Allow me

*Allow me*

The little heathen pleasures
The joy of carnal knowledge one last time
To enjoy your soft moans on my tender neck
To feel the warmth of your lips
To know the saltiness of your tongue on mine
Allow me
to reminisce on the soft texture of your skin on mine
The fine caresses of your fingers on my chest
The engraved image of your curves on my bathroom mirror, moaning softly
Your short dress way up upon your waist
My body filling the void amidst your thick thighs
Allow me
to feel your weight again
Against the wall, encompassed by your waist
Your bubbly Bossom bouncing on my face
The baby’s food threatening to burst out of it’s prisons
Allow me
to feel the tinkling sensation as your tongue runs my jaw line
Digging into the nerve crannies.
Allow me to listen to your groans of satisfaction once more
As we shove and grunt against the wall
Pushing against the switch
Bringing light and darkness with every thrust
Allow me the joy of seeing the engorged nips fight against the bra
Darkening and arising with every touch
Ticklish and grateful for every suck
Allow us the final dance
Of two naked and naked bodies
Joined in an unholy union against the wall
Soaking in the warmth of carnal juices
Enjoined in love and body
Celebrating the communion of lust
For the last time,before my ordination

Allow me

image

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Lucid

Trudging heavily up the wet chipping stairs with a dim flickering nearly burnt out fluorescent light ,he was a former shadow of himself. His thick set body now sagging covered in a faded dirty oversize jumper. The front which is streaked with poorly wiped away food remnants most probably mango pulp or squished pawpaws, his favourites. His trousers, surprisingly clean, are sagging down weighed down by a weapon, his service issue Glock 17 pistol and a penknife still bloodied and rusty.
Along the darkened corridor, tenants clothes hang swaying to the wind smacking the wall with a ghoulish wave. He shuffles on slowly, undecidedly with small shifty eyes, paranoid as ever. Under his hood, a pimpled face is hidden under a bush of smattered beard soaked to the skin in cigarette smoke and vodka interspaced with broken toothpicks. Beneath all that a mind with an IQ of 140 hides, broken beyond rehabilitation, paranoid and irrational. In there hangs a former military doctor, the pride of our platoon.

The room is rancid, the choking smell of socks and musty beddings has acted as a insecticide, no bugs can survive his dwelling. The peeling walls look slimy and cold. The airmatress lays deflated on the corner by the curtained windows . The darkness is scary even for veteran soldiers like us, men who found solace in the night, we owned the night. After a while the eyes adjust to the lucidity as we plomp on the slimy floor next to his bags, he seemed ready to leave any moment. On one wall is his doctors bag, still fully equipped and ready, the bag that saved many a life in combat. After he quit he turned down all civilian hospital jobs. You see military doctors are a special breed, proud and efficient. While civilian doctors consider them undertrained, the military doctors think of them as sissies who can’t perform field surgery without equipment but just a pen knife and wires.
On the left wall against the clogged sink with dead cockroach floating, is a painting with flaking edges. A painting he holds dear and incessantly kisses when he is not crying at night. The last memory he has of her. On it, a short plump lady sits with her succulent thighs covered in a fitting purple dress facing the horizon. She is sensualy caresing a guitar with a naughty smile as if beckoning him to join her. The same short dress she wore when ,in her last act of defiance when she hang herself in this very room. A wift of cold air sweeps by , as if reminding us of her presence. Her troubled soul on earth. The stars mourned that night and the moon darkened in her passing. Goosebumps are visible on us all.
Looking at him now, life had played him the trump card. The guy whose philosophy was master of chaos now lived in chaos. In the chaos he belonged, he found his home amidst the hell’s burning embers .In the battle field he was an enigma, balancing his rifle and stethoscope,his name gave us hope amidst the joy of flying bullets and ordinance. After the war , his war with self started, he came home to the decomposing corpse of his lover, PTSD and anger issues. Paranoia kicked in and he still thought everyone was trying to kill him. Outwardly he looked normal until the day he started drowning neighbours kitties and puppies.
In the dark silence we slinkered deeper into the shadows, the message we had for him forgotten, he was a lost cause, wasted seed. The flicker of hope in his eyes faded, replaced by a wondering look of oblivion. The painting on the wall beckons on seductively, in her,he saw his future . In the heavens God laughed at his plans.

Crumbling pedestal

Her biggest and only asset was her ass, perched seductively on her fragile frame. The protrusive anatomical feature that made her stand out and gave her a false sense of entitlement , earned her bragging rights in the midst of her shallow minded peers who apparently have a kingdom in the virtual world of Instagram. Through her eyes, she had made it, non essential personnel on earth, like us, had zero business engaging her ever pouted lips in anything in close resemblance to a conversation. To her, the society was a nuisance and her immediate family,an accident of birth.
Albeit being a next door neighbour,she never bothered to find out what I did for a living, anyway even if I was a terrorist,she would have been safe. You see in TV news after a terrorist has been killed, it’s the neighbours who give accounts of his life” he was a quiet, handsome guy, who kept to himself, he was cute though”….
Anyway back to my gazeniliniously obnoxious neighbour, to me she was this big assed woman clearly out of my league, just as every other woman is. The only male from the apartment whom she could speak to was the caretaker, and mark you,it was never a conversation, just the poor guy being threatened when water got lost. His pleas were usually met by her name calling and invocation of big names in the corporate world.
Anyway today as I was trying to placate my sweetheart, the vitz I bought with my last of savings to try woo Cynthia, the lady who later got married to my uncle, who had sold me the car after curving Cynthia in my place more times than I had borrowed that jalopy. So as I cajoled the car to start, it was one of the days during the cold season when the car needed some warmth to start, a neighbour, whom I had helped treat her child saw me and came to ask for another favour. Typical African behaviour,help them today, and they will look for you again when they are in need.
So as she comes to my oil spattered hands she twirls her non existent hair, man she owns a big forehead which she denies in her Instagram, and quips
” Mambo daktari, …” I can’t hear the rest, behind her, my obnoxiously wide assed neighbour stares, then smiles.
So here is the deal, I’m not a doctor as such. Im just a clinical officer, a step away from a doctor, I’m mandated to run a dispensary and can conduct basic surgeries. But to Africans everyone in a lab coat is a doctor. A title I carry with honour among mere mortals but shamefully in front of doctors. But hey it’s better than the sex you are not having.
Finally, my sweetheart accepts my smooth moves and moves. As common courtesy, I pick my neighbours enroute to town , it doesn’t make sense to drive around an empty car as if im giving a lift to the seats in the jalopy. As the gods would have it, I find the assman, my neighbour at the gate and wave her in. She is extremely chatty today, considering in our two years of cohabitation she has never spoken to me, except that day when she called me a retarded fuckwit for using her hanging lines to dry my only pair of boxers. Long story. I now own a few pairs of the same colour .
Her conversation drifts from her usual clusterfuckery of who is who on IG to who wore what. Seriously its like she could not see that all my clothes are black T-shirts, blue jeans and rubber shoes plus an Arafat I use as a curtain and scarf. Then I realise the cause of her chattiness. ” BTW for real wewe ni daktari? unaeza nicheck?. Of late sijakua naskia vizuri uku chini….”
; Of course that’s an STI, effects of being eaten raw to afford that rare, IG appropriate chicken at KFC daily. Normally your fisi instincts kick in here, this is where you ask to see it and do your diagnosis, but then medical ethics kick in.
Instead of that, the pedestal I had put her on ,crumbled. It came down slowly just like my jalopy does when it runs dry of the adulterated fuel I buy at Moha’s. The image of a perfect lassy, slowly shrunk to that of a high end escort, a fancy name for a pro-stitute.

Swirl of smoke

*Swirl of smoke*

There is something intriguing about women who smoke. They exclude a kind of confidence unique to them. They own that moment, they give out the vibe, that they can do it. At that moment they are queens, duchess of the 3 minutes it takes to smoke out that cigarette.  They have this sacred halo in aura around them.
   I was chilling out in the balcony, silently hating on the crowd invited, torn up from my just recent judo game and contemplating quitting medical school after another 48 hour clinical rotation at the hospital. Normally I hate people something we shared. Nursing my now warm vodka, clouds of smoke wafted to my side turning up my already pent up anger, I was ready to unleash Armageddon on the smoker.  But here stood a slim, seemingly malnutritioned lady enshrouded in smoke with a cigarette looking too big for her ring clad fingers. She was nothing close to my ideal woman- short, plump (fat) chubby, thicc,with long hair and preferably in a dress, but then there was something sassy about her, the aura of mystery surrounding her hoarse voice which she ordered me with to allow her take a sip of whatever I was taking.  She owned her world at that moment of my stupefaction staring at her nonexistent boobs.
  Fast forward, in my dark stuffy single room with black curtains, blue high school sized stained bed sheets and crusted sink without anything resembling food minus cloves of garlic which she used to counter the smell of tobacco from her breath. PK wrappers crushed under the pillow with gas lighters mostly gifts, piled on the headboard entangled with earphones and condom packs.  Her hair, now shaggy and engorged with the smell of Dunhill cigarettes rubs painfully on my chest as she croaks about the crazy night that was yesternight.  On the floor, red lipsticks, a pocket knife and cigarette butts lay facing each other on a plate. By now I’m an addict by association; you know how nicotine patches work- a smoker sticks one on the stomach and it’s absorbed into the bloodstream without the smoker inhaling an actual cigarette. Now imagine getting a blow job from nicotine coated gums, lips and teeth, that’s how my nights were. Plus menthol laced kisses in the morning after she finished chewing her PKs with an open mouth so as not to mess her lipstick.
       Her rants in the morning were a sure way to give you migraines, she insisted on narrating to you her previous day in that hoarse tobacco laden voice, often narcissistically. In my blurry mornings, effects of not knowing where my glasses were, vodka and 48 hour shifts she appeared angelic, never mind the pain on my chest as her hair rubbed deeper into it. Countless questions;      
       “Cay, I know medically smoking is bad, but im here for a good time not a long time, so if I develop lung cancer, will you still love me the same?”
    Unable to answer such, we just stuck to listening to blues, the sad man’s songs, reminiscing , in that silence we understood each other, our hearts became at ease in such moments, beating in synch to our breathing.
   She was the kind of aunt who came to family gatherings tipsy in cargo shorts and open back tops with dark sunglasses, the black sheep of the family. Her nieces and nephews loved her, she was generous with cash and allowed them the occasional sip of her liquor. The woman who considered family as an accident of birth. She never volunteered in kitchen duty, she would rather sit it out nursing a mug of whisky and crunching another pack of cigarettes. The daughter that her mother introduced as
                                “This is the one we pray for”
  You may never hear my side of the story. The woman I loved without words. The lady who first told me that I was cute, despite the circumstances. She chose her path, a narrow path that we walked in smoke and in love. The woman who I carry in my heart everyday. She chose to love a writer and her life became our story. My story is her story. She was my reality.
That was your mother.

A part of me died that Saturday

A part of me died that Saturday. Her steps along the aisle felt like staples being stapled to my body. Here was my wife getting married. The husband to my wife idiotically smiling waiting for her . Norms wouldn’t allow me to frown, to subvert that I imagined what would happen during the honeymoon, the surprise awaiting the sorry frog faced groom, a virgin of an engineer, my co husband.
    Behind that gown, I saw the woman I knew, the one I forced myself to believe I knew. The carefree lady who called everyone brathee straight faced with the attitude of a fighter then fist bump them.many at times she was called a lesbian, a title she used to ward of guys she never liked. Her baggy shorts with multiple pockets full of roasted grounnuts, roast maize or a pocket knife. The lady with big cute eyes which fluttered anytime she was excited while clinging to your clothes in public enjoying how you are squirming in discomforture of PDA. The lady who came for sleepovers with just a tshirt and shorts knowing she will go the next day in your clothes leaving you with a new duster and a short to give to a  children’s home considering her child like physique. She was the kind of lady who would eat an avocado which has fallen from the tree with her bare hands while telling the nastiest of jokes albeit maintaining a strait face. Yuup she was an expert at climbing trees and shooting birds with catapults. The memories of swimming naked in the river are still fresh. She was comfortable wearing only a tshirt and Socks the whole day, her hair messy with her big eyes .
  The bicycle races we had in the rain splashing mud at each other knowing we were going to shower together later.We ate stolen sugarcane like boys, in gumboots tearing away at those peels and crushing the stems. she could stay in your bed all day clamped on your chest and pulling at your ears when you started complaining of her anchor weight. She was 7O kgs and short, more like a compressed gurney bag- gunia. All the while she knew I was a priest.
   You see I’m not your typical priest. The image that Woman someplace in Tututumu nyeri has of a priest is the complete opposite of me. I have shaggy unkemp hair,to hide my growing baldness, i keep a full heard. I hate people and when they speak I snort with disregard. I love arguing and when doing so I use the word fuck as an abbreviation. Im being modest in this blog, my parents read it. Im ever in earphones and and tend to ignore people’s opinions. i feel entitled and come out Brutish and force my opinions on people. I’ve been described as violent, rude and angry. I care less, im not fixed to a parish thank God for the diocesan order. I ogle and check out women. I cuss alot, I’m ever in earphones playing blues and rock. I’m a paranoid little fucker and always carries a weapon. I never came to the seminary to get salvation, I grew bad in there, surrounded by Bibles, priests and God. The devil inside me grew up under holy guidance
   Back to the wedding, as she raises her small chubby fingers for the ring, the small fingers that have countless massaged me and fixed her oily bike, the reality eventual hit home. I stammered through the vows. She, the lassie who kept me sane through the eight years of the seminary is now being taken under oath as a wife. While doing the premarital counseling I thought maybe it was a prank, that she will tell ne she was joking and she will come back to me. I know it was being selfish, me a celibate guy, married to the church, holding on to her,  a free spirit not bound by vows of chastity which I made a hobby of squashing any time I got, which was always. We had spent the last night, her pre wedding night together, the now husband had no idea. But again life must move on. I needed to find another sheep to take care of from the congregation.
  A part of me died that Saturday.

*Caymil*
_Priest to be_

Silhouette

Silhouetted against the lace curtains her figure stood out as if in protests to the pounding cracking vodka induced hangover in your head. She appears dancing, flowing .Her small feet posing at an awkward angle, one which you never believed a human was possible of cranking, her big toe tapping systemically to a tune playing on her head on the cold tiles on the floor. To you the soft taps feels like a crazy luhya gold miner sledgehammering against rocks somewhere in Shamakokho.
   She loves the feeling of coolness under her feet, only comparable to the joy of staggering drunk singing wedding songs in the dead of the night, under the rain back in the rural area where everyone still wonders why you decided to become celibate and still blame the parishes catechist for misleading you when not speculating that you shoot blank shots.
   She is in an oversized hooded jumper reaching her knees, her small hands disappearing into the sleeves only the tips of her manicured nails peeps out holding a pee-stick. The hoodie looks like a baggy skater dress on her, beneath which you are sure she wears nothing. She waves the pee-stick in your face as you try to peel your head off the pillow which now reeks of alcosweat, your blood is so saturated with vodka that your sweat has the distinct smell of distilled barley.
    From the haze, you can see only one line- negative, you are safe this time, she is not pregnant yet.
  The next thing you see is cloud of hair embracing your face and a whizz as she attacks your neck, your most sensitive anatomical extension. She is mad, she had hoped to get pregnant this time. For the past two weeks, she had tried everything in the books. You can’t fathom the amount of mukhombero,fried pumpkin seeds, groundnuts and papaya you have had to consume and later battle those painful unending erections in the confession booth listening to nun’s and estrogen swamped highschool girls confessions.
   She is angry, at herself, you, everything, gods, God, hormones everything and everyone. Her huge eyes looks sympathetically at you, even in the blurry haze you still feel empathetic to her.
   “Caaaaaymil, why can’t we make another you?”
  ” Cay, does God hate me, for fornicating with a priest?”
Damn she is too blunt, I like to consider it doing my duty to humanity not really fornicating.  She only wanted to provide a heir to my name, a simple service.
   Whatever I say next will determine if I get to enjoy morning glory or otherwise, she is now straddling me, my head still too heavy, vision blurry and hazy, skin covered in a sheet of alcosweat,pungent to the heavens. I feel the warmth and moistness of her womanhood as she settles on my waist, her bunny teeth exposed awaiting my response. I really can’t help but stare at her dimples, with the occasional wild hair swishing over those huge eyes and small button nose. She is too cute, too beautiful to have fallen to the rogue diocesan priest that is supposed to answer a question he has already forgotten, the priest laying on his back staring back at her.
    Deeply inside Im relived she is not pregnant, in as much as she needs a kid, I don’t want to give her one. It all boils down to psychology and power games, if she gets pregnant, she will leave me and get settled, something I can’t afford considering my social life is not something worth writing about unless it’s on my eulogy.
    As she rocks on the six pack that is my abdomen, all I remember is yesternight waltzing intimately, moving sensually to the slow moving music, feeling one with the soothing beats. The world seemed to stop,to give us time to absorb the gift of sensuality and life in each others lips…….

*Caymil*
_Priest to be_

Silhouette

Silhouetted against the lace curtains her figure stood out as if in protests to the pounding cracking vodka induced hangover in your head. She appears dancing, flowing .Her small feet posing at an awkward angle, one which you never believed a human was possible of cranking, her big toe tapping systemically to a tune playing on her head on the cold tiles on the floor. To you the soft taps feels like a crazy luhya gold miner sledgehammering against rocks somewhere in Shamakokho.
   She loves the feeling of coolness under her feet, only comparable to the joy of staggering drunk singing wedding songs in the dead of the night, under the rain back in the rural area where everyone still wonders why you decided to become celibate and still blame the parishes catechist for misleading you when not speculating that you shoot blank shots.
   She is in an oversized hooded jumper reaching her knees, her small hands disappearing into the sleeves only the tips of her manicured nails peeps out holding a pee-stick. The hoodie looks like a baggy skater dress on her, beneath which you are sure she wears nothing. She waves the pee-stick in your face as you try to peel your head off the pillow which now reeks of alcosweat, your blood is so saturated with vodka that your sweat has the distinct smell of distilled barley.
    From the haze, you can see only one line- negative, you are safe this time, she is not pregnant yet.
  The next thing you see is cloud of hair embracing your face and a whizz as she attacks your neck, your most sensitive anatomical extension. She is mad, she had hoped to get pregnant this time. For the past two weeks, she had tried everything in the books. You can’t fathom the amount of mukhombero,fried pumpkin seeds, groundnuts and papaya you have had to consume and later battle those painful unending erections in the confession booth listening to nun’s and estrogen swamped highschool girls confessions.
   She is angry, at herself, you, everything, gods, God, hormones everything and everyone. Her huge eyes looks sympathetically at you, even in the blurry haze you still feel empathetic to her.
   “Caaaaaymil, why can’t we make another you?”
  ” Cay, does God hate me, for fornicating with a priest?”
Damn she is too blunt, I like to consider it doing my duty to humanity not really fornicating.  She only wanted to provide a heir to my name, a simple service.
   Whatever I say next will determine if I get to enjoy morning glory or otherwise, she is now straddling me, my head still too heavy, vision blurry and hazy, skin covered in a sheet of alcosweat,pungent to the heavens. I feel the warmth and moistness of her womanhood as she settles on my waist, her bunny teeth exposed awaiting my response. I really can’t help but stare at her dimples, with the occasional wild hair swishing over those huge eyes and small button nose. She is too cute, too beautiful to have fallen to the rogue diocesan priest that is supposed to answer a question he has already forgotten, the priest laying on his back staring back at her.
    Deeply inside Im relived she is not pregnant, in as much as she needs a kid, I don’t want to give her one. It all boils down to psychology and power games, if she gets pregnant, she will leave me and get settled, something I can’t afford considering my social life is not something worth writing about unless it’s on my eulogy.
    As she rocks on the six pack that is my abdomen, all I remember is yesternight waltzing intimately, moving sensually to the slow moving music, feeling one with the soothing beats. The world seemed to stop,to give us time to absorb the gift of sensuality and life in each others lips…….

*Caymil*
_Priest to be_

African leadership

          You want to be a president for life? Why don’t you try Africa? That had been the notion in past millennium. Any corrupt person with enough money would buy off military generals and by a nation via a coup. Alternatively engage in dirty politics and “win “a presidential election. Then you know the story… be a president for life, and have your son or spouse inherit the nation. Protect the family interest. That had been the nature of African leadership before the onset of 2010.
       The face of African leadership is now changing. The steps may be slow but the effects are being seen and appreciated. The notion of president for life is fading away as the continent braces for democracy and credibility in its presidential elections. The African strong men, the likes of Mobutu Seseseko, Robert Mugabe, Muamar Gadafi and Daniel Moi, are just some of the examples that got caught up with time. The wave of change started long ago but got the much needed acceleration after the 2010-11 Arab uprising which led to the ouster of Muamar Gaddafi who had led for more than 40b years in Libya.
   In the recent past, African nations have seen massive unprecedented changes in their executive structures. The Ethiopian prime minister Hailemariam Desalegn resigned after a three year wave of protest in the country. In the southern tip of the continent in South Africa, Jacob Zuma, also resigned from pressure after massive corruption cases caught up with him. The notion of African president resigning is a new concept for the continent as a whole. Perhaps inspired by Britain’s David Cameron, the prime minister, who resigned after the Brexit vote. Most leaders in Africa seem to resign half heartedly after pressure from the citizens or threats from their parties like the case of Robert Mugabe and Jacob Zuma who was forced by his party ANC to step down or be expelled.
         Although the changes are yet to be felt in some countries, the ripple effects will soon be felt. Some African nations still reel under the weight of long time leaders like Uganda and Rwanda. President Museveni of Uganda has led the nation albeit with an iron fist since 1986, a record 30 + years with still hopes of a winning the upcoming elections. On the other hand president Kagame of Rwanda has ruled with a gloved iron fist since 2000 and had the constitution changed to favour his candidature on which he won again to rule for another seven years.  In such police states any opposition is frowned upon and the full brutality of the law is unleashed on any perceived dissidence real or believed. Such leaders rule by instilling fear and maximizing state security agencies to protect the executive and its affiliates.
        Interestingly, some nations are in a limbo on their democratic status. Kenya has two presidents, a democratic president and a people’s president. Following a misunderstood election and its rerun where the opposition failed to participate, Uhuru Kenyatta was declared the validly elected president while Raila Odinga refused to accept the results. This led to tense situation in the country with supporters of both leaders claiming to be the truly elected presidents although the courts determined and upheld the victory of one. The opposition directed by a crafty lawyer Orengo James, decided to test the waters and swore in Raila as the people’s president. Using a well drafted oath to avoid the charges of treason, he was sworn in, at full Uhuru park in a ceremony devoid of live media coverage, foreign delegates, diplomats and his running mate Kalonzo.
     Most people were skeptic of the event, the intended idea had been just a show of resistance based on their recently launched outfit the NRM- national resistance movement. They aimed to show their supporters that they could stand up against the government.  Although all power and recognition lay with Uhuru Kenyatta, Raila opted to act as the shadow government to keep the real government in check. No country recognized the gimmicks of the opposition leader who is known to live in denial  of results ever since he participated in his first presidential election as a candidate in 1997 followed by 2007 ,2013 and 2017 respectively.  The nation has since moved on despite the governments crack down on the opposition figures latest being the deportation of Miguna Miguna , Raila’s aide. Perhaps borrowing a leaf from Uganda where the opposition chief Dr Bessigye was harassed, tortured and arrested multiple times for pulling a similar stunt.
  The citizens of the nations have the prerogative to effect these changes. The Arab uprising for instance was led by citizens more so the young people of Libya, Egypt and Tunisia. In Kenya several movements have been effected with an aim to try change the leadership some uneventful like the 1982 air force coup and the 2013 occupy parliament demonstrations led by Boniface Mwangi, a social activist. Sometimes though the governments ignore the voice of the majority and push their own puppets to power. In Zimbabwe for example, following the resignation of Mugabe, a new leader Mnangagwa was sworn in as president effectively barring the ailing former prime minister and opposition leader Morgan Tsavangirai(RIP) who had challenged Mugabe in presidential elections for a long time.
           The face of new Africa in terms of leadership , although still undergoing change, we still have a long way to go. From rebuilding nations ravaged by wars like Libya, Somalia and Congo to nations overwhelmed by diseases like Ebola in Liberia and poor leadership . the newly elected leaders have the mandate to reengineer progress in their nations, consolidate funding, unite the people and bring back hope and trust to the institutions if the government like security and justice systems. For a long time Africa is known for its resilience, its ability to bounce back. The stepping down of some elements will pave way for the progress of the continent as whole economically, democratically and economically to ensure that Africa claims its place in the table of the greats.

Disclaimer alert.
This article was originally to be published in Kenyatta university’s career week magazine 2018 .

BROKEN SOUL

Truth of the matter is, PAIN is inevitable
Truth is once it hits you it creates a home in you.
Will you let it??

I’ve been sitting on this bench, the same bench I first met you.
The very first time u cast a spell on me.
A spell that I can’t escape
However the only thing this spell does to me is hurt, but why?
Reason is it hurts because it was real.
It still hurts because it mattered it meant more than the whole wide universe put before my feet.
They say it changes people, makes them trust less, over think more and shut people out.
But honestly it’s better to stay silent because no one understand you, no one simply understand that it hurts more than the heart can tell.

So you choose to be a loner not because you want to but because the only person who understands you is yourself.
In yourself you find solace, solace in pretending how happy you are but deep inside you know too well that with every smile there’s a tear hidden and slowly stopped from falling.To you the empire is just perfect but deep inside it’s on the far end of perfection. The only thing perfect is your ability to still let no one see through your heart and soul which is way broken in other words broken beyond repair. You got used to pretending that everything is okay until you sometimes forget it’s not okay.
In fact it won’t be okay.
Until you decide to raise above the pain in courage, a lot of courage,
Until you learn that what is done is done
Until you stop missing the person you were before you fell in love with it: you forgot that everything that falls gets broken that’s why your soul is broken.
I’d wish you’d walked into it that way walking out will be a whole lot easier.
Until you stop blaming yourself and others for your misfortunes
Until you realise that pain is real but so is HOPE.
Until you stop starring so long at the closed door that you don’t see the open windows and ventilations.
Until you finally stop drifting away from everything you once claimed to love.
Only then will you realise that being broken doesn’t last forever.
Until you realise you can mend your broken soul by giving up but only giving everything up to God who’s above all Things then and only then will you be whole again.
Until you learn to stay strong enough to walk away from pain and be patient enough to wait for the blessings that u deserve

But remember it all takes PRAYERS, HOPE, COURAGE and STRENGTH.
No more broken souls allowed.
A broken finger is better u can bandage it.
But it’s not easy to mend a
           BROKEN SOUL

Is it wrong?

     That even after you had left, months
later and you were loved, I still
couldn’t bring myself to delete our
conversations? That I would
constantly read them over and over
again in the hopes of reliving the
memory of your existence, but all I’d
end up in is in tears and the pain of
bitter sweet reality knocking me off
balance, leaving me knowing you’re
no longer here. The only thing I know
how to do to cope with actuality is
simply wailing and wishing you’d be
back, is it wrong? Is it wrong to
constantly be wishing that I’d have
spent more time than just to 4
O’clock in the morning each day
talking to you? Maybe an overnight
chat and seeing you weekly was
never enough, I should have done
better than that, right? Is it peculiar
that I feel oddly satisfied each time I
read the words that you typed out
when you were still here and feel
comforted with the weight of your
presence in those late night
utterances you made? How couldn’t I
have seen this? When you talked
about how petrified you were, not of
the pain but the outcome, you kept
mentioning that you’d like to fast
forward to the end. How didn’t I
see it then? When I read it over now,
squinting my eyes, I can see it all
clearly. Persistently, since the day I
grasped the leverage of your
words, as I close my eyes, behind my
eyelids I constantly see an image of
you facing an end . I keep gasping
for a release from this revelation but
I can’t open my eyes, I have to force
them shut to prevent the oncoming
tears from flowing.
Each night after you left ,I forced
myself not to cry, willed myself to be
happy that you are free from the
pain you were put through, the pain
you perpetually termed as
“unbearable”, the very one you told
me you hated and kept wishing
would ebb away and leave you in
peace. But today I want to be selfish,
I want to cry because you left me
behind, you walked away from me,
from us. It was never your choice, so
I comfort myself with the thought
that maybe just maybe, you fought
hard but it wasn’t hard enough to
make you stay. Teardrop after
Teardrop I seem to drown your
memory in the salty waters of my
overflowing sea, abundantly they roll
down my cheeks and splash onto my
phone screen. The screen that is
brightening the gloom in my room.
Darkness that wraps its hands
around my throat, chocking out all
the held back emotions, illuminating
more than just my room, chasing
away the shadow, the despondency
and void that hovers around my
heart.
Reminiscing all over again and
continuously ending up hurt. This is
the type of pain I like, the type of
agony I fell in love with. Because in
that pain I remember the feel of your
essence. In that pain I know and
can remember vividly that you once
were present in my life. Then as per
routine, I’d sleep at 4:00 a.m. only to
wake up with a hangover of the
thoughts that rushed through my
head the night before. Swollen eyes,
tired body, exhausted heart and a
cold yet weary expression. This is
what I subdue myself in every day.
The feeling? I would describe it as
walking on an ocean of joy that I
can’t baptize myself in, that no
matter how much I crave to make
contact with the euphoric waves
crashing against the shore of sweet
oblivion, I just can’t. But now that a
lot of time has passed and you’re
still no longer present, that pain isn’t
as satisfying anymore, it slowly kills
me time and time again. Continually
reminding me that anyone can be
ripped away from me and forced to
leave me behind at any given time…
both of us completely unaware, such
are the vagaries of life. I’m
habitually reminded that those I love
can be led into circumstances where
they have to walk away. This
disclosure haunts my every thought.
In denial, I suppressed whatever
feelings I had fleeting before my now
fragile heart because I was trying to
keep myself safe. I made myself
numb to the intensities that came
with your departure and now that
they’ve built up, like brick upon brick,
cemented by the tears I kept in and
my not so strong facade, it has
come crashing down. For the walls I
built couldn’t hold up any longer.
Those emotions are escaping, they’re
flowing free with no constriction,
wetting my pillows as soon as my
head hits my bed. I haven’t said this
in a long while nor admitted it to
myself, afraid that I would
breakdown all over again but… I miss
you.
So much, but there is nothing I can
do but face what time brings.
Nothing we could’ve done even if we
wanted to change things. I can’t even
ask myself why you left, because
neither you nor I know the answer to
that question. It’s like a never-ending
equation where I’m the k and you are
gone, one haunting my being, yet I
choose to store it where I can see it,
in a jar right under my windowpane
next to my mirror so I’d see; each
day, how fickle everything is, how
many promises are broken, not by
choice but just by how
circumstances play out.
[10/06 8:20 am] Caymil Even after all that, even after
realizing that you’re actually gone
and you’d probably never turn back,
never be able to look back at what
you left. Even after all that I’m
getting cozy in bed,putting on a new
pillowcase of denial same design as
the previous rebuttal deluding myself
its all different, but the change is the
same and painfully so the results
just the same, its work to collect my
next flow of memories as I switch on
my phone clicking onto our texts,
scrolling up to when it all started
and reading slowly and painfully all
the way down to where it all ended.
The ending always the same, me
subjecting myself to the torture of
waiting for a response to my last
text. That I very well know will never
come. I only said “Hey” And you’ll
probably never reply, never ask me
how I’m doing, never give me advice,
never show me a different
perspective to life because you’re
gone. Yet I’ll still repeat this cycle
over and over and over again, like a
broken record causing my life to
stutter in that position because I
can’t see it stopping. I still can’t get
myself to say goodbye .
Even when it is, has been and would
always be…

By Purity Bolo ( Kenya)

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