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.
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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….
Does she see me down here, the one who receives the glow from her rays?
I love the Sun,
but how can I know she loves me back?
Should I ask the Moon to send her a message?
Should I like the Night slide into her DMs and maybe…await a response at dawn, of whether she thinks of me?
What would she say, eh?
Do you know?
Do you care to know?
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I love the Sun,
But, you know she’s not my type…you know what, she’s way too hot, way to prompt with her rising and setting, and word is, she’s good with the moon.
I love the Sun.
I love how she lives without my consent.
I love how she goes about her business without my approval.
I love that she knows when to step up, shine, blaze, scorch and go to rest.
No one messes with the Sun,
Seven billion and counting have tried and keep trying but she always gets the best of them,
Now wouldn’t that be a beautiful thing, if my sisters could live without the consent of their oppressors?
Now wouldn’t it be a thing to behold if my sisters and I could walk, work, thrive and love without fear? Without the thought of being tied down to a belief, perception, role, rule and person?
You just passed by me, unaware of what the sight of you does to my pheromones.
Oya! Fine Guy, the piece of dark chocolate, in blue jeans and a black t-shirt,
Not you, I’m talking about the one who’s assailed my nostrils with his musky-lime cologne scent.
You are like golden brown fried onions waiting for that blend of tomato to create one mean paste! Have I told you about the movie they’d cast you in? Trust me, even I have no clue, I’m not a movie buff, but as a Writer, I’d never kill you as a character.
Yes, you…I see you.
Oya! Fine Guy, please don’t walk back up to me, because this world is full of surprises and I for one I’m not a fan of shrill tones or accents…
I know, it’s wrong but you know what being prejudiced got Lizzy? Yeah, a fortune!
So, keep your swag and pride walking down the street, your feet carrying you miles away from me as I compose myself.
Oya! Fine Guy! I see you,
Stay fresh all day…this country’s done a number on your type…but for what it’s worth, you Guy, the one who just messed up my composure, you are one fine piece of Art and don’t you ever think or feel otherwise when you stand before the one that’s caught your breath!
I dream of the words, told unto my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother.
The rustling of her sisal skirt, the walk to the lake, the time spent at the farm and the hopes she had of every sunrise.
But, even these dreams I have are nothing compared to the life she lived…
How would I know?
I dream of eons of folklore.
The world where my great-great-great-great-grandmother danced at sunset,
Her waist a thing of beauty, men could not dare touch it or take their eyes off it,
Her skin, golden, supple and her eyes as rich as the black cotton soil they tilled.
She was the breath of beauty, an epitome of love, but duty and child-bearing dimmed her smile.
How would I know?
I dream of eons of folklore.
The world where my great-great-great-grandmother stood by the shores of Lake Victoria and watched the Queen Victoria ship dock…and she knew nothing would ever be the same.
Her words were not to be uttered for their tongue was better, more approved,
Their god was stronger, mightier and even so, he had a book written about him,
What about Obongo’ Nyakalaga?
How would I know?
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I dream of eons of folklore.
The world where my great-great-Grandmother boarded a canoe to cross the lake and visit her people, but the lake having known how she labored to give love and received none, swallowed her up…and for years her daughter would weep by the shores, begging the lake to send back her mother.
For what’s this world without mothers?
How would I know?
I dream of eons of folklore.
The world where my great grandmother, a thing of beauty, a heart hardened by loss and intimidation would say that everyone in her line, her generation would never have to suffer for being female.
Oh, how she chased the men away, those who came to inherit her after her husband’s death.
Oh, how she slept with a machete beside her. Worked her farm, took her sons to school, or how when she died, it rained for seven days straight.
How would I know?
I dream of eons of folklore.
A world unlike the one my grandmother resides in, where everywhere she looks she sees nothing but pain and knows one book of the Bible better than all the rest: Lamentations.
Her golden skin…I peel for layers of who she was when I knew her,
Her eyes reminiscent of grey skies, dry rivers, drought and waiting…a certain kind of waiting that’s only known to her god.
But, if you see her god, tell her that I would like to talk to her…over coffee perhaps?
I dream of eons of folklore.
A world like the one I reside in that has seen the rise and fall of women, of skins that glow in the dark, thoughts that reverberate through generations, eyes that see the unseen, hearts that bleed over the lost souls…
Oh, I dream and sometimes when I close my eyes, my soul gets a nod from all these souls that have gone before me, and that is enough to scare me awake!
I press the snooze button on my alarm five times every morning.
I set my phone on airplane mode so I can listen to my playlist every morning to work.
My playlist lasts fifty-three minutes and twenty seven seconds.
I smile, wave, shake hands and ask questions whose answers are of no importance to me like “how’s your family doing?” “what did you do over the weekend?”
I always get endless answers and stories that involve liquor especially on the weekend question.
Half of the staff here are married with kids and half of them spend weekends with other young women who keep quiet when their wives call.
My judgement meter was so loud the first time I joined them for the staff dinner,
But since then I’m amused and intrigued at how a man would roll his tongue, pepper his actions with a lie and everyone around him would nod in agreement, like he’d decreed the truth, “it’s what a man does.”
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So, patch me up will you?
Send me on a girls only trip to Mombasa, let me eat bhajias, kashatas, kokotos and fried potatoes for a week!
Surround me with feminine laughter…an endless joy, a certain softness that illuminates the soul when we are not being held down by society.
Oh, you should be married by now, why aren’t you?
Don’t you want kids?
Hey, at your age, you cannot have kids…they’ll not be normal you know because your eggs have expired.
Wait, what? Why are you single? See, if I hadn’t met my wife, I would marry you, spend the night with me.
Why are you not married? What are you waiting for?
Are you those bitter women trying to be like us men? You know the, ones who call themselves feminists?
Patch me up, will you?
Sew me here…right where my anger and disgust rises on the surface of my skin.
Powder me cocoa because my skin is the night, my heart troubled by the perception of love sold unto me by the books I devour, music I listen to and movies I reluctantly watch.
Drink me like scotch…throw in three ice-cubes and wash me down your throat as Femi Kuti serenades you.
Okay, patch me up real quick, if you cannot handle scotch, then throw me down your throat like Tequila! One quick shot and you stick your tongue out, aahh! and then tell the bartender…another one! You do so because you can never just have one shot of Tequila!
“Get married, settle down…come on, why don’t you want to settle down?”
A thought, a five second rant that involves not signing up for something that I do not believe in anymore plays in my head and I smile at him…watch the girl on his lap and finally say “I do not wish to be like your wife who worries every Friday and the whole weekend which woman you’re buried inside, relishing pleasure, servicing STDs and then going home to her, telling the world you love her.”
I press the snooze button on my alarm five times every morning.
I set my phone on airplane mode so I can listen to my playlist every morning to work.
My playlist lasts fifty-three minutes and twenty seven seconds.
No one invites me to their end of week nights out and my soul sings and dances at this new development…for my judgement meter is not activated and I can stay home, read a book, or go sight seeing around the islands.
Patch me up, will you…these holes in my perception of love, these wide windows and cracks in my thinking that are tested over time…make them go away,
Patch me up real quick…or if you cannot, consider me the soul that’ll wander, an old soul, traveling across worlds, reaching out to no one for the price I’ve paid for solitude is too high to compromise for a minute of fun.
Patch me, but if you cannot, send me some salve…something for the wounds that I cannot heal, for the tears I never shed that still drip salt onto those wounds the world does not see.
Patch me up…for I’ve always loved a quilt…every piece is different, but boy does it look good all together.
Things like the weather…I love my sunshine and you devour your cold, chills to the bone is what you call it, so we talk of things like ‘did you watch the news yesterday?’
I always say ‘no’ and you laugh, say I’m so uninformed and less bothered that you cannot help but wonder what you see in me.
You and I,
There are things we don’t talk about,
Things like how we gravitate to each other, you are my moon and I’m your sun
A day cannot exist without the night,
Things like how you fear seeing the hurt in my eye, so I wear smiles and save the hurt for my journal.
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You and I,
There are things we don’t talk about,
Things like how you fear giving in to love so you string along as many women as you can,
If she smiles at you, she’s yours,
If she can keep you warm for five seconds, what she’s willing to give is yours to take.
You and I,
There are things we don’t talk about,
Things like how I am great at walking away and you are great at always seeking me out,
You say that even in the next a thousand lives, you’ll run into me and for a moment you’ll look into my eyes and know that you’ve found the one you seek at a time when you do not desire to breathe.
You and I,
There are things we don’t talk about,
Things like, how easy it is for you to destroy the thing you love the most simply because it’s easier for you to live without ever thinking of giving in to love.
You and I are broken glass, the crack’s there but it still reflects light.
Dark skies for those moments you do not wish to be nice when you’re conflicted.
Light showers like the bits of ‘hey, I just wanted to check up on you,’ or ‘who is stealing you away from me?’ or ‘your laugh is contagious, did you ever know of that?’
You’re thunder, loud and unexpected but more like lightning, so bright your presence cannot be ignored, heads turn, murmurs are stirred, thoughts are conjured…when you walk into a room.
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Oh, but when you pour, you leave me drenched!
Sometimes, I see you and wish I could cast a spell…something like a wizard’s charm, maybe something Lady Morgana or Mama Ifeoma would conjure up…something so spicy and nasty you’d never mess with me again.
But you know what happens when love makes itself known,
Thoughts are just that…thoughts
So, just like rain, show some mercy on my heart…nourish this life,
Floods of emotion may abound
May they cause an erosion of what’s unsound
I love you like rain…now pretty please, would you just jolt me onto the next paragraph?
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.
nilichoandika 