Black enough

You ought to have to have seen her

Black body paint dripped from mane down to ankles

styled with a latex jacket and thigh high boots

A cigarette pressed lightly between her lips

You ought to have seen her

Her skin coalesces with the golden shy sun

She metamorphosed into a shade of deadly night

Belladonna like the devil’s berries

Honey coloured eye reflecting jewels

shea butter dripping from endless tamed lush kinks

Authentic she is, a goddess to behold

Belladonna like death cherries

Her footprints spirals in desert sand

Causing confusion wherever she trod

Posing for the cover of blacknvogue

Nubian temptress to the very end

And to think she had to scream her lungs

to break through a forcefield of deafening silence

they said she ought to behave whiter

Seemingly she was black enough

she was stunting on cloud bursting lilac skies

One could build a dam from her tear droplets

she lined a path from where she’d been

was forbidden to tango with ethereal solace

She was a drifting butterfly

perching on a fallen crimson leave

bejewelled by virgo’s decadent virtue

paradise cradled between her bosom.

You’ll remember her by her acerbic glances

the confidence that’s apparent through her melanin glow

they said she was black enough

to which she replied, “I didn’t chose it, I got lucky”

The Road to Torture

She was a young sweet Bavarian virgin who had been moonwalking on clouds for a long time. Wearing unconventional boots that spread across the sky like a butterfly perching on a rainbow. She’d been riding on the waves of unorthodoxy. Certainly unlike others she was.

At first it was just blathering jokes. Slithering tongues and whatnot. Women at the lake, those gossipy analysing lots, addressing one another in satirical tone. “She always staring at me with her buggy eyes”. Another affirmed, “she stares a lot that one she does, you’d think she’s plotting something vengeful”. A little laugh here and joke there before they started on their way back home. But the birds sang to the whispering leaves of a weeping willow in the breasted forest and the wolves that nested beneath its roots chatted with the wild dogs. The dogs relayed to their owners. In a couple of days the town had formed a council.

“I hear she’s a kleptomaniac”. One said

“They say she’s a Parsel mouth”, said another.

Witch. Witch. Burn the Witch!”, they yelled in unison.

Our young sweet Bavarian girl took careful baby step on the gloomy road of torture. To a chamber where the executioner invited her to marvel at the edge of his chilling axe that bore the crest of early Christendom.

She was summoned before the council board and accused of sleeping with a nightmare-demon, among other grievous crimes, to which she confessed none.

The man with a black hood and a heavy axe vowed to be both her enemy and saviour wrapped nicely with a demented bow. She swore she hated him when he chopped off her tongue, but hatred consumed her when he crushes her joint and shove her into a sarcophagus. He said, “Your friend wants you to acknowledge your fate and curse your very soul”.

She screamed day after day and week after week. Even in the times she lost her voice, her breath panted on her behalf. For four months she was subjected to every kind of torture imaginable, including sitting on a spiky witches chair that had been exposed to heat. The young girl was dying , and much to the executioner’s rage, without a confession.

She was melting away. She didn’t look so young anymore, wasn’t so sweet either, more like a tattered condemned wench. The executioner got tired of waiting so he stripped her naked and flogged her so her will would be crushed. Then he made her walk in the market square wearing a bulky confession around her neck.

She walked through the rowdy market, only a faded ensemble of her former self, leaving footprints on the dirt as she headed towards the gallows. Death pecked her supple cheeks like they were destined to be lovers. It was no news that she didn’t belong to the universe dominated of humans.

No one who smiles different, or walks different does. In time, they would be escorted on deaths powerful wings to a place, where it didn’t matter so much to be different.

Mother

They say the walls have ears, little do they know that the walls have mouths too. And they speak to her, they teach her what it means to be aware

She lived with three siblings which was invigorating but she still hid who she was. A girl that heard the walls when they spoke. Then came a day darkness consumed the land. She saw the a shadow take the form of a hat with an arc drawn around a woman’s eye. Birds perched on barbed wires saw it too.

Nobody else did.

They had been looking for mother. She’d gone into the woods to harvest wheat at the bank of the streaming waterfalls. And now as the moon swallowed the sun and grew fuller, darkness ravaged the earth like an Octopus devouring a sardine.

Something was coming their way, and it was neither mother nor was it as charming. Whatever it was, it took the form of a woman and was drenched with the darkness.

The earth created a mouth that beckoned on her to flee. The birds squawked like they were perceiving an erupting volcano. She tugged at her siblings burlaps and yanked their arms. Two of them hearkened to her bargain and they began running home but the eldest chose to dance the tune of a cowardly lion. Somebody had to find mother.

As he approached the thick of the woods, there was silence so deafening, his ears began to bleed. Soon he came face to face with darkness in a woman’s form. He smiled and drew closer, that had to be mother. In a way he was right for it looked like her but her eyes were black like they’d been replaced with iron ore. There he stood entranced by the likeness of his mother as she sucked out his soul into a calabash and filled him full with darkness.

Alas , three kinders running in the woods. The tentacles of darkness close behind them. One of them took a wrong step and twisted her ankle. That moment of weakness was all the darkness needed. It enveloped her without delay and like a breeze she was gone.

The darkness grew stronger with the fullness of the eclipse.

Two kinders arrive in the cottage. They shut the windows and light the lanterns. The illuminating candles will protect us. They huddled at the east corner of the cottage. “protect us”, muttered little girl to crumbling walls. Though crippled by fear and terror, little girl incanted louder. Her voice echoed through the room. However, mother was stronger and needed her family. She grabbed the boy’s ankle and dragged him away.

Before mother could take little girl, the sun is hurled from the moon and returns as the center of attraction. Little girl takes a breath of awareness, rising off the floor of the house that was once saturated with a mother’s love.

Mother retreated deep into the woods where the trees formed a canopy shielding against the sun. she counted the souls of her special children. Each unique and vulnerable in their own way. She thought, Maybe it’s not hogwash when they say, the best thing you could do for your kids is not have them at all.

Little Wanderer

Her mother calls her little wanderer. Her brother says she’ll twist a joint if she swings from one more branch. she’d play dress up and hopscotch.

She loved to twirl most of all. It’ll transport her into Neurkhkryx, where everyone is minuscule, like crystal. All eleven tribes are peace-loving. Poverty doesn’t exist. It is Nirvana.

Chihuahuas are the deadliest creatures, and leopards are homebred.

Her extraterrestrial neighbor, Ayo, who migrated from Azuzu, the ninth planet, would stop by with oatmeal raisin cookies whenever she voyaged here. There is no segregation between ETs and Neurakhites, neither is immigration laws complicated. There is no prejudice.

Amongst them, she is giant. They’d stare in awe then make pictures with her. They’d invite her to their homes to dine and meditate. There is only one God, Yahweh, whom they meditate to and they’d often ask questions about the world she came from, Earth.

She’d always have to leave, this made her forehead wrinkhttps://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/wrinkle/le. Back to the other world and its troubles. Her mother would take her to Dr., and he would say;

“Your child has absence seizures, and perhaps a mild autism. Be wary lest she wanders too far”.

Before the first luminous star fades. She would fold unto her mother’s thighs. A smile painted on her lip.

One day, this world would accept her just like in Neukhkryx, this she was certain. And maybe then she could show them that being different isn’t as scary as it’s played out to be.

The tunnel

 

We thought we could escape our troubles. We thought if we climbed the ladder fast enough, no one would stop us.

 

Across the bed from him, I sat.

“I like you, I really do.”

He blushed, licked his lips and placed a palm on my thigh. I liked that. I shut my eyes and allowed myself to dwell on this simple pleasure. His hands lingered from my thighs up to my waist before grazing my cheeks. I opened my eyes to meet his pearly hazel ones. It was the first time I permitted myself to look so closely into someone’s eyes. It was intriguing to see them dilate. He parted his lips and I listened to the words that fumbled out….

A Volcano erupted in my heart. My being was shaking; like an earthquake, like an explosion went off in my head. My ears could bleed, my voice was gone, My lips were quivering from the horror when he said, “I trust you”.

I jumped up, and for a second or five, I was patting myself as if searching for something. His face grew worrisome and he constantly asked me what was wrong.

“I have to get out of here”

“Where to? this is your house”.

“Nowhere,” I replied, “Just need a walk.”

I sprinted out the room into the night. My legs were moving, one after the next. The people I walked past were staring at me, as if in shock or sheer curiosity. Maybe I have something on my face but I’m acting as normal as I possibly can. My mind is a war zone, the more I try to focus, the more nothing seems to make sense. All I see is a tunnel of darkness that I’ve never been brave enough to walk through to the other side. But now, it beckons me and right there in the park, I could make something out of the rusty air. A tunnel.

“Idara,” I heard a voice call from within the tunnel. It sounded like a child with a thick accent, Western African perhaps, “come”.

“Why” I muttered hesitantly

“Because you will never be able to face your truth if you don’t”.

I heard the fluttering of wings, and seconds later a butterfly was in front of me, so close it could perch on my nose. In a blink of an eye, it’s wings would change from violet polka dot to black with white streaks then to brown and white with blue streaks then again, and again, each time, a unique blend of colors. I was too mesmerized that I almost didn’t notice that now there were two of them, and in a millisecond five, then twelve and they just kept multiplying. They formed a line before me and begun flying into the tunnel. I pushed some air down my lungs, took a step and then another and I was inside the tunnel.

My mind was simmering with thoughts and they were chaotic but with the light from the butterflies illuminating my path, I felt less anxious. I noticed the walls had phrases and sentences inscribed on it and there was a sense of familiarity I had when I read them, I remember them because I lived them.

At the tunnel entrance, I read:   “you were always there for me.’ I recall smiling when I wrote that. I recall feeling lonely afterward.

“when I count my friends, I count 1 person 10 times”.  I know who that was for, it came from a sincere place.

the next one read; “you’re the bitchiest bitch out there, but you’re also the only person that piggybacks me home when I’m drunk”. Actually now I just think she’s a bitch.

The farther I got into the tunnel, the more cynical the phrases were. “This may probably be the last time you see me, I’m not going anywhere but I can’t promise I won’t wander off.”

The other read: “I can’t stand the pain, it makes me cry. I want people to care, I want things to work out”.

At this point, I noticed that the butterflies were reducing, disappearing. I was feeling unsure again, anxious. In an attempt to forge on, I staggered through the never-ending corridor with my resilient companions.

The next I saw went thus; “it’s not in my nature to express myself so wouldn’t it be weird, stupid to people if I started expressing myself? wouldn’t it seem like I was impersonating someone I’m not?” 

I sidled on like a lummox drunk in a grave-yard, I refused to look at the walls any further. I tried focusing on making it to the end, but my mind wouldn’t stop buzzing and I kept on wishing I was out of there, I’ve never been more restless.

My gaze settled on one final inscription on the wall and I couldn’t help but read it through; “so once again I was alone staring at the walls as it were empty like my soul.”

I stopped. Thrusting my back against the wall, I read the phrase again as I slowly sank to the ground. The lights fluttered around me urging me to rise to my feet. I couldn’t move, I’d lost all my strength.

“I was alone…the walls…empty like my soul, alone…walls..empty, empty….

The butterflies wouldn’t stop but I ignored them whilst they continued to vanish.

“Get up,” the voice was back. “Come Idara”

“I can’t,” I yelled, my voice resounded through the walls. I watched the butterflies fade until the last resilient wings were flapping right before my nose. Its light began to flicker and went dim until it was gone. Everything went silent and cold. No insects. No buzzing. No light. Just me alone in the dark tunnel.

“I can’t,” I whispered. “I can’t”