Would you believe me if I told you, I beheld Grace?
Would you believe me if I told you, I ran a race?
For in her eyes, the sun rose and went to sleep,
The stars sparkled and the moon glowed, I went to sleep.
I beheld Grace,
Oh, daughter of the earth…stay true to your grace,
For the thing about essence is that once it’s drained,
nothing, not even grace, is sustained.
It’s four o’clock and the evening’s splendor is at the mercy of the showers of rain. I’m on my fourth cup of coffee. You sit beside me on the couch, rub your hands together and ask “should I bring the whole kettle right here?”
“No, why?”
“You have drank half of it already and I know you’ll ask for a refill when you’re done with this.”
“Yes, so?”
“I am not your waiter.”
“I’ll get it myself, do not worry about it.” You let out a laugh. How easy it is for you to unleash these easy laughs you store within you. I shrug my shoulders but wink at you. You look away, and lean back into the couch…and I know it’s coming, because when you open up, it’s preceded by a void of silence.
“You love me like a memory.”
I put the cup of coffee back on the table and stretch out to lay my head on your lap. It is still raining outside and when your fingers brush my cheek, I inhale the residue of cigarette smoke. I take to coffee and you take to cigarettes…sometimes, whisky.
“Have you tried Chivas?”
“The Scotch-Whisky? Yes, why?”
“I saw it on a billboard today while making my way to town. I love the shape of the bottle, it is rather feminine, a bit curvy and stocky at some point, but definitely curvy.”
“You saw a bottle of whisky on a billboard and you loved the shape of it because it’s curvy?”
I look at you and smile and you laugh…this time, it’s a blissful laugh, the kind that says “What am I going to do with this girl?” So, we sit and you take in short breaths, as though inhaling and exhaling would stop your heart from asking me questions that you know I will never answer.
I know not if this is love, if the image of your smile in my head makes me smile, if the sound of your voice at any time of the day makes me anxious. I know one thing though, that I live for these moments of silence between us, where you create a void to express your feelings and how I glide over those voids by changing the subject and you let me.
“You love this, don’t try to deny it. You should move in with me.” I shake my head and sit up to drink my coffee. You get off the couch and walk to the kitchen leaving me to the sound of the rain…once peaceful, now…
And when you come back, you lean on the kitchen door, run your fingers through your hair and ask “why are you afraid of me?”
This time…I recline.
“Do you know what happens when you are loved?”
Like every question you ask me, I shook my head ‘no’ and you moved back into your seat, reclined your back to the sofa, tapped your fingers on your thigh…and laughed.
An easy laugh…you are master of these laughs. I leaned back in my seat watching you tap your fingers…did I ever tell you that I love how nimble and slender they are? I enjoy watching your fingers…simple automated things you call them, but to me, they reveal more than you know.
So, you let out a long sigh and shake your head, stare at me…hold my gaze until I look away.
“You give me bits and pieces of yourself, like you are medicine and I’m an invalid.”
I shake my head but I know you see what I let you and that scares me, for I have revealed too much.
“I’m a simple guy. I guess, sometimes I never know whether you are psycho-analyzing me or just being yourself, and that’s scary.”
I reach out for the cup of coffee before me, take a sip and hold your gaze. It’s here that I want to be. In this silence, in this moment-gazing at you, no distractions, just your essence and mine.
“Do you know what scares me about us?”
“No, what is it?” I ask.
“What scares me is that you have so much control over me and you don’t even know it. I seek you when I know that I shouldn’t. Sometimes when I am at work and I think of you, it’s like this force pulls me to my senses reminding me that I should call you or just find you…and then when I am with you, I know I can be who I am and you’ll always appreciate me. Do you know what happens when you are loved?”
“No, what happens?”
“You blossom…you suddenly open up and between you and I, there is this strange feeling that you have been opening me up while you continue closing in on yourself.”
“I see…”
“It’s an odd feeling…knowing that it all comes full circle.”
You asked me at dawn, “Why is it that you smile more when you are miles away from me?”
I started, “um…I…”
You laughed, the easy laugh that we both know comes from trying to mask a pain.
I paused and so did you, for me it was to think of a lie, but for you, it was because you were on your third cigarette this morning. I could envision the smoke, smell it, miles away.
It was one of those mornings.
You missed me too much to contain your pain.
“Marry me,” you said and then laughed…another easy laugh.
“It’s good to hear from you,” I said and the beating of my heart rivaled the numbness of my fingers.
I was reaching for my cup of coffee when you said “stellar, is what you are…” and suddenly we both knew what that meant.
If you want immortality, marry a Writer.
If you do not want immortality, but rather a taste of memory, a lingering of the unforgettable, then date a Writer and here’s the thing, be certain of what you want before you pursue a Writer. We are vicious with our words. We’ll cast you as a stool, or worse off a wretched withered broom leaning against an old lady’s abandoned hut and you’ll never know it.
If we really want to call you out, then we’ll cast you as a loser in our book and describe all your mannerisms down to the color of your nails.
If you want immortality, marry a Writer but this story is not about happy ever after, it may seem so, but before you start throwing a party and inviting your friends over, be sure that you want to listen to this…so I met this guy!
Phil.
We’d been in the same circles but never interacted that much, we just made simple conversation. He struck me as suave. The guy who wore fitting jeans, always rocked a mean pair of Converse (If you know me, you know I love a guy in Converse… I’d marry a guy in Converse) and gave tight hugs. Yes! The hugs that you felt all the way into your bones, the kind that jolted your feelings into some kind of euphoria and you’d never let go, besides my Mom told me that when people who are close to you hug you, don’t be the first to let go, it may be the last time you feel their heartbeat. She also provided a caution to that, but we’re talking about Phil, where was I? Yes, Phil gives bone melting hugs. I’m not so great at opening up to people, because I come in waves and seasons. Sometimes my tide of sharing is just sufficient to get me what I want and other times, it’s non-existent to the point that people conclude I’m a snob.
Phil would always give me hugs.
I just published this short story on Smashwords. I’m so happy that I am writing again, so get the whole story by downloading it here.
Or click on the image on the side bar to download a copy.
She walked to the door. Apartment 325B.
Her mind was set on redemption. The brown door beckoned her knuckles. She knocked thrice and waited. She thought of time and what she would say. She raised her hand again as if to knock when she noticed the door-bell. She pressed it once.
Feelings that come back are feelings that never left. How could she still yearn for him after this time? She was hoping that her friend did not invite him. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder then waited.
If he was dating someone, she would accept it.
If the person he was dating was prettier than her, then she would have to deal with it. Her eyes scanned the other apartments on that floor. It was a beautiful complex. She could have loved to live in such a place. She snapped out of it when she heard, “hey! You came! It’s been a minute, right? Get in! Get in! Heey…people, meet my best of bestest friends Alice!”
She was choked in a tight hug, before she heard, “did you bring it? Okay, cool…thanks, the drinks are on your right, go get something to drink and lunch will be ready in a few, sawa? I mean, just chill, I will be with you in like a minute, sawa sawa. Okay, and thanks for coming! Now, go mingle!”
Her friend disappeared before she could say ‘hello’. She looked at her rush into the kitchen and laughed. Barbz never sat still. She talked faster than she breathed at times. Her eyes went round the room. She could acknowledge twenty people. She poured herself a glass of juice then headed out for the balcony. She was glad he wasn’t here. She didn’t see him and that came as a great relief. The room was full of laughter and alcohol that exchanged hands.
“Still running away from the crowd I see.”
That voice haunted her. She put down her glass on the wooden stool beside her and turned to her right. Her mind hoped her heart would react better.
She reached out for the railing as she saw those eyes. She expected him to look worse. He looked better than her. She looked down afraid of what her eyes revealed. He took three steps towards her then stopped. She counted each step by the number of tiles.
Excerpt from Choose Me, a short story published on Smashwords in January 17, 2014.
Send me a River, won’t you?
A slow, steady provision of water, for every tear I’ve shed,
Replenish the salt with fresh pure water,
Slow steady meandering around rocks, ferrying twigs, leaves, branches downstream.
Send me a River, will you?
To be the strength I need when you’re gone,
To be the light I need when you’re coming home,
To be the joy I need when you get home.
To be everything but me…a river would do that.
Send me a River, can you?
To make up for the years you’ve been away,
To soak up the war you carry in your head and heart,
To silence the war in you, and bring back the one I sent out,
To prove that war changes a man, but not his soul…to make me stay up at night praying for you, for your smile…for I’d trade that River for your smile…for your fear, for your anger, for your bitterness, for everything that war did unto you…you know I will.
So, send me a River, that I may wash away these sins…these sins that we wear as our skins, oh that they may not scar our children….
Send me a River.
Love is the lightning the gods use to test men. You get distracted by the thunder and before you know it, you’ve missed the flash of light.
Almasi told everyone this.
It was his life’s song, like the sirens that came before him, he sang it to himself and more so to others, but they all knew the truth. Their eyes saw what love was before he could and they too knew that the gods were unforgiving and so they never dared speak against him. He was to them the moon that lit up the sky, the tiny flashes of light embodied in the millions of stars that graced the night sky…oh, and when he sang, oh when he sang, the devil danced!
Every night Almasi would sit by the shores of the lake and count the stars until he drifted off to sleep. The daughter of the lake was yet to open her eyes, but the slow movements of her chest told him she had life in her…she was simply taking her time to make the life known.
So, he slept by the lake…his thoughts going from the life he lived to his beloved and sometimes when he could not reign his fire, he’d accept the company of a maiden who was willing to share the fire and warmth between her legs…oh, how he buried himself in the memory of Nalia.
Better he who loved and lost than he who fled from love, only to find himself in woe.
Our people spew words of wisdom like one tossing seeds out of the mouth. Some say it is like eating ground nuts, the pleasure is in eating them one by one, and saying things that seem wise in between breaths.
Oh, but they never let the sun go to bed without speaking of Almasi.
The first son of the Lake. Oh, he was as precious as his name, and no one knew women like Almasi. His pleasure was abound for he went through them like one turning the pages of a book.
There was talk of the only woman he loved but even then no one knew much about her, because Almasi was one to drink like the fish that resided in the lake. His mates would stagger home but he would walk by the lake shore, take a deep dive and swim towards the places he had cast his nest.
It was on such a night that he went out and as he was walking towards the lake, it kept singing out his name, the sound of his name mingled with the breeze of the night wind, and with each step his heart felt lighter.
However, as his feet touched the water, he saw what the lake was offering him and right there by the shore…lay a maiden, fair…and in that moment, Almasi knew two things; the gods were testing him and he could either accept the challenge or run away from it.
As a Writer, I would make an excellent Spy. I live for characters just as spies live for code names.
Let me tell you something about Azure or maybe let’s call him 44.
He says I live life safe. I live by a list of don’ts and not for the sake of curiosity.
We share the full moon, 44 and I.
He lights up his blunt, takes a sip of his drink as I take a sip of my apple juice and stare at the moon. How beautiful was she that she had to grace the skies at night surrounded by stars?
44 does not know how I live never having tasted alcohol…been to jail or worse off, smoked.
So…I think back to when we used to roll up dry paw paw leaves and smoke till our eyes turned blood red and then we’d hide behind the house until our Father went out for his evening stroll then rush into the house and take a bath. I tell 44 that I chose this life and I choose it every day, but he does not believe it.
“You ooze a certain kind of delicateness that is not good.”
“Do not pass judgment on something unless you’ve taken the time to experience it, not just to let it have power over you.”
So, when he goes on his trail of offering me nuggets of wisdom, all I do is listen and nod…sometimes, my mind wanders to the words and how easy it is to use them, but I do not tell 44 that I am a mystery unto myself.
I do not tell him that I am like the slippery fish I embody, a daughter of the lake, and my mind is a marvel- so whichever version he encounters of me, it’s never the same vessel that channels these conduits of emotions and thoughts he talks of…so I stare at the moon.
She smiles at me and I know that no matter where I go, she’ll always be the one who knows my tides.
She’ll always be the one, but 44 is engrossed in his drink…he does not realize this change in me, so I get up and walk to the lake shore.
In my other life…I’ll be the moon, beautiful, ever changing and totally unreachable.
nilichoandika 