Before You Say Anything

I have had songs to sing, but no one to listen. I have poems to write, but no one to read. No shoulder to lay my bony head on for soothing palms to rub my back and tell me that everything is going to be fine. The brights confuse the dim.

Our stories, our stories are ink-written on our chests, boiled with clots of blood and appareled in tar. What happened to yesterday, where I could touch the clouds and wish for a unicorn's horn?

What happened to the nights before days, where I could fetch myself a bite without gnashing on tall questionnaires of "What" and "Where"? Please don't fix me, just feel me. Taste my food, drink my water. Wear my cologne. Sit with me and hear me breathe before you straighten me up.

Come on down to my motherlessness. Come on down to my gore and let's grab a cup of coffee from a muddy pool; ask me where my smile squeezes from. Ask me from whence do I laugh? Just ask me anything of me so you can add to the stunted archives you hold about me.

@nii_laye

Comments

Sometimes

I don't want what happens sometimes, when Sometimes doesn't work at all times. Goes on a break, sleeps during working hours. Lazy is Sometimes but sometimes, it's just Lazy who's lazy- sometimes. Like a babysitter who is always on the phone, Sometimes leaves us hanging loose as tassel earrings worn by a garden girl with cracked lips on a sunny harmattan morning. No pattern whatsoever, only hazy clues. That is so indecisive. Oftentimes, we hear what happens sometimes, and a few things that need to be done sometimes. No, not a few things literally. I only summarised them tiles of principles into a single drawstring bag so they would fit into my fanny pack. "Sometimes you have to just get it over with." Tom would say. What does that even mean? do I just let out how I feel about her, or that's going to be a little too spooky? Erhm, how about spilling the oodles of cloudy insults hidden within my lung sacs all unto this bald lecturer? Jeez, He always gets o...

Kinda Kind

If you were presented with the option to choose between being right and being kind, choose kind - Unknown Growing up in the Westlands of Africa, where "Every man for himself, God for us all" is the anthem on the streets and within the four corners of homes, the picture of empathy is as blur as the dotty stars and light bubbles we see after rubbing our eye balls to an itch. Mum says do not go when a stranger beckons in aid. Daddy adds " Everyone is wicked and wants to kill you." Here I am, a man in tarted clothes asks for a sip of my sachet water to quench his harmattan thirst. Some people say, such instances are orchestrated to exchange one's destiny. Others say, your wealth is traded when you comply. Too many superstitions and concoctions to topple over before listening to one's own voice. My belief tells me to grant his wish and lip a prayer afterwards for protection- the least I can do. The drum of kindness is beaten differently in our part of the ...

The African Narrative

I see my niece drawing a young African girl with brown eyes, dark skin and kinky hair. Who fell in love with a prince in shorts , a sleeveless dashiki shirt and a glorious afro. I half rolled the millet pancakes into my hand-made lunch box. I was 40 and she, 15. She told of his most typical Afrikaans accent of a "Hi" and her nervous "beeni" which meant 'Yes' in Yoruba, when he professed his love in Ananse land- Our very own La La Land. No fairies, just a bunch of bees being generous with their honey and firefly lanterns flying across the elephant parks of Zimbabwe. I would send a mail to Mama on the moon and tell her I have found my soulmate in J'oburg- "She is an Afronaut too, Mama". I would tell her that home was fine just the way she left it but she'd sure squeeze out the truth from my eyes like lemons in a video call. So much for technology!! you can't even tell a lie anymore! At least Nkoloso died for a noble cause. I would ...

Throbbing hearts and bleeding inks

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