Of Me Then


This trip reminds me of you. No; it reminds me of thinking about you. It reminds me of anticipating seeing you again. It has me reveling at memories that now fail to bring a smile to my face. It reminds me of how predictable I am; rather how predictable I had become with you. It reminds me of you waiting for me. It reminds me of you feigning annoyance each time I kept you waiting. It has me thinking about your tall form and blue shirt. It has me recalling your face, your fake smile, and your spontaneous laugh at my sometimes innocent humor.

It reminds me of you insisting to carry my luggage and your mock sternness when I tried to help. This trip reminds me of sunsets and twilight. It reminds me of unsightly noisy hills and the quiet light of my abode. It reminds me of who I was then; when I was with you. It pains and excites me how much I have changed since then. It reminds me of how much time can change and how much some things remain the same over years. It calls on me to reflect on who I was before you and imagine how else I might change in the face of time and others like you.

This trip reminds me of how trusting I can be. How naïve I can choose to act in the face of infatuation. It reminds me of how much meaning something fleeting can give a person and how much we are sometimes willing to give up or embrace for another person. It makes me think of hope, and love, and loss, and heartache, and regret, and everything in between. It reminds me of silence in the face of a crisis. It reminds me of rawness and belief and vulnerability. It reminds me of innocence and blind faith that things and people could be different. It reminds me of my willingness to work on myself once upon a time and failing severally at it.

It reminds me of geek glasses, weird shoes and simple braids. It takes me back to a time when I cared for you; when I would have given anything for us; when I believed in you and was willing to work on us. When you were my muse and my favorite subject. It reminds me of the power we give others to do whatever they want with our hearts, and how that usually doesn’t pay off. It reminds me that I cannot hold on to something that is not mine and that letting go is almost always the answer.  This trip has me smiling at how much I have learnt and how much happier I am with who I turned up to be.

Of Me Then




Conversations with My Best Friend at Three am

(This was supposed to be uploaded here in the distant past but here we are)


I said we can’t be friends if you didn’t vote


But I gave my heart to ‘him’ long ago


It is his to keep now?

Last I checked, you gave a part to another; Dan, in payment of something

How then, can you offer that to another, when a part of it is missing?


We broke up. I fell for his friend


He is lucky; the friend

And disloyal; if he too fell


He is a photographer, and a writer

And his is a fucked up soul

So he sees what Dan doesn’t

He is darker, taller, and loves life

And a certain Facebook post says he smells like Jesus



I have fallen

Kindly mention that I have never seen the light

And that his soul is pure; like spring

Tell me his eyes are deep

Tell me they are windows to those parts humans don’t see

Tell me they see your soul; that they are searching


A thick dark strong drink

That’s what he is

He has this thick mane

And his skin is one vulnerable to passion scars


He lives in Venus; and vacates on Jupiter

He is a roaming soul; that perched on the edges of your broken soul

Tell me he is that

Tell me you live for the scorch; of this dark drink burning your throat

Tell me you live for that sensation that your nerves perceive as fire; disguised as ice


He will make you drown and blossom into a thousand different flowers

Flowers thick like the rain forest

Those that drop nectar in the off season

Flowers that water for him

Even in the heat of summer


Tell me it’s dark too; the nectar

Tell me he doesn’t need the sun

As he stares at that which he adores

That which his soul was made for


He makes it so easy for me to kiss him

To taste him

To let him crawl inside and find the untamed parts of my heart that still believe

To feel the energy; and the passion

And the vibes; allowing me to get lost in my own soul


He is tired of seeking; for he did that all his life

He beat at his effort to find

Tired of the empty words that they crafted

Now he desires silence

And how loud and calm it gets when you sit beside him; comfortable in that same silence


He is raw and wild

He awakens the soul

He knows passion

And how to meet my lips in the dark

My knight in shining amour

P.S. I voted 

Conversations at Three am


Dear Marcus


‘………If you happen to be emotionally invested, even a little, you can’t disembark partially……’

I am staring at the dim lamp just outside the Zumpini. It is set on a low wall that characterizes this place; setting the ambiance just right for any activity romantics like me enjoy. For us, just being here is romantic. Hugging that coffee mug the way I do is perpetual. The dim light and the soft music does it. And simply staring at your face across the table disarms me. It is 1900hrs and I am waiting for a table to clear. I ordered a latte and I hope the couple at my favorite table will have cleared by the time my poison is ready.

So I keep to my phone and scroll through old shards of our conversations. How I first texted in response to a penning of yours; claiming your dark element appealed to the light I lost. I smile at the efforts I made to live up to what I imagined conversing with one that that writes should be; and surprised myself when I realized how right it felt. I note the timing of our conversation and grin at the absence of normalcy in our interaction. I am still trying to figure at what exact moment our conversation turned to something else; deeper. I am amazed by the urgency in the way we silently pleaded with each other to keep in touch; and how loud the moments we spent away from each other seem. Maybe it is that claim that all relationships could begin as ‘CASUAL ONLINE CONVERSATIONS FROM MUTUAL WRITER GROUPS’.

It’s our bleeding pens and bare souls that have us clinging unto the few moments that we have had. It is our attraction to heights we never imagined that draws us together and the feeling of my tilting my neck to meet your bespectacled form. It is the uncertainty that hangs around us that keeps us curious. It is the mystery of what could be that keeps us trying. Maybe we shouldn’t; but what is the worst that could happen if we chose to stay in each other’s circles?

So it’s me listening to voices after I am seated and drowning in the isolation of this noisy joint. Voices of distant Christian hymns; infused with noises from the bar next door and the sound of pool sticks hitting the balls, and the conversations at this hipster joint. It’s me wishing you were here; and recalling my vehement warnings that you keep your phone away when we first came here. It’s me recalling your almost innocent stare at my face and my failing efforts to hide my blush and girly grin. And later smiling at your adoration of my gait and step. And that threat that I don’t get to walk about with my pink lips freely.

I have no idea what it is I am doing. There is a part of me that loves that; not knowing. I have been peeling back layers of you; discovering things I never knew you were about. I have been feeding my curiosity and uncovering hidden parts of you I never knew existed. I have acted in ways that seem suggestive; yet guarded. Maybe I will let myself fall in your deep sea of creative genius. Maybe I should squash the embers of what is kindling here; but what’s the fun in that? Maybe I should risk something else and kill my inhibitions this once. Time can tell.



Not More Than a Week

on milkshakes

Is it just me, or is the idea of sitting at a quiet coffee shop with the tip of a pen on my simple notebook intriguing? Seated at Dorlac’s Cakes at a white chair, I’m penning my usual musings, passing time until my host gets home. Been here almost an hour. I finished my strawberry milkshake some minutes ago. The cup is still here and I have an excuse to be here; like regulars do. I’m engaging in my habitual passive observation of people. It’s a nice spot that’s right by the road and there is so much to look at when you are not looking at anything at all. The thing about passive observation is that you observe  nothing and everything. You notice everyone and immediately forget what they look like and what they wore.

A few faces glance my way; probably admiring me and thinking I may be an actual serious writer. It helps that I am busy penning this and my eyes look intense as I stare into the nothingness in front of them. I smile at that thought; and keep looking up each time someone says hello and answering with a nod and a genuine smile. I imagine the cliche claim that people find writers intimidating quite appealing right about now.


So this meticulous young lady in blue jeans and a floral blouse sits at the table opposite mine after wiping her seat at least thrice. She works here; served me. Now she seats with a coffee cup in this heat. I’m in no position to see if it’s really coffee in there or something else altogether. She gets her beige hp mini laptop, an exquisite notebook, and a pen that, unlike mine, has its lid on. I instantly feel at home and smile; imagining what it is that she is penning. Her friend joins her, taking the seat opposite hers. I imagine the obligation she feels to politely engage her, even when all she desires right now is a bleeding pen.

This would be a nice joint to hang. I already have a mental picture of spending my evenings here; sipping at double café lattes. But then, I look at my phone and remember so well a text that came yesternight and grin, shaking my head:

I’m not missing you for more than a week.




When you have been here before,  you dread every step of the way.  You are too aware of the edges and corners that exist and every one of them raises the hair behind your neck. You become so obsessed with the process that you miss all the steps you never noticed previously.  You make new mistakes and fall into deeper holes.  You become so frustrated that you come out of it all insane and mad at everyone and everything it represents.

So you build up your walls.  These ones higher and thicker than the former.  You surround yourself with thorns and detest every approach they make.  Your poison flows to the claws you grew and you canines are now sharper. So even genuine souls suffer under your careful gaze.  You are too aware of ill intentions that you give no chance to genuinity.  Everything they say seems so empty to your ears.  It’s not your fault; you are just protecting your heart. You are just guarding it the only way you know how.

So every word the former says jabs at you and you swear you could kill them if it wasn’t immoral. They check up on you and say you will find someone better; more deserving. You smirk. They were everything you wanted and you were not.  You gave them your all.  You opened yourself up to them in ways you haven’t to your own soul.  You gave them every shred of your heart and they crushed it and returned it to you.  So you are busy putting the pieces back together and realizing that some of them are lost forever.  For those that fit well together, you know the cracks will never fade.  Passion scars don’t . You know all you ever will do is grow a layer over what is there. You cannot afford to have anyone break that which is already broken.

You know what hurts the most?? It’s the fact that they could love you the way you loved them.  They were capable of doing that.  They just chose not to.  So it’s you seeing them happy with new people and showering them with love and doting them with care and affection.  It’s you acutely aware of the pain your heart has known and knowing its physical as much as it is emotional. The torture is real.

You know full well that they took advantage of you. You could see it.  You ignored it and made excuses for their behavior. You knew you were honest in your love.  You know that you loved with abandon and left yourself at their mercies. You waited as they cleaned house and got ready for you.  Only that; after that,  it’s not you they chose.  They moved on to another.  You wanted them to choose you.  If not out of love, then out of respect and courtesy.  But no,  it was all for nothing . They could never choose you even if it was only you that was left.  So you dry your tears and contemplate. You conclude that you should just accept your reality.  You will always be second.





Its Friday evening, around 6:45 pm, and you are walking home from work. Its deadly silent, and the few people along the way seem to be each lost in their own thoughts. You are enjoying the quiet of a typical Friday evening and the view of your surroundings just after sunset. Your hands are in the pockets of your black bomber jacket as you engage in a never ending monologue in your mind. You realize that someone standing at the side of the road ahead of you is smiling at you. She looks vaguely familiar and you squint, trying to get a better look at them. You notice how her black leather boots emphasize the length of her legs. There is a carefree aura about her and she is wearing a long, baggy, blue hooded jacket, and has a black sling bag.Her hair is tied in a high bun. You wonder what she is wearing underneath. As you get closer, you recognize her; she is the one you lent your jacket last week. It was raining and being the gentleman you are, you had given her your jacket. After all, you were ‘just about to get home’. You told her where you lived and said she could return the jacket to house number one.

You smile back, recognizing your jacket, shake hands and walking home  with her seems like the most natural to do. So you get home, and into the house. She is standing by the door, still in her boots for you insisted she doesn’t remove them.  You are clearing the books from your coffee table and getting rid of a shirt you left on your couch. You turn to offer her a seat and there she is, looking perpetual, innocent and sinfully sexy as she hugs herself. You stutter, asking her if she’d want a drink.

“Water”, she says.

You head to the kitchen to get her water. You get back, and you are glued to a spot, staring at her. She has got rid of your jacket and let her hair down.  Your lower lip quivers, and you know that this will be one hell of a night.




You will remember me

I will be gone, long before you turn your head and change your mind

It will be too late, at least for the moment

You are gonna live to remember that day

That you watched me break down

As you feigned concern when tears ran down my cheeks

As you watched me crawl, dragging my tired legs among the shambles of a life I once had

A haven I had created for myself, for us

You will regret, later probably

You will know full well that, I was leaving on account of your indiscretions

That you had the chance to man up or otherwise

And that you did not choose the former


You will remember looking into the windows of my soul and seeing the hurt

The sadness, the anger, and the disappointment

You will see a piece of me fade, die away

You will see the gravity of my emotions and realize you had me, almost

You will see me fading into nothingness and know you couldn’t save me

You will envision my form and realize that

As I lay in your bed beneath the sheets, I offered more than my body

That I lay my heart down for you, to do as you please

That you did what charmed yours


There’ll be others, and I will pale in comparison

For you found me in the shadows

But you too were there, or you couldn’t have found me

But I hope that my plain will be enough to have you bogging my friends to intercede for you

I hope the shards I leave behind will have you seeking my broken form

I hope you will miss the flaws in my being and the cracks I possess

I hope each tear I shed will sting at your heart, painfully

I hope that, as you watch her staring at the looking glass for hours, you will remember I almost never owned one

I hope that as she fights hard to fit in, you will remember I never did

For I neither did fear nor care

I hope that, as you toss in bed each night, you will feel that pillow I brought you

And that my scent won’t never fade from it

I hope you will hug it and fight back your tears like the man you believe you are

I hope you come knocking, on wrong doors

Since I will move, and remove

I hope you come bearing the pieces of me that I left behind


You won’t find me under the shower, drowning in my tears

I will be over that

I will be okay

But I know you won’t, for you know I was on the right;, not that it matters now

You were a work in progress; still are

I was too; still am

But you gave up, once you started mending the pieces of you that were visible


I will be waiting

And one of two things will happen

I will find closure, and forget you; almost undo you.

Or you will come looking, before it’s too late

I hope the latter happens

Till then, only one question will run in mine mind

Was a new notch in your belt I ever was? Only one that cleaned, and cooked and ironed, and…..