praying for truth

This is the best she can do, given the circumstance. Her heart pains at the thought of you. You who has promised her life in another form, who has made her believe dreams because she cannot see you nor feel You but she fears You. Believes in you, trusts in you. She had known about You since she was young. There were times when she lost hope in you cause she had a lot going on and nothing seemed to go right. She did not let you into her life because disappointment cane easy for her. Lord, that is me. I have left your ways, made plans that broke me. Have allowed myself to suffer yet you were near. But this day, I come before you. Guide me through 2013

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the writer’s allibi

It wasn’t me, I was with a book, exchanging ideas, alone. So no one knows and the book cannot speak for me.

I was lost in thought, dreaming of flying away. How wonderful I’d feel, soaring over vast waters and icy hilltops. Imagining my feet swim through air. I thought, dreaming of flying, till this day.

My pen? I almost lost my pen, between drafts on endless paper, I almost lost her. I wrote and tore, wrote feelings from my hearts’ core. Wrote till my fingers were sore and I saw them bruised. I realized how I used so much time trying to let you know that it wasn’t me who wrote the suicide note.

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Music was my r…

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
– Maya Angelou

Music has been massaging out all the burdens as I listen in my bedroom. I have found meaning in loneliness and it has come to know me by name. I swear it would recognize my humming and tired voice, dragging me out of reality into my own dreams. My unknown movements which many call dancing.

Music has become a part of me so much it is me, singing to hymns and not really seeing what goes on around me, I become engulfed into its rhythm reminding me that I am alive. That even without proper knowledge of music notes, chords of a guitar, the keys of the piano, it unlocks memories. Hidden memories. Forgotten memories. Scary, unwanted memories, they surface mysteriously when I lay my head down on my pillow. And tears travel down my cheeks easily to the sound of music.

the sharp knife of a short life

This festive season, my facebook has turned into an obituary. I have literally become scared of visiting it as often as I did. I have lost friends. Young people who had so much to live for. But life as we know it, has an end. And death has recently become a journey more travelled.

I remember when I was still in India the many people who died here at home in my absence. I knew my presence would not bring them back but yet I had hoped for better days, to seeing them again.

As I listen to The Band Perry’s “If I die young”, I end up reminiscing on my death. However it is not as gloomy as it may seem, it is actually a reflection of the shortness of life. And how it pains those we leave behind. I don’t know when and how but we have that knowledge that we are all going to die anyway.

Most young people’s deaths in Botswana are due to car accidents as a result of drunk driving. Drinking has become a risky habit as of late and unfortunately people do not seem to recognise that. That they shorten peoples lives. That having fun costs families of their members. There shouldn’t be parking lots at bars! But before I get carried away, I shall stop there.

Now back to the relevance of this post, it would be worthwhile to live life as fully as you can and when you can. We never know when the time comes. Truth be told: You only live once.

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christmas in Botswana

Our Christmas celebration is different contrary to popular belief. Here are some of the peculiar points:

There is no snow just the scorching sun and blazing heat. Today is cloudy hopefully there will be rain.

We don’t keep a christmas tree. However they are sold in shops but its very rare to see one in a Tswana home.

Instead of Christmas carols we have traditional songs which are called dikwaere. Teams gather and compete with song; dancing in unison.

There is a huge meal prepared and shared with everyone who passes by. Batswana cook a lot of meat dishes and ginger beer. Christmas is a sharing time.

That is it for now. Tomorrow is another day.

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