Keeping quiet is a powerful exercise to the mind. But the girls sitting next to me don’t know anything about this. Over the last hour they’ve howled, cried, shrieked, mooed and I don’t know what else is in store for the remaining distance. I’m traumatised already. Next time I’ll think hard before accepting to sit in a bus next to girls with small painted lips. Instead of planning how to take progress to the village, I’ve been reduced to a man in need of a psychiatrist’s number. Continue reading “Birthday Queen”
You look at the wall. Photos of your wife. One with her parents, several on her graduation day, another two of the wedding day. It’s funny she doesn’t bother to pitch yours there. Not that it matters, but this is still Africa, and the king of the jungle must be made omnipresent in all subtle manifestations of life. It is called protocol and protocol is not subordinate.
When finally the tribulations of a 21st century bachelor are brought to the classroom for study, the world will be shocked.
The plight of an African child is huge. Research has evidence. But when you add this to the fact that the child is a bachelor living in an era where fathers have become capitalists with little yam to bequeath their sons, you start having an idea the turbulence tides the boy child has to cut to float. Take it from me boy child, you are alone in this world.
There are nights when, for lack of better things to do, I find myself dreaming of peaceful and welcoming streets in this damnation of ours. I dream of spectacular sunsets and warm night breezes and nights where I can see the beauty of the moon and stars in the sky. Sometimes in those dreams I am a towering creature with giant rolls of eyes that rotate over my head and see everything, and an authority which dwellers of this forsakenness revere with all might. Sometimes I am a dwarf, a nobody, but caught in the assurance that I am home and home is good. My soul hovers around assured that as long it is not peeing, dreaming is good. And in this good I see the good of our place.
Yet the city remains what it was in 1496: an untidy, noisy jungle with concrete heights where hearts should have stood. Continue reading “Bound”