Of dancing eyes.
Am 14 years old and my best friend has big beautiful eyes.
To date, I haven’t yet found a perfect way in which to describe her eyes. They dance, the eyes.

They are the life of the party, they twerk even without any music, they are both the music and the dance.

They will twirl around until you are forced to join in and dance. They are enchanting eyes, they look into your soul and see your secrets but assure you at the same time of secrecy, these eyes dance.

Mine are small and have no art of dance. Mine are the girl that sits in a corner with a drink as her friends dance, the girl that stays in bed with a book while the rest of the world celebrates life.

People say, sometimes my tiny eyes look too deep, like they want to rip out the secrets in the folds of your soul for the world to see.

Often times, they are only searching for eyes that can teach mine to dance, like my best friend’s when I was fourteen. When people tell me I have tiny beautiful brown eyes, I say, but they can’t dance.


For the girls.

I write for the girls

The ones who carry the sun in their strides and constellations in their very existence.

I once knew of a girl, whose head carried dancing eyes, they would twirl and twerk. They had the floaty hazy laziness of people who have known so little love and yet able to give that which they have never received. Often times I wonder if they have seen enough darkness to halt their dance, I hope not.

I now know of a girl, whose smile is able to light up a thousand candles for all the dead souls. She smiles like it’s an art, it reaches her eyes, a full welcoming smile, ready to swallow your sadness and give you some of it’s light. It’s a smile of one who has known so little happiness in life and yet eager to compensate with sunny rosy genuine smiles. I hope she never sees enough sadness to dim her smile.

I know of girls, who wear a resting bitch face like an armor. With sad sad faces and the light in their eyes turned down low, in fact so low that you can barely know life resides here. But deep within are a million galaxies, unlit pitch dark galaxies.

Dear child, the dark is beautiful too.

Tonight I bled

Tonight, I bled. Not your usual sticky thick reddish liquid. I bled a bold red thorny rose bush

I looked to my side and drew a hollow shapeless being in the place you should have been

I named him emptiness, labelled him nothingness. It’s the only way he too wouldn’t leave. I painted him Burgundy and scented him caramel. Taught him how to love poetry and sad deep lyrical music. He was supposed to love his eggs and milk like I do.

I taught him sarcasm and dark wit, we spoke in code for hours about people we both dislike. Often times, when i was sad, I would write a poem and buy me flowers and pretend they are from him. See, I tried moving on so well.

I pretended he called me sunflower as his secret name, we would have glitter filled bubble baths together , that he’s vanilla scented and I, lavender

I whispered by my side, even he, was gone. And, I bled a dark shade of sunset. I dressed like leaving, my name changed to ending. I bled a deep purple shamrock of closing stage lights. I bled exploding galaxies and budding loneliness.

When I bled all I could, my hands dripped of a deep blue melancholy scented shade of sad. I bowed, excused myself from the heart shaped stage and patted my unrequited love on the back.


Am in my early 20’s, living life free but not wild.

It is about 8pm. My friend and I are on our way to buy cheap roadside chips and roasted meat for dinner. Am dressed in my slightly above the knee, blue and white stripped dress. It’s the kind that accentuates what little good there’s to my body.

As my friend and I gossip about some big haired sad boy, who slanders all the girls he can’t have, which means every girl, because for some reason no girl seems to like him, a lady of about 50 or so years creeps up onto me from behind.

At first am freaked out, then she says she wants to whisper something to me. In the meantime I assess her, dressed in an ankle length skirt that touches no part of her body, an equally big shirt, two sizes bigger, hair cut boyishly short and round rimmed spectacles.

She whispers to me, “men don’t respect women dressed like you”

My mind is rioting and my mouth is almost spitting out all the things I want to say. I want to tell her of a story when a man molested me with his eyes even though I was dressed in baggy jeans and a big boyfriend shirt, or of when a man said he would sleep with me because of the way I walk or of the day a barber tried to grab my boobs when I was 15 years old and dressed in a baggy highschool uniform. I want to tell her that we are breaking the chains, that we must stop living for the men and paving their way to heaven while they make our lives hell most of the time.

But my home training gets the better of me, I do what any normally brought up girl child would do, smile, say thank you and am sorry then walk away. After all, how do you teach a flower to bloom when it’s been taught to bow so as to protect the bees from sinning all it’s life. I move on and pray my daughter never learns that her body is a sin from which men need saving.

To the boys

To the boys

The ones with big black hair

With eyes, the eyes that feel like home

The sad sad eyes

Secret fears floating atop unshed tears

For they were taught at adolescence

A man is never afraid, and even when he’s, he should never show it.

To the boys

The ones with shy smiles

Lanky statures

And sad sad smiles

Sad from kissing and telling

From making promises they never keep

For it’s in the breaking and cracking others that they harden or so they think.

To the boys

The ones with a confident gait

With musical voices

The ones that sing their way between a girl’s thighs

With midnight skin

With teeth that glitter amidst a starless sky

With sad sad hugs

The ones afraid of feeling too much for they are afraid of rejection.

To the boys

We think about you

And we mould your faces in our fantasies, hoping that you’ll somehow turn up less insecure or at least allow us to heal with you

You see, we do carry our own, so it’s unfair that we have to pay for yours too

We could heal each other, you know!

You are 6 years old, you are everyone’s angel, the little adorable thing with teeth gaps because the rats took your bad teeth to bring you nicer ones, although it’s your dad who removed them.

You are now 8 years old and afraid of death. You are scared of swallowing fruit seed because a plant will grow in your stomach and you’ll die. You stop eating fish because once you were told you could swallow it’s bone and die, you swallow an imaginary bone and spend half the day worried about death and the dark grave.

When you are 10, you have a red haired doll that you sneak into school and place under your desk pretending it’s your baby you have taken to sleep.

When you are 12, you experience your first crush, it’s a boy light as the sun with a smile charming it sweeps your little feet off the ground, (or is it just your young brain overrating his looks?) . Shy as you are, you never get to talk to him and you envy the twins who wear golden ear pins and have colored beads in their hair for being friends with him. He sits in between the girls and each time the teacher is making seat changes, you always cross your fingers and pray he’s made to sit in between you and Vivienne(your best friend).

You are 15 and now you have created a life of your own in your head with the boy who’s light is like the sun’s, you are the ultimate couple, you name him jungu because he looks that light. With him you create the dream life, with amazing best friends whose names are all the childhood names you ever desired to have.

A big girl you are now, free as a bird(or so you think). You are cursed with feeling too much and a crooked way of looking at things, your love for dark things and reading ‘inappropriate’ books that teach you to question things.

You pay for everyone else’s sins but yours and are held captive by everyone’s achievements but yours. Your crucifixion takes place in your absence and somehow when you think of screaming for help, you remember all your friends are in your head and your head is buzzing with confusion and questions whose answers you know you’ll never get. You have created so much noise that you can’t even hear your own scream for help.

And so you write, random…pointless words…to somehow get a release so you can smile and return the angel you were at 6.

Random thoughts

Usually, after I read a good book, I like to give it enough digestion time before I get onto another one. Such was the case after I completed Paulo Coelho’s Veronica decides to die, only this time the digestion time took longer, for I connected with the book on a personal level. I felt like moving onto another book so fast would be more like cheating , and so I gave it about four days, always contemplating about it midway my house chores and in between arguments with my mother and brother. One question has haunted me most, what if we are the mad ones, looking at life all wrong and thinking we have mastered the art?

What if the ones we like to refer to as ‘mental’ are the ones who have it all right?

Lately, all the conversations I have with people, be it loved ones or regular acquaintances seem to be closing up on me and taking the shape of societal imprisonment. The Bible scriptures interpreted to disguise the hypocrisy and painting them right seem to be chaining my already vulnerable soul into an unquestioning puppet for fear of being termed blasphemous.

Sometimes I laugh when I look back upon the picture I had of growing up.

My naive self always painted the experience as a borderless garden, one where I could move, dance and sing along which ever path I pleased until I found a shade I was most comfortable with.

I had no idea of the already made decision of which path I should take, how I should dance, whether I should sing, under which shade I should sit and with whom I should share the rest of the garden with.

I was taught to be very afraid of falling and failing for it’s a shame and was never told of the truth that life is a non segregative teacher handing you failure until you got the lesson right.

I was meant to go through life unblemished like a lamb prepared for sacrifice and I was denied the truth that it’s in the scarring where all the fun is, in having something to show for your success like a war survivor who opens up his scars to show of where the bullet passed but here he is anyway.

And now I know better, that my own life belongs to everyone else but myself, that I am the mad one, the one seeing the wrong picture and everyone else is right.

That I can fly but not so high to make another doubt the strength of their wings.

A toast to growing up!!!!