Comatose or How Long Before I Pull the Plug on this Blog

The heart monitor shows hills and valleys that look different from one another

the Sodium Chloride bags are changed every two hours providing the necessary fluids

A foley catheter collects dutifully urine

the eyes twitch behind the eyelids

the skin is moist and pale

sponge bath and toileting are given by rough and soft hands daily

moans, throat sounds, snoring, farting sometimes escape

the watch continues

the life beeps and beeps away

in this white, clinical temple

Traffic sounds, party chatters, family feuds, fashion trends press against the glass doors

California drought, genocides and Hillary Clinton, queen of America shout from the TV

wake up

wake up

Make us swoon again under the moon

Blow us kisses from across the room

Make us forget the coming doom

Never die like a TV cartoon


Souvenirs d’enfance ou Tango To Zalaka

A young man holds near him a snotty little boy,

They are sitting in a 80’s Rang Rover.

This picture flashes another memory

The same snotty boy riding a green Mercedes car toy in the living room.

This is the thirst before the rush

And the rush that rides the thirst.

The hair at the back of my head  are dancing

And my heart trumpets like a lost baby elephant.

The sun sits large and wide at the end of the road

Asking to come closer just a little bit more

Where death can’t stop the pulse

Where one beats calls another

Like stars locked in heavenly motion

Trying to find the starting point

For the circle (circus) of the universe.

No Breath

The past always plays on the loop on my large TV screen day and night

I could close my eyes and the voices and the faces are still there

“Take your pills, son”

“Don’t let demons in, son”

“Fight the good fight, son”

But Father, why has thou forsaken me?

I’m being shred to pieces on this battlefield

making weapons out of cloth and sticks

birthing and dying every day

but you are a No Breath resting with other No Breath

But you are a No Breath that I carry inside

like every seed carries its history

I bend over for the past that is inside me

and yet every character has a limited time to perform

before it turns

like others before him

into another particle of dust in the sands of Time

I don’t know what to say

There is blood being spilled. Limbs are being cut. Men, women, children, loved by someone are having their lives taken away. This is all happening in the East of Congo. I left pieces of my childhood in that area. Haunting memories that would go on spilling ink as long as I breathe.

I am on this side of the Atlantic, more closer to Japan than to Congo. I want to send parts of me over there to make this nonsense stop. My extended family is scared but safe for now, but who knows for how long.

Petitions like this are being made to the American empire on behalf of men and women who just want to have a normal life. Nothing fancy, just some peace to work, study, pray, eat and love.

All I can think about this last week is that this can’t go on, so I will take this new journey one day at a time…


Muhumba is a street I lived in for two years. The way you pronounce is by putting your lips together as if you were about to kiss and make the sound that cows make: MOOH and then OU and then MBA. That last sound is the same as for my last name. Anglophones and Francophones always chop up that sound and it doesn’t surprise or make me smile anymore because I often do the same with English and French words. Mba is a bantou sound and unless you have lived in any Sub Saherian African area, you might not know how to say it right.

For now, lets return to this street where I lived in for two years. My mother was renting an apartment at the time, and my favorite time of the day was the afternoon because during that afternoon, I could day dream for hours, looking at the way the wind picked up dust and twirled it around for a while or watch students walking back from school in their white and blue uniforms. My afternoon has even increased in interest since one of those school students who passed by was Basima. That name used to change the room temperature, accelerate my blood pressure and make Nature greener and more enchanting. Her uniform wasn’t any different than any other student. She was the same age as my cousin which meant 5 years older than I was. But in the midst of my day dreaming, she had come along, walking to her home as if she owned the ground she walked on and my heart knew not what to do with itself.

To make a story short, a year went by and I found myself in the same school as her, but she remained that mythical queen who walked down my street and the two times we met, my brain space had expanded to take in every detail of her and leave no room for words. Out of all the girls one could fall in love with, I had to go with no other than the most popular girl in high school. I had sleepless nights, wrote love letters, mocked myself, made up stories about us until I couldn’t take it anymore. Having been bred by romantic tales from “serious” literature, I decided to declare my love to her or die.

I went to her house, after summoning the gods and God to help me for a good two hours and asked her sister to talk to her. I spilled every bit of my heart to her on that beautiful afternoon. That afternoon was as beautiful as the ones I used to have until she came along. She cried but said nothing. I turned around and left. I wasn’t dead but I wish I was.

Muhumba is the street I will return one day and walk it back and forth and hopefully put to rest the ghosts from the past.

A little song

 Leave me be?
Don't ask me where I am going 
Because there is nowhere to go
I am the monster freed from its cage
Who takes the world for his stage
And refuses to be held hostage
By culture, glory or age
I am the face you love to despise
For its color and its size
For one truth and two lies
You refuse me human ties
To be or not to be who cares
When all I want is to leave me be?
Words are futile when sword is your friend
When the gun goes off you see your end
No love to give, no heart to mend
Alone I leave, no pain no gain
Don't ask me where I'm going because there is nowhere to go
I always keep skeletons in my closet
To scare all the grown ups who come to collect 
they ask what's your name?
As if we are the same
But I am in a good mood 
First indulge me with some food
But I don't kiss and tell
To alien people who smell
Go buy and sell
Take your pick: heads or tails
There's no first if there's no last
Don't ask me where I'm going
Because there is nowhere to go

Stuff of life


I want you and I to talk about the stuff of life. The tiny breaks she made when she threw those words at me. The year, the month, the day and the minute before those invasive bacteria took mon papa.

I want for that night. For that night to have been a dream. I want the power to have gone out like usual. I want that one to not have desired a bath that night. I want for mon petit frère to have been tired and not want to play. I want for me to have been mesmerized by the tv screen like always. For me to have reacted and not just stare. But that’s what I did. I stood there and stared. Our eyes forever locked, forever speaking, forever asking why.

What’s in a life? atom, molecules, flesh. Yes, lots of flesh, but all I have left and all I want to have is the smell of their souls. You can smell it whenever I blink or close my eyes. This corner of my heart doesn’t need any cleansing. The ecosystem that has grown in there must be protected at all costs with every ounce of blood.

In my shell, in this sacred cocoon, the Spirit hovers above the waters of my life. Waiting to breathe upon them a new world. For every limb I lose, my shell grows thicker and the smell grows stronger. For every face you see, another one lies underneath. I have unwrapped and unrolled myself with every move, but with every vision, my loved ones lost their sight, but you don’t need to worry, if you blink or close your eyes, they will find my smell on you.