Joy calls my name but i do not answer,
I suspect she has grown weary of calling to silence.
I do not blame her.
I just cannot begin to allow myself to make friends with a woman, (because i suspect joy is a woman), who will come into my life, fill me with gladness and then take a vacation when i have gotten used to her.
Joy sounds like a nice person, (If she were a person)
I suspect i might like her,
But i know i would be suspicious of her
She is that person who is too good to be true
Something must be wrong for somebody to want to give me a bit of gladness
I am suspicious, with good reason
Joy is like a good cup of tea
Perfect for cold days, healing for a cold and its friends
One ingredient missing and all you have is water and Sugar
Nice things are frustrating, they run out
And that, is why Joy and i are far apart
I keep her at arms length
I will smile at her but run off when she starts to smile back
I will send her flowers because i miss her
But i shall hide when she comes looking for me
I will watch her from my window
I will watch her embrace others and be glad for them
I like joy but i am afraid of her
I suspect that if i friend her and she leaves me, i might die
On the inside
If i haven't already.
Tuesday, December 6, 2016
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Idaba, Mama Knows Now
"Show me where. Let me see how my baby sleeps."
I stared at the woman whose heart, i knew, was at this very moment, breaking.
"Aunty, i do not know the exact place, i just know that she was brought here."
We stood in silence for a while, staring at the huge expanse of land and wondering where we would begin the search. There would be no mark, that i was sure of. I wondered then if some how, the two spirits would reach out to each other and this mother, my aunt, would know instinctively, where to find her baby. There had been no stone or cross placed when they brought Idaba. I saw Aunty's hands clench into a fist and then unclench. She brought one hand to her mouth and held it there as the silent tears ran down her face. She looked away quickly and started to rummage in her worn but clean handbag. You could tell it had seen better days. You could tell from the way she carefully kept it and the way she had slang it over her shoulder that she was a woman who gave attention to things. I waited. After a while, she walked ahead slowly and turned to a tree on her left. I followed quietly thinking that perhaps she had received the knowing. She sat under the shade of the tree and stared ahead.
I felt heavy with guilt. I could excuse myself if i tried hard enough. I could banish this guilt. It was not my fault and i had been too young to stop it all. I remember the day clearly, i remember the days, weeks and months before too.
Idaba was 5years old when she started to show the signs of an illness still greatly feared at the time. It was clear by her age that the illness had been passed on to her at birth. We watched, as she started to shrink, right before our eyes. She was in the hospital for three months and then she died. No one told Aunty. How could they? She had sent them a healthy baby girl from the village. They brought her here and buried her. They, my uncles and her father. Her father who was still so shaken that he couldn't leave the car the day of the funeral. He too wouldn't know where they buried Idaba.
The uncles and nephews, a group of cold hard men dug furiously and quickly. Her little body lay in a cheap coffin, the very first one they had found as they drove from the hospital. They had argued about it. The coffin. I remember Uncle Biziire saying it was a waste of money. He had suggested she be wrapped in a kanga, her being so young and all. The Coffin sat at the back of a pickup that smelled of cows urine. A priest sat in the car and waited to be called out to say the final farewell.
When all was done, we crowded around the little grave and listened as the priest spoke of a Maker who created, sent to earth and recalled some of the little ones. It sounded as if they were faulty items that needed to be recalled. It felt like a horrible excuse for taking her so young. Why give her to us in the first place? Why take her through the pain she went through in those months in the hospital? It didn't sound right. I stopped listening and stared hard at the coffin, wondering if maybe they had made a mistake and she was in there screaming and trying to break free.
Idaba's mother who i have always called Aunty, just Aunty, did not know that her little girl had died. I imagined at that moment, that she was somewhere at her home in the village feeling a sharp pain, down with an unexplained illness, wondering why she was ill with a thing she couldn't explain. In my mind, a mother always felt things related to her child. Maybe she wasn't in pain, maybe she had this floating feeling that she couldn't explain. She would know of her daughters passing two years later, a day before this day as i stood and she sat under this tree.
Just yesterday, Aunty had come to see Idaba, her little girl who she now thought would be seven. She came out of the taxi and the conductor placed her sack of Matooke and Irish Potatoes next to her by the road opposite the house. Yes, Idaba was seven now, but the last two years, she had spent away from us mortal beings. No one was home. She learned from the neighbor who saw her and came to say how sorry she was of the events of two years past. She learned that her daughter whom she sent to Kampala with her husband had been dead and buried two years now. I found her sitting by the veranda that faced the road. My greeting was met with a heavy blow to my face. I held my cheek and waited quietly. She walked away and didn't come back until this morning. She spoke to no one but me. "Take me," she said. "Where is Idaba. Take me to her."
My uncle sat by the veranda, his sugar cane halfway to his mouth, watching us. He didn't say anything. He didn't even get up. I looked at him hoping he would come and help his grieving wife. He didn't. He just started. My brother, four years older than my 17, spoke quietly. "Take her there if you remember." I remembered the land because it belonged to us. It was just so big and i couldn't point at the exact place. Two years was a long enough time to forget a thing that had haunted you.
I stared at the woman whose heart, i knew, was at this very moment, breaking.
"Aunty, i do not know the exact place, i just know that she was brought here."
We stood in silence for a while, staring at the huge expanse of land and wondering where we would begin the search. There would be no mark, that i was sure of. I wondered then if some how, the two spirits would reach out to each other and this mother, my aunt, would know instinctively, where to find her baby. There had been no stone or cross placed when they brought Idaba. I saw Aunty's hands clench into a fist and then unclench. She brought one hand to her mouth and held it there as the silent tears ran down her face. She looked away quickly and started to rummage in her worn but clean handbag. You could tell it had seen better days. You could tell from the way she carefully kept it and the way she had slang it over her shoulder that she was a woman who gave attention to things. I waited. After a while, she walked ahead slowly and turned to a tree on her left. I followed quietly thinking that perhaps she had received the knowing. She sat under the shade of the tree and stared ahead.
I felt heavy with guilt. I could excuse myself if i tried hard enough. I could banish this guilt. It was not my fault and i had been too young to stop it all. I remember the day clearly, i remember the days, weeks and months before too.
Idaba was 5years old when she started to show the signs of an illness still greatly feared at the time. It was clear by her age that the illness had been passed on to her at birth. We watched, as she started to shrink, right before our eyes. She was in the hospital for three months and then she died. No one told Aunty. How could they? She had sent them a healthy baby girl from the village. They brought her here and buried her. They, my uncles and her father. Her father who was still so shaken that he couldn't leave the car the day of the funeral. He too wouldn't know where they buried Idaba.
The uncles and nephews, a group of cold hard men dug furiously and quickly. Her little body lay in a cheap coffin, the very first one they had found as they drove from the hospital. They had argued about it. The coffin. I remember Uncle Biziire saying it was a waste of money. He had suggested she be wrapped in a kanga, her being so young and all. The Coffin sat at the back of a pickup that smelled of cows urine. A priest sat in the car and waited to be called out to say the final farewell.
When all was done, we crowded around the little grave and listened as the priest spoke of a Maker who created, sent to earth and recalled some of the little ones. It sounded as if they were faulty items that needed to be recalled. It felt like a horrible excuse for taking her so young. Why give her to us in the first place? Why take her through the pain she went through in those months in the hospital? It didn't sound right. I stopped listening and stared hard at the coffin, wondering if maybe they had made a mistake and she was in there screaming and trying to break free.
Idaba's mother who i have always called Aunty, just Aunty, did not know that her little girl had died. I imagined at that moment, that she was somewhere at her home in the village feeling a sharp pain, down with an unexplained illness, wondering why she was ill with a thing she couldn't explain. In my mind, a mother always felt things related to her child. Maybe she wasn't in pain, maybe she had this floating feeling that she couldn't explain. She would know of her daughters passing two years later, a day before this day as i stood and she sat under this tree.
Just yesterday, Aunty had come to see Idaba, her little girl who she now thought would be seven. She came out of the taxi and the conductor placed her sack of Matooke and Irish Potatoes next to her by the road opposite the house. Yes, Idaba was seven now, but the last two years, she had spent away from us mortal beings. No one was home. She learned from the neighbor who saw her and came to say how sorry she was of the events of two years past. She learned that her daughter whom she sent to Kampala with her husband had been dead and buried two years now. I found her sitting by the veranda that faced the road. My greeting was met with a heavy blow to my face. I held my cheek and waited quietly. She walked away and didn't come back until this morning. She spoke to no one but me. "Take me," she said. "Where is Idaba. Take me to her."
My uncle sat by the veranda, his sugar cane halfway to his mouth, watching us. He didn't say anything. He didn't even get up. I looked at him hoping he would come and help his grieving wife. He didn't. He just started. My brother, four years older than my 17, spoke quietly. "Take her there if you remember." I remembered the land because it belonged to us. It was just so big and i couldn't point at the exact place. Two years was a long enough time to forget a thing that had haunted you.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
To You Who has Such Wonderful Talent
The gossip pages like to call you a celebrity. I do not know if they say it lightly. I however take it seriously. I celebrate you and your talent. You who sings, you who dances, you who is a motivational speaker, you who is an actress/actor, you who is a journalist, you, in whatever field you are.
I am a bit sad though, that i do not hear your voice when I Think it should matter. Let me explain myself before you get defensive.
The other day, this black man was shot in the US. When i read about it and saw the video, i thought, 'Lord Jesus, what do we do when things like this happen?' I was grieved and i was scared. I saw all these angry people responding to the shooting on social media and i remembered what anger does. Anger that is unfettered. I decided to visit the social media pages of the people i look up to when i cannot understand the world. T.D Jakes, Nicole C Mullen and a few others. They were all bothered by the shooting. They were talking about it. They were calling for justice but they were also reminding the people who follow them to be calm. They were not fueling the hate.
I thought back to the car accidents on what has now come to be called Massacre road (Masaka Road). I read somewhere that just this year alone, about 200 people have died on that road. 200 isolated incidents. I suspect when Kibwetere killed those people years ago in the Kanungu massacre, it wouldn't have been such a big deal if he had done them in one at a time. It grabs people's attention when the thing that happens affects so many people at a go. So i thought of the accidents. I went running to the social media pages of my Ugandan inspirations. I was looking for a message from them to give me hope and a sense of direction. Something to remind me to remain sane and not go the way of the bush. Nothing. I was ashamed. Let me explain why.
Human beings live on hope. Without hope, you are simply a walking corpse. If you knew that nothing was going to come out of all your hard labour, you would get whatever savings you had and sit by a bar and drown yourself in brew to not think about the hopelessness of it all. We go through each day because we have hope that something will work out tomorrow. Sometimes, when we lose hope, we look up to other people. That is why many people are religious. They need to have a dose of hope each Sunday to take them through the week.
My Celebrities were quiet about the accidents. They have been quiet about many things too. The few who have spoken out have confused me more than encouraged me. In my times of hopelessness, your political affiliation is none of my business. If the taxi that rammed into the car was being driven by an FDC supporter, an NRM supporter, i do not care. The taxi driver probably forgot that he was FDC or NRM the minute the election fever was over and he realized he couldn't depend on the free fuel from the candidate anymore.
I am sad that my celebrities were quiet. I feel that they have the voice that many people do not have. If we can come together and collect money to help a cancer patient, why cant we come together to speak about road carnage? No one is asking for money. Just for you to use your status and remind the people who follow you, who believe in the things you say, to drive better, to not drink and drive. When i see my celebrity pointing fingers because he or she has been told the problem is with the boda men and these boda men belong to a certain party, i get sad. When i see my celebrity upload another precious picture of themselves on the day when a bad thing has happened to the nation, i immediately tell myself that they have not yet heard the news. If they had, they would have said something in solidarity. A call to some kind of action maybe...something...anything.
I understand the celebrity has a life of their own and they have to live it. I just wish that sometimes they would use the voice they have to draw attention to things that affect the people who love and support them. Things like murder, rape, violence, tribalism, racism, disease. I like your new shoes, the ones you just posted, yes your skin looks pretty in that selfie, and your everything is flawless but i would very much like for you to, every once in a while, remember me who watches you and looks up to you, and send me a word of encouragement. Remind me to be calm. Remind me not to hate. Remind me to rethink my angry decisions. Remind me to do right by my country.
I guess you underestimate your voice. You do not know the power of your voice. You do not know the power of the images you post.
I guess you do not know that the words you speak, very many take to heart.
I guess you do not understand that many people look up to you. They want to think like you and act like you and react like you. If you say let us walk in protest, they will. If you say let us steal guns and go shoot the ones we do not like, some of them just might. If you say let us treat our wives and husbands this way, they listen. If you say or show that it is okay to share drugs with teenagers, they listen and think it is okay. If you say indecent dressing should result in rape, they will listen. If you sing and say it is okay for women to be beaten in discipline, they listen. You might think this a small matter because you never really see the effects immediately but they are there in the long run.
I guess i want to know that talent aside, you have a heart too. A heart that cares about the people who are rooting for you. I guess i want to know that you are using your influence to be the kind of change that is going to take this country forward. There is a reason as to why God has blessed you and elevated you to the level you are at. Don't play with it. Show people how to channel their anger in a positive way.
In the words of one phenomenal man, Martin Luther King Jr, "Life's most persistent and urgent question is, What Are You Doing For Others?"
I am a bit sad though, that i do not hear your voice when I Think it should matter. Let me explain myself before you get defensive.
The other day, this black man was shot in the US. When i read about it and saw the video, i thought, 'Lord Jesus, what do we do when things like this happen?' I was grieved and i was scared. I saw all these angry people responding to the shooting on social media and i remembered what anger does. Anger that is unfettered. I decided to visit the social media pages of the people i look up to when i cannot understand the world. T.D Jakes, Nicole C Mullen and a few others. They were all bothered by the shooting. They were talking about it. They were calling for justice but they were also reminding the people who follow them to be calm. They were not fueling the hate.
I thought back to the car accidents on what has now come to be called Massacre road (Masaka Road). I read somewhere that just this year alone, about 200 people have died on that road. 200 isolated incidents. I suspect when Kibwetere killed those people years ago in the Kanungu massacre, it wouldn't have been such a big deal if he had done them in one at a time. It grabs people's attention when the thing that happens affects so many people at a go. So i thought of the accidents. I went running to the social media pages of my Ugandan inspirations. I was looking for a message from them to give me hope and a sense of direction. Something to remind me to remain sane and not go the way of the bush. Nothing. I was ashamed. Let me explain why.
Human beings live on hope. Without hope, you are simply a walking corpse. If you knew that nothing was going to come out of all your hard labour, you would get whatever savings you had and sit by a bar and drown yourself in brew to not think about the hopelessness of it all. We go through each day because we have hope that something will work out tomorrow. Sometimes, when we lose hope, we look up to other people. That is why many people are religious. They need to have a dose of hope each Sunday to take them through the week.
My Celebrities were quiet about the accidents. They have been quiet about many things too. The few who have spoken out have confused me more than encouraged me. In my times of hopelessness, your political affiliation is none of my business. If the taxi that rammed into the car was being driven by an FDC supporter, an NRM supporter, i do not care. The taxi driver probably forgot that he was FDC or NRM the minute the election fever was over and he realized he couldn't depend on the free fuel from the candidate anymore.
I am sad that my celebrities were quiet. I feel that they have the voice that many people do not have. If we can come together and collect money to help a cancer patient, why cant we come together to speak about road carnage? No one is asking for money. Just for you to use your status and remind the people who follow you, who believe in the things you say, to drive better, to not drink and drive. When i see my celebrity pointing fingers because he or she has been told the problem is with the boda men and these boda men belong to a certain party, i get sad. When i see my celebrity upload another precious picture of themselves on the day when a bad thing has happened to the nation, i immediately tell myself that they have not yet heard the news. If they had, they would have said something in solidarity. A call to some kind of action maybe...something...anything.
I understand the celebrity has a life of their own and they have to live it. I just wish that sometimes they would use the voice they have to draw attention to things that affect the people who love and support them. Things like murder, rape, violence, tribalism, racism, disease. I like your new shoes, the ones you just posted, yes your skin looks pretty in that selfie, and your everything is flawless but i would very much like for you to, every once in a while, remember me who watches you and looks up to you, and send me a word of encouragement. Remind me to be calm. Remind me not to hate. Remind me to rethink my angry decisions. Remind me to do right by my country.
I guess you underestimate your voice. You do not know the power of your voice. You do not know the power of the images you post.
I guess you do not know that the words you speak, very many take to heart.
I guess you do not understand that many people look up to you. They want to think like you and act like you and react like you. If you say let us walk in protest, they will. If you say let us steal guns and go shoot the ones we do not like, some of them just might. If you say let us treat our wives and husbands this way, they listen. If you say or show that it is okay to share drugs with teenagers, they listen and think it is okay. If you say indecent dressing should result in rape, they will listen. If you sing and say it is okay for women to be beaten in discipline, they listen. You might think this a small matter because you never really see the effects immediately but they are there in the long run.
I guess i want to know that talent aside, you have a heart too. A heart that cares about the people who are rooting for you. I guess i want to know that you are using your influence to be the kind of change that is going to take this country forward. There is a reason as to why God has blessed you and elevated you to the level you are at. Don't play with it. Show people how to channel their anger in a positive way.
In the words of one phenomenal man, Martin Luther King Jr, "Life's most persistent and urgent question is, What Are You Doing For Others?"
To You Who has Such Wonderful Talent
The gossip pages like to call you a celebrity. I do not know if they say it lightly. I however take it seriously. I celebrate you and your talent. You who sings, you who dances, you who is a motivational speaker, you who is an actress/actor, you who is a journalist, you, in whatever field you are.
I am a bit sad though, that i do not hear your voice when I Think it should matter. Let me explain myself before you get defensive.
The other day, this black man was shot in the US. When i read about it and saw the video, i thought, 'Lord Jesus, what do we do when things like this happen?' I was grieved and i was scared. I saw all these angry people responding to the shooting on social media and i remembered what anger does. Anger that is unfettered. I decided to visit the social media pages of the people i look up to when i cannot understand the world. T.D Jakes, Nicole C Mullen and a few others. They were all bothered by the shooting. They were talking about it. They were calling for justice but they were also reminding the people who follow them to be calm. They were not fueling the hate.
I thought back to the car accidents on what has now come to be called Massacre road (Masaka Road). I read somewhere that just this year alone, about 200 people have died on that road. 200 isolated incidents. I suspect when Kibwetere killed those people years ago in the Kanungu massacre, it wouldn't have been such a big deal if he had done them in one at a time. It grabs people's attention when the thing that happens affects so many people at a go. So i thought of the accidents. I went running to the social media pages of my Ugandan inspirations. I was looking for a message from them to give me hope and a sense of direction. Something to remind me to remain sane and not go the way of the bush. Nothing. I was ashamed. Let me explain why.
Human beings live on hope. Without hope, you are simply a walking corpse. If you knew that nothing was going to come out of all your hard labour, you would get whatever savings you had and sit by a bar and drown yourself in brew to not think about the hopelessness of it all. We go through each day because we have hope that something will work out tomorrow. Sometimes, when we lose hope, we look up to other people. That is why many people are religious. They need to have a dose of hope each Sunday to take them through the week.
My Celebrities were quiet about the accidents. They have been quiet about many things too. The few who have spoken out have confused me more than encouraged me. In my times of hopelessness, your political affiliation is none of my business. If the taxi that rammed into the car was being driven by an FDC supporter, an NRM supporter, i do not care. The taxi driver probably forgot that he was FDC or NRM the minute the election fever was over and he realized he couldn't depend on the free fuel from the candidate anymore.
I am sad that my celebrities were quiet. I feel that they have the voice that many people do not have. If we can come together and collect money to help a cancer patient, why cant we come together to speak about road carnage? No one is asking for money. Just for you to use your status and remind the people who follow you, who believe in the things you say, to drive better, to not drink and drive. When i see my celebrity pointing fingers because he or she has been told the problem is with the boda men and these boda men belong to a certain party, i get sad. When i see my celebrity upload another precious picture of themselves on the day when a bad thing has happened to the nation, i immediately tell myself that they have not yet heard the news. If they had, they would have said something in solidarity. A call to some kind of action maybe...something...anything.
You might think many things of me. I understand the celebrity has a life of their own and they have to live it. I just wish that sometimes they would use the voice they have to draw attention to things that affect the people who love and support them. Things like murder, rape, violence, tribalism, racism, disease. I like your new shoes, the ones you just posted, yes your skin looks pretty in that selfie, and your everything is flawless but i would very much like for you to, every once in a while, remember me who watches you and looks up to you, and send me a word of encouragement. Remind me to be calm. Remind me not to hate. Remind me to rethink my angry decisions. Remind me to do right by my country.
I guess you underestimate your voice. You do not know the power of your voice. You do not know the power of the images you post.
I guess you do not know that the words you speak, very many take to heart.
I guess you do not understand that many people look up to you. They want to think like you and act like you and react like you. If you say let us walk in protest, they will. If you say let us steal guns and go shoot the ones we do not like, some of them just might. If you say let us treat our wives and husbands this way, they listen. If you say or show that it is okay to share drugs with teenagers, they listen and think it is okay. If you say indecent dressing should result in rape, they will listen. If you sing and say it is okay for women to be beaten in discipline, they listen. You might think this a small matter because you never really see the effects immediately but they are there in the long run.
I guess i want to know that talent aside, you have a heart too. A heart that cares about the people who are rooting for you. I guess i want to know that you are using your influence to be the kind of change that is going to take this country forward. There is a reason as to why God has blessed you and elevated you to the level you are at. Don't play with it.
In the words of one phenomenal man..."Life's most persistent and urgent question is, What Are You Doing For Others?"
I am a bit sad though, that i do not hear your voice when I Think it should matter. Let me explain myself before you get defensive.
The other day, this black man was shot in the US. When i read about it and saw the video, i thought, 'Lord Jesus, what do we do when things like this happen?' I was grieved and i was scared. I saw all these angry people responding to the shooting on social media and i remembered what anger does. Anger that is unfettered. I decided to visit the social media pages of the people i look up to when i cannot understand the world. T.D Jakes, Nicole C Mullen and a few others. They were all bothered by the shooting. They were talking about it. They were calling for justice but they were also reminding the people who follow them to be calm. They were not fueling the hate.
I thought back to the car accidents on what has now come to be called Massacre road (Masaka Road). I read somewhere that just this year alone, about 200 people have died on that road. 200 isolated incidents. I suspect when Kibwetere killed those people years ago in the Kanungu massacre, it wouldn't have been such a big deal if he had done them in one at a time. It grabs people's attention when the thing that happens affects so many people at a go. So i thought of the accidents. I went running to the social media pages of my Ugandan inspirations. I was looking for a message from them to give me hope and a sense of direction. Something to remind me to remain sane and not go the way of the bush. Nothing. I was ashamed. Let me explain why.
Human beings live on hope. Without hope, you are simply a walking corpse. If you knew that nothing was going to come out of all your hard labour, you would get whatever savings you had and sit by a bar and drown yourself in brew to not think about the hopelessness of it all. We go through each day because we have hope that something will work out tomorrow. Sometimes, when we lose hope, we look up to other people. That is why many people are religious. They need to have a dose of hope each Sunday to take them through the week.
My Celebrities were quiet about the accidents. They have been quiet about many things too. The few who have spoken out have confused me more than encouraged me. In my times of hopelessness, your political affiliation is none of my business. If the taxi that rammed into the car was being driven by an FDC supporter, an NRM supporter, i do not care. The taxi driver probably forgot that he was FDC or NRM the minute the election fever was over and he realized he couldn't depend on the free fuel from the candidate anymore.
I am sad that my celebrities were quiet. I feel that they have the voice that many people do not have. If we can come together and collect money to help a cancer patient, why cant we come together to speak about road carnage? No one is asking for money. Just for you to use your status and remind the people who follow you, who believe in the things you say, to drive better, to not drink and drive. When i see my celebrity pointing fingers because he or she has been told the problem is with the boda men and these boda men belong to a certain party, i get sad. When i see my celebrity upload another precious picture of themselves on the day when a bad thing has happened to the nation, i immediately tell myself that they have not yet heard the news. If they had, they would have said something in solidarity. A call to some kind of action maybe...something...anything.
You might think many things of me. I understand the celebrity has a life of their own and they have to live it. I just wish that sometimes they would use the voice they have to draw attention to things that affect the people who love and support them. Things like murder, rape, violence, tribalism, racism, disease. I like your new shoes, the ones you just posted, yes your skin looks pretty in that selfie, and your everything is flawless but i would very much like for you to, every once in a while, remember me who watches you and looks up to you, and send me a word of encouragement. Remind me to be calm. Remind me not to hate. Remind me to rethink my angry decisions. Remind me to do right by my country.
I guess you underestimate your voice. You do not know the power of your voice. You do not know the power of the images you post.
I guess you do not know that the words you speak, very many take to heart.
I guess you do not understand that many people look up to you. They want to think like you and act like you and react like you. If you say let us walk in protest, they will. If you say let us steal guns and go shoot the ones we do not like, some of them just might. If you say let us treat our wives and husbands this way, they listen. If you say or show that it is okay to share drugs with teenagers, they listen and think it is okay. If you say indecent dressing should result in rape, they will listen. If you sing and say it is okay for women to be beaten in discipline, they listen. You might think this a small matter because you never really see the effects immediately but they are there in the long run.
I guess i want to know that talent aside, you have a heart too. A heart that cares about the people who are rooting for you. I guess i want to know that you are using your influence to be the kind of change that is going to take this country forward. There is a reason as to why God has blessed you and elevated you to the level you are at. Don't play with it.
In the words of one phenomenal man..."Life's most persistent and urgent question is, What Are You Doing For Others?"
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
Is it too late to know you?
Come sit a while by me
Tell me something, Tell me anything
They are too busy, the ones who i thought would warm my old age
She is long gone, the one i hoped would be my companion in the years
You're here now, tell me something, anything, just do not say hullo and walk away
We are a different generation,
I want to hear about what you people do now,
Everything just seems to have walked right by me
Your hands are always busy, tapping away at the thing you walk about with
You walk with a dance in your step, little wires in your ears
You smile and nod when you see me, but that's all the conversation we have
The smile that tells that there is no conversation between us
It breaks my heart, that you want to learn nothing from me
When i was younger, i sought wisdom, i sought guidance
I liked to follow my father about, to hear him and to watch him at his trade
I wanted to be the man he was, i wanted to learn from him
I spent many evenings tending to the fire listening to the stories he told
The stories that had a lesson for me to learn
My mother was the woman i wanted my wife to learn from
She was a gentle woman with strong hands, not given to lies and gossip.
She tended the garden allowing the wind to carry her quiet voice as she prayed and sang
She prayed for me, she prayed for us all, i guess it is why i still am
I wonder who will teach you, i wonder who you will learn from
Things are not as they used to be
So much fighting, bickering, even among your own kin
There is a gap and i do not blame you for it
Your father and i should have worked harder, we should have
I feel like i do not know any of you
You, your parents, your siblings and my other children
First chance they got, they left for the city life
I do not blame them, it held more promise than the hoes and the sheep
I was too stubborn to come as often as they liked,
The journey too was not kind on my back and knees
Now, there is a gap that we cannot fix
I wish though that every so often you would come sit by me
Even if you said nothing, i would like to hear your heart beat
Know that i hold even a little bit of importance to you
I am afraid that i sound harsh when i call out to you
It is the way we speak, they say we are rough and tough
Our hearts are in a good place though
Come sit by me, my days are done and i am alone.
Tell me something, Tell me anything
They are too busy, the ones who i thought would warm my old age
She is long gone, the one i hoped would be my companion in the years
You're here now, tell me something, anything, just do not say hullo and walk away
We are a different generation,
I want to hear about what you people do now,
Everything just seems to have walked right by me
Your hands are always busy, tapping away at the thing you walk about with
You walk with a dance in your step, little wires in your ears
You smile and nod when you see me, but that's all the conversation we have
The smile that tells that there is no conversation between us
It breaks my heart, that you want to learn nothing from me
When i was younger, i sought wisdom, i sought guidance
I liked to follow my father about, to hear him and to watch him at his trade
I wanted to be the man he was, i wanted to learn from him
I spent many evenings tending to the fire listening to the stories he told
The stories that had a lesson for me to learn
My mother was the woman i wanted my wife to learn from
She was a gentle woman with strong hands, not given to lies and gossip.
She tended the garden allowing the wind to carry her quiet voice as she prayed and sang
She prayed for me, she prayed for us all, i guess it is why i still am
I wonder who will teach you, i wonder who you will learn from
Things are not as they used to be
So much fighting, bickering, even among your own kin
There is a gap and i do not blame you for it
Your father and i should have worked harder, we should have
I feel like i do not know any of you
You, your parents, your siblings and my other children
First chance they got, they left for the city life
I do not blame them, it held more promise than the hoes and the sheep
I was too stubborn to come as often as they liked,
The journey too was not kind on my back and knees
Now, there is a gap that we cannot fix
I wish though that every so often you would come sit by me
Even if you said nothing, i would like to hear your heart beat
Know that i hold even a little bit of importance to you
I am afraid that i sound harsh when i call out to you
It is the way we speak, they say we are rough and tough
Our hearts are in a good place though
Come sit by me, my days are done and i am alone.
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
To the girl on TV
I can point out all your mistakes because i watch you very closely.
I follow your every move.
When you fall, i am there to point that out.
When you start to rise, i am there waiting for you to stumble.
I watch you, closely.
I feel that it is my duty to remind you that you cannot afford to make mistakes, that you cannot afford to be human.
I know when you take too long in the toilet.
I know when what you write is below the standard i have set for you.
I know when what you wear is not what i would rather you wear.
I have watched you too long that i am afraid i cannot tell the difference between your life and mine.
When you fail it is as though i have failed.
I cannot let that happen.
I see now that i got it all mixed up.
I was never meant to be your shadow.
My life was mine to live but i chose to live yours instead.
I watched your back so long i forgot to watch mine and when i started to stoop, i was too busy pointing out your stoop i didn't see mine.
I am old and grey now but i have not lived a life that i can say was mine.
I cannot tell my grand children your stories.
They will ask for mine.
I do not have grand children,
I was too busy watching your life, calculating your mistakes, i forgot to meet someone and have a life with them.
Perhaps i should blame myself, for not living.
But why blame me when i can blame you?
They placed you right in front of me
Society told me you were who i should be like
All i did was follow
So i tried to shape you
Tried to make you the me i should have been.
Where is the future
My mouth tastes like anger.
I imagine anger tastes like spoilt milk or a nasty after taste of a thing you hate
I must have drank from the same cup thats been going round since last year.
I gather no one has bothered to wash it out and pour some new water.
We are all angry.
He brought his boda boda to a screeching halt right in front of her car
She stared at him through listless eyes, almost as though she knew that he was about to insult her
He stared back and then let out a long loud jeer
"Your time shall come, we are tired of you lot! You westerners!"
She tapped at the wheel and waited quietly oblivious to the hooting and shouts from the other drivers
"Get out of the road madam!"
"And go where," she whispered
"Draw back a little sir, you will damage her car if she tries to move."
"No, i am far enough. Stupid things do not even know how to drive! How do they run this country!"
"But you're the one in the wrong! Give her way so we can all go."
"Are you one of them? You must be. One day...just you wait!"
He pushed his motorcycle back a few inches
She drove forward
"Why do you leave your windows down? What if they throw something at you?"
"It is hot, and i cannot run away from the angry rhetoric of every disillusioned man"
"But what if they harm you?"
"Then so be it. I cannot help who i am. If they hate us because of how we look, what can we do?"
"Protect yourself, tint your windows, drive windows up"
"No. That would mean i am ashamed of who i am. It would mean i have something to hide."
My mouth tastes like anger
It is that bitter taste that has refused to go away.
The one you try to wash away with water, soda, anything
But the bitterness grows
There is a cup and they have refused to wash it. Throw it away even
It keeps going round and everyone is drinking from it
No one cares that it is rusty and the liquid on the inside does not look as it should
We're thirsty and we drink what we get
We get high on it and act on it
It doesn't matter the consequences of our actions
The children?
Who cares about the children
Tomorrow will fend for itself
They will build the life they want when they are old enough to
But how can they when you start them off with nothing
Well, we started with nothing too
Its the children i fear for.
My eyes search for the cup. I must find it. At the very least, break it.
I imagine anger tastes like spoilt milk or a nasty after taste of a thing you hate
I must have drank from the same cup thats been going round since last year.
I gather no one has bothered to wash it out and pour some new water.
We are all angry.
He brought his boda boda to a screeching halt right in front of her car
She stared at him through listless eyes, almost as though she knew that he was about to insult her
He stared back and then let out a long loud jeer
"Your time shall come, we are tired of you lot! You westerners!"
She tapped at the wheel and waited quietly oblivious to the hooting and shouts from the other drivers
"Get out of the road madam!"
"And go where," she whispered
"Draw back a little sir, you will damage her car if she tries to move."
"No, i am far enough. Stupid things do not even know how to drive! How do they run this country!"
"But you're the one in the wrong! Give her way so we can all go."
"Are you one of them? You must be. One day...just you wait!"
He pushed his motorcycle back a few inches
She drove forward
"Why do you leave your windows down? What if they throw something at you?"
"It is hot, and i cannot run away from the angry rhetoric of every disillusioned man"
"But what if they harm you?"
"Then so be it. I cannot help who i am. If they hate us because of how we look, what can we do?"
"Protect yourself, tint your windows, drive windows up"
"No. That would mean i am ashamed of who i am. It would mean i have something to hide."
My mouth tastes like anger
It is that bitter taste that has refused to go away.
The one you try to wash away with water, soda, anything
But the bitterness grows
There is a cup and they have refused to wash it. Throw it away even
It keeps going round and everyone is drinking from it
No one cares that it is rusty and the liquid on the inside does not look as it should
We're thirsty and we drink what we get
We get high on it and act on it
It doesn't matter the consequences of our actions
The children?
Who cares about the children
Tomorrow will fend for itself
They will build the life they want when they are old enough to
But how can they when you start them off with nothing
Well, we started with nothing too
Its the children i fear for.
My eyes search for the cup. I must find it. At the very least, break it.
Thursday, March 3, 2016
Dear Rosie
Dear Rose,
I met your mother yesterday. I was walking along the street, that one right opposite the church you used to go to. She saw me first and stopped me to say hullo. She was in a bit of a hurry and i figured she was late for something. She looked at the church and said she had booked a mass for you and she was running later for it. I saw her eyes begin to tear and then she gave me a quick hug and went her way.
I watched her a while, watched as she got to the entrance, wiped her shoes and made the sign of the cross. I watched your mother and all the while i thought of how it is that you were indeed gone.
It should not surprise you that close to a year later, your mother still holds a mass for you as often as she does. I never saw a stronger woman on the day you were laid to rest. She grieved on the inside and would not let anyone see by the way of tears how much it pained her. She walked about, her rosary in hand, counting off the little beads and muttering under her breath.
She was praying for you. She never stopped.
When we were younger, people used to tell us that Kings did not do the number five. You know what i mean....that toilet business that requires of you to have a newspaper or a book or your phone so you do not get bored as you empty your bowels. For a moment there, i looked at your picture and i wondered how it is that you could just be gone. You were one of those people that just weren't allowed to go and if perhaps you had to go, it was to be after this aging process that would see you gracefully wear the silver hair, the slight wrinkles where the laugh lines should have been and the long skirts and elegant tops with a brooch in place.
Seeing you then and thinking of the picture in my head, i finally saw that the picture we paint of others is a picture to console ourselves. I know now that the picture in my head was really to give me the hope that you would beat this. I never, even for a day believed that you wouldn't make it. When they lost hope and said it was done, in my heart i knew it was not. That picture kept hope alive. If it would take a miracle to see you get back on your feet, that miracle was going to happen.
Only it didn't.
Even now, i refuse to acknowledge it. I was packing up a few things the other day and i found one of the tee shirts we made for the fundraiser. I couldn't bring myself to look at the picture at the front. I folded it and put it away. It has not yet been settled in my heart. I still feel like it is not what it is.
Your mother though, she knows that you are in a better place. She prays for you. Lights candles for you and talks about you with the most beautiful smile. She is certain that you lived such a life that your place beyond was secured. She takes each day, knowing that one day, she will see you, hold your hand, and thank you for fighting what was probably the hardest battle you ever fought.
I met your mother yesterday. I was walking along the street, that one right opposite the church you used to go to. She saw me first and stopped me to say hullo. She was in a bit of a hurry and i figured she was late for something. She looked at the church and said she had booked a mass for you and she was running later for it. I saw her eyes begin to tear and then she gave me a quick hug and went her way.
I watched her a while, watched as she got to the entrance, wiped her shoes and made the sign of the cross. I watched your mother and all the while i thought of how it is that you were indeed gone.
It should not surprise you that close to a year later, your mother still holds a mass for you as often as she does. I never saw a stronger woman on the day you were laid to rest. She grieved on the inside and would not let anyone see by the way of tears how much it pained her. She walked about, her rosary in hand, counting off the little beads and muttering under her breath.
She was praying for you. She never stopped.
When we were younger, people used to tell us that Kings did not do the number five. You know what i mean....that toilet business that requires of you to have a newspaper or a book or your phone so you do not get bored as you empty your bowels. For a moment there, i looked at your picture and i wondered how it is that you could just be gone. You were one of those people that just weren't allowed to go and if perhaps you had to go, it was to be after this aging process that would see you gracefully wear the silver hair, the slight wrinkles where the laugh lines should have been and the long skirts and elegant tops with a brooch in place.
Seeing you then and thinking of the picture in my head, i finally saw that the picture we paint of others is a picture to console ourselves. I know now that the picture in my head was really to give me the hope that you would beat this. I never, even for a day believed that you wouldn't make it. When they lost hope and said it was done, in my heart i knew it was not. That picture kept hope alive. If it would take a miracle to see you get back on your feet, that miracle was going to happen.
Only it didn't.
Even now, i refuse to acknowledge it. I was packing up a few things the other day and i found one of the tee shirts we made for the fundraiser. I couldn't bring myself to look at the picture at the front. I folded it and put it away. It has not yet been settled in my heart. I still feel like it is not what it is.
Your mother though, she knows that you are in a better place. She prays for you. Lights candles for you and talks about you with the most beautiful smile. She is certain that you lived such a life that your place beyond was secured. She takes each day, knowing that one day, she will see you, hold your hand, and thank you for fighting what was probably the hardest battle you ever fought.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
Micah
The eyes of a child can tell a story.
Same for the eyes of an adult, but i feel that the adult eye has seen so much that sometimes pain is masked by gratitude and joy comes off simply as pretense.
I believe that the eyes of a child tell no lie.
I saw Micah's picture today...I saw his eyes, i saw his posture, i saw his wide smile and i felt a calm in my stomach.
I have never met Micah. Yes, shame on me, bad manners on my part.
I have no excuse really just acceptance that i have not done what i have planned to do for a while. Forgive me Rach. I am just a procrastinator, with a quick apology.
In this picture
You have big beautiful eyes, i am not certain if that is a dark blue, purple or black but when i squint and look at you, your eyes cover half your face and tell me that you are of a pure heart.
Your smile, oh! The smile of a child, but yours is exceptional. I feel as though it was a laugh and the camera caught the moment
but no, it looks like a wide smile from a mouth that has not yet known teeth. The kind of smile that warms the heart and curls the toes.
I like that your parents gave you good hair, i would never forgive them if they didn't.
You have the cutest posture...look at your chubby little fingers, holding onto your pants. I can feel them around my neck but i can see them around your mothers neck, holding on tight because you know where you're safest.
I am amazed that time has flown this fast and that you can do all the things you do...i wonder what mischief you would be up to in the womb if she had had to carry you eighteen months. Forgive me Rach, i am simply wondering.
I pray Micah that you will grow into all of your names. I pray that you will grow into the man your parents are molding you to be, that you will pick up all their good and teach them all the light heartedness, forgiveness, kindness and boldness that comes with being at the stage you are at now.
I pray that your baby steps to adulthood will be daily lessons and encouragements to a stronger bond for mum and dad. That each time they look at you and the others that will follow you, they will remember just how beautiful a thing they can make together.
I have run out of words Micah, but i shall have more to say when i eventually do see you. I hope you have your mothers kind heart when i meet you and that you will smile at me and let me carry you a while.
Same for the eyes of an adult, but i feel that the adult eye has seen so much that sometimes pain is masked by gratitude and joy comes off simply as pretense.
I believe that the eyes of a child tell no lie.
I saw Micah's picture today...I saw his eyes, i saw his posture, i saw his wide smile and i felt a calm in my stomach.
I have never met Micah. Yes, shame on me, bad manners on my part.
I have no excuse really just acceptance that i have not done what i have planned to do for a while. Forgive me Rach. I am just a procrastinator, with a quick apology.
In this picture
You have big beautiful eyes, i am not certain if that is a dark blue, purple or black but when i squint and look at you, your eyes cover half your face and tell me that you are of a pure heart.
Your smile, oh! The smile of a child, but yours is exceptional. I feel as though it was a laugh and the camera caught the moment
I like that your parents gave you good hair, i would never forgive them if they didn't.
You have the cutest posture...look at your chubby little fingers, holding onto your pants. I can feel them around my neck but i can see them around your mothers neck, holding on tight because you know where you're safest.
I am amazed that time has flown this fast and that you can do all the things you do...i wonder what mischief you would be up to in the womb if she had had to carry you eighteen months. Forgive me Rach, i am simply wondering.
I pray Micah that you will grow into all of your names. I pray that you will grow into the man your parents are molding you to be, that you will pick up all their good and teach them all the light heartedness, forgiveness, kindness and boldness that comes with being at the stage you are at now.
I pray that your baby steps to adulthood will be daily lessons and encouragements to a stronger bond for mum and dad. That each time they look at you and the others that will follow you, they will remember just how beautiful a thing they can make together.
I have run out of words Micah, but i shall have more to say when i eventually do see you. I hope you have your mothers kind heart when i meet you and that you will smile at me and let me carry you a while.
Friday, January 15, 2016
Neighbor, did you see?
I know you can hear me, you, in your little room across.
I know you heard me an hour ago when i started to scream.
I know that you are troubled, mostly by the noise i am making but also by the guilt.
You watched it all i am sure.
Perhaps you covered your eyes at a point where it turned gruesome but i am sure you watched the free show.
I will continue to scream, perhaps somebody else will come.
If they do not, i hope that even as i die, the guilt of what you stood by and watched, stays with you forever.
No, i take that back.
Perhaps you were scared too. Rightfully so.
If you had come out at my first screams, i am certain you would be in the same state as i am now or even worse.
I guess it makes no sense to be angry at you now that i think about it.
You probably were hunched in a little corner in your room shaking and silently praying no one would come to your door.
There is nothing you could have done.
I forgive you.
But help me now, they have been gone many minutes now, surely it is safe enough for you to come out now, even for a few minutes, bring me a blanket, a towel, anything.
Let me not die alone.
I saw a movement last night, right after i screamed and as the man held me pressed again the wall.
I screamed and looked helplessly about and thats when i saw the curtain move.
I screamed louder.
I hoped you would scream too perhaps, or come out.
But now that i think about it, come out and do what? You're just a girl, like me.
The man was really angry.
He asked me to shut up but who keeps quiet when they are going to die?
I screamed louder and he pushed my head, rather hit it against the pale yellow cracked walls of this dinge we call home.
The other man, the one who had grabbed my bag threw a metal right next to me and i saw this man pick it up.
I had heard of them.
These men with the iron bars.
I just never thought they came to places like this where there was clearly nothing to steal.
I guess, if you are out for blood, you are out for blood, it doesn't matter if its clothed in riches or poverty.
I was still screaming when it hit me the first, second, third, fourth time.
They didn't hit my head, i do not know why.
I figure that is what you go for if you want someone dead.
After a while, they left and that was it.
I have no idea what they could have wanted from me, i had nothing.
They didn't rape me. I am a skinny little thing for my 24years. Perhaps even they get to be picky.
I stopped screaming when my body couldn't cope anymore but now i need to make some sort of noise and hope that someone will hear and come help me.
I know you heard me an hour ago when i started to scream.
I know that you are troubled, mostly by the noise i am making but also by the guilt.
You watched it all i am sure.
Perhaps you covered your eyes at a point where it turned gruesome but i am sure you watched the free show.
I will continue to scream, perhaps somebody else will come.
If they do not, i hope that even as i die, the guilt of what you stood by and watched, stays with you forever.
No, i take that back.
Perhaps you were scared too. Rightfully so.
If you had come out at my first screams, i am certain you would be in the same state as i am now or even worse.
I guess it makes no sense to be angry at you now that i think about it.
You probably were hunched in a little corner in your room shaking and silently praying no one would come to your door.
There is nothing you could have done.
I forgive you.
But help me now, they have been gone many minutes now, surely it is safe enough for you to come out now, even for a few minutes, bring me a blanket, a towel, anything.
Let me not die alone.
I saw a movement last night, right after i screamed and as the man held me pressed again the wall.
I screamed and looked helplessly about and thats when i saw the curtain move.
I screamed louder.
I hoped you would scream too perhaps, or come out.
But now that i think about it, come out and do what? You're just a girl, like me.
The man was really angry.
He asked me to shut up but who keeps quiet when they are going to die?
I screamed louder and he pushed my head, rather hit it against the pale yellow cracked walls of this dinge we call home.
The other man, the one who had grabbed my bag threw a metal right next to me and i saw this man pick it up.
I had heard of them.
These men with the iron bars.
I just never thought they came to places like this where there was clearly nothing to steal.
I guess, if you are out for blood, you are out for blood, it doesn't matter if its clothed in riches or poverty.
I was still screaming when it hit me the first, second, third, fourth time.
They didn't hit my head, i do not know why.
I figure that is what you go for if you want someone dead.
After a while, they left and that was it.
I have no idea what they could have wanted from me, i had nothing.
They didn't rape me. I am a skinny little thing for my 24years. Perhaps even they get to be picky.
I stopped screaming when my body couldn't cope anymore but now i need to make some sort of noise and hope that someone will hear and come help me.
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