La hutte

“He’s doing it again”

“I will wake him up”

I felt someone touch my shoulders.


“You were doing that thing again when you close your eyes and start humming” says Baraka

“Are you sure you are not a witch?” asked Rafiki

I glared at him.

“If I was, let’s say that you will be the first one to know”

“Well Rafiki here has been itching to pull one of his pranks on you and you have to thank for being still in one piece” says Baraka.

Rafiki smiled mischievously. Ah my brother.

During our whole conversation Ngalula kept drumming oblivious to his surroundings, the soft heartbeat echoing throughout the neighborhood, holding the attention of dogs, cats and other nocturnal beings while his eyes remained closed. There was tenderness in the way he held the drum between his legs. I’m sure he was escaping too just like the rest of us. We came to this hut to still the outside and regain some ground.

We knew the odd corners of each others’ lives and all the kinked up threads that have been garnering over the years.

Despite the fact we called Baraka Little Mouse, he was the most ferocious, daredevil, defender of the weak, little mouse we have ever seen. Maybe his father turning into the devil whenever he got drunk had something to do with that. Maybe being bullied at school and at home turned the hum of his heart into a roar.

All I know is that you were not careful, you would see Little Mouse’s shadow turn into a dragon dancing on the walls of the hut during these cold nights we sat around the fire. It was a beautiful and terrifying sight even more so because he never noticed it.

We also knew that he would laugh at us if we told him what we saw by telling us to stop watching so much Disney movies, but come to think of it that sounds like what my father would say. Baraka is the type to shrug his shoulders with indifference. So we sat silently watching the dragon appear and disappear, dance and pose while the blue light of the fire revealed glimpses of our souls.

A suivre…


La hutte

Drums strum the hum in my heart as I watch the sad glow of the city at night. Ngalula’s hands were a blurr as they beat against the cow’s skin of the drums. The small fire kept the full outline of our bodies a vague knowledge.

My parents were busy; my dog was watching us, and the past hanged heavy above us. Rafiki, Baraka, Ngalula and myself were sitting cross legged, our backs against the memories of our lives. The hut had walls made of brick and straws artistically assembled around logs of wood for a roof. It stood as a memorial for a bygone way of life that our grandfather wanted left behind. The mansion he had built for his large family seemed to be mocking the hut. This hut stood against his past only to be nonexistent in the present and yet this was home, despite all the threats of mother to plant garden of roses instead.From the day mother threw down her threat, we spent most of our time there to protect our way of life.

I always hummed in my heart we gathered around the fire. I hummed to still my life and keep my fire still and burning. I hummed to weave the odd corners of my life into a smooth key. Just something small enough for me to carry around and not worry about consulting the instructor’s manual.

I will admit that I didn’t know what the rest of them thought as we listened to the drums and watched the fire dance that night.

A suivre…


Mes souvenirs pleuvent de temps à autre

Et mouillent mes moments avec mélancolie

Ils ramènent à la vie des revenants

Et le passe avec ses précieuses banalités.

Ces jours légers mais bien lourds dans ma mémoire

Avalent sans effort mes petits ennuis

Mes espoirs d’adulte alourdissaient mon cœur d’enfant

Et l’extasie des jeux les évanouissaient aussi vite

Mais mon pas est devenu lourd ces jours ci

Je n’ai plus le cœur léger

J’ai le rire d’une femme stérile

Et le sourire du condamne

J’observe ma vie passer

Avec l’espoir d’y participer.

Le passe est amer sur ma langue

Mais bien doux dans mon cœur.

Le passe est l’utérus de mon futur

J’ai du mal à le reconnaitre

Mais les papillons ne reconnaissent pas non plus les chenilles.

Je sens finalement la mer mugir en moi

Et je comprends que même assoupi

La galaxie qui est en moi ne cesse de s’accroitre.

Under the weather

The last 3 days have been gray, red and blue

One foot in the abyss, another sinking in  the sand

My head buried in the sand

And the sound of the world drowned by the moving sand.


But the wind was calling my name

It was the music I heard as noise

The sweetness which tasted sour

The softness which caused me to itch.


I guess I been under the weather for too long

To appreciate the caress of the sun

But don’t bury me just yet

The pulse might be weak

But this heart is still knocking.