Presence

Breath in. 5…4…3…2…one I saw a nix sitting on a branch of a fig tree, dipping her toes into the stream of water below her. creating ripples that waned and faded. She looked sad on this beautiful Armenian night, perhaps it was the shadow she carried that whispered chaos in her mind.

Breath out. 1…2..3.4 five, every living creature has a mind, and is therefore equally important. The Owl on the spitz of the old fig was not more relevant than the Nix, and my life is worth the same as hers. I wondered if she could have been sad because the presence of the moon on this night was divine and she wished she could bottle up the milky way and the falling stars, or she wasn’t mindful enough to realise she was more than the feelings she allowed to overwhelm her thoughts;

the state if mind where she wanted the night to schatter into broken shards, prick her skin so she could feel her life force… or anything really. swallow her whole and drop her off the face of the earth.

She couldn’t speak stillness to the old fig, or reach out to touch the elusive moon. The lines between her reality and her reflection were blurred by a spurring internal conflict that could be solved by a drop of presence.

On this beautiful Armenian night I crouched next to her and told her to live in the moment, exactly how it was, listening to her heart beat, not wanting more or expecting less. Every day nature weaves a balance of subtle miracles before our ever dreaming eyes. If we’re lucky, our hearts can capture every butterfly smile our irises have yet to see.

Earth’s art

It is impossible to read a book

whose pages have never been opened

some of mine has got sands between the pages

and shaggy dogged ears

because I scribbled words I couldn’t speak

and watered-down thoughts I couldn’t share

The song of my dreams is but a cacophony,

a mixture of voices that drowns purpose

sometimes a ghost serenades me with karaoke

other times I’m enchanted by a siren’s hymn.

I scribbled dried blood on my sleeves

you’ll need a kaleidoscope to view my art

It is elusive even in umbra lighting

But it is enough the way it is

because I was made in Earth’s treasure chest

where no two narratives are the same

The Garden

It’s the beginning of yet another week, I know

I know the dark calls to you sometimes

I know you walk down roads you know you shouldn’t

I know you observe your reflection through a jumble of shards

I know you’re worn out, tired of reliving patterns of painful choices

I sense you feel hollow at times

like life is teasing you, dancing in front of you,

but escaping you somehow

i know you live in the disconnect between where you are

and what’s happening outside of you

i know how much it hurts to live there, in the divide

between what you feel you are, and what you wish you could be

The sun has kissed your skin and you have inhaled it with complete trust

and you sometimes move without knowing what’s next

at times it feels paralysing to live with yourself.

I know you’ve worked so hard to control the outcome of your life

that you forget to meet yourself in the quiet and breath yourself full again

that you live in the shallow end and you forget to go deep,

breath deep ujjayi

you forget there is wealth of abundance and trust in you

i know there are places in yourself that you do not love

the parts you wrestle away

you visit them them from time to time, hoping they’re not there

i know you long to live in bliss

and when you arrive there you are so alive as if everything around you

is telling you yes, you’re home.

but i know shadows come while you’re asleep

and drag you down the familiar landscape of fear

I know you wonder if the light will ever return

because you’re tired of this upbeat dance between the two worlds.

you’re learning to taste heaven, grown wings

you’re accepting the difference

between sun soaked mornings and dark forests

you are human my dear and are allowed to be in both places

you are not damaged

you are not failing

you are allowed to be lost in dark rivers

be gentle when doubt comes, when fear chokes

when darkness debilitates you

spend special care to cultivate the garden of love when you come across these dark corridors.

know that you are offered the chance to tend your garden

the dark offers you a chance to love all the places you’d never dare

all the places you curse

where we deprive ourselves of love is where we need it most

when the dark comes , tell it what it what it wants so badly to hear,

You are loved.

The Giant

I’m sitting on a balcony, separated from a motor way by a field of corn. Long enough that the swaash of Autos sound like binaural beats in my ears. Today is one when the sun is extra shy, so she’s hidden behind the clouds. The howling wind is substantive proof that a storm is brewing in the distance.

I do not fear the trickle of rain or the cold that has trapped my waning breath. Through the gaps between the trees, I’m stifled by a horrific giant. He is twice the height of an oak with skin so pale, it’s almost cyanotic. The veins on his forehead are visible, like a helmet made from the thickest part of a black widow’s web.

His eyes are buggy and bulgy, and they’re resting heavily on me.

I’ve never felt so weak like I do now, felt the need to plead for a chance of redemption. My breath is faint. My voice wont give up more than a fragile moan. My heart is beating slower by the day as the giant draws nearer.

I can’t keep on living this way. I am barely surviving. Something has to change, and fast. I wish I could snap my fingers and sentence this giant to the edge of the earth. His brawny body struggling to balance against the weigh of gravity, so that he is suspended in astral Limbo

What delight that would be. I’d dance again with rekindled passion. My lungs would be inspired to sing an old song in a new tune. And I’d walk out of the battle camp holding his decapitated head as a laurel.

I would like that very much I would. Even the thought of it warms my heart and causes my lips to curve upward.

Yet he draws closer everyday to me.

I do have another theory, one that terrifies me more. I do not know from where my giant came, perhaps he was formed between crevices in a mountainous region. But what if, he is harmless. Perhaps his hideous features are just for me to welcome and accept. And his mission is to help me align perspectives. It wouldn’t do much good to treat him like an unapproachable vermin.

He may well be an ally. I couldn’t know.

It’s the more reason to surrender, rather than dig a moat and build a buttress. I want to believe that the clouds are tired of absorbing the precipitation and will consequently release the blizzard that propagates the giant’s footstep to me.

The worse he could do would be to obscure my stance, challenging me to find refined vision in a paler shade of umbra. Maybe then he would vanish, taking with him the manacles weighing on my limbs and leaving behind an aura, that strips every façade and laces my tongue with a dose of truth.

image courtesy: Pixabay.com

Remember to make yourself whole

“Remember to make yourself whole again”,

That voice so dauntingly vivid says

Remember the trees that cast a shadow on you while you were wounded

Remember the spring that brought fresh water to your heels

Remember the face in the sky that day that looked like a beguiled doe

The Icicles that clung to the roof of a shack that was bastioned by the forest

Everything is just how you remember

It is as clear as a mirror in your mind

But it is in the other side of the mirror that you live

A upside down dimension that is tipping over

This is the reality where everything has changed

Where the sun peaks at midnight and sets at daybreak

Where ashes and splinters are the remains of the tree

The bones in the river lie waste at midday

The faces in the sky, how orgulous they’ve becomee

now that a forest fire has ravaged the botanical lush

Therefore you do not recognise your safe place

the twinkle in your eyes are one of oblivion

You cannot hear the wildlifes jolly prance

You cannot sense sand fall to the bottom of the hour glass

and your body withers along with the surrounding

“Remember to make yourself whole again”,

it’s merely a fleeting whisper now

but on the other side of the mirror there is nothing

No life

No trees

No shack

by now perhaps you’ve started to realise,

that you do not exist too.

The Hour Peace Vanished

It is already six O’clock. The river flows along the winding path like a slithering serpent guarded on either sides by twin mountains. It’s ebbing waves splashes against rocks like a mathyr throwing himself at the mercy of his convictors. It then flows through the crevices and penetrates the ground layer of the earth. This is where the stillness of peace lies, this is where our source of vitality vacates.

The is the beginning of the journey to the ever flowing spring of life but it is also the end.

Buried under the ground layer are sediments of red clay clumped together in scrambled forms, yet fossils of decayed hope are just a layer below. That hope represented you and I, before we melted together into thick goo and formed a viscous path like magma scourging through naturally existing elements.

1…2…3…4….5…6. Did I say 6? it will be six more before the church-bell announces a minute past 6.

And how could we forget the volcano that cleared a thick forest so that it could conquer every breathing critter. It threatens to heave it’s rage and stir up an imbalanced velocity — a rotary malefic wave-form floating adrift. Nevertheless, the wind kissed its knots and soothed its ego, but a day came where she could pretend no more.

Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. The church-bell went off like peace was shredded in a time machine, traipsing in rebellion to uncertain extinction.

The volcano bellowed and shot magma as if to challenge the wind and curse the ground. She set the forest ablaze for she envied her raw thickness and beauty. She rained larva like dainty soft snow flakes free falling on the Alpine.

Who has the power to redeem balance? to rat out the volcano on the full moon for it’s incandesce nostalgic traps. Alas when the charade is over, the entropy of the Volcanic magma settles into an unorganised pile of pebbles, Glistening at the bottom of the sea like the snake’s eggs. they’ve become the fixed currency of our disrupted peace.

Five…Six. Everything is still again like a defiant witch that is condemned to the stakes to be disassembled into ashes and dispersed into the winding river. Gone like they never were.

The Black hair Fiasco

“Every Hair-day  is wahala

 

I was twisting up my hair the other day.  It was the end of a wash day routine, and I randomly asked my boyfriend to help. He says yes much to my surprise meaning I’d actually have to trust him with my hair. I gulped, sectioned a portion of my hair for him.

This got me reminiscing about the time we met, I had the faux locs then.  He was in love with my hair. Months later, I decided to cut my hair as it lacked lustre. I was anxious and self aware, I didn’t know how he would react. But I trusted him. Three years later, I find myself still trusting him.

I’ve also learnt quite a bit about what Europeans think about African hair;

 

“Braids combined with dark skin  are a unique combination”

 

  1.  They think it’s exotic: Braids combined with dark skin  are a unique combination for the average eastern European, it’s not uncommon to get stares in public spaces, especially from the older generation. This reminds of the time, we went to a friend’s wedding, we visited the bride’s family home as well, and I introduced myself to their grandma. The look on her face was that of disbelief , it was meme worthy.
  2.  They think it’s natural: My boyfriend also thought the faux locs was my hair hair. But after some time together, he knew the difference between hair styles. I often get a lot of questions and requests to touch. I assume I’m not the only one.
  3. They find the natural hair rather comedic:  My german teacher confided in me once that the afro was sometime in the past known as, microphone head.  I died from laughter, apparently the phrase is still used, just not as popular as before. We also went through a phase when my hair was short, where my boyfriend’ll pat it and say, “sheep”, lol, in the sweetest way possible.
  4.  hair style change means new person:  I had reintroduced myself a few times to teachers and colleagues simply because I took out a previous hair style and rocked something entirely different. This is the stressful bit, and then the questions roll in which  exasperated  me further.

Three years  since going natural, and two big chops later, I have to  say it’s been an exercising journey. There has been up ups, down downs, and safety breeches, but I’ve loved and nourished my hair (and self) through it all.

If you’re wondering why I dedicated a whole post to talking about hair, it’s just because I think that black women, and our rights as a whole have come a long way, from doing everything necessary to have our hair look like our caucasian counterpart, and consequently destroying it in the process, to just letting ourself be loved as we naturally are. I don’t know who started the natural hair movement but I’ll use this opportunity to say thank you.

Now, let us flourish!

 

 

Oracle

 

Oracle

 

Perhaps it’s is glaringly obvious that I’m a tad fascinated with the occult.This time I decided to focus on  communities like the illuminati in an aboriginal perspective with a short story of an oracle.  This takes place in the Urban tribe of Asaba in Nigeria.

Share your lovely thoughts, how do you think it should play out, Should my protagonist  accept her fate or confront it?.

Cheers to the long weekend!

 


 

 

“Be keen on your decision” said the hag to Chioma, “there’s no turning back from this”.

 

Chioma’s mind was in pieces, she couldn’t stop wondering  how she got into this predicament. She was hoping that the hag was only trolling her.

 

Ha! that’s it. In a few minutes a camera crew is going to burst through the tent and her, and this fake-ass oracle woman will have a jolly laugh

 

Eyes ever so intently fixed on the entrance.

 

“Chil—,” The hag snapped her fingers in an attempt to get the girl’s attention.

“Where’s the camera?,” Chioma was frustrated. “Is it in that deplorable head wrap of yours? II mean, what is your game here?”

“THIS IS NOT A GAME!,” the hag spat. ” I’m offering you a resolution.

“This is hardly a solution,” Chioma spoke in a fear-gripped tone, realising that there is all too real. “Taking one part of my life to replace another is not fair”

“The spirits are never fair, silly girl, You must accept your fate with dignity. Only one man has dared to challenge the oracle and lived to tell.”

 

As Chioma sat there deep in thoughts, she began to reminisce of what a beautiful life she was having until this moment. She started her week in such high spirits,  Entertaining others have always been a dream of hers. She was determined to challenge pending adversary.

It was while she was on her way to her betrothed’s, that she saw the tent. She had shrugged it off and continued her trip when she stumbled across the witch who said to her;

“Do you believe I can make your heart desire come to pass?”

 

She had followed the hag back to the tent and attempted to pay her for a prediction.

 

The woman spat; “Your coins are worth nothing to the spirit. This is no  prediction child. What you surely ask, the oracle will generously deliver…. but be forewarned for the price is heavy. Do you accept?”

 

Chioma nodded.

 

“Ayeye ayayah keke nyin.
Ayeyeyeyah ndibe nzu kwa ti mutele.
Ndi ndo udo udi keke nyin kwa mutele.
Nzu mkpe amadu ndibe kwa ti mutele.”

The hag continued to recite the incantation and then proceeded to mark Chioma’s temple with a coal talisman.

 

“The spirit invite you to say your wish”

“I want to be the greatest performer of all time”.

 

The hag whistled for damn near 30 minutes.

 

“What you wish for  is done, in return, your first child will the son of the oracle.”

Chioma argued, “I’ve given myself, isn’t it enough?”

“You are merely  the down payment. Give up your first child, this is the deal the oracle is willing to make.”

“Never!”

“Then you may choose success or  save your child”.

” Or what?” she frowned

“You will lose your life in a fortnight,” cautioned the witch.


Early the next morning, Chioma hung a satchel over her shoulder and set out.

Before midday, she was going to cross the first  of many rivers.

The woman wasn’t clever telling her that the oracle had been defeated. She must  convince this warrior to do it all again, or become a victim of circumstance.Whether she liked it or not, her purpose has been changed forever.

 

 

 

Different

Must we let society dictate our fate?

Must we allow our tumultuous mind gain control?

What seed could sprout approval from your heart?

what is it you’re afraid to  give up, or the world may take away?

It all begins with one person. One mind. One entity

Yes it begins with  who you believe you are

Time and again we draw ourselves towards the fear of unconformity

When we were truly born to stand out

If only I’d know it all along

I threw away my beliefs so no one would think I was conceited

I could be ostracised, as a freak of nature

But I was never meant to be her

and she was never meant to walk like me

and we were never meant to think alike.

We are divergent and that works better

so what is it you believe in?

shout it from a rooftop today.

 

The Pre-extinction of Mankind

It is the year 3005. Approximately a century of a light year,  man is on the verge of extinction. The ozone is depleting, unfiltered rays shone through. Each Human  had a 100% chance of getting cancer if they were exposed to the atmosphere.

Augusta sat at her grandma’s heel, they’d just had lunch. The grub is meager now-a-days, all food, even confectionery  truck  foods had GMO traces in them which is gastronomically toxic. At the time of discovery, less than 3% crops were organic and while the world steadily ate their way to the grave, Australia  proved resilient to the natural selection of humanity.

Augusta loved stories, her favourite were about the life before the extinction era,  she was curious about civilization and the millennials. She’d revere in the stories like she lived then as she’d never known smart phones or social media and today was no exception. Luckily grandma Alex is the best story teller alive, literally, as there were only 300 humans alive.

Grandmother Alex enigmatic eyes loomed into the distance. She knew the story her grand daughter would request far too well. She relived it as many times as she reiterated it. She heaved heavily as if it’ll hurt to utter a word. She started;

“I come from a time of great triviality. We could have done better because we knew better. It was the year 2017 and mankind was at the peak of evolution. The world had 3 trillion occupants with oodling birth rates and a recline in  mortality.

I was a young student at the time, my ultimate goal, to become a neurology specialist. I was insouciant to the world around me,  It was the only way to stay sane… little did I know what life had in store for us. The migration rate was explosive, with the ongoing war in the Middle East, and economic stand of third world countries, everyone wanted a better life elsewhere than home, including myself, albeit this was the beginning of the end.

A neo-viral disease surfaced,  The terminal ailment was traced back to a CNC mechanic in Cardiff. I was the resident physician on call that day.  He presented symptoms of a complicated flu, 11 days later, the young man made a complete recovery, or so we thought. Later that evening, he suffers from status epilepticus and died within seconds. A culture of his blood sent to the lab suggested that the infection was a recombinant cluster of Ebola and Dengue virus. Attempts to identify it’s diverse symptomatology failed and sure enough, the disease spread fast.

Vietnamese migrants were the first to be associated with the disease.  East-Asia crumbled under the blow of an epidemic, the economic instability worsened it.  Attempts by the world leaders to aid Asia proved futile. Europe and USA went on the defence, abandoning Asia, watching under quarantined roofs as one subcontinent vanished. There was an uprising by world activists; liberals protesting the governments, and thus began the third world war.

Lives were destroyed. Dreams shattered, and families  separated.  Meanwhile Russian biologists worked secretly on a trial antidote for the pandemic, it was solely in the interest of the government. Nonetheless, the grim reaper spared them not.

By 2020,  the rate of inborn errors of metabolism had drastically tripled, and the world population was halved yet again. This was indirectly linked to GMO in food produce.

All these while, Australia went A-wall. That seemed to have a source of hope. Unbelievably, it worked. Almost no one migrated there. In that period, Australia was simply forgotten. The underdogs survived the greatest tribulations of Mother nature.

You, my dearest Augusta, are the descendants of the fittest survivors, grandma concluded.

Although Augusta loved that story, she knew it was a far greater burden for Grandma Alex. She made a solemn promise to herself that she’d never make her millennium old relative relive the worst era of her life.

An so it was, because as nightfall came and they rested their eyes, so they could fight tomorrow. Grandma suffered a stroke.

Today is  29. 2. 3005, General population of the world, 299 survivors left.

 


I wrote this story a while back but held back from publishing it. I guess now’s as good a time as ever. I hope it makes sense to you and you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Don’t forget to let love shine through your words, and deeds.

Bless your beautiful hearts. Au revoir.