I place my head on your lap, look up into your eyes and you smile.
It’s our day, just you and I.
We talk of the little things that matter…like how it sucks that we are great together and I am not keen on saying “yes” on “walking down the aisle” to you.
We talk of the little things that matter, like how when you are with me, you know there ain’t no other heaven on earth.
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You call me sunshine, I call you rain.
You call me dawn, I call you dusk.
You call me bloom, I call you soon…it’s our love.
We do well together, you and I.
And when I ask about her, on why you saw the need to be with her, you say it started with a conversation. You said “hi,” and she said “hi, how are you?”
You started talking about the color of her hair and she moved closer to you.
I cannot bring myself to say the words, for I fear that I’ll bleed even in my words,
I’ve cried over this for ten days, but here I am, seeing you and wondering just how you would find comfort in another…how easy it is for you to take another in your arms because she smiled at you…what was it? I ask.
You say “I don’t know…it was a mistake.”
But, love, it started with a conversation…how could “hi” be a mistake, how could “I like you,” be a mistake, how could “come lay with me” be a mistake…all these conversations.
It’s why you and I are miles apart,
My heart bleeds at the thought of you in the arms of another,
But just like my words, you’ll never hear none of it.
The ones that I need are simple words they roll off my tongue like ‘yes’
The ones I do not need are words found on legal documents,
The tiny script that says “terms and conditions” that I glaze over just to sign.
You say I collect feelings like I do my breath
Gasping as I drown in my worries,
Smiling as I soak up joy and euphoria.
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It’s how uncertain I am, a mystery, an unknown…and you light up another cigarette.
You walk across the room, open the window, sit right next to it and look back at me.
“What hurts me is how I never really know you…See, with most people I can definitely say that I can predict their next moves as surely as I can their life, but with you, nothing.”
You cross your legs.
Look back at me and attempt a smile.
I want to tell you what you are, “Dark Cocoa” but like every word in my soul, I am unable to set them free.
I came across this on Lindsey’s blog, A Rambling Reviewer and if you’ve been here for a while, you know that I can never say no to a good book-tag. If you’re new, trust me, this is a fun post because words can be heavy!
So let’s get down to it shall we?
What books have you been gifted that you love?
Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand
Americanah by Chimamanda Adichie Ngozi
In the Kitchen by Monica Ali
What book(s) would you like to give as a gift to someone else?
These are some of the books that are in my collection that I’d love to hand down to my daughter some day.
If you could gift a random person any bookish item, what would it be?
A bookmark, because, you can’t go wrong with that right?
If you could gift a random person any non-bookish item, what would it be?
A mug. Definitely a mug, we all drink some hot beverage 🙂 I think.
What do you say when a person gives you a gift you don’t like?
Um…wow, this is, um…thank you!
Mention a book based around Valentine’s Day.
Mention any two tips for blogging as a gift to other bloggers and to those who may want to start a blog.
Write as though you are talking to yourself. If it speaks to you chances are it could speak to someone else.
Edit what you’ve written before sharing it. It’s an interesting way to make sure that you have your words right and whoever is reading knows that you’ve got a handle on your words. If you’re struggling with this- try Grammarly, it’s partially free!
Have a great week and if you enjoyed reading this post, why not jump on it and see what you can answer?
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 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?
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 