journey through

Sons and daughters Sons and daughters, you little fruits of a tired womb, you little ‘sucklings’ of withered breasts, a generation born when wheat was full  in its sacs and milk plenty in their calabashes, you little children of the day, you have been born in the midst of a war. You are the first offspring born in a field of lies mingled with truth, hope roiled together with deceit. You have hatched when the sun was going down, when night was out there, just waiting to usher itself in. You have been born when fear has become an ingredient in our daily lives and love has grown oh so distant and cold. You have been conceived when the storms rage outside and morning seems so far in the distance. Sons and daughters, it is you though, all of you who are in charge of your suns. If it does not shine hot enough, you will have to add more bits of wood. If it shines perfectly but still you thrive not, then check your roots. It is worthy that you remember the journey up the hill is a torturous o

Let him run The man with a sweet tongue and rippling muscles, the man with a killer smile and a chiselled brow, the man that jumped out of your dreams, where is he? Where is the sailor you envisioned? I heard he went rogue and became a pirate. I heard it from the birds that he kidnapped his own ship and sabotaged his own crew. Your little gift, the fruit of your loins is here, having fallen down from the trees up high. Let him run, let the coward scamper. Aren’t you supposed to be happy when you dodge a bullet? Don’t you celebrate when you survive an epidemic? I heard it from the fish that he sweated and swore, cursed and begged. I heard that the fool fidgeted from leg to leg and trembled in his huge muscles. I congratulate you my dear one, for carrying with you the burden of shame, for all fame was first born out of shame. I appreciate you for walking the long road alone, for weeding and tending to a tender tendril instead of uprooting it. Let him run, let the fool scamper, let him w

Is anybody out there? Is anybody out there? Is anybody awake, to hear my howls in the night, my wail louder than the cricket’s sound and colder than a wolf’s yelp? Save me from these nightmares, drag me away from these demons, the hapless creation of my imagination, a useless figment of my machinations. Is anybody out there? Save me from myself, save me from my claws, these that I use to rip myself apart. Search my brain and take out this squishy conscience, for every night she torments my highway of dreams and in the day she rolls me in guilt and regret. Save me from my decisions before the body finally quits, for the soul is willing but the flesh sure is weak. I can fix them all, but who will fix me? I can point it all out for them, give them strength and replenish their spirits but who will nourish me when I need a drink? I give them hugs and cuddle them when it is cold but who will hold me when the weather is not fair to me? Who will hold me when night comes and again I fear? Give

Who lied to you? Who lied to you, backward woman that it is acres of horse fur that make you more of a woman? Who in his right mind told you that a skin with foreign leprosy is what you can proudly call beautiful? Colour is beautiful, but only if it is yours, not purchased like painkillers over the counter. You woman, who goes to receive injections to get bigger behinds and bigger breasts, why don’t you take a book instead and get bigger brains? Why don’t you sit by the fire and mend your personality instead of clicking pictures of your lean behind to market your tattered and unsalted resume’? Young man, you half-wit who takes time to plait your hair, you cancerous fool who sits through manicures and pedicures, smear fat on your lips to look like a glutton who overate mutton, rip your pants off and wear a skirt. Chop your penis off and ask for a vagina. Kneel down and fault God for giving you pebbles instead of fully grown nipples. You walking embarrassment, a chimpanzee forgott

Letter of the forlorn lover A lonely one calls, from the prairie or the plains, from the tundra or the Kalahari, wherever it is my voice is coming from. I haven’t anywhere to go, I haven’t anyone to sing about to write about. I am a minion, and without a mistress I shall fizzle out till I finally disappear. Tonight I miss you more than ever, and I would do anything just to spend a few minutes with you. I am a forlorn lover, calling in from the other side of the pipe. Let me in, put me through. I know your dreams are bliss and here I am adding a blemish, but what to do? My heart, like a tired ass has refused to go on, my soul has refused to move on. I know that I am long forgotten, but is it that you chose to forget or you refused to remember me? I am a forlorn lover, calling in from the lee side of the mountain, where the rains never fall and the winds never reach, where we know nothing but dryness and thirst. I am calling from the deserts of thirst and whirlwinds. I am calling

Son of the soil Son of the soil, the hammer of a midnight blacksmith, the lamp of the seeker, the envy of the untilled land, you who stayed vigil all the night, watering the plants and giving them hope, you who took your clean hands to handle cow filth so the plant could grow, sit down and eat the fruits of your labour. Sit down, you who everybody all of a sudden remembers your name. Sit down and suck in, eat the fruits of nationalism, son of the soil, or the worms shall soon feed on it. Harvest your fruits before those who sit by three roadsides with legs askew take the first step. Fence your compounds off before the layabouts invite themselves home for dinner. I know them all, son of the soil. I know the jealous women with grey eyes and the greedy men with beer paunches. I can see them all, they that laughed at the man tilling in the hot sun. Why is it that their frowns turn into smiles all of a sudden? Why are their alligator teeth glinting in the sun? Son of the soil, don’t