FLOOD LIGHTS ON THE HERO (Miracles from dust part 1)

She is a wreak . . .

she cries tears of blood and her sweat is liquid metal. . .it swirls silver. . . bright and grey.

At least there is blood . . . life blood. . . that sometimes glistens, resting on the swell of her cheeks . . . she is alive then. . . they think. . . she still lives. . . there is use for her yet. . .

She is a wreak. . .

They task her to use just a little more of her life. . . lie for us just this one last time, . . .again. . . yes sell us another piece of your integrity we will make it worth your while. . . she hives off another piece of herself. . . the brutal act leaving a violent angry spill of her life blood. . . she watches it gush out of her body. . . the life blood, she is dizzy so she sits and waits as the gush slowly becomes a trickle which then starts to coagulate into a more viscous drudge, she passes out. . . when she comes to, she looks down at the angry red site . . .

she is a wreak

the crave has taken over her life, she cannot think of anything other than the high. It haunts her day and night . . . steals her life and has a firm lid on her will, she is no longer living on the earth we see, she walks on it, but does not dwell in it. . . what they see walking looks other worldly to her, her body is something familiar yet not quite her, something that looks like them but does not quite behave like them, sometimes it represents a relic of a life she no longer even remembers. . . when she was a child and her body listened to her mind with more obedience. . .when she roamed freely, laughing and playing in the bliss of total innocence. . .way way before they made her aware that she was different. . . odd. . . weird. . . long loong looong before they called her . . .a retard. . . she feels . . .a wreak.

The discrepancy in her mind is confusing. . . exhausting. . . loud. She is struggling to walk like everyone else but her mind wants her to follow a different path, a zigzag to the straight, black to color, color to black. She is sensitive to everything, excessive light gives her a headache makes her irritable, any little touch on her skin feels like an insect crawling on her skin. . . yet not all touch is unpleasant. . . when the one she loves touches her, it relieves her anxiety. . . for some seconds. Neurologically . . . the abuse just made it worse. . . she longs for connection, company, community. . .love. . . but does not know how to initiate closeness. She is awkward in crowds. . .and muffs! the anxiety when she has a crush. . . it’s a complex feeling of being removed from him intertwined with a clumsy forwardness. . . to the kind, it can be endearing . . . but it never stops being awkward and odd.

When it gets dark. . . when her feelings are confused and her mind noisy, all she wants . . . all she craves is her safe place. . . she cannot find it. . .

She is living for the crave, in a constant state of denial and self pity. . . she wallows in her shame, it is in every inch intertwined with her identity. . . it’s a free fall. . . she has embraced the fall, the sinking. . . she is no longer fighting to stay afloat. . . she feels guilty for not fighting. . .she should fight. . . but for who? herself?. . . she lost hope for herself. . . or herself lost hope in her. . . it does not matter though. . .it does not. . .for she. . . is a wreak,

Image from a Pinterest account

She titers on the edge of morality, what is truth?. . . was truth the searing pain she feels? pain she is never sure is a consequence of her actions. . . her choices, or is the pain inflicted by others who are malicious and also in pain. . .even if she were to answer those questions. . .she is not sure of the resultant action. . .

She does not feel strong enough for vengeance and part of her feels shame for neglecting the fight. . . the anger . . . why does she never feel angry at them, why? why? Does she fail herself when she does not feel anger? Is this why she is unable to stop the flow of that river of pain . . .Is her lack of reaction and action an excuse for the monsters to continue bleeding her.

. . .Do they not care. . . that she feels ever closer to the gates of death. . . she is comforted by the other world, the next life. . . maybe she will be in the majority there. . . she will have similar minded companions . . . they will do the zigzag dance, laugh with colors, live in autonomy, each a master of thine own. The sun will not set and fear will stop lurking in all corners

Until then, what she feels is a constant push towards what she has learnt away from the pull of what she feels. She mimics what the others do. . . for now. . . I think her facial expressions tend to be either excessive or comical but definitely. . .fairly unnatural enough to raise an un ease in her audience.

What she needs is a miracle from the dust, a fire in ice, a resurrection from the ashes. . . for a flood light to be shone into the hero inside. For in this moment all she sees is that. . .

she is a wreak.

Belief is like a spark, tiny, unseen, fragile, with every possibility of burning out, yet, belief is still belief . . .so she begins rolling up her stone of belief up and up it goes. . .she slowly begins cover ground, inch by inch. . .

She is trembling from the effort, her legs are like mash, shaking so hard her only job becomes shifting her body weight against the rock, willing her legs not to buckle under the pressure. . . it starts to lighten, the load. . .the walls start to come down one after the other. . . a tiny light appears at the end of her tunnel. . .

At the end of the tunnel . . . is love. . . shinning a light so bright, the tunnel trembles. . . relief cools the sweat trickling down her brow, as the load lightens, she turns to look up, there she finds the sweet, warm smile of Love. . . the Hero inside is awakening. . . called out to dominate in courage by the power of Love. . .

. . . she smiles back, tentatively . . .tilting her head to the side. . . observing him. . .deciding whether to love or hide. . .she slowly stretches her hand towards the light . . .her smile crooked . . .Love receives her smile, and responds with a bright, enduring, all encompassing one. . . hope bubbles. . .

I wrote this piece in an attempt to shine a light on Autism and the silent abuse people with it go through. I try to reach into the emotions of an autistic girl in this piece and her ignorant sometimes cruel tormentors. Who are themselves victims of their own lack of imagination. I normally leave the pieces to speak for themselves but whilst trying to write this one I got lost, . . .unsure of the story I wanted to weave but sure of my intention and goal. . . I really don’t want my beloved reader to get tangled along with me by the vines of confusion 🙂 I really hope only the vines of understanding tangle you.

Autistic individuals are difficult to understand, because they go through the same spectrum of feelings Neurotypicals go through, but they process the feelings differently, they feel love, pain and joy just as deeply as everyone else, at times even more acutely . . . difference being that because they process them differently the resultant expression of the same may be inconsistent. . .when we find these divergent expressions and displays weird, we hurt and confuse them, making them either clam up and fold into themselves or become anxious to be ‘normal’ . They are lovely. . . we are lovely . . . we all have ownership and authenticity, we all belong. Lets choose love and empathy. . .in another life we may be the minority. . . in need for the extension of understanding and empathy towards us.

Differences are mostly received with difficulty by society, not necessarily always because of hate . . . society has taught us to stick to what we understand and sometimes it is all we know so we cling to it. By the grace of God the tide is changing, more and more of us are becoming curious about what is different and understanding that diversity be it of skin color, be it in physical features or in mind and personality differences . . .all these differences are beautiful, they make our world whole and we ought to celebrate and normalize them.

As always, with love;



Rose colored glasses (Love from memory-part 3)

I love how you always level the playing field,

how open your mind is, even when you are in pain.

I love the little wickedness that you parade, and the wealth of good that you hide,

Illustration downloaded from a Pinterest account

I love how your humility and sense of Justice is not loud, but instinctively bubbles from inside. . .

I love you for your sense of purpose, how much moving forward means to you, I love to see you win, and hate how loss robs you of joy, and hurts your heart. . .your precious heart. . .

I love how you always rise and move forward, I love watching you, almost fear getting too close to you, fearing I might rob you of what makes you you . . .

I love how I am sure you can interpret all the nuance in my words, my gestures, my actions.

I love how my contrariness never fazes you, you remain un disconcerted.

Did I tell you? How when you are happy I can spend all day listening to you. . .

Annamarike Teijema

Did I tell you that your presence dispels all the ghosts, all the fear, any anxiety, you walk in with strength, and I am left better for it.

Did I also tell you that I still love you even when bitterness invades you, soaks every inch of you, destabilizes your belief system, and hurts you to your core. . . I genuinely believe that you can rise above all this, that if you choose to, you will win.

Art by, Navena Kostic @, downloaded from a Pinterest Account

I know you can win, I know you will win . . . don’t ask how I know. . . I do not know how I know, I just do. . . or maybe I believe. . . yes I believe you will win.

image downloaded from a Pinterest account

Chivalry can’t be dead!! 🤩🦸🏾

as always 💞 hope


The lies I tell

No I’m not ok. . .
No I’m not well. . .
No I do not have my shit together. . .
No I’m not perfect. . .
Yes I’m insecure. . .YET
I’m stronger than I look
. . .
Half the time I’m done. . .

I’m obsessed with straight hair. . .
I don’t know what to do with my curly hair. . .
I secretly want to run away . . . All the time. . .

I have secrets. . .
I’ve held on to some so long I no longer remember when they became secrets. . .
I forget them sometimes, but like a joint flair up when the weather is cold memories have triggers too.
I want to fly. . .
I want to run. . . Run. . .run. . . all the time. . . YET. . .

I’m stronger than I look. . .?

from who you ask. . . ? from whom do you run. . .

From myself, from choices that feel right but seem wrong, from multiple realities that make more sense to others than to me, that primal internal battle between breeding and instinct.

from the pressures of being “me” . . . yes me. . . ,

not the me I believe I am, not the me that makes me feel at rest. . . no not her,

rather the me that is preached and hammered in by a discombobulated society.
A society riddled with selfishness and the need to control, an insecure society that is afraid to embrace itself. . . tells me that I am less than, . . . that I am not enough as I am. . . I can do better, I can do more, and while at it remember to smile less Sungura, you give people the wrong idea.. . . you are too serious Sungura, let loose alittle . . . you are cheap Sungura. . . Ongeza body count Sungura. . . Bado hujaomoka Sungura?. . .you are too sensitive Sungura. . . You are too full of yourself. . . you should wear this not that. . . ‘well meaning’ passive aggressive advise from the insecure, . . . be this, be that. They will love you more then, they will accept you then. . .

I am left wondering who are they. . . ? they is my society. . . my society is me, . . . , in my struggle to fit in, I become society, I am the passive aggressive shame-er, the discontent, frustrated adult,. . . the insecure chauvinist. . .the toxic human . . . when I don’t sieve what I let in. . . when I do not self regulate. . . when ‘society’ masters me. . .I became society. I chime in when society is propagating its rhetoric. So who is society? society is me. . . the words I tell myself, the insecurities I do not let go off. . . yes society is me.

So maybe I have mercy on myself and. . . the lenses of society start to change.

Maybe I do ‘society’ a favor, and repair my internal clock. . .



You sleep in arms. . .the embodiment of peace, beautiful, soft. . .my tiny miracle. I believe in you, I see hope and life in your eyes, a beginning. . . soft, warm, puffs of your sweet breath caress my cheek. . . my little star, my little champion. In my eyes, you have already won. . .

Aurelia, downloaded from google, ‘without prejudice’

My Heavenly Father, my son, is also your son, protect him, look after him,

watch over him, neither slumbering nor sleeping.

Appear on his path, a lamp an to his feet, and a visor over his head, crown his head with good things, so that his pantry is filled overflowing, enough for his hands and overflowing to others. . .

image downloaded from a pinterest account

Surround him with an impenetrable shield. May his step be confident, his smile enriching and full. His countenance kind and sure, his nature radiant, firm and full of empathy. . .

Lastly my Father, may his judgement endure in fairness and justice.

. . . from my heart to your ears. . .


( A dedication to the mother in waiting, Kate, current mothers Mercy, Faith and Mummy. . . and lastly but preciously to the future. . .my little future munchkin, should you be a biological child, or a child of my heart. Peace and love to you all, may the radiant, protective rays of hope cling to you as you all walk down your paths in this life.)


Shades of grey

He turned his eyes to look at the ground, his eyes still bright inside their wrinkled hood, lately the need to squint to see better is stronger. . .the world seems to be loosing its shape, everything looks blurred from a distance, . . . he almost squeezes his eyes shut. . . trying to see.

he wears his heart on his sleeves these days, that stony wall of a hidden gaze has fallen. . . they know. . . when he is hungry, irritable, tired. . . in fear. . . that’s the other thing, fear. . .it lurks everywhere. . . with the vendors selling him his fruit. . . especially on the days he needs change. What is to be given back to him after he pays doesn’t come quite as fast, and he never trusts what he is given back, yet stigma, that malignant pride and shame always have him waiting to count his change at home, behind the surface protection of a closed door. . . yet, even then, seeing himself spread out the coins and notes, then begin counting one after the next, makes sweat break out from his bald head, it trickles down his brow. . .irritating him, . . . even in private, the heat of shame burns. He counts, aha! a triumphant shout, he was given the right amount.

In the beginning he responded to his failing body in anger. . .The vendors were stealing his change, he would show them!. . . soon. . ., when his limbs stopped aching as they did, he will throw a punch, especially at Mzizi that crook! then it was the maid, a young woman who helped him clean his house and prepared his meals for him. Whom he was certain pinched his precious groceries, he never tells her, but he is always quietly seething in anger, full of resentment. The maid senses this quiet hostility. . . in the beginning it threw her off, destabilized her. . . yes she was a woman of humble means, but she had never needed to steal from the old man, even with his intense vile moods, she feels some degree of pity for him, the old man. . . left by his children to fend for himself. . .even pity has its limits though, she soon lost the battle to his paranoia, she now works silently, rejoices when she finishes up her day. . . she would leave. . .she really would, but she contends with poverty over the toxic man for her monthly pay, and knows her choice. . .

Some did steal from him. . . but most do not. . . fear spiraled into paranoia. . . as the years continue to bite at him he starts to get used to the fear, he just locks himself in his house now, no longer bothering to leave. . . no more has he, the energy to harness for resentment,. . . just outward calm and inner turmoil.

Age has not been his friend. He likes to wear his old ragged brown jacket. . . more for memory and vanity, than utility. . . in the jacket he is once more the revered captain, respected and feared by all, virile, youthful, dripping with charm. . .even within this mental cover however, on those rare days he chooses to step out of his house, he still hears whispers of pity ‘the old man has lost his mind’ . . .they say, judging his worn out clothes.

He realizes though that sometimes it’s his own mind voicing his insecurities loud enough to swallow the voices swarming outside of him, be they negative or positive . . . he also hears the clicks of impatience from younger men as he walks, imagined and real. . . they sometimes anger him, `how dare they! the disrespect! and other times fill him with envy and self pity, he curses them to age faster than usual under his breath, he leaves out the most terrible curses for the extremely arrogant young ones.

Every day is contention with a world that is now too changed and big. . . made to feel ever the more daunting by the fact that it lacks the foreignness’ and newness it would have were he to be a baby. . . at least then, the gift of wonder and the promise of life to come tides over any brooding or chronic pessimism . . .he hates every minute of this new fear. . . it is a world that he had already conquered. . . yet it now scoffs on his achievements and his body fails him. . . this sustained decline bears down on him daily, creating the perfect vacuum for fear and paranoia. . . he holds on to everything he once had . . . yet those things he once held so dearly, have also betrayed him, the property is in ruins, old, neglected. . . as neglected as the children that he left. . .he occasionally hears from the children, but as with all poorly maintained investments, the visits or calls are brief, lifeless and cold infused with hypocrisy on both ends . . .

`the children are no longer angry with me` he thinks. . . a thought that quickly makes him melancholy, as what he would now not give for those angry, impassioned accusations that so irritated him when he was younger. . .’the children are tired. . .’ he shakes his head, muttering his regret under his breath.

Part of his precious property is now an unfaithful mistress, lacking the luster it once held, after all the years and energy he poured into amassing his things. . . everything his eyes lay on mock him. . .yet he holds on. . . because those are the seeds he has sown. . . every day he raises to the task of valuing, self appraising and cataloging his property. Naturally, overvaluing everything in sight. He remembers the children pushing him to sell some of his treasures, foolish children, never!. . . he forgives them, they do not understand. . . their mother raised them poorly, they irritate him with those preachy talks and dour looks. . . though they turned out quite well. . . it surprises him that Tausi managed to raise them. . .Tausi. . . her name and memories leave a sour taste in his mouth. He retreats from that chain of thought.

the winds howl, beating down his rusted roof, the water marks on his walls now hold a fine layer of mold, the loneliness would overwhelm, save for his regrets which are a constant companion.

Lately memories of his father plague him, some of the memories have a clarity to them that they did not have before. He remembers his father’s warning. . .that he should hold on to things more loosely, so that he would get to keep them, otherwise he would one day watch himself loose them all. . .He had never been too keen on words from a father who’s actions never matched his words. . . . here he now was, feeling trapped by regret and tricked by a life that had ended up never straying too far from his own kin’s life. . . how he had fervently sworn to himself that he would live a different life, away from the path of his father. Fate must have been laughing, he was cursed by his genes. . . or so he believed.

He held on to everything, everything. . . in so long as he believed he had earned it, then it was his. . . fair and square, . . . one of these ‘acquisitions’ has left an indelible mark in his memory. . .The shamba, It had belonged to that gullible stone mason, who had approached him for help. . . he was stuck he said, needed some money urgently. . . the old man had at first suggested that he finish up with the renovations first, then he would pay him with an overdraft. . . they, him and his wife, had hired him to help renovate some parts of the house. . . it had been earlier on in their marriage, before she had fully stared into the icy depths of his being, before she fully comprehended how unchanging and stony he was. . . he feels a pang of nostalgia, remembering her youthful face. . .the edges of this memory are frayed not quite as accurate. . . he sighs . . .he cannot clearly remember the form of her face. . .though the impact of the experience and the emotions remain. . . firmly pinning him to his regrets.

The memory of the mason comes back, his mind rattles away these days. . .memories intertwining with each other, one bringing on another before it is a complete picture in his mind. . ., he sighs. . . yes the young stone mason had gotten desperate, telling the old man he couldn’t wait for that long, you see. . . they were about to be kicked out of their home and he couldn’t bear the thought of his children outside in the cold. . .he just couldn’t. The old man had given him the money. . . and liened the mason’s ancestral land in exchange, it was the only fixed asset the mason had. . . had it been a fair earn. . .that land? or had shylock gotten his pound of flesh?. . .how it now bothered him that a-cursed piece of property. . . how that mason sang in his dreams, looking right into his eyes, chained to the old man’s house, hitting and hammering at the house, this was the form the stone mason took in the old man’s sleep, a-cursed all of them a-cursed!!

Then there was his wife. . .that erratic, beautiful woman, who had turned his children against him. . .a part of his mind dared to chide him, reminding him that he worked to loose his children on his own without anyone’s help, this errant thought he snuffs out with a sneer.

he remembers his own father again, his mind tells him to let him go, the same mind responds how? was he a carrot to be thrown out? or a bird that he could release from its cage, does not even a parrot have a mind of its own? repeating the obscenities it has heard at the most in appropriate times. . .how had he the old man held anyone captive. . .yet he sometimes understood, that it was space. . . the space in his mind that his father needed to be released from, . . . and how he took space, oh so much space, he took the space he was given and the one he had not been given, the proverbial camel, dominating every inch of the old man’s decision making process. . . he sighs. . . he grows weary, tired from the burden of thought. . .

It is exhausting the mind, just when he thinks he has it figured, he has it under control, it slips from under him. He had for a long time believed the words, the lie, that a strong mind was enduring. . .it was a lie, the mind was fragile, emotive and highly impressionable. . .it can be a liar. . .a liar very well able to shape and structure the path your choices took. . . he sighs. . .

Maybe he could trust character? he now thought. . .that fabric that makes a man, the essence of who he was . . . that solid build of his heart, that seeps into his actions, his words, the things he does in secret, the thankless actions motivated solely by his disposition. Yet. . . the old man thinks, most would choose to be guided entirely by their minds, to rely on suspicion, fear, caution, they will tell you that your heart betrays . . .nay. . . the life blood, the core of your being, your soul, will never lie to you.

It is your mind, your highly impressionable mind that will lie, your mind that withers under scrutiny, gossip, perceptions. . .your mind that adheres to convoluted ideas of who you are. People that hold influence over your life tell you a rhetoric. . . your mind takes over, warps this rhetoric into a formula that influences your decisions, your mind shapes your ideas from these words, the experiences you end up having, the lessons drawn from these experiences all begin and end with your perception of who you are. . .what this mental formula has stewed out for you, and the quality of life you believe is owed to you, your standards, all, are set by this formula, created by your mind. That mental formula, shaped from words of people that have influence in your life.

The old man now knows, to question your own perspective, is to challenge this mental formula, is to reject it’s dominion . . .the old man also knows. . . That his opinions would only be challenged through interactions with other humans, . . .the same humans he successfully isolated himself from most of his life. . . The humans he has forsaken for inanimate objects, lifeless things that now leave him to shoulder the burden of grey on his own. . .aaaah, he spits through the gap between his teeth. . . bitter. . .

. . . he sighs. . . then chuckles. . . philosophy becomes him in these twilight years. . .he wishes he had been wary of it, . . .his mind, when it told him to amass so much that the loss of a few would not hurt him. . . it was a lie, the loss of his family is an underlying ulcer, hidden by surface anger, greed and a constant feeling of betrayal. . . he knows though, that were he to engage his spirit, . . . to un wrap that complex layering of false emotions, he would find a burning ulcer of intense pain, that wound of rejection that was inflicted when he was a child, and has endured without healing through to his old age. That old betrayal of his filial piety has poisoned him his whole life, masquerading as mental strength. . .he sighs. . .how he wishes he had left room within himself to sometimes question his emotions, his perceptions, his prejudices. . . he never did, his thought process was king, flawless in his eyes, it made no matter who he hurt or destroyed.

yes the mind . . .he thinks. . . how one should be wary of it . . . for it is your most influential and most dangerous, constant companion. . .

he sighs. . . they grow labored his sighs. . . the sojourning continues. . . his steps grow weary with regret. . . and the colors of life ever more ashy, silvery and nondescript. . . never aligning in perfection or brilliance with either white or black or any of the three primary colors.

. . . he sighs. . .

the old man and the sea, Anne Weirich, downloaded from google



In her other conscience, her relationships had been like miscarriages. . . she put her body, soul and mind into them, but they failed her and died. . .the last one had not surprised her when it came, she only cried once, . . .then suffered her pain silently. . . when they led her to the arid plateau, that open, dry desert, she had not cried like the others did. . . she had welcomed it, the desert expected nothing from her, and took nothing from her that she had not already lost. She silently moved about, and created a life for herself within that everlasting drought. . . made some little light for herself. . .she created her own personal oasis. She shares her light. . .but never much or little. . . she does not begrudge, but she does not also freely give. . . this is her balance

There is a secret meanness in her nature, deep down she is not kind, the need to maintain balance around her can at times hide situations that call for kindness and empathy from her. . . it gets a bit dangerous when she believes that she is righteous. . . it makes her companions thankful that she is of little consequence in their community. It gets dangerous . . .that attitude.

Her face looked calm, the depth of the pool of her eyes gentle, she can come of as placid to some, somber to some, a snob to most, yet the keenest of eyes, can see that her under eye sinks deeper everyday. The smiles are shy, never eager, never bright, but always present. . .a sheen of optimism glowers under her skin. . .embers of a dying sun, glimmering but never dazzling.

Today is bright, the sun is at its zenith, she is afraid of dusk, the depth of that fiery purple is intense, it pulls her soul to it, that age old powerful pull towards beauty, yet. . . she knows not to give in to the pull, for that bold fiery light will disappear suddenly, and darkness will set in, with despair in its wake. She is never sure she has the strength to survive till daybreak, so she lingers in the periphery of dusk, close enough to see it, close enough to greedily take it in with her eyes, but still on the edge, . . . never fully embracing the beauty, in a kind of purgatory. . . neither in the brilliance of heaven nor the deep, dark, despair of hell.

image downloaded from a pinterest account

There she stays, within the bounds of deluded security, not quite living, watching. . . those who burn in loss and those who live, luminescent and alive, she never attempts to engage that bottomless pit of emotion, that is her soul.

Dawn is here, . . .another morning. . .”that wasn’t so long, maybe I can stay alive till dawn. . .” The bright morning shines a light on the carnage. Before her are the anguished, lifeless faces of the dead, they died heartbroken, forsaken in the darkness. . .left by Dusk. . .dusk of the purple lustre.

Yet there are those that survived, after their agonized screams through the night. She sees the angels, those that dusk will wed. They who stood resilient and have been embraced by dusk. How radiant, luminescent, incandescent bodies of power, elegance and grace. Their joy blazes into purgatory, my current home. They represent the hope that pushes me to the edge of purgatory every evening, to witness the allure of dusk, that seductive reddish purple, begin its magic.

image downloaded from a pinterest account

Today I take a step closer, drawn in like a moth to a flame, I take another step, then another. . . this triggers alarm in my fellow purgatory dwellers, we are among the few that have eluded that maddening snare of dusk,

. . .then another. . .they start to scream, shouting out my name, calling on me to stop, I’m walking too close they say, I will die they say, . . . yet another step, their screams are shrilly now, embodying the extreme, maybe irrational panic and fear, . . .that I should also be feeling . . .yet. . .is this what sailors felt in the presence of the sirens call, . . .the allure, the beauty, the joy, every nerve ending in my body is tingling, the intensity washes over me, stringing me up so high I am sure I’m drooling from the sides of my mouth, the potency of feeling is like I have never experienced, I am living and dying at the same time. . .

What have I done. . .,

‘Dusk never lasts long’. . . this thought echo’s the beginning of true darkness. The icy fingers of darkness are a death grip on my shoulder, the despair sets in slowly, it increases in potency. The loss and the cold . . .not the pain drop me to my knees. . . I thought it would be the pain. The courtyard which once entertained the splendor of dusk is now empty. . . there are cries of agony, I am silent, trapped,. . .I’m folded into a fetal position, I hum silently, as pain vibrates through my body. . .I resist the urge to close my eyes, as I pray and wait on dawn.

Image downloaded from a pinterest account



I went back to that place of ruin,
I once more held out my hands. . . knowing they would be burnt. . . wanting to be burnt . . . so that at least the longing and pain would become dust at that pyre. That as the embers died out, I would finally be cleansed. . .

I stand and start to walk away from the carnage,
I walk back towards the light of hope; I cannot withstand the darkness alone. . . I reach the court yard and sit at the top of the ivory gold step. . . He sits above me, places His hand on my shoulder. . . we sit in silence for a minute. . . I open up my hands. . .and begin to weep brokenly. . . my hands are bleeding . . . as they enclosed the splinters of broken glass. . . little piercing representatives of my rejected spirit, once again I opened my hands. . . but the other`s hands remained closed. . . He removes the glass pieces, every single piece, He takes my hand and leads me further into the light. . .

Even as we silently walk, He gives me hope,. . . hope in His light, that He created more than enough, that I should not let my mind limit His capacity, the earth is immense. . .its people many, he reminds me that in loss, doors are opened to many other potential gains, He reminds me to stay strong, and Walk on. . . believing the best, trusting that after every rain shower he paints the sky with the brilliance of a young star, and the radiant colors of hope.

I start to hear squeals of laughter, dripping with the gift of the sun, the joy intertwines itself with the muscle of my heart, it is twin sparks of light, shinning white hot, they wrap around my heart at the speed of light, then from the inside the light moves out, elevating me from the ground, I start to laugh, . . . the laugh bursting out from my heart, originating from His. . . He looks at me smiling. . . then joins in my laughter. . . His is strong, empowering. . . everlasting. . . a burst of love and strength. . .

I raise my hands and start to twirl in the sky. . .He never lets my hand go. . .

we land, He kisses my cheek. . .touches His forehead to mine, I smile my gratitude, He firmly reminds me, He walks with me.

We walk further into the light. . .

What do we really truly know. . . is it not a mere drop in a vast ocean, not even at our peak of understanding can we really grasp all things. . .even the things already uncovered and known. . . yet there is still so much more to discover. . .the exciting intricacies of our minds . . . how they influence our lives, behavior, character, how they limit our ability to be our best. . . the quality of our lives. . .

We are more, much more than what people like us tell us. . .we are each uniquely created to serve a niche, and in serving this niche, we serve others and enrichen the quality of our own lives too.





There is so much life around us, so much to learn! so much responsibility, and with our environment especially the value that you add to it, it gives back to you, simple example, at home, your house, and the surrounding vicinity, keeping that clean, clears up your own mind, and a clearer mind makes better decisions. That is a Super simple way that a well organized environment is giving back to you after putting in some little effort. As Africans it`s so sad the funny relationship we have with our environment, a relationship steeped with issues, insecurity and a poor attitude overall. We have, some of us, believed the lie that a clean environment is affluence, so we settle, keep our houses clean then leave the outside to other people, the county workers, the help at home. . . I made a commitment to myself to never litter regardless of the area I was passing through, even when everyone else is littering at the side of the road, I carry my litter in my bag and dispose it at a rubbish bin. That’s a fairly easy commitment, it asks no extra effort from you, just simple discipline. If even half the country made this simple decision, and committed mentally to it, the change would be tremendous and sustainable. We hear environmental sustainability and some of us think. . . eeh not my problem, or I have no idea where to start, honestly its just an attitude change, fixing our approach towards litter, we can start small, then progress to say, clean energy? We will never understand why we do not need Nuclear Energy, if we can`t relate to the basics, e.g cleaning up after ourselves, living litter free! Back to nuclear energy though, real talk, considering we are the last frontier of natural resource! and that we do not have seasons of changing weather, our sun is as regular as a period! *well some cycles anyway*

Why don’t we exploit these natural resources A lot more!? Yes it`s expensive,. . . a good investment is never cheap, it batters you financially and psychologically, but the benefits, oh those benefits. Yet. . . lets go the tried and tested way right? *sarcasm*, let us try nuclear energy. . .the one form of energy that is risk free! and that no other country that has, is desperately trying to get rid off!! Not to call us idiots, but the main reason we are ‘third world’ isn`t so that we compete like a ‘1st world’ but that we mine lessons from the failures of the 1st world and CHART OUR OWN PATH. *pardon the aggressive tone if you can please* that’s why potentially being a last born is so great, *chuckles* you get to watch all who came before you, learn, then boldly chart your own path. Being the last is an opportunity to finally became the best. . . again. . . potentially, depending on the attitude we are willing to adopt.
Anyway back to litter and the environmental issues ‘closer to home’, making a choice to treat your environment better is more of an intrinsic change first. A change that might need the following, 1. some level of humility and 2. lots of self love. I believe individuals that litter fall on these two categories whether informed or not. 1. those that are arrogant and approach the environment with a cavalier attitude, expecting it to bend to their needs, I remember one time walking around Mombasa town, seeing this young man, step out of his car carrying a Java coffee house, RECYCLEABLE! coffee cup, then throwing it into the drainage at the side of the road, A drainage that was already blocked, honestly! between Java Nyali and smack inside Mvita no litterbin was available? and shame on you! honestly when you have the resources to act better and choose not to. . . my self-righteous self wanted to scream at him! haha yes I say self-righteous because I have also committed my sins against the environment, and remembering keeps me humble.

2. Severe! lack of self love, yes, loving yourself triggers the need to preserve people and the Environment around you, self love equals higher levels of empathy, higher empathy levels equals sensitivity and awareness and ultimately a higher form of enlightenment. . . I won’t touch on being uninformed and illiteracy. . . those are excuses we use so that we can blame other people overtly! for our own covert, secret misdemeanors. Pointing fingers would be the easier way out *said she whilst pointing a finger herself, the irony isn’t lost on me. . . though. . .I promise it is a little finger*. . . The truth is that we have a skewed attitude that is focused on short term goals such as Monetary Wealth. . yes I said it, and runs away from that long term commitment to actually change our country, . . . that is why you will drive past that rubbish heap smack in the middle of town haraka sana, can’t get to the leafy surburbs fast enough, (remember when we called them that,) and you have capacity to make change and/or push and lobby for it. It is so paradoxical really, and hilarious in a sad, scary way, actually, how we drive on the same terrible roads, complain about them and do nothing, the same rubbish! and do nothing! the same bad drainage and do nothing! if you have influence as an African Man or Woman of enlightenment use it! don’t be too busy trying to protect your relationships, trying stay in the club, honestly chances are, if you are all honest with each other, you all suffer the same fears and doubts, just be the leader we need and leave a better world for the people coming after you, otherwise you can be sure somewhere down the line, a descendant of yours will suffer that fate you drive away from at top speed!! be better, then be happier, then more productive, then add value, and the circle of holistic growth comes full circle!
The ramblings of the young. . . ish? romantic, idealist come to an end. May the pragmatic feel influenced and endeavor to give ideas practicality. Otherwise if you can do something to make our little world better . . . just do it!

I was inspired by this video, I thought to accompany it with the piece above.

Before I sign out, I feel it important to point out that our classification as a third world isn’t the most equitable. Let us not forget that those that are classified as first world, have had years and years dedicated to growth, change and development. (I leave out conveniently slavery, colonialization, the exploitation of natural resources in colonies, the resulting brain drain and scamper to get ahead triggered in Africans, negative/toxic competition. . . its a layered subject truly. . .these complexities though are enough proof that we very well have a fighting chance, all we need is the fresh wind of change-in form of radical change in attitude)

in summary the developed world has tried different ways to get better, made errors and improved on them, developed basically over time, their success has come from finding solutions for problems unique to them . . . (we can learn from that and find originality in our approach, let go of the tried and tested and find our path?) anyway we are TODDLERS in comparison, so no need to adopt and accept ‘third world’ as an identity. It is merely a season and a time, there is ample capacity to be better as a country, as a continent, all the challenges we face are surmountable. If Asia is doing it, we can and we will also do it, and maybe just maybe, do it better.

Thank you,




black ballerina, image from Etsy.

. . . I want to kiss you, but I find emptiness. . .,

I hold your face in my hands, look into your eyes, trying to find her, instead I see emptiness. . .

Gele painting by Gbenga Orimoloye, from Pinterest.

Where is she my love, . . . Where have you hidden my woman of valor, my woman of remorse, my woman of feeling,

Where have you hidden my hardworking woman, my woman of passion, my woman of strength, . . . Or was she never there?

Painting by Viktorija lapteva, downloaded from Pinterest

I miss my woman. . .

I doubt my woman. . .

All is empty,

Your words are empty, your laugh full of malice, your eyes full of craft.

I can no longer see my woman. . . When I look at you, I start to doubt if there was really ‘my woman’ . . .or was I reflecting my own ideals into empty eyes.

Yet my heart still bleeds for the woman I believed there was. . . As I look at you through my rose colored glasses. . .



It is morning again, the light hurts my eyes as I try to open them, is she still asleep? . . . no . . . I can hear her whistling. . . then humming,

I feel peace flood my heart, a euphoric dam bursting with joy . . . that fine clear, happy tune, welcomes a great, intimate Sunday morning. She enjoys making breakfast on relaxed, quiet mornings, she says its therapeutic.

The scents from the spices, the crackling of the onions in the frying pan, the heady, sweet slightly pungent scent of fried garlic, the fresh, sharp scent of the herbs and zest of the fresh lemon and orange shavings. . . breakfast smells soo good. . . I can smell the sharp, inviting scent of spiced tea, the ndumas’ boiling, are those fried eggs I smell? . . . no, that’s the French toast she loves to make, I smile, she went all out. What day is this anyway? Haha. . . I laugh at myself. . . the week has been rough, exhausting, I welcome a weekend of hearty breakfast and some sleep. . . why won’t she stop the whistling? . . . probably my cue to go join her.
I throw off the sheet and sit on bed, whoa! I’m overwhelmed by extreme dizziness, why I’m I feeling so tired? . . . my stomach hurts so much I’m nauseous . . . My head starts to swim. . . ‘Andrew, Andrew. . .’ I can hear her soft voice calling, it’s starting to fade. . . the last rain cloud after a rare outpouring of rain in a dessert,. . . her voice starts to sound rough, angry . . . distorted. . . why can’t I see her? I try and grab on to my bed-post, my hands catch nothing but the bare air, my arms start to flail uncontrollably around me, I’m trying to latch on to something for support . . . What’s happening to me! It gets darker around the frame of my vision, blurred shapes are moving around me, the harsh sounds of frustration and panic grow louder. . . that’s not her voice though, its someone else’s, there’s some commotion. . . the darkness takes over completely and that extreme panic at lose of control is replaced by a sudden burst of euphoric peace again, . . . I smile. . .

My eyes are struggling to open. . . they are glued shut. . . I make another valiant effort. . . it’s a battle between my will and my eyes now, I will them to open, . . . the effort is exhausting, I’ve run 7KMs trying to get them to open, where I’m I? I hear voices, one similar to the gruff one from earlier and another softer one. . . my sister? What is she doing here? I haven’t seen her in years, this is great! Asali will be so happy. . .where is Asali? And why can’t I clearly hear my sister? I call out to her, but no sound is forthcoming. Why do both the voices sound so somber?
‘How long has he been like this. . . ?’ the gruff voice asks,
‘He’s been in and out since the Service.’ The soft one answers.

The gruff voice continues. . . ‘He was severely dehydrated. . . that should explain the hallucinations. . .’
The soft voice continues, ‘he’s been smiling a lot, telling me I’m burning the onions. . . ?’
‘yes yes!’ the gruff voice harshly continues, ‘sensory hallucinations’ ‘the drip should fix that, he’s body needs hydration and nutrients,. . . are you still giving him the Tricyclic injections?`
`every now and then when he asks for them`
Releasing his breath suddenly

‘you should follow the prescription!!’. . . ‘and he should be getting better. . . ‘he finishes off more softly. . . ‘he should be getting better. . .’

The voices start to fade and an awful horrifying memory bursts through my consciousness,

the young student interrupting my lecture with a note, . . . then I start to view the memory from an aerial angle, I see myself walk into the staff wing. . . the Dean meeting me at the foot of the flight of stairs, leading to her mezzanine office, how she held out her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks, the words, the ensuing commotion, running into the hospital. . . the shock after hearing the doctor’s words. . . the quiet from disbelief and denial. . . lastly the discombobulating, out of body conversations with everyone after,

‘It was so sudden Andrew, we were laughing, she turned to cross the road. . .’

‘That driver . . . he lost control. . .’ words, words, many words. . . And tears, I tasted salt in every hug, . . . I didn’t want people to leave. . . I didn’t want them to stay either.

I had to give her a fitting send off, this sense of purpose came with euphoria and adrenaline that lasted the week, after her burial . . . all strength abandoned me. . .

Here I am, with a body wanting to sweat off its memories, fighting to go on. . .

I can’t see her but I hear her, I feel her presence. . . It’s my only source of warmth.