I wrote you a poem,
It felt right at dawn, now that’s it’s almost noon,
And I haven’t heard from you,
I feel like it’s doomed.
I wrote you a poem,
Here I lie, counting the hours until you call,
It may be soon or noon,
I never know with you.
I wrote you a poem,
And I haven’t heard from you,
I feel like it’s doomed.
You say I collect people like I do my words,
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.
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.
My Mother said she knew my feet were meant for motion when I hit the ground,
Like clouds, soft cotton buds on the earth, I glide
She also said that she cringed with every step,
The world would consume my light, she feared this would happen,
Like clouds, soft cotton buds on the earth, I glide
I told her it would never happen.
I would not let the world break me.
She would look at me…her eyes oceans of the pain I’d endure.
Like clouds, soft cotton buds on the earth, I glide
Oh, but then I met you,
Son of the soil, fruit of the sun, seed of life
In your arms I soared and fell on my back, I have no recollection of where my feet are…
I wish I could glide on this,
Blink you away,
Drench every memory of you in tears, drink you up and spit you out!
But, my heart seems to relish this feeling, there is something about this anger that smells like ultimate power,
It rises from the depths of my heart to my skin,
Look closely how it glows, an ember of power…
I wish I could glide on this feeling, dance away, like clouds, soft cotton buds on the earth.
What hurts you?
It’s the way you ask this as though it were a confessional, a moment between two souls, not people.
So, I turn and smile and you shake your head then shrug your shoulders.
“You always smile when you are angry, or when you want to break down and cry, why is that?”
“Reflex action,” I say and we laugh.
It’s almost seven o’clock and you should be leaving but I know you do not want to, because you inch closer, soaking in every word I say, hanging by a thread of hope…that maybe just maybe, I may choose to let you see me.
“What hurts you?”
I almost say “the little unexpected things,” but we both know it’s the “failed expectations” that hurt the most, so I sip my coffee, fold my legs and you say “you should try yoga.”
I say “I have commitment issues, so no yoga for me,” and you laugh because it’s you who said I run even when no one is chasing me.
What do I know of pain? Enough.
So, we sit and talk about books and in the spaces in between our thoughts, I know that your pain is akin to mine, but miles away from the depth of it.
I don’t know how to say “I’m sorry,”
Don’t expect me to.
Dip me in sugar, so you lick a coat so sweet before you taste my bitterness,
But you already knew that, didn’t you?
I don’t know how to roll up the words “I’m sorry” and let them unravel a history of hurt.
I bleed where you wound, but cover up where the dark enters,
I bleed where you see, but cover up where you don’t.
It’s easy to smile and be a poster of sunshine, well, isn’t that what teeth are for? Display?
I don’t know how to say “I’m sorry,”
My heart just can’t fathom the words,
My mind knows the feeling, but with it is a memory that’s tainted,
Paint me the color of the night sky,
Color me the hues of anger,
Poster me the aftermath of a hurricane…I don’t know what you expect.
I don’t know how to say “I’m sorry”,
These scars won’t let me forget, every word, thought, action, taste…every single inch of what my memory replays…
So, I sink into my hues of anger, bathe in my bitterness and when dawn comes, I arise, my skin coated with memory, my heart washed clean of feeling and my mind…oh, my mind a haven of data…information that goes back decades to every little thing that you did.
I don’t know how to say “I’m sorry,”
It’s the truth I hold dear when it comes to you.
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.
I love the Sun,
But does she love me back?
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?
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?
I love the Sun,
But does she love me back?
Oh child of the Universe, how life awaits you!
I see you,
Yes you.
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 eons of folklore.
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?
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.”
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.
nilichoandika 