your eyes

Your eyes. They tell stories that only are understood through the sight of you. And when I look into them, I see a lot more than just them. I have seen them before,

Today, they said, “I see you”, without anything else obscuring my view, “I see you”. And they undressed my fears, and like tears, they flowed from my eyes and you were gentle enough to wipe them away. With one sight.

Today, they said, “Come here”, so that I embrace you into safety. So that I slow down your heartbeat with mine. So that I feel you closer, “Come here”.

Today, they said, “I need you”, here, where I can be yours. And where I can hold your hands and dance with you. Under the moonlight, in the rain. “I need you, here”. I need you near me, with me, come here, I see you.

They spoke to my heart. Your eyes, my love, your eyes.


This? Its not love, its more than that….

Dear Soulmate

I will not write about love for I feel its meaning has been diluted. By those who have dressed it up as something so conceited. They have made love a word you use when you feel like it not as a symbol of emotions from within. Love has been stained with beatings, stalkings and forced sexual relations that it has lost its identity.

So I will not write about love when I write to you my feelings. For they are beyond what almost anyone finds comfort in. They are raw, void of perfection. They are strong though, they suffocate me sometimes. And when I need to tell you, they leave me standing there, wordless. I wish there were words I could use but in truth, it is not love.

Love left me questioning when a girl barely in her teens announced through a poem how ‘inlove’ she was. I asked myself, how concentrated were her emotions to comprehend them as an experience of being in love. It left me again when a man who vowed to love his wife, declared in front  of others how he will ever hurt her yet he beat her each time he felt like. I thought, did he forget his promise? Love definitely left me when I saw on the news that a woman killed her new born child. Love? That is what it is?

So, no. This is not love. it is something beyond that. Its not butterflies twirling in my stomach no, its my heart racing. Its the way I do not want to see you go or how much your voice makes my racing heart to beat slow. Yes, its not nervous when I see you but anxiety when I see your face, yes! Its the way your hands hold mine. The way you allow me to be myself and surely how you know what I am thinking. When we finish each others’ sentences.

How you are not afraid to let the world know how you feel about me. How you introduce me to your friends as your soul mate and to your family as the woman you will marry. How you set boundaries to define to others how exclusive we are yet you are still gentle to their feelings. How you are willing to help without being asked. You are always there for me and I am thankful I found you. Or rather that you found me searching for love. You are the reason I have something better than love. In honesty, this? I have never felt.

I am writing you this so you know. I am looking for the word to describe this. So that I say it at the alter when I promise you my heart as you already have my soul.


novel minds

When we go to certain places. We meet all sort of people. And there are those who have goals but lack the ambition. These people are the kind who need prompting, to be pushed into pursuing their dreams. They complain when things don’t go their way. They don’t even attempt to know others. They segregate and talk to certain people. But this does not necessarily mean we have to be like them. And I must say this, all the people I’ve met lately at University, are not that kind. They are the do it, I can help you, we are in this together kind. And though minds may find others ways to define themselves, they are still a team and I am glad. Surely.

Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry.

5 Years Of Silence (2)

We had a plan of never speaking about Papa. It got difficult though because we always felt he would come and find us. And if he does, we would be ready to flee again. But our wings were broken and we had not yet awoken from the nightmare we were living in. We knew he was powerful, his people were powerful. I knew them all. And though I might have been a shadow, silhouetting in the hallways were they held meetings, I knew they came. And they never spoke to me nor my Mama. We just served them tea and went somewhere else. Their visits were alienating. We had no choice.

“Tell the court what happened during these meetings”, Moagi added on. He kept a pen in his hand the same way my Papa did, smoking his cigarette when he had come from work. I was wearing my sky blue formal shirt tucked into my pants. For a moment I felt I looked like my father. I was proud and ashamed all at once. I felt people talking about me, how young I was, how confused I was when I was only scared. They say those who testify are never safe. I heard this somewhere, someone told me. Back when I got scared to tell what my Papa did for a living. I had a spec of truth to it though because I was young, it was OK for people to easily ignore me. But this time, they needed me to speak and they were willing to listen. For the first time in my life, someone was listening.

These people had big briefcases with tons of papers inside. They wore gold rings and were apparently married. They never spoke off their children or wives, no! Just their plans. Once, I heard their laughter seeping through keyholes like smoke to me. Like the cigarette smoke they blew crafty into the air. I heard the red wines falling onto glasses and the cheers they made before downing all of it. They did this food-less celebration every Friday. For sometime, a lot of people kept asking me what my father does, and I, innocent and ambitious would say something like, “He is a businessman and I want to be like him when I grow up”. Of course it was before my curiosity took the best of me. It lead me to the tool shed in our backyard.  And I knew who my father was. The information was all inside the shed. You wonder what was inside? I’ll tell you.

One night, I decided to sneak out of my room to feed my curiosity. I needed to know what was in that shed. I was not wearing any shoes to avoid being heard. Even though the floor was cold and the grass itched under my feet, I still went there. When I got it, there wasn’t anything much there just tools. The smell of wood lingered in the air and the iron roof was letting off some sweaty steel smell. The kind of coins being held on forever. You get the picture. I looked around in hope to find some secrets and instead they found me. Standing on top of them. They told me to step on and feel them suffocating from below. The creek kept on, with each step I made till I found the plank which was not on place. it felt as if someone saw me. And so I quickly knelt and my knee met an old nail. After observation I found it was a special kind of nail, it was a key to the plank. I wondered how Papa did not realize that I could come in here and open his life up. My hands became numb as when I attempted to unlock someones footsteps came prancing towards the shed. Luckily there was an old blanket in the corner, a few steps from me. I hid there in the dark though I could see the person from there. The threads were lose and tired and the color had faded.  And the man? He was tall, with broad shoulders and his voice made the floor vibrate.

“Did you find anything?”, Moagi asked with a smile. I was scared though so, “No, I didn’t”, but I did. When that man figure came upon me and opened up the plank, I saw some lighting radiating from where I was.  It was something like a jewel of some sort and a crescent moon shaped object which he held up and searched. I could not see what it was but from the grin in his face, he was pleased. I let out a sigh and he came towards me.

5 years of Silence (1)

At this time of the year, flowers have poisoned the air with their fragrances, competing in the atmosphere. Their beautifully disturbing brightly colored petals , had fallen off some of them. They were everywhere, on dresses, on the streets, even here, in the courtroom, soaked in a crystal vase with a note. White Roses. While I looked at them, I remembered the day my grandmothers white flower shaped porcelain vase broke. Its the reason we are in court now. Here is what happened.

Papa had just come from work and reeked of alcohol and smoke. It was bad enough that the flowers could not mask it up. He was the tallest man I knew and he wore the finest of clothes, a successful businessman. He evoked fear and respect to people around him, even around us. Mama and I feared him. Mama with her tightly wound headscarf, tattered apron and worried face did not confront him. Instead she asked gently of how his day went and he barked back at her, I felt my ribs shake. So normally, she retreated. We ate together, it had been a while we had done that. I was aware that my father had something else in his mind, he is the kind of man, who would not want to let anyone know of his feelings.

Then later on in the evening, I heard Mama whimper in the kitchen pantry. On my way to her, I saw Papa on the phone. He was not looking pleased. He mentioned something about killing somebody. In that moment, the flowers kept sending their scent to me. I had to leave that spot yet I needed to hear whom my dad wanted to kill. The flowers were ready to tell on me, my skin had some rash and it itched so badly. I felt my tongue fill up and blocking my airway and so I tried tiptoeing aback then the vase decided to fall and he saw me. He knew from my trembling feet that I heard him. Mama must have heard the vase break. “What did you hear?”, my father roared, his face had deformed and he looked like some monster from a recent animation I watched, don’t know which but it was scary. He took my shirt and held me up in the air, my feet dangled, shook, and I would have peed myself then. Mama ran into that debacle, she tried calmingPapa down. And I saw the face he puts on when he is about to beat us both. He dropped me to the floor, took a piece of the vase and sent it straight to the wall mirror. The shattering sounds were too much. I blocked my ears and closed my eyes.

When I heard the struggle was over, I opened my eyes and saw the mirror pieces on the floor. They were too sharp and reflected at Mama’s scarred face, severed by anger. The wind shook the trees outside our window and she could feel its breeze and smell the whiff of rain. “What have I done?”, she asked me? I had not seen a thing. Her hands shaking and feet anchored to the floor, she couldn’t move, “Wake up! Please, wake-“, she cried out to Papa. He lay there and then there was a knock on the door. My mother asked me to hide, so I hid behind the curtain. The moonlight shone on the mirror pieces and she was too shaken to think of what to do. Just then, a voice came out, “You need to go. Leave him there, call an ambulance and come let’s go!’. She snapped back to reality, her heart thumping so hard, it could leave the claws of her ribs.

Aunt Sara came in and took Mama’s hand. She saw her pain, she did that before, when nothing else could be done and violence was the only resort. She saw the broken bits of glass and Jake lying there as if dead. She heard me crying behind the curtains. He couldn’t be dead, she only smashed the mirror onto him and he never woke up, it had been 5 minutes. 5 long minutes that took away the heroic stance of self defense. 5 minutes that stripped her off fear. “We should go, the police would be here any minute”. We left the room, my Aunt Sara carried me and held Mama’s. Her eyes still pinned on Papa, “I really pray he’s alive”, letting out a silent whisper. I heard her too. I prayed too.

That night’s dreams were the worst I ever had. We slept at some place, in a room, just us two. Sweat bathed me wet and I heard the sound of the breaking mirror constantly. Playing like a soundtrack during my parents’ fight. I did not sleep, my eyes were wide open and my mind alert. I stared at the alarm clock and when it rang, so did my cell phone. Sara was at the end of the line, shaken voice, whispering tone, “Pack your bags and leave, don’t tell anyone where you are going. Just go, now”. I heard, we left.Taking everything we could carry, we fled the small town of Lobatse. Were I grew up, the only place I knew. We did not know where to go, who to go to, how to get there and what to use. Yet we left, running away from the possibility of death, of imprisonment, of torment from being abused by my father, the man she fell in love with 5 years ago.

This is what I should have told the court. But they could arrest Aunt Sara and Mama. I knew and when Moagi, her lawyer asked me what happened that day, I looked to the judge and jury and denied leaving my father half dead. Even when the flowers prompted me, I couldn’t.