In strict terms, our story begins at Kayole. In the depths of truth and nature. Have you ever asked what laws dictate nature? Nobody knows. My landlord recently repainted his house and renamed it from Hard Work House to Leafy Runda Villa. He said nature is change. Now I no longer live in the old brown apartments even though I still live there. If you get lost you just need to say Runda and they will bring you to the Runda painted green on the front side and red in the ribs and behind. Continue reading “Return To Sender”
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”
One of my favourite pastimes these days is looking across glass walls in the streets. I don’t know if it is First Class Narcissism or what but that is it – walking down the street admiring myself in the mirrors. I admire my gait. My hair. My shoes. The goatee that’s refused to grow since college. The complexion. And scars. I think I fell in love with the marks on my forehead long ago and it has taken ages to acknowledge this. Guys, this guy is simply a catch.
Every evening they go back home. They will climb the rickety pieces of metal that age has left in what once was a shiny Japanese machine. They will struggle to find space next to the window, and then caught up in the traffic jam they will witness day slowly turn into night, a ritual nature performs every day to remind them that though they wallow through unending murk, this world is still far away from being their home. That a black and white rat keeps gnawing at the rope that suspends them in this abyss. They will die.
Eventually the bus will win the battle. They will get back to the house to find the kids already asleep. They will be dog tired and sweaty. There will be the urge to get a shower, but due to the recent water rationing by the eternally angry landlord, and because there is no more breath left to pick a quarrel with the self-imposed lord, the little that is left in the cans will be reserved for cooking. By Allah, nobody in this house showers tonight.