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.
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.
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?
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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.
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!
nilichoandika 