Posts Tagged ‘writing’

I find that my imagination flourishes with the  lemony scent of lemons,

That on rainy days, as the skies open up and pelt the crusty dry earth, my mind wanders,

And on calm starry nights, as my myopic eyes try to make out the different constellations and I pull a solitary act, words turn over in my mind.

At that moment, it doesn’t matter to me where a word goes, or the fate of my imagination,

I am somewhere between reality and oblivion,

That space of  anonymity is where I found you,

Hiding between my lone words, struggling to come out into the agreeable vicinity,

We are the same at that moment, yet terribly different,

It is nothing and nothingness at loggerheads,

The fight to get you out into the open is bumpy and lethal,

Bloodlust for the longest of days,


I like to discover things.

I discover, that, the Big Bang was really noiseless,

That the lemony scent I love so much, would be sweeter than strawberries,

That each time I glimpse a full moon, I always see the same side..

So now, I discover you,

Tall and lone.

Solitary and nuclear.

Venomous smile and lanky frame.

A fine relationship with your feline friends.

My imagination halts for a second…my heart too,

I am stepping off a high cliff uncertain whether the parachute will open or not,

It will be a bad bloody fall or a bloody good fall,

And as the air whooshes around my ears and the watery wind blows into my willow eyes,

I suddenly realize that the Big Bang must’ve been noisy after all,

And you are there to break my fall.

Neatly and timely seconds before I hit the ground.

A bloody good fall it appears.

I feel a happiness so profound that my lingering fear skides away into the green-eyed universe.

I am here now.

You are here now.

There is a promise of more to come,

For you have peopled me.









She can feel the beginnings of a nasty headache, steadily creeping in from the base of her neck, meandering excitedly into her overworked brain-she feels it traipsing it’s arrogant gait around the toughened walls of her skull, completely ready to thump at her unfortunate head over and over until she can’t function anymore. Until her brain refuses to think up plots and similes and expressions and locations.
But- these pages must show. These currently blank pages must fill up right before her tired eyes.
It’s an expected struggle between her brain and her hands.
Like a petulant child throwing a tantrum, her brain is sulking-it’s white matter and it’s veins and nerves and arteries are all struck numb.
“No, we won’t think up more stuff for you, ”
“No, you can’t write tonight, ”
“It’s late you need to sleep. WE need to sleep,
But her hands rebel against her rebellious brain as she stares down at her blank pages.
Scribbling unintelligible words, she can feel the development of a plot.
Tonight, a new love poem will grace the earth,
Tomorrow, if her brain behaves, it might be a short story set in ancient Egypt, she doesn’t know-she can’t rely on her brain,
Sometimes he rebells for months, guffawing stupidly as she sits and stares at her invisible pages,
Sometimes she hears him whispering that it’s not his fault that she can’t write-why is she blaming him, he asks-
She doesn’t have an appropriate answer to his question,
So there she is, impatiently waiting for her brain to come back from his long vacation,
For these pages must show.

She had read from that famous book that her sixth daughter always brought home from school. The bible, was it? It had to be important if someone had gone through the struggle of translating it to her native language. In any case, she’d read about hell and a sulphuric river and fiery fire, and as she stretched her bruised legs in a futile attempt to ease the throbbing pain, she promised herself that the biblical hell would have to freeze over, literally go ice cold and douse all its existing fires before she went back to him.
Him. She would henceforth refer to him as Him.
A narcissist- another word she’d learned from her sixth daughter. Violent-a word her sixth daughter figured every woman in the village knew-and God, did they!
Disrespectful- all men in the village understood and practiced this trait. Him was not an exception.
Me, me, me not you- this selfish tendency, her sixth daughter supposed should be encompassed under the umbrella of narcissistic tendencies.  Abusive too.
And so with that list deeply etched in her mind, she confirmed to her bruised legs that she would only go back if hell froze over.
Sitting on a sisal mat just outside her lone hut, she watched as her seventh daughter jumped over three thin sticks to attempt to go on record for the farthest jumper.  She was rooting for her..nobody would dare support that other rugged child that stood at 3’4 and yet wreaked unfathomable havoc. So yes. She was supporting her child.
Hope, step, jump!”
That was the mantra echoing in the compound as limb after thin limb jumped over the thin sticks.
She feels her mind drifting to her first daughter. She was what the village considered beautiful. Courageous. Hardworking. Virtuous. Any violent man from the village would’ve been lucky to marry her if she wasn’t very dead. She remembers seeing the men, all crowded around a monstrous pot containing a lethal brew that probably wasn’t so lethal drinking from long straws as they watched their wives and children build houses, herd cattle and answer to their everlasting summons. Summons for food mostly. And she remembers, bitterly now, how she’d been the subject of one of those summons.
“Mother of Arika, we have a husband for your first born child,”
She hadn’t been surprised. This was after all, the tradition.
Looking back, she suspects that her only mistake had been to look up into the red eyes of Him Who’d been ingesting the lethal brew too.
“Our daughter is barely 14 years old, what business does she have getting married to an old man?”
Because she was sure an old man was the fate awaiting her 13 year old daughter.
“Woman! You would embarrass me like this in front of my friends? ” Him had been furious. His ego had been injured.  Tough.
In any case, she doesn’t like to remember what had ensued in the next two days. Just to satisfy the curiosity of the reader, she’d had a broken arm-no, two broken arms, a swollen head-and that’s not figuratively, a humiliating experience and a dead daughter.  Accidentally killed by Him. No. She didn’t want to accord Him the dignity of “accidentally” There was no “accidentally” in hitting someone’s head repeatedly against a stone wall.
A fly is eating away at her bruised leg now.  She swats it away just as her third daughter runs home from school. She smiles, preparing herself to listen to her rants about her English teacher. Dear reader, the third daughter loves the English subject just as much as she loves her English teacher.
The rant today is about “The River and the Source,” a book they’re reading in school.
“Mama, that woman in the book reminds me of you. “
“You have to remember that woman’s name at least, ”
“I’ll remember it by tomorrow, “
“Okay, “
“Mama I want to be a chief when I grow up. I want to make sure I punish bad men like father. (Him)”
“Just study hard,”
That’s the trend everyday. She doesn’t make any attempts to make her children have good thoughts about their father, because it would be futile. They have seen it all. The beatings, insults, violence.  All of it.
She laughs silently as she imagines what her fifth daughter would say. “Mama, we ought to forgive. 70 times 70,”
She laughs harder as she imagines what her fourth daughter would say
“Ma, we got no time for forgiveness, or anything else really. Except happiness. “
And she’s laughing even louder at what her sixth daughter would say, “Arrest him!”
She’s tearing up at what her seventh daughter would say.
“Where’s father? We haven’t seen him in ages,”
Her dead first born would have been the most rational. She would probably have suggested to kill him off. “We aren’t door mats Ma.”