I got me

I got a special name with superpowers that only get activated by spelling out the vowels,

I got a spaceship that only land on the Pentagon with the target locked on Osama,

I got a special delivery for the United Nations signed by the Divided tribes of Africa,

I got me a special pen to write off lives of my enemies and erase deaths of my beloved

I got me a baby girl that calls me daddy, daddy, I want my candy

I got me a castle on planet Mars with the windows facing planet Venus

I got me a special book where writers get killed and buried by their characters

I got me a flying saucer that I let Bill Gates drive around here and there

She gave me a special name that only wet lips can spell out,

She gave me a turtle’s back to mock the crocodile’s teeth, every time I swim between the hippopotamus jaws.

She gave me superman’s ears to hear the danger that comes near.

She gave me her father’s heart when I told her about my cardiac attack

She gave me a baby boy that calls me daddy, daddy, I want my shiny toy.

She gave me the keys to her house in Venus when I gave up on mine in Mars.

We flew away with the eagles who taught us how to break a dragon’s heart.


Symphonie a deux

The juxtaposition of her pretty face and seemingly unpleasant body brought out of him mixed feelings. It was a strange combination of pleasure and displeasure that kept swinging back and forth inside him. The worst part is that she only noticed when displeasure fled by his face. The best part is that he didn’t know that she knew so they kept chatting and sipping from the same cup her favorite drink: mocha latte. He didn’t care for the drink. He was simply focused on what was going to happen next. In his dorm. Just the two of them. The size of her breasts. The swing in her lips. That perfect long tongue. Paradise isn’t far after all. Yes, he was desperate. She wasn’t. It has been awhile for her, but she didn’t want none of that cheap stuff and more than anything she wanted to be desired. To be wanted. To be needed. To be craved for.

He didn’t care for all that. What was between his legs was doing the thinking for him and more often than he was willing to admit, it has brought him to the gates of Hell. He would breathe in the fumes from the pit coming from the lost souls but wouldn’t let himself go any further.

She knew nothing good was going to come out of this. She knew from the start that their paths were parallel even though he was physically all she wanted. Some things in life were just too overpriced and one needed to know when to pull out and let the sleeping dogs lie. So she decided to enjoy this mocha latte with him. Give him all the attention in the world. Make him feel like the king he thought to be and then move on. Nothing less, nothing more.

Yes, he was delusional. Maybe it was his hormones. Maybe it was society. Maybe it was those easy, cheap girls. Maybe it was the Devil. There was plenty of room for the blame to go around. For now, he was enjoying this mocha latte with this allright looking girl who had this twinkle in her eyes that said volumes. She was going to make him a happy man by the end of the afternoon.

Symphonie a deux. She wanted love. He wanted a good time. A sprint, not a marathon. She knew by heart Adele’s song “I can’t make you love me” and she was humming it as their ‘date’ came to an end. She noticed that he noticed she was humming it, but he didn’t think to ask. Maybe it was for the better.

“Am I going to see you again?”

“Who knows? If you know where to find me, you just might.”

“Maybe next time, I will cook you dinner at my place.”


They left each other. Two parallel lives moving in each direction. Symphonie a deux.

Photo short short stories

I have always been fascinated by circles since I have been a kid. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the idea of being able to start at one point and to end up at the same point after having traveled. I remember taking my bike as a kid and riding it in circles around our house over and over until I was certain that the Earth couldn’t turn without me. But now that I was facing the barrel of that M58 shotgun, I suddenly realized that no one was going to miss me. I mean I had friends and family whom I kept distances with as much as it’s socially acceptable to call them friends and family without disturbing the meaning behind those words and now I wonder if this entourage will come to miss me. I begged the shotgun but not the shooter to miss me because I was finally starting to figure what this Life was all about and a shotgun this powerful should be employed to more sensible ends as the killing of terrorists and dictators.

My pleading led to nowhere because the shooter pulled the trigger, I closed my eyes and waited for my brain to paint the wall but I only heard the click. Nothing happened. “I will be back one day” said the shooter “So better start every day like it’s your last one because it might as well be.”

We used to be friends before you know? Then out of nowhere, the next day, I saw her walking down the street like this, I knew it was her because I would recognize that hesitant step anywhere. You could see two small holes she had made so she would still be able to see as she made her way to God knows where. She didn’t even react when I called her. Maybe she was right to treat me like a stranger. After all, I didn’t see this coming. Aren’t friends supposed to know when their friend is about to do something as drastic as refusing to be seen anymore? Refusing to be labeled, to be colored, to be called, to be recognized, and simply asking to be accepted simply without any “BUT…” hanging around. I couldn’t take it though to see her like that, so I started walking on the other side of street since she still took the same path to work which was the same for me and I couldn’t take it to be meeting this stranger who used to be my friend.

Winds that carry me

One thing I haven’t been good at doing in this blog is to highlight why I love reading AND writing. For an aspiring writer, those two activities are Siamese twins, can’t have one without the other. From what I have learned also is that the better your taste in literature, the better your writing will be.

For today’s post, I’m highlighting some passages from Without A Name by Yvonne Vera. Without A Name is the story of the mental and physical journey that leads Mazvita, the main character to commit the unforgivable toward her seed. I won’t say more because it’s a must read.

Yvonne Vera is a writer who’s given a new breath to my poetic skills and renewed my hunger for the kind of writing that opens up your heart and plays on its strings while making your mind do flip backs. As a writer, you always models to look up and look back to so here you have the type of passages that teach me how to work that magic.

“There were no pauses to their joy which resounded in one continuous voice, a tender elegant quiver pure and plain. The children found gaps between the rays of the sun and ran through them, their tiny bodies supple, carried on pattering flirtatious feet, in faltering voices that embraced their yearning for enchanting discoveries. They found narrow and untrodden paths. The children had a limitless tenacity for dream, a flowing capacity to wander wide and far. They were children. They emerged from their escape in a myriad of joy, their faces covered with their gaiety, bright with their phenomenal journeying. They held out their cupped hands above their heads and gathered the joy that tumbled from the sun, which swooped down their throats…they filled their dreams with unformed desires, with tentative aspirations, with timid bliss. They bathed in an exhilarating caress of innocent and weariless joy. (7)

“Some truths long for the indifferent face of a stranger, such truths love that face from the neck up, from the forehead down…there is nothing to lose between strangers, absolutely no risk of being contamined by another’s emotion; there are no histories shared, no promises made, no hopes conjured and affirmed.” (16)

“Freedom squeezed out of a tube was better than nothing, freedom was, after all, purchasable. It was sensual, and that was to be longed for, procured even if the cost was nothing less than one’s soul. Such negotiations were easy. It was risky to carry a soul in the city streets, as Mazvita had discovered. In Harare, it was best to sell your soul to the first and easiest bidder.” (33)

‘You lack patience and hope, Mazvita, you want things to belong to you, just like the stranger does. You want to possess, to hold things between your hands and say they belong to you. You do not see that things belong to you not because you have held them, but because they have held you. It is like that with the land. It holds and claims you. The land is inescapable. It is everything. Without the land there is no day or night, there is no dream. The land defines our unities. There is no prayer that reaches our ancestors without blessings from the land. Land is birth and death. If we agree that the land has forgotten us, the new agree to be dead.’ By Nyenyedzi (40)

“she had loved the land, saw it through passionate and intense moments of freedom, but to her the land had no fixed loyalties. She had gathered from it her freedom which it delivered to her wholly and specially. If it yielded crop, then it could also free her, like the plants which grew upon it and let off their own blooms, their own scents, their own color, while anchored to the land…she did not care for certainties, each moment would uncover its secret, but she would be there, ahead of that moment, far ahead.” (41)

Did you feel or see what I am talking about when I say she makes my heart of a writer shiver and wish  for her to come back from the dead? Well, her approach to writing is one of a priest to the temple which is something I hope to emulate also.

On the news front, school starts today , but I will be able to swing by here to post some delight. Also I am about to start rewriting my novella Mpema, I have been working on that story for at least a year and half and after a couple of feedbacks, I decided to get started today on revising it. I will post later more about the novella and the experience of writing it. Curious to know what the rest of you have been up to?

Searching for Depth

Don’t worry.

Be hungry but don’t worry.

Be thirsty but don’t worry.

Grab yourself some Joy and shove it down your mouth like the first meal after 40 days of fast.

Take hold of Peace and let go of those other silly things.

Don’t worry.

Don’t rush it.

Don’t panic.

Wait for the moment.

Accept the silence.

Stand outside the noise.

Don’t try to control the chaos outside when you can’t control the one within.

Embrace yourself.

Embrace others.

Start over.

Make it count.

Keep it simple.

Keep it deep.

Build it.

Keep it going.

Don’t stop.

Don’t worry.

Boring? monologue

I am sure I must have missed something. There was supposed to be a change, a transformation, a metamorphosis. I was supposed to look into the mirror and see a different person. with a different face, a bigger bank account, a better job, a better car, and everything I have been dreaming of. But all I got was new promises? Are you freaking serious? Do you know what  I have done with promises last year?

But I love beginnings: your heart is flustered with all sorts of happy chemicals and you are to believe in the impossible. even if that impossible is you actually changing. No, I’m not one of those incurable alcoholic who has found paradise and hell in the bottom of a bottle and can’t seem to dissociate them from the bottle. It feels so good, but then it feels so wrong. And the cycle goes on.

The truth is people do change, but I think it happens in microseconds and then may or may not build up to an entire makeover. You know when in the moment of saying or doing something and you have to make the decision to go the usual path or to try something new ( Ugh here’s that word again!). Here’s an example: “How are you this morning?”  you could say: “I’m doing good” or you could finally find the courage to say: “I have always been doing fine until I hear you ask me how am I doing this morning” Yes, there will be some drama that will follow, but bitter truths are better than sweet lies.

Well, this is for me as well as for you. I need to be reminded that it’s not you, but it’s you. There are always consequences, cause and effect is a law that no one escapes and I’m starting to annoy myself because I sound like a cheap Self Help book, but I’m surprised that everyone doesn’t write one for him/herself. You are always the first one to know what’s wrong with you even when you don’t admit it to yourself.

OK, I’m done with my sermon for the day, writers are indeed failed preachers. Happy New Year!!!