I wrote this a few months ago because someone I know, a fellow writer, had been kidnapped (for writing!). It came in one made rush, even though I’m very reluctant to write poetry. (I so need that shit right now, lol.) The word is a soft rock rolling across the sky rolling rolling rolling rolls…… Continue reading The Word
When she left she broke me. I remember writing to her, You were my confidence. Now, you’re gone. I’ll never be brave again. And I believed it then. The whole world became bland and absurd, daunting even, and I lost interest in everything. If I’d been brave, I would have tried to end my life; but I was not brave. Most morning, I curled up in bed and wished I didn’t have to face the day.
these words are for you!
These little words…These seeds,
sowed in the soul of me.
You were that farmer; your love was the hoe.
Tirelessly, you worked. Tilling, clearing,
sowing…two years long…
Each night, I stand by the window in my room from where, through your own windows, I can see your kitchen. In the day, it’s mostly dark, but when night falls and the interior lights come on, I can see your sink (or is it your stove?) and the cupboards hanging high up on the wall. And I wait, patiently, to see you. Sometimes a tall slender woman whom I assume is your mom comes in and is busy at the sink/stove, her back turned on me at work, but most times, your kitchen is empty, and I stand wistfully at my window, wishing you’d come in – just please come in.
Religion is based on fear – and feeds off it. Einstein maintained that the idea of a God that protects, punishes, and rewards man arose from the fears of primitive societies. The world was too vast and daunting, and they needed assurance that there was someone watching over them. And for this to work, they needed other people to buy into it. That’s where the ideas of heaven and hell emerged: if the promise of eternal pleasure did not bind people to God, then the fear of eternal suffering would. And this works, a bit too effectively.
I wrote this around two years ago, sitting in a lecture. The teacher was ruggy and old and all together unpleasant to the eye. He was, in that deliciously Nigerian way, an ‘eyesore’, but it was less his appearance that moved me to write this poem as it was the scantness of his knowledge of what he taught. As scant as the greyed stubble on his chin
The sex is mostly fuzzy in my mind now, so I only know what Taiye said about it the next morning: that I took her hand and kissed it, and she didn’t try to stop me; that she tasted the wine in my mouth, but there was something else there too, something sour; that I said her tongue was good on my nipples and good between my thighs too; that I groaned when she put a finger in me and she thought it hurt, but when she looked at my face, she put the second finger in, and the third, and soon I was screaming; that afterwards, I said she’d made me feel real good.