I’ll call politicians. I was part of this esteemed entourage of people for one impeccable intellectual reason: to dream-up creative ways of wasting a surplus commodity in our hands which was TIME.

And for most days, there was none. We resorted to raising our antennas really high in order to spot a drunken man or woman, upon which we’d go where he or she is coming from. Sometimes, when they have not passed out, we’d ask them where an oasis has sprung so we’d quench our thirsts. One time, through sheer bravery, we braved fierce winds that blew so hard that it appeared to rain horizontally. In the distance, a dark sheet of falling rain covered in a meticulous manner from earth to heaven. And we were heading that direction.

At times we sat perched on raised grounds, like people suddenly struck by a disease that made everyone hold a solitary meeting and wonder how he or she would spend his thirty hours available for the day. During these solemn moments, I actually could feel my intelligence quotient hurtling down like a Boeing that has been shot down by a rocket propelled grenade. It wouldn’t have been a nice experience for people with single digit IQs – the process would feel like a crushing can experiment, leaving the victim permanently retarded. On medical grounds, however, such a person makes an excellent voter.

On this part of the hemisphere, illicit brew is so rampant that it has been determined to be beyond spiritual redemption. A catholic priest has since urged people to use their heads which is a brilliant piece of advice ever given considering that the head is where the mouth is usually located. The priest seemed concerned by the fact that people are spending their extra daily allotment of hours to come up with ways of ingesting chang’aa. The only person who has so far been proven to be innovative is the area chief – he uses the foot. However, his innovation is so detested that people flee when they see, hear, or feel his presence.

The dens are exclusively manned by brash and bulky women who have since discovered the scientific reasons of not giving a s**t. You never want to offend them because they’ll fire a salvo of insult as if your carbon emission is the leading polluter of the ozone layer. They quietly move in and out, dishing the precious liquid, sometimes covered with sooth, with their sniper-like eyes scouting for the next trouble maker. They make a living this way, undeterred by the threat of arrest, or even death.

As a sign of sharing – but I call it lack of business acumen – these dens serve a paltry of their brews. There’s never a surplus in each house. By eight am, you won’t get any busaa in the entire village. The approach used in busaa is – you blink you miss. Even chang’aa is available in little quantities. They’d even pack them in medicine bottles to give someone the illusion that they’ve drunk too much. You move from one den to another the whole day if you are really motivated to destroy your liver. And folks here are quite motivated. Based on available evidence, heaven doesn’t serve these kinds of liquids, and they are determined to make the best of it before the time comes. Hell, they won’t even go to heaven but that’s not a matter of immediate concern. Perhaps, the last prayers will charm God into admitting them to His humble residence.

Perhaps you could be wondering if there’s any honor in living such a pathetic lifestyle. With enough foresight, you can see that a majority of these people have already time travelled to 2022, and they know how they want their lives to be. And this is it: they want to make one hustler even much richer while they pass on the cherished tradition of loafing time to their children.

On a serious note, that is not the way to live. Personally, I learnt that there is no honor in drinking when you can’t even write about.
***
From the experience, I made a note to stop drinking.


  

If You Must Leave


If you must leave, leave me with my sad songs
Take the memories with you,
For they will be a baggage I won’t be able to carry,
My hands are already full,
With poetry, and, significantly, whisky-
Take my sanity with you, I do not need it anyway
If you must leave, leave me with sad songs, poetry, and whisky

Daughter Of Man


Scrubbed, wiped, mopped,
Bent, crouched, reaching places
That, ordinarily, I wouldn’t even think about
And at last, a sigh,
That a daughter of man wouldn’t find me repulsive
-everywhere spotlessly clean (including myself and the toilet wall)
And then, daughter of man did not show up
Leaving me with cleanliness I hadn’t gotten used
The roaches that listened to my sad songs,
The sad lament of my heart, of longing-
All gone with the subtle whisper of your uncaring attitude,
Daughter of man
Now tell what to do with all this cleanliness…
Tell me, daughter of man

To The Highest Bidder


She asks for this, she asks for that,
Valueless things in their finite ‘quantifiability’
But then, sometimes, things with finite value
Go to the highest bidder,
And there’ll always be the man, richer than you
Drawing valueless souls towards their enchanting light
That must fizzle out in the end

One More Night


It’s hard to believe that a year flew by
It’s hard to know when you are on my mind
Every single second of the day
Some nights I have spent awake
As though keeping a sacred vigil
Watching us disintegrate before our very eyes
 Here I am, stuck like a rock
Spreading my tentacles to feel your cold body once
Just one more night
And slowly get it warm and make everything warm
And palatable
I yearn for a night, just one night free from everything
Free from the hatred you have for me
Free from the guilt of loving again, when you’ve sworn
not to – at least not love me
And spend it loving ourselves, just once
Is it a lot, my dear friend?

Monday, 9 September 2019

Sad and Deep


By the edge of your unremarkable life,
You watch the amber glow of setting passions
The glow of wretchedness erupts
From the depths of your empty soul
And then consumes the little dream,
that you held on to many nights
the little dream that embraced you
when the world became distant, uncaring

break me, break my heart
break me into a million shards of myself,
 I will pick myself up piece by piece, a million times
and, should you not find it enough, break me again,
I guarantee you I’ll never tire picking myself up
Again and again

To A Beloved


Speak to me the silent words that throb
alongside your heartbeat
reveal to me the secrets and desires trapped in your soul
reveal to me the source of your gleam
because you walk me to a sweet dream every single night

I am consumed by your enchanting beauty,
The thought of you sends my heart into delirium,
I want to touch eternity, together with you
And I want it to begin now,
Simply, I want you to want me.