We tell our stories in a bid to transcend them, to grow and let go. For others to learn a thing or two.

Ever had a series of tough times plague you that you begin to question your existence? Well that had been me a while ago. Since I was a kid I had always been an overachiever, a performer, a happy-go-lucky child. Yet there I was years down the line with nothing much to show for the entire while I had spent filling my brain with knowledge. I had become a recluse, spending my days indoors after opting out of work to raise my son- thanks to multiple disappointing encounters with nannies.  Meeting up with friends became a major pain and I chose to avoid doing so. I mean, everyone in my circles seemed to have everything going for themselves. We no longer had anything in common and having to listen to their countless plans while I had none made me shrink further into my shell. The solitary housewife shell.With time the calls waned, so did the meet-up requests, probably because they knew what my all time excuses would be. 

The one person meant to be my support system   suddenly seemed to derive pleasure from belittling me at the slightest chance. I am never one to give up on people, I try to find even the smallest positive aspects of a person that redeems them. So I stayed. In doing so, I lost myself further, becoming an angry mess countering abuse with abuse. Lying in bed alone  awake half the night trying to imagine how life would have been if I had made better choices. Listening out for the sound of a car pulling into the driveway only to be met by crickets. 

I gradually found myself wanting to lie in bed and not wake up. If not for my Lekakeny, I would have done exactly that. I felt like a failure but could not talk to anyone because I was ashamed, I didn’t even know how to start especially to  a family whose bond has always been nonexistent. Still I stayed. I lost my self worth. Felt ugly, both inside and out. 

It had to take my life flashing before my eyes for me to snap out of my delusion. Off I went albeit with a broken brow bone, a blue-black body and an eye swollen shut for weeks. I was off to an unknown horizon, broken. Funny enough, the very friends I had kept at bay were the ones that helped pick me up. Slowly I learnt to love me again, rediscovered myself. 

This year’s experiences have taught me a million things that I felt I should share especially with those that might be going through the same. Never burn bridges, you might need the same to cross over to the other side. No matter where others are, they should never be an SI unit of your failure or success. Wake up, show up. Whilst solitude is healthy once in a while in order to reflect on you, too much of it may mess your mind up.
Never give up on people, there’s always some good in them…but remember you are no doormat. People will always treat you how you let them. Remember to err is human so forgive forgive forgive no matter how it may hurt. Do not be ashamed of where you are, only be ashamed if you are there out of your laziness,work hard.

 A friend told me to never be afraid of change, of walking away from all negativity. God may want to take you out of your comfort zone in order to bless you from elsewhere. I thought I had it bad until I stopped selfishly living in my world and began noticing the amount of suffering others around me go through daily. The moment you extend a helping hand to that stranger in need, that urchin lying dejected in a dump, your heart finds fulfillment and your soul gets lifted. You stop seeing yourself as worthless. You just might be on earth to be someone’s angel, for God to use you to answer their prayers.

This holiday and the days to follow, may you not forget your main duty as a human being…to help those in need. While you wallow in self pity,  try look around and you will realise you are in a far much better place compared to others. Discover your strengths and use them to make the lives of others better. Remember depression is real so hit up that friend that went MIA, you never know just how much of a difference that would make. For everytime someone has done good to you,pay it forward. Live , love, laugh. 




His name was Oti but due to the fact that he could almost poke holes through every roof he was aptly nicknamed ‘Mrefu’. He was probably in his mid twenties and I in my late teens. He was so awkward that one, skin so dark and parched as though he slept in a sack of coal and rolled all night. I barely ever heard him speak despite the fact that everytime I saw him his mouth was always open. Opened involuntarily by his two front teeth that leaned way waaaay outward looking ready to escape his mouth. Mrefu worked in the gold mines near my home and I could spot him pass through the beaten paths donning his grey kaunda suit. I wonder how he laundered it because it was ever clean yet worn on a daily basis. Either he had tonnes of the same suit or he must have been doing a wash and dry overnight routine.

Despite all these attributes and more, I was madly titties over ears in love with him. I would carve out gullies in the ground, almost scraping off my toenails, in the name of drawing maps at the mere mention of his name. I longed to kiss his lips irregardless of how his rebelling teeth would probably chop off my nose in the process; of how I would have to peer out the 2nd floor balcony with him on the ground, just to be at face to face level. Ooooh my darling black stallion, lanky like an underfed girrafe that fell in a hole full of tar, yet I slept with his name on my lips and woke up to the same.We never said a word to each other, never got close enough for our skins to brush against each other or feel any warmth. Yet I still loved him to Mars (the home of men) and back. I was in love with Mrefu but even I never knew I was.

I noticed over time how he seemed to have grown quite fond of me. Whenever we came across each other he would grin at me and seemingly try to advance toward me but decide against it and stop midway. I could tell he was always trying to get a word out but shied off. In my trying to be nice I reciprocated his grins with smiles and kept on walking away. I probably left him puzzled as to why I professed my love in private yet gave him no time of day in public.

One day I came across Mrefu during my morning market run. He stopped me with a grim look on his face and spoke his first ever words to me, “Una roho nyeusi sana na tumemalizana.” He then spat on the ground near my feet and walked off in a huff. To say I was shocked is an understatement, my heart raced and I questioned his sanity. I did my market run hurriedly and got back home to tell my family of this weird encounter.

Amidst narrating my story, my small brother kept giggling and finally burst out laughing hard. He then confessed how he had made Mrefu believe I was interested in him in return for silly favors. Turns out he had been giving my brother money and sending him to deliver his expression of love toward me. He had also been buying him lunch at the shopping centre and paying for his video games. He would then draft fake letters from me hence making this giant believe we were now a couple.
When Mrefu finally asked to set up a meet, my cunning brother decided to end the charade to avoid getting caught in a lie. He told him (Mrefu) that I was no longer interested and went on to say, ” Amesema shida yako ni urefu futi kumi na suti pair moja.” My goodness, I now understood why the venom.
I was set to join college in a few weeks and resulted to dive into bushes for the remainder of my stay whenever I spotted Mrefu. During my holidays I saw less and less of him and finally he disappeared. It’s been years and I wonder if he considers me a part of his X-files.

Up’Heel Task


Today I retire to bed  a hurt sack of flesh. In my trying to recapture my old groovy self, I ended up getting physically tortured and with a shredded ego to boot. There is only one mama mboga near where I live and I am afraid I may never show my acne colonised face there, especially after one of her maizecobs almost ripped open my arse.

There was a time I loved my heels sky high. Oh those babies stayed on all night long amidst my gyrating on the dance floor. They held my weight even as I floated (read staggered) over the rockiest of roads. They hoisted me just high enough to gain comfy access to near my prince charming’s epiglotis.  I once flouted curfew and did a mad dash to the hostels with a bunch of friends after jumping over a makeshift gate in college, the guard hot on our heels literally. Long story short, we outdid him, no aches…no calluses. Aaanyway I was a pro skywalker, if you saw my almost virile calves all chiselled and shit you would understand.

Ladies know that the higher the heel, the bigger the butt lift and boy did I need the lift today. See after getting pregnant, I slowly transitioned to wearing flats. The more I ballooned, the more I embraced even the hideous crocs and ‘soapdish’  thingies. Fast forward eons after birthing and I am no longer able to wear my beloved ones without cringing in agony. I must have taken too long in my flat shoe comfort zone that my calf muscles slackenedEvery time I attempt to walk in my heels, I feel a calf muscle pull almost coming on…and so I freak. Today though I vowed to retrain myself.

After what seemed like forever, I made it out of the house. My practise for the day should have halted there but excitement is a bitch, it lied to me…whispered and almost chanted and cheered me to go on. So I did. I made it to the gate, hobbled past some wielders who I swear snickered. Goat kids do not have it easy, now I know because I felt like (and must have depicted)one for a while. A few minutes into my walk and I realised how much of a bad idea that was. My soles were burning up, my small toe throbbed as if ready to burst through the shoe screaming “freedom!”. Ever wondered how on the days you are at your worst, people seem to be triple the number of the normal daily population? Well, this was one of those days and to make matters worse, everyone’s eyes seemed to be glued on to me.

Good thing my breaking point came just as I got to mama mboga’s kiosk. I calmly greeted her whilst screaming inwardly and ignoring her quizicall look. I then proceeded to pretend I was there for the groceries whereas I just needed a commercial break from my ridiculous display. The stands holding the produce beckoned at me, all I craved was a chance to lean on them for a second and ease the my feet. And lean I did, but as my rotten luck would have it, the stands cracked loudly. Before I could spring off, I felt myself going down and mama mboga screaming blue murder.

I landed onto tomatoes and avocadoes on my upper torso. Every time I tried to get up the potatoes at my feet tripped me sending me back on my bum. A crowd had gathered and nobody seemed keen on helping me out, they just laughed and spoke in hidden hushed hushed tones. My final try to get up saw me land on a nearby pile of maize cobs and I let out a painful yelp. I had landed on an upright cob that nearly ripped my jeans smack in the middle of my tushy. It stung. I don’t even want to imagine what would have happened if I had gone there with a dress and was one of those commando lovers.

Finally two guys helped me up and the crowd slowly dispersed. I was left with mama mboga yammering on and on and on ready to chew and spit my guts. I had ruined her stall. The floor was halfway painted red and green thanks to me, with some of her potatoes bearing holes from my shoes. We finally agreed that I head on home and get cash to pay for all the damage. Looking at my shoes, she started laughing and fished out a pair of rubber shoes a few sizes bigger than my feet. I gladly took them and yanked off the source of my nightmare then dragged myself home, head hanging low in embarassment.

As I lie in between my sheets, I pray that I do not forget the friction burn on my ass and accidentaly turn to lie on my.back. I have half of mama mboga’s cash but I may either have to sell a heel or two for the rest or avoid her till the end of time… I will however continue with my practise albeit indoors, who knows, I may not be that bad. Maybe whoever sold those shoes to me was a peddler, he must have laced them with something thats why they were tripping 😯 gerrit?

The Rat That Bore An Apology


One night my sleep was rudely interrupted by shuffling noises under the bed. At first I thought I was dreaming but the noises grew faster and louder, the more they did the more petrified I became. My bladder’s threats to empty its contents further frustrated me. For the love of God, what if I placed one foot on the floor and got bit or dragged off to a little world I never knew existed under my bed? What if a night prowler had crept in and hidden under there when I left the door open to go empty the kitchen bin? What if? What if? Jeez it was as if 50 cent had invaded my head and planted his 21 questions syndrome. I had no option but to wake my knight who was gently snoring away beside me. I tapped him, gently shook him, nothing….called his name, shouted it….he just mumbled. The pinch I delivered to his thigh jolted him up and he sat there eyeing me like a bloodhound. I hastily explained the situation, all this while the invader had gone silent. He dismissed me blaming the noises on the gecko that lived behind our fridge. With that I reluctantly tip toed to the washroom then dashed back and dived onto the bed.

The noises continued for a day or two, this time the culprit becoming brazen, going on with his noisy business even during hours when we were wide awake. My son’s diassembled crib and mattress lay under our bed and i figured whatever rodent was there had found refuge underneath them. Owing to the fact that I am a scaredy cat, I could not bring my shaky hands to pull them out. So I opted to wait on hubby to return and do it himself. Unfortunately that evening we had a slight falling out before I could mention the elimination. Being the drama queen I am, I magnified the disagreement a wee bit and found myself yelling that I would pack up  and leave. He seemed unfazed, probably because I have issued that threat ever so often, even at the slightest of faults. Problem is I always wait for an apology, grow impatient and blurt the ‘I’m leaving threat’. Pray do tell, why is it so hard for men to say a simple Sorry? Anyway another day gone.

The following day saw me inviting a friend, Winnie, over for lunch. We whiled the rest of the afternoon away catching up before I mentioned the noises that had been keeping me up. She casually stated that my description was synonymous to a rat’s doing. Seeing as she was not afraid of rodents, she offered to help me get rid of it. We armed ourselves with a broomstick, pipe and metal rod. Immediately Winnie pulled out the crib I spotted a chubby furball scurrying across the room. I let out a long bloodcurdling scream and became an acrobat, jumping over racks and doing a triple flip onto the bed.

My neighbour heard the screaming and rushed to check on us. He joined Winnie in chasing after the evasive rat. In a few minutes the entire room looked like a tornado had ripped through. The rat eventually ran to the living room and the dragging of furniture began. All this while any sighting of it was punctuated by my now hoarse screaming (read croaking). The living room too took a whacking that even a vase broke in the process. The furball ran back to the bedroom and jumped into one open suitcase. Winnie shut it and with the neighbour’s help carried it outside.

We had been too engrossed in the rat attack to notice how fast time had flown, the sun was already retiring. My neighbour finally caught the rat, killed it and went off to dispose of it. Before we could carry the suitcase back in I heard my hubby’s voice behind us, “Honey I’m so sorry! Please don’t go.”
Winnie quizically eyed me just as he grabbed the case and dragged it into the house. He came back out barely a minute later with shock clearly plastered on his face. Evidently he had loads of questions regarding its state, questions that were answered when our neighbour walked up and proudly announced, “Nimetupa hako kapanya Mama Ayden.” I just laughed hysterically when it dawned on me that I had even forgotten my ‘I’ m leaving’ threat.

img: 123RF

The Side Chick Phenomenon


It is such a shame that societal permissiveness has led to the normalization of the side chick. It no longer seems like a big deal for a married man to walk the streets to tearing the sheets with different women in tow on different days. Suddenly the words adulterer, slut, whore got sanitized and became this now accepted term. I respect a man with 100 wives anyday over a man with a harem of whores trailing him like a filthy shadow. A man that shoots up all corners of the earth, bringing forth bastards who grow up thinking it is okay hence siring more bastards and the cycle continues. At least our fathers and those before them did not sneak around like peddlers. They were honorable.

In as much as I would like to crucify the men, today I choose to dwell on the women to blame. I blame that wife at home who has opted to ignore her husband’s philandering instead of dealing with him head on. Either she has such low self esteem that she is okay with being sidelined and disrespected or she is too pious forgeting that even the Bible allows for divorce in cases of marital unfaithfulness. I know some of you will scream ‘War Room’  but honestly you may need to take several seats. I am not advocating for breakage of families but rather for some form of stern stance against such acts. If you as a married woman do not show that there is consequence for adultery, how then will your husband mend his ways?

I blame that single woman that does not want to break a sweat and instead feels the need to be a leech. The one looking to have a good time and does not want to go through the hassle of having her own man. The one that thinks Olivia Pope and Mary Jane are ideal women to look up to (and yes I know of a few who do) . For God’s sake, what is with the media and glorifying this degrading behavior. It is one thing to watch such women and another to actually think it would be an easier life in the real world. Well, think again. An even more beautiful woman will come around and you may be left an empty shell.

I blame that sister, mother or friend who know their brother/son has a sidepiece and do nothing to change things. Who fail to castigate their ‘boy’ heck even alert his wife. As for me I am a mouthy lass, I am a snitch, a whistleblower. Oh brother I will tell on you like my life depended on it because if it were me, I would like to be kept in the know to avoid any looming troubles. Some women even have the nerve to push their girlfriends onto their brothers, forgetting lil miss Karma is headed their way. Be your sister’s keeper.

The rate at which these side chicks are on the rise is somewhat alarming. It has made the sacred union of marriage seem like a scary joke, a facade. Very few marriages can be looked up to and as a result nobody wants to get into this institution. Afterall, the other woman seems to be having a better deal as compared to the lonely wife right?

This horrid phenomenon may never be completely annihilated, but what a huge difference it would make if women learnt to say no and stick with it. We will keep singing to the highest heavens that men are dogs but truth be told we are enabling their sexacapades by overlooking them. If there were no women readily available as third wheels, the men would eventually get tired of looking, of being constantly turned down. I believe.


The Ruined Woman


There is a rise in the number of women choosing to end their lives over a man. Most women I see commenting on such news are always on bitter mode, as if typing whilst sucking on a lemon, questioning why she did not walk away instead. Recently, I had a sit-down with some friends and the topic came up. I learnt a tonne of things that made me understand.It is easier to judge people whose situations you do not empathise with. Whose shoes you have never walked in not even for a second, that simple second that can change your perspective forever.
When a woman is loved, she feels it deep down even without having to be told. In the same breath, she will know once the love has flown out through the window. She will then take it upon herself to try and recapture that escaped love. In the process she may lose herself, question her looks or the reason for her man’s waned interest. She may then stay on and try to change herself in the hope of changing his mind/heart. It is natural, it is the nurturing nature in  us that renders us attached to people we care about. We tend to forget that at times it is not our fault, when love dies it just does and that is life.

A man that loves you will never strive to bring out the worst in you. He will never bring you down or trample on you when you are down. No matter how angry he is at your faults, his love will always prevail and never for a minute will he trash you irregardless of the sorrounding. A sane woman will eventually know when to walk away, unlike a ruined woman.

Let’s talk about the ruined woman. The woman with a demon by her side for a man. This man is probably the kind that will smash her face in and apologise in a nanosecond while professing his love to the high heavens. He will then morph into an angel and erase any thoughts of her walking away. After all he has changed right? Wrong. He may switch tactics and become emotionally manipulative, making her feel like a crazy person. Claiming she somehow does not love herself that is why she does not know love even if it electrocutes her. One minute he showers her with affection and next he throws her in the mud. Makes her his watchman, to lie in bed all night wondering where his escapades have taken him for the night. He toys with her emotions like a voodoo doll, making sure to prick where it hurts most. When he is wrong, he is too macho to be questioned and so she tends to walk on eggshells lest he turns the blame on her. She is not allowed to be wrong and if she is then her mistakes are magnified to make her feel worthless.

There is nothing as bad as emotional manipulation, I dare say it is harder to deal with than actual battering. This kind of torture will do a number on any sane person’s mind and soul. It may kill your esteem especially if you largely rely on your manipulator for sustainance. The snide remarks, the carefully covered complains, being made to feel like you are never enough indirectly.

Some men are too sadistic, they fail to love you yet want you to stay on probably so that they can revel in seeing your suffering. Others just want you around because that means having the kids around all day every day. If you leave then it is a given you may leave with them. They will call you paranoid when you question their wandering eyes and their overly friendly female relations. Make you feel like it is all in your head when it is clear as day.

Because they may wish you dead but can’t kill you owing to the fact that it is illegal, they end up trying to sow a suicidal seed in your head. That way you can do their dirty job for them. Whenever you disagree they will callously state that you should kill yourself, go hang, go die! Keeping in mind you have never mentioned let alone thought of ending your life. If that is not trying to plant a suicidal seed in your mind then I don’t know what it is. It probably is an indirect way of  wishing you dead.

Either way if you have a weak soul, you just may end up listening. You may end up having him be that voice inside your head that messes with you. Honey if you find yourself loosing it and harbouring suicidal thoughts  just leave at the first instance. It never gets better. You never know what can push you over the edge and you find yourself mid-air wondering when you decided to jump.

Dumping Her?


There are MEN who deserve that title, they know when to put their ego aside and end things TO YOUR FACE . They tell you the truth no matter how searing it may be. They are not cowards, they know a hissy fit may erupt. The psychotic alter-ego of a scorned woman may run loose and her freshly manicured talons just might find a playground on their face. Still they have the courage to face any impending consequence.

Then there are the impish APES, the horrid creatures who destroy every farm they come across and run for their dear lives. They are so used to leaving dusty clouds behind, that even when they begin breeding familiarity to the land, they run. They will then get on to the next land, and the next, and the next and ravage them all the way to Timbuktu. The hit and run kind of men.

Next in line are the SORCERERS. They are pretty much like the apes they may even be cousins. Only difference is they settle, they make magic in all manner and make you love them. Ooh they make you love them real good. They may stay for days or years on end but when it no longer suits them, they pull a Houdini. One minute he is there, next he is gone. Just like that, a whole 200 pound meaty being, living and breathing, ceases to exist…well just to you.

The worst are the MURDERERS . They want out of a relationship but are not man enough to say it. So they stay. They stay on physically but slowly withdraw mentally and emotionally. Their main aim is for the relationship to die a slow painful death. To avoid blame for the break up, they want you to be the one to call things off. They may do things to instigate that and if you fail to end things yourself then you may be in that pathetic pit for good.

Finally come in the MITCHES, men who are just plain old bitchy. Scaredy cats that can only dump you behind a keypad or keyboard. The texting demon spawns who break it off as if the kissing and heck even coitus was via electronics. The only instance this is viable is if in a long distance relationship or if in an internet based relationship especially with a person you have never physically met.

I know almost all ladies have had the misfortune of encountering these breeds,myself included. It hurts to the toes. It sucks that a grown up cannot man up and tell it to you like it is in person. If shit is going down south then by all means say it to my freckled face.

Men, if you are too scared of the aftermath especially if you have been dating a certified psycho, then make sure you have a plan at hand. If need be, move houses and change jobs,then put on your sneakers and leave the car engine running. Approach her from a safe distance and dump her ass, then ruuuuuuun to save your own. Only if you are too scared.



Too loose – must be a slut, too tight or a tad dry? Must be a frigid bitch that one. Too wet and you are branded an overly zealous receptor even on standby. Poor vagina, a somewhat still taboo topic, yet so predominant amongst women in their meet-ups.The race to please the men is on the rise, resulting in a countless number of fake cunts traversing the streets and sheets. Hammered and tinkered away in all manner,no longer delicate, now ‘cunterfeit’.

Mr. Man, if you want a rosy smell, please go lounge around in a flower garden or join a swarm of bees in their escapades. However that does not excuse a lady that prances around smelling like a shrine for dead fish is located between her legs. Thats a sign of infection darling, see a doctor. Incorporate probiotics such as yoghurt into your diet to balance the vaginal acidity. Douching for hours on end and almost scrubbing off your skin with that soap and flanel will do no good, instead you may end up worsening things. Mama Shiko said you should insert lemon juice, garlic, honey, heck even stones and glass to smell good? She probably wants you to join in her ‘itchy-burning-clit-club’. If not, then that club may materialise later on. If you are a guy and you go downtown to be greeted by a waft of perfume, thats a cunterfeit.

So for some reason you feel loose or he happens to complain of that. You probably do because of the three big heads that almost ripped you to your backbone. They  did a number on your pelvic muscles but did you know you can exercise them back to tautness? You can do kegels – tightening the vagina hard for a few seconds then letting go repeatedly. The best part is that you can do this anytime even when in the middle of a boring lecture or meeting. You may be zoning off but the land down under is freakishly busy. Then there  are squats, perceived to be a bum thing but also very efficient. Finally there is the use of vaginal props, these include balls of steel made of different widths and weights. Sounds horrid right? Believe it or not they work best at strengthening those muscles. Think of it as a weightlifting session using the vagina. Whichever the case, do not be cheated into using tightening creams or soaps or crystalline voodoo shit.

You have kids lining up like a staircase yet you would like your beau to perceive you as a virgin. That is plain deception, worse is when he actually sired them hence knows their existance. Keep of the ‘virginity enhancers’, you are not meant to be that taut all day everyday. Honey your vagina is not a clutch or ziplock bag, meant to hold in objects of all sorts. If it does then you are dishing out a cunterfeit.

This whole issue of women advising each other to insert all sorts of objects into their nether regions should stop. Ever wondered why the penis is never to blame?You probably started dating a flaccid chap, hence the loose feeling, or a size challenged appendage holder. You probably get too dry because he prefers to jump you like a burglar in a candy shop, no romance no nothing. Snoring soundly or belching away after his fill. You probably get too wet because he tickles your fancy way beyond imagination, the bugger should not subject you to self torture. What if we demanded a good penile scent from within his shaft? Apple and vanilla scented sperms? Demand for an overly erect session, a change in size whenever we like?

We denounce FGM yet we forget insertion of all these harmful objects is a form of self mutilation,and for what?the pleasure of having a man. Unless for good reason such as incontinence or an episiotomy gone bad etc, do not try and surgically or self alter your vagina. With the increase in cervical cancer, I would rather remain celibate if need be than risk a lifetime of festering lady bits in the name of a good kitty… A cunterfeit.




Wrapped up in warm thoughts one minute, an icicle spearing through my chest the next. The elation brought on by sweet memories, followed by a pain unmatched by a thousand needles. A visit to dungeons within my soul that I would rather remained locked up forever, yet still I walk their dark corridors.
I peer into the pit with Betrayal, his drooping eyes hold no soul there. He smiles smugly, he gets to me. An embodiment of friends turned foes, playing a game of darts using my back. Carefully using hushed voices so as not to let me identify them. Unbeknownst to them, I know every hand’s capability. I can tell them apart. When the game is over, the same hands pat my sore back and smile their deceit away.
In the next pit lies Fallacy, her beauty illuminating her pit like fireflies procreating on a bed of diamonds. Reflections from here to yonder, masking her true festering self. An embodiment of family, ceased to function as it should. Devoid of all the love it once held. Blood diluted by distance, jealousy, rivalry, emotional detachment et al. A shard of glass masquerading as a precious gem, family – no longer functional, now ornamental.
A few metres away a loud wail pierces through the stale air. That is Secrecy, she does that ever so often that it has become somewhat of a song. She begs me to let her out, her place is not in a dark world but rather above ground floating around and penetrating everyone’s ears. An embodiment of all the torrid and horrid things I have covered up. Both for myself and others. Things that could shatter a stone statue by their mere mention. I ignore her as I always do.
Fury beckons to me with his red talons. His fiery eyes unveiled from under the red cloak spelling doom. He seems to grow chubbier and scarier by the day. Perhaps it is due to my constant feeding him of my irritation. I get too quick to anger and he laps up my emotions like a dog. He tries to fan my flames, to burn me up from the inside out, and so many times he succeeds. Evidently seen by the countless relationships I have severed over the years, the broken hearts and objects I leave in my wake.
Lucky for me Hope and Peace always find a way to drag me out of the dungeon, despite the fact that I will traverse them again. I may or may not see more prisoners there, but the aforementioned are always a constant.
I fear solitude, it takes me there and saps my happy thoughts. To avoid all that, I get a good book and teleport to an imaginary world, I watch a good movie or sink my teeth into all the good food I can. So yes I may be a bookworm, a couch potato or a fat slob. Only I understand my struggle to stay sane, do not judge me, engage me, that is how I cope to avoid being in solitude with my thoughts. How do you?


Oh Hell! My Itchy Fingers


I have done it again. Despite my contemplating not to..well, for atleast a second. In the wee hours, amidst the howling of a million bitches(it must be mating season I guess),I type away. It is actually more of a banging than a typing as my fingers transfer the anger in my heart to the phone. Curled up under the blanket, my mind composes a silent barrage of abuses which are instantly duplicated by my agile hands. I hit the send button.
1 minute… 2…3…10 minutes, no reply. My rage triples, why is he not responding? Could he have passed out on the barstool, his head on the cold counter? Or God forbid, elsewhere, his head well rested on a stranger’s bosom? I am livid, almost steaming through the ears. Huffing and puffing like a deranged bull at the sight of Boni Khalwale.My heavy breathing has inadvertently turned the inside of my blanket into a sauna. I am unaware of my pillow drenched in sweat and a drop or two of tears. Maybe I should cut him some slack since it is a first for him? Naah, no way, my chama friends said a first offence forgiven may lead to repeats. One more time I craft an even more offensive text, one that would shame even the devil himself. The things anger can drive you to do!
See I have a problem, I sometimes let my anger get the better of me. When it does, it becomes my rider and I its horse. It controlls me, whipping me mercilessly as it forces me to gallop to the darkest part of my soul. The hidden most bitter pits of my being. There I unleash the demons in me, the locked up memories, the bane of my very existence. It is then that I put my rage into words. I defile the beauty of the written word with my vile content. I do this with almost every person that crosses me, it is a wonder I have never cooled my feet in a bugs’ dinner party (read jail).
An hour or so down the line, still no reply. I punch in his number and a female voice comes through. I almost go into a fit when it hits me that the voice is actually the automated one that usually informs of an out of reach – mteja- number. This paranoia will be the end of me I tell you.
I once again dig deeper into my bottomless bag of expletives and go on to draft a text. My phone is now on low battery mode and I strive to complete my message fast. I feel blurry eyed from the lack of sleep coupled with crying on and off. I hit the send button just as the phone goes kaput, I plug it in and slowly drift off.
A loud knock on the door wakes me and I can see the sun trying to pierce through the drapes unsuccesfully. Groggily, I head off to answer the door. Behold! The source of my night time rage,patched up like a ripped stuffed bear. Over his shoulder, two men disconnecting his banged up car from the tow truck. It then sinks in that I am a brute. Before I can apologise, he hugs me tight for a while then silently heads off to the bedroom. I follow him and unplug my now fully charged phone for him to charge his. I switch it on just as he does his. A delivery report comes in, message delivered to M. I. L(Mother in Law/Love) . Oh Lord!! Wrong receiver. I barely register the shock and my phone blares. It is her! As I contemplate on whether to pick or not, his loud hiss draws my gaze. He looks like a cobra, ready to strike me. Clearly he has just read all my texted rage. I inwardly curse my fingers for aiding and abetting my anger ridden thoughts ..I am an angry texter. Oh My itchy fingers.