The King Never Farts

The king never farts

When he does, there’s always a peasant

Ready to take the responsibility

The king is infallible

He was ordained by god

And who can question god

The king is the wisest man alive

His word is a decree

No man can go against him

The Nightmare

She convulsed violently as if being tagged by powerful forces, each trying to make her cross into regions of their dominion. She looked as though she had just been exposed to a botched religious ritual, where the forces of evil and good matched each other in strength. People had gathered in the field, watching pensively and probably thankful that it was not a contagious disease. You watch the whole debacle through your bedroom window, a little bit intoxicated. No. You are so inebriated that you feel the world begin to spin dangerously.

Then, as if on cue, people begin to scamper to safety, scaling walls, and running while looking back as though the eyes aided in propelling them as far away from the scene as possible. Because of the substances you had consumed earlier, you fall asleep on your bed, with all your clothes on.

It does not take long before you hear footsteps inside your house. At first it is one, then two then many. You feel an ice cold hand touching your neck, and props you up as a mother would do to a baby. You slowly open your eyes, and come face to face with the convulsing woman. She has come with a crowd you earlier saw watch her convulse life threateningly. She touches your face and begs you to make love with her. She had been pretty earlier, but now she was an old woman, with a skin so wrinkled that one can hide a packet of unga when shoplifting. She is as repulsive as a blown up image of groin eating virus.

You sit on your bed and try to say a prayer, folding your fists tightly. Nothing happens despite you shouting Jesus forcefully. The woman’s entourage begins begging you to do as she asks as though the simple act possessed healing capability. You have never thought of your tool of intimacy as possessing any healing properties, and you don’t want to find out just then. May be she would turn into a maiden, and without any devilish tendencies you saw earlier. That’s none of your concern. What concerns you then is getting out of the place with your phone intact. Instinctively, you feel your phone in your pocket. It is still there.

It surprises you that none of the people restrain you as you make for the door. You should have asked them to leave, but it does not bother you. They can make away with anything they want in the house – you don’t care. All you care is putting enough distance between you and the devilish-looking group of humans. And with your phone. According to the National Bureau of Agony, nothing matches the agony of losing a smart phone, and even more agonizing is the wait until you can purchase another one.

When you get out, you are welcomed by darkness. And silence. All the houses have their lights off, except yours. There is no soul in sight. The world looks desolate, rid of any human soul. It felt as though the world was in readiness for the voice of God commanding with the voice ‘let there be…’ You think; let there be humans with actual human hearts and intentions. It dawns on you that the light in your house may have attracted them, for it is the only one in the entire neighborhood that’s on.

As you try to process the sudden change of environment, a young man dashes out of one the houses screaming hysterically. The scene provides a new dimension to the already fucked up situation you just found yourself in. What has happened to all the people? What am I going to do? A billion questions dart at lightning speed through your mind, yet do not give you a chance to contemplate the possible answers.

A slimy hand, or tentacles, cold as witch’s nipple at mid night wraps itself around your neck. As you feel life slowly slipping away, you wake up, drenched in sweat. It was a dream. Or nature was playing a cruel prank on you since its one in the night, and you damn know very well that it is time to think about all your problems, jumbled up as they are.

In the darkness, you stretch your hands to the table where you usually place your phone. It is still there. You press the power button and the screen lights up, blinding you momentarily. It’s not even three o’clock in the morning. You know what that time means – stay awake until six thinking the same thoughts over and over again. You know very well that you aren’t even imaginative enough to find better angles of thinking. Like getting your ass off and actually trying to live. But before that, you analyze the nightmare. It looked so real. Last time it looked this real, it became a reality – story for another day.

Other Days

There are days whose dawn, 
just their dawn
Stretched like a thousand forevers 
time crawled, seconds gnarled, 
dragging their feet to the minute, 
minutes were lazy, scurrying around 
as though they were being punished 
Hours, the cute hours, solemnly jeered 
Sometimes gnarled when you checked it
And you are stuck in a timeless void 
Waiting 

The Thud in Your Chest

The distinct thud in your chest, 
The sound of your indefatigable heart, 
Ever in a race, even when you are asleep, 
A race to keep up with your allotted earthly time
To live, love and laugh, 
And, sometimes, make memories 
Or money 
It's just a race, one beat coming slightly second after another 
Forever - which is not really a long time anyway 

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