Prickled Pieces Of Peace




By N.O.Ambetsa


With a lit cigar in my hand I sat at the toilet seat, deeply thinking or just maybe feeling sorry for my misdemeanor and how my life was just pressed between the two fingers, in a nutshell my life was spongy, porous, cancerous smoke trafficking inside in between the dried substances my life at stake! It could be paraphrased as at the front there was fire lit and at the rare end a confused and twisted idiosyncrasy. A well packed set of imbroglio that awaited demise.

I couldn’t account for the minutes I spent at the washroom, my pants at the knee level trying to melt the frozen contrives that iceberged in my life titanicking my innocent soul striving to reach the highest bar rather finish the quest. It takes a sweat. A salty drip to spice up the entire that had the oven heat, a broth. It’s this watery drip that painted a series of pictures of my mother crying ,my dad missing ,my love life, the drug addicts, those who love and aren’t loved in return, the adopted living under the mama wa kambo roof, the girls undergoing FGM ,the boys who are assumed to be men and left to man up torching around in the dark tunnels of puberty and adolescence, those with viruses in their ego not to forget the weakening and the daily fading ties between relatives and those made to promises once they lose their loved ones, being taken to a fake future, a land of honey and milk and just before you climax to thrown back to the normal life at the rocky shores.

Just before I pulled up the pants I stared at myself and it hit me hard that I was more of a man that I imagined. My life spongy but yes, I could get hard! It’s at this point that I needed a hoarse voice, a father figure to swiftly mosey me through this odyssey. To erect a pillar that would last me for a lifetime, strengthen my legs to stand the test of time no one to light me up for their benefit. I opened up the washroom door ,banged it and went back to the house my eyes betraying me but as the soldier of my inner fights with a sarcastic smile I retorted ‘I’m OK’ but for how long will I swim through this cold waters of filthy charade? Indeed everyone you meet is always fighting a battle you never know.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Eureka!!

Image
By Munyiva Ngumu Stop... Think… What kind of person have I become? My type of character, strengths and weaknesses, I mean what kind of an entity am I to the society? The desire to be a successful being has always been the driving force of our existence. Living in a society where success is defined by owning a modern house and a sleek car Does this define my success? Well, Let’s stop and think? Doesn’t full self-discovery define success? I admire the few persons in society who seem to have come to a full realization of who they are, what they seem to have been created to do, do it perfectly and derive a sense of satisfaction from what they do. Deep within us is a sense of self confidence that keeps telling us that we were meant for so much more A voice that says, keep going dude you can do it. We were created with a deep sense of accountability to ourselves No matter how hard we try, our hearts keep telling us the dreadful truth. How many times do we watch as peopl...
Read more

Where is our today's malenga?

In his recent article, Tony Mochama paints the true picture of poetry as a podium. Its indeed a medium that connects the contemporary issues realm in the society to the layman’s world ,such a lexicon that perches safely a stray line of thought into a young mind without  exploiting it rather a life-bound kind of brain from dwindling. For this reason much has been fixed in the Shakespeare’s galore loosening the once tight bolts fastened with chutzpah by the likes of Abdulatif Abdalla, Namatsi Lukoye and many more Swahili prolific poets darkening their paths now surviving with the candle light of spoken word( done in sheng’) as the last hope in which it was divorced objectively from the Swahili language and only its rudiments in it keeps the fire burning. Intriguing! One thing about ushairi is the language police who never leers to the heavy pockets and robs the poets of their poetic license thus one has to hustle and tussle along with vina, ubeti, mishororo etc w...
Read more

My Social Obituary

Image
I feel less sorry for all those times that I’ve been so much lost into soliloquy making weird signs to my invisible choir, throwing my right hand to the world with the wacha ikae   mindset a painted picture on the wall of the struggles, fights and clashing of ideas that conflict in that piece of mind and I only seem to find refuge in this cathartic aura and if it happens that my word goes by the winter winds then they will automatically fall onto deaf ears. A clairvoyant being I am and I see the future from the eyes of a child, the humble eyes that knows not the tears that tear. He who draws that circle of trust then he must stand at the centre point to assume a perfect sun like round that he uses it as an aperture to peep into their comfort zones. I don’t need everyone in my life. Well I just said it, a toll that will squeeze itself fit in the circle making it assume an amoebic shape, the said shape of a HIV virus that keeps on changing its shape pilling on and on the...
Read more